Where do you begin when you have spent twenty-five years in exile, returning to a newly independent country where everything you once knew has changed or been taken away? This was the question that lingered with me throughout the final chapters of Mukwahepo. Her story stirred up a flurry of emotions—gratitude, grief, pride, frustration, admiration—and yet it is the last few chapters that truly unsettled me. They have moved me to tears, and I know this book will stay with me.
There is something inexplicably beautiful, almost divine, about reading the life story of someone from your own place. I was delighted—and stunned—when I realised that Mukwahepo was from my side of Namibia. She mentions Onengali and Odibo, both places close to my heart. I am from Odibo and Okatale, and every time I go to Okatale, I drive past Onengali. This connection made the book even more powerful for me.
My gratitude to Ellen Ndeshi Namhila is immense. She saw Mukwahepo’s contribution, recognised its historical significance, and made sure it was documented. Without her, this story, and this woman, might have remained unnamed in our national memory.
Book Summary
Mukwahepo is an ode to the first Namibian woman to go into exile during the liberation struggle: Aguste ya Immanuel, affectionately known as Mukwahepo. Ellen Ndeshi Namhila, now a prominent Namibian scholar, librarian, and author who also lived in exile, met her in the Nyango refugee camp in Zambia. Loved by many, called “Mukwahepo” as a term of endearment among Ovawambo people, she was unforgettable to all who encountered her.
Years later, now living in independent Namibia, Namhila invited Mukwahepo to her home in Windhoek. It was during this visit that she began recording her life story—conversations that eventually shaped this book.
Mukwahepo left Namibia with a man she intended to marry – Shikongo, who convinced her to go with him, and together they slipped out of the country under the cover of night, through Angola, onward to what was then Tanganyika, to join other Namibians in exile who were preparing for the liberation struggle or what we call Oita Yemanguluko in Oshikwanyama.
Mukwahepo trained as a soldier, the first Namibian woman to be trained as such and the only woman amongst men during that time. This begs the question – How is it that the first woman to go into exile is not one of the most recognised figures in Namibia today? History is usually not kind to women and their efforts, as those are often systemically dismissed or ignored – and for Mukwahepo, factors such as lack of Western education whilst in exile heightened her invisibility. Interestingly enough, it is almost as if her identity began to fade in exile, where she was renamed. Her true clan totem is “Mukwanangobe”, but she was renamed “Mukwahepo”, literally translated from Oshikwanyama as ‘of poverty’, a name that, as Namhila explained, subtly diminished her, implying poverty and erasing her identity. Mukwanangobe, on the other hand, literally translated from Oshikwanyama as ‘of cattle’, refers to the wealth of the Ovawambo people, which was measured by the number of cattle heads, amongst other factors.
Mukwahepo mentioned that SWAPO emphasised education – a truth we all know. Education was the pathway for many returnees who later became leaders, such as Dr Libertine Amathila. But Mukwahepo, older and uneducated when she entered exile, could not join primary schooling, and thus missed this crucial ladder upwards.
Mukwahepo never received advanced military training. Instead, she became a mother to the camps—caring for children whose parents had gone for military or other training, including receiving an education outside the camps, stating:
“I thought of myself as the mother of all the motherless.” (p. 154)
Returning Home
Mukwahepo recounted that SWAPO’s organisation during repatriation was impressive – well coordinated, meticulous, immense in scale. But once returnees reached their home villages, the support fell away for most and dire poverty ensued, including for Mukwahepo. She recounted:
“At the time of independence, I was jobless and without an income… I had no income, and survived each day as it came, without knowing where my next meal would come from.” (p.169)
She returned with five children she had cared for in exile, who were all eventually taken by their respective families and almost never looked back. Coming home from exile, her expectations were high, as she had served her nation before it was even formed and heartily believed her comrades would remember her. It took sixteen years before she was finally given a decent house. Later, under the 2008 Veterans Act, she received a lump sum of N$50,000 in 2011, alongside other war veterans.
Final Recommendation
Mukwahepo is essential reading for anyone interested in:
Namibian history
women in liberation movements
memory, testimony, and belonging
the emotional afterlives of exile
African women’s autobiographies
It is also a profoundly human story of endurance, heartbreak, identity, and the search for belonging in a nation you helped build.
Ellen Ndeshi Namhila was born in Ondobe, northern Namibia, in 1963. She went into exile at age twelve and received her education across Namibia, Angola, Zambia, The Gambia, and Finland. She holds an M.SSc. in Library and Information Science and has held several senior roles in research, parliament, and national archives.
Her works include:
The Price of Freedom (1997)
Kahumba Kandola – Man and Myth (2005)
Tears of Courage: Five Mothers Five Stories One Victory (2009)
Year of publication: 1991 Genre: Romance Country: Ghana
Introduction
Changes: A Love Story is a classical African love story written by a classical African writer. As the title says, it tells a narrative of lives in flux – changing lives, especially the life of the protagonist, Esi. Like many African love stories, it does not rely on fantasy or grand romance but focuses on people navigating everyday life, relationships, and difficult situations. Ama Ata Aidoo wrote about family, marriage, friendship, as well as love, responsibility, and desire. Layers is a theme I am coming to notice in African love stories – so many layers and not much of the tantalising detail that often accompanies mainstream love stories. I saw this in books like African Love Stories: An Anthology and The Sex Lives of African Women by Nana Darkoa Sekyiamah, and even in So Long a Letter by Mariama Bâ.
Book Summary
Set in Ghana, the novel centres on Esi Sekyi, an educated, successful and elegant woman. Esi was in a marriage that she no longer wanted to be in, which she eventually ended. She met Ali, with whom she eventually started a romantic relationship, but Ali was married. It was an amazing twist, in my mind at least, that Esi agreed to be his second wife.
Fusena, Ali’s first wife, represents the sacrifices many African women make in marriage. She sidelined her own dreams and career to support Ali’s, leaving the country to live temporarily with him abroad and birthing and rearing their children. At the same time, he worked on advancing his career. And now here he was, choosing to marry another woman. A woman with a career and who was, in that respect, very successful – it was understandable that this was the thing Fusena worried about the most when she first found out – Esi’s level of education – “her husband had brought into their marriage a woman who had more education than she did”, p.100. This was her primary concern – not so much the fact that her husband was bringing in a second wife.
I appreciated how Ata Aidoo structured her book on poignant themes affecting African societies, first with the position of women and how, at times, marriage tends to disempower an African woman. I thought this came out more strongly regarding Esi, even when Esi took care not to let her heart lead when it came to Ali. She measured and rationalised their relationship and made peace with things, but even then, the way Ali ended up treating her felt very disempowering. Ali’s women elders showed this on page 107 when they were tasked with convincing his wife Fusena to accept Esi as the second wife, remembering that nothing much has changed for women in society – “it is a man’s world. You only survived if you knew how to live in it as a woman.” p. 107. Because how is this task given to women when Ali, the man, was the one marrying another woman? He was the one married to Fusena. Yet, he was somehow exempt from the consequences of these actions – women must cushion the blow for him, while other women were at the receiving end of his actions.
This broughtSo Long a Letter by Mariama Bâ to mind, in which the protagonist, Ramatoulaye, was also informed of her husband’s second marriage by a third party (albeit being a man in that situation), not her own husband. These are reinforcements of the patriarchy and the protection granted to men even in extraordinary circumstances. However, there is no mistake that there is a lot of agency in these stories. Esi made the choice to divorce her first husband, despite advice against doing so. She pursued a love interest with a married man and chose to become his second wife. And even in the way that marriage went, Esi still continued to make choices. Yet, with all this agency and choice, I couldn’t help but think about Woman at Point Zero by Nawal El Saadawi. Although vastly different characters and circumstances, the protagonist in that book, Firdaus, at a certain point made many choices in her favour – her story linked back to the fact that women can have agency and choice, they can make decisions bout their lives. They can and often do make bold decisions bout their lives, yet somehow end up being disenfranchised by a man – put down, denied, disregarded, discarded, even killed by a man. Esi’s “mothers” have warned her about this.
Recommendations
This book is a strong and honest exploration of women’s realities. The novel shows how women can be deeply agentic and still end up trapped.
I would recommend Changes: A Love Story to readers interested in African women’s writing, stories about marriage and womanhood, and novels that challenge romanticised ideas of love.
About the Author
Ama Ata Aidoo (1942–2023) was a Ghanaian writer, poet, playwright, and academic. She is widely regarded as one of Africa’s most important literary voices. Her work often explores themes of gender, culture, colonialism, and women’s lives in postcolonial Africa. In addition to Changes: A Love Story, her notable works include Our Sister Killjoy, Anowa, and No Sweetness Here. Read more here.
In this short and powerful memoir, Olabimpe (Bimpe) Fapohunda-Dube narrates her lifelong struggle with Endometriosis. From her very first period at 13, she experienced excruciating, debilitating pain that halted her life in its tracks every single month.
She takes us through the heartbreaking journey of navigating the healthcare system, not being believed, being told it was “normal,” and being prescribed endless pain medication and treatments that never addressed the real cause. Being a woman and a mother to a girl, this one broke my heart. I cannot even imagine my daughter going through this. I have had troubled periods myself, extremely heavy and prolonged periods that I still struggle with today. However, mine have never been painful or ever stopped my life in its tracks. So Bimpe’s story is incredibly heartbreaking.
This was the first book I read by an African woman detailing her journey with Endometriosis. And upon reflection, I don’t think I have read much about endometriosis at all, or even heard it discussed as Endometriosis. I can recall from my formative years a classmate who did not attend school whenever she was on her period. This was just brushed off as a painful period. Like it is something normal, something some girls have to endure. And reading Bimpe’s book now, I wonder if that’s what my classmate was going through. Bimpe was also told that what she was going through is a regular part of having a period, but she was misdiagnosed for so long.
After reading Bimpe’s short but powerful story, I went on to read another one, Scarred, Not Broken, by Wilika Ndilimke Frai from Namibia. Also detailing her story of living with endometriosis and later chronic illness.
Despite everything Bimpe has gone through, she remains hopeful. She refuses to let Endometriosis define her life, and she has taken her power back.
It’s a quick but meaningful read, one I recommend especially for anyone wanting to understand the realities of a condition that affects so many women and girls, yet is so widely misunderstood and misdiagnosed.
Brief key facts about Endometriosis:
As of October 2025, the World Health Organisation has provided the following key facts about Endometriosis:
Endometriosis affects 10% (190 million) of women and girls of reproductive age worldwide.
It is a chronic disease with symptoms such as:
severe menstrual pain
heavy menstrual bleeding
chronic pelvic pain (pain that continues beyond the menstrual cycle)
infertility
abdominal bloating and nausea
It most commonly occurs in the pelvis, but can also appear in the abdomen, chest, and other parts of the body.
It can significantly impact:
sexual intercourse
bowel movements
urination
mental health (including depression and anxiety)
The causes of endometriosis are unknown.
There are no existing treatments that cure endometriosis.
Current treatments focus on symptom management and depend on:
severity of the disease
individual preferences
side effects
long-term safety
costs and availability
Whether pregnancy is desired
Diagnosis is often delayed, and access to effective treatment remains limited in many settings.
Endometriosis is debilitating, painful and lifelong. Many women with it struggle with fertility and endure the loss of pregnancies. Women and girls around the world are having to pause their lives – taking time off work or school to nurse severe pain that they are often told is normal. More awareness needs to be raised about the condition.
Legacy by Dr Uché Blackstock is a heartfelt and courageous memoir that explores her life, family, and community while highlighting the ongoing health inequities that disproportionately affect Black communities.
She pays loving homage to her mother, “the original Dr Blackstock,” and writes about her with so much tenderness, admiration, and appreciation. Her mother worked as a doctor, caring for her community, and passed the baton to her daughters, who also became doctors.
As an African woman living in England and now Scotland, I had many moments of recognition while reading this. I am often in spaces where I am the only Black woman. One particular light-bulb moment came when Dr Blackstock described:
“I often was the only Black person in the room. In such situations, I felt as if I were under a microscope, always hyperaware of how I spoke, the words I used, the way I dressed. I found my body would stiffen up as I walked into a patient’s room. I’d stand up straight, trying to project confidence, to prove myself. I didn’t know the term for what I was doing, but now I can see that it was what is known as ‘stereotype threat’—a psychological phenomenon in which an individual feels at risk of confirming a negative stereotype about a group they identify” (p. 101 – Kindle Edition).
Just how many of us do this without even realising it, and just how stressful it is on the psyche and the body to live and present oneself in this way?
Book Summary
This book is essential reading for anyone seeking to understand (or deepen their knowledge of) the health disparities that communities of colour, particularly Black communities, face in the United States. I would argue, however, that Black communities universally experience the issues identified in this book. Dr Blackstock does not shy away from the brutal truths: the disregard, the lack of care, and the heartbreaking maternal mortality rates among Black women. She also humanises every person she writes about in this book, and this is crucial: recognising the fear behind people’s eyes, instantly knowing where it stems from, and acting accordingly to support them.
In addition to her lived experience, those of people around her and those she came to care for in her community, Dr Blackstock also incorporated research into her book, including key historical facts that everyone should know – exposing how deeply rooted many preconceptions about Black people, and Black women in particular, are. She also highlights the often-erased contributions of Black people to medical advancements. For instance, I did not know about the HeLa cells until reading this. Dr Blackstock traces the structural and systemic issues that affect health: racism, exclusion, inequity in medical training, and the institutional culture of academic medicine.
Key Themes
1. Interlocking Systems of Oppression
Dr Blackstock goes deeper than surface-level explanations. She uncovers layers of interlocking systems that produce and reproduce health inequities.
She reflects on how people often have no choice but to use the ER as their primary source of care, where medical insurance is out of reach:
“I came to see that the woman who couldn’t take time off work to get her blood pressure medication wasn’t only suffering from high blood pressure, she was suffering from lack of workplace protections. The young man who lost his life to gun violence clearly needed better educational and employment opportunities. The elderly gentleman who had his diabetes medication stolen at the homeless shelter would need safe, permanent housing before his health could ever begin to improve in meaningful ways.” (p. 111, Kindle Edition)
Here, she shows that health outcomes are not simply medical; they are social, political, and economic.
2. Medical Racism and Academic Medicine
She writes openly about her experiences in academic medicine, including being thwarted and eventually pushed out for advocating for true diversity and health equity. These sections are heartbreaking, especially her reflections on supporting Black students navigating hostile, racist, and exclusionary environments. I thought, though, that this was a great show of building one’s own table instead of waiting for a place at another ‘s table. She went on to create her own organisation to do the work she wanted to do correctly.
Recommendation
As a Black African woman living in the UK at the time of writing this review, so much of this book felt familiar. I recognised the burden of representation, the isolation, the resilience, and the ways racism shapes everyday encounters, especially in professional spaces.
Legacy is an essential read.
For Black women, it offers recognition, truth, and healing. For everyone else, it offers education, accountability, and a clear look at the systems that must change.
If you work in health, community care, academia, or social justice, this book should be on your reading list.
About the Author
Dr Uché Blackstock is a physician, educator, and founder of Advancing Health Equity, an organisation dedicated to dismantling racism in healthcare. Her work focuses on reproductive justice, health equity, and advocating for communities most impacted by structural racism. Read more about her, her work and order her book HERE.
Genre: Semi-autobiographical Year of Publication: 2008 Country: United States Buy the book here
Introduction
Letter to My Daughter was an absolutely beautiful read. I actually bought it together withDear Ijeawele, or A Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, as I thought it was a book about raising girl children – I do not usually read book blurbs before getting into them. However, I quickly realised that the book was not at all about raising girls; it was more for me, as if Maya Angelou were speaking directly to me.
In her preface, Maya explains that although she never had a biological daughter, she wrote this book for all the women she considered her daughters. She listed a few names, but the book felt like she was writing to me, and to so many other women out there like me.
Book Summary
Maya Angelou is best known for her powerful autobiographical works, and Letter to My Daughter is part of that legacy. This collection of 28 short essays and life stories captures her reflections on life, womanhood, and the wisdom she gathered from her incredible journey, from a young girl learning to love her “recalcitrant teenage body” to a woman who travelled the world as an artist and mother.
Through vivid storytelling, she touches on teenage pregnancy, domestic violence, motherhood, and even moments of humour, like her unforgettable story of “a mouthful of cockroaches.” But above all, Maya Angelou centres dignity, respect and people.
What moved me most, though, was how she wrote about her mother, gingerly, lovingly, and with such deep appreciation. I loved reading about how her mother affirmed, rescued, and protected her. This was crucial as Maya did not have an easy start to life.
Reading this book felt like being wrapped in Maya’s warmth, wisdom, and resilience. Her words carry the weight of experience yet are tender, poetic, and encouraging. She reminds us that life’s lessons, no matter how painful, can become ourgreatest sources of strength.
Recommendations
Everyone should read this book. It’s the kind that makes you grateful to be alive, and even more eager to pick up the rest of her works. Letter to My Daughter is an ode to the daughters Maya never had, including me and you.
Year of Publication: 2021 Genre: Fiction – Contemporary, Historical, Multigenerational Country: United Kingdom/Uganda (author of Nigerian–Pakistani heritage)
We Are All Birds of Uganda is Hafsa Zayyan’s debut novel, and it explores themes of migration, belonging, race, identity, and love across two generations and races. Set between London and Uganda, it captures the intertwined experiences of an Indian-Ugandan family and their descendants, addressing questions of home, identity, belonging, colonialism and postcoloniality.
Through deeply personal and reflective storytelling, We Are All Birds of Uganda examines how histories of displacement and racism continue to shape contemporary lives. The novel is part historical fiction, part modern-day exploration of identity and belonging.
Summary
We Are All Birds of Uganda is a story within a story that traces the lives of two people. One of Sameer, a young, bright, and driven man living and working in London, who finds himself at a crossroads about his sense of identity and belonging in the UK and in his place of work. He accepts a promotion at work, but it would mean leaving the UK to work and live in Singapore. Before embarking on this journey, Sameer takes a sojourn to Uganda to learn more about the place where his family came from, before they were expelled by Idi Amin Dada in 1972.
There, his life takes an interesting turn. On his quest to learn about his family in Uganda, he received heartfelt letters from his grandfather to his predeceased wife, in which he detailed his life. His grandfather’s social and political conditioning at the time was so deep that he never even called the people of Uganda Ugandans; he called them “the Blacks.”
It was interesting, however, how his grandfather later forged a great friendship with one of “the Blacks,” close and important enough to entrust him with his estate once Idi Amin expelled Indian-Ugandans and more profoundly, Uganda was so close to his heart that when the time came to choose, he chose Ugandan citizenship over British citizenship. He loved Uganda with all his heart and saw no other place as home. Uganda, for him and his community, was a place of prosperity – still was for the families who remained or went back. Successful Indian families like Sameer’s lived well, and still did so when Sameer went back. Unfortunately, native Ugandans still battled with high levels of poverty even after independence from the British.
Having lost his first wife and remarried, Sameer’s grandfather was despondent, so he began writing letters to his beloved first wife, each beginning with “To my first love, my beloved.” These were then later given to Sameer, and through his re-reading of them, we learn about his family’s life in Uganda, their successful businesses, their eventual expulsion, and his miserable life in Europe.
At first, I found his words hard to read. The way he wrote about “the Blacks” showed his prejudice and his clear thinking of Black people as inferior to the British and Asians in Uganda, but this was a clear consequence of his own colonialism.
When Sameer visits his family’s former home—his grandfather’s house—he meets his grandfather’s friend’s family, who still live there. He is immediately struck by the beauty of the man’s granddaughter, Maryam. Sameer is taken by her instantly, although at first, she is suspicious of him.
Hafsa tackles various historical and contemporary themes in this novel. She captures the contrast between Uganda and the UK, including ongoing racial abuse that is not new. The novel also highlights privilege, prosperity, and the quality of life for families like Sameer’s.
I liked Sameer and Maryam’s love story. It was interesting how Sameer’s implicit bias was challenged through his affection for Maryam. I liked how Sameer confronted his family’s prejudices against marrying outside his culture and race.
Recommendation
I highly recommend We Are All Birds of Uganda to readers interested in stories about migration, race, love, and the search for belonging. It will resonate deeply with anyone navigating multiple identities or cultural heritages. The novel offers a sensitive portrayal of diaspora life and the impact of displacement.
About the Author
Hafsa Zayyanis a British author of Nigerian–Pakistani descent. She studied Law at the University of Cambridge and now works as a dispute resolution lawyer in London. We Are All Birds of Uganda (2021) is her debut novel and the winner of the #Merky Books New Writers’ Prize. Her writing explores race, migration, and identity through the lens of family and intergenerational connection.
Reading Time: 10minutesCover of Sisters of the Yam: Black Women and Self Recovery by bell hooks captured on my Kindle after a refreshing morning walk.
Year of publication: 1993 Genre: Nonfiction – self-help; Black feminist thought/essays Country: United States
Introduction
This book is the self-help book I never knew I needed. As a genre, I don’t tend to read self-help books, but I read this book for an article I was writing. In the end, I was glad I did, because this book was for me too. Much of the time, it felt like bell hooks was addressing me personally, either speaking about my childhood, my work life, and my life as a mother.
I loved how she wrote that choosing wellness is a political act, mainly because I am emerging from a long period of putting my well-being last, working myself to the bone, never resting, and only ever surviving and existing. Healing is also intentional; as hooks states, healing can only occur if one is willing for it to (referencing here The Salt Eaters, a 1980 novel, by Toni Cade Bambara, another incredible book that I went on to read).
Conversation and storytelling are essential for healing and recovery. The telling of our stories enables healing. Healing happens through testimony. Black people must talk to one another. We must find communities within ourselves and form formidable sources of support to heal, share our stories, and thrive together. This is by no means a message to become reclusive within our own community, but an emphasis on the importance of Black communities, especially because this is our natural way of being (Ubuntu), and because community is the very thing oppression tried to take away from us.
I loved this book so much that I will review it differently from the rest of the books I have reviewed this year. I will go through it chapter by chapter, providing more details about some chapters than others, to guide those who may want to read it. It is not a book to read in one go (although this will be tempting). It is one of those books to read and savour chapter by chapter, letting its words and message soak in, permeate, and envelop you. So if you do decide to pick it up, take your time with it.
Chapter 1: Seeking After Truth
Telling the truth is essential. In this chapter, hooks emphasises the importance of honesty, a trait that some may take for granted. hooks quotes Audre Lorde, “Eye to Eye: Black Women, Hatred, and Anger,” Sister Outsider: “we have to consciously study how to be tender with each other until it becomes a habit because what was native has been stolen from us, the love of Black women for each other.” (p. 11) Most importantly, hooks starts the book by connecting healing to being honest, especially about our lives and telling our stories.
Chapter 2: Tongues of Fire – Learning Critical Affirmation
hooks continues with honesty in this chapter, admitting that “writing about truth-telling in relationship to black experience is difficult” (p. 21). She most poignantly writes about Black parenting: some Black mothers being cruel to their children, saying cruel things to them, being harsh because they intend to raise “proper” children, using harsh critique to police children’s behaviour. To heal our wounds, we must be able to critically examine our behaviour and change. Some, and probably much, of this behaviour is inherited, but examining ourselves and recognising that change is needed to bring up well-loved children is essential.
Chapter 3: Work Makes Life Sweet
This chapter explores the experiences of Black women in the workforce, highlighting their consistent desire to work or, at the very least, an understanding that they will work. hooks said even in her own household, her mom had always made it clear that her children would grow up into working women, and they did. I do not know any Black women who do not resonate with this. Personally, growing up and even now, all the women I know have always been working and taking care of everybody. For me and my family, and I suppose for most Black women, working was not a simple desire; it was a means of survival and a way to establish a better life for ourselves and our families. But I think the critical point hooks is making in this chapter is that work is not the be-all and end-all. We can work, but we do not have to work ourselves to the bone; we can rest; indeed, rest is resistance. We can also aspire to other things, such as following our passions. In the book, hooks writes about herself and how she has always taught and stayed away from writing, her true passion and desire, because work is what she grew up knowing.
Chapter 4: Knowing Peace – An End to Stress
Black women think they have to work to the bone. And really, we do not, unless it is a matter of survival. However, I believe that sometimes, even when we are past the survival mode, we continue to work hard.
Chapter 5: Growing Away from Addiction
Black women are socialised to be caregivers and take this position without thinking, as if it is a given. Many Black women have difficulty letting their children grow; they cannot let go of the thing they know: taking care of their children. It becomes something of an addiction. The link between repressive parenting and addiction must be examined. I thought this was such an important issue to address, as it highlights how some Black women are conditioned to be caregivers and therefore focus all their attention on that, instead of branching out and exploring other passions they may have. This then makes it challenging to be less addicted to the one thing – caring for children- as without that, what will be left? And repression, or those children – having them dependent on us so that they are always close – can be a way to keep this one thing with us.
Chapter 6: Dreaming Ourselves Dark and Deep – Black Beauty
Whiteness says we are not beautiful, and so we have to create our own beauty standards. This is extremely important, especially because of all the things we have been through as a people, all the stripping away of our identity and self-love, all the ridicule and discrimination because of our appearance: our dark chocolate skin, our kinky curls, and so on. While I agreed with much of what hooks wrote here, I did not agree with some of the things she said, for example, about wigs and weaves, and when she used Naomi Campbell as an example. I think Black beauty is layered, and many of those layers do not have to do with oppression; they, at times, have to do with ease and desire. Caring for Afro hair can be a challenging task. I personally have thick, tight (very beautiful) curls, but caring for them is a nightmare. I use all the products and tools, and it is still very hard. So I texturise them and use wigs sometimes to take a break from everyday detangling. This in no way means that I do not love my natural hair or that I am not proud of it; it just means I am exploring the various freedoms my hair offers me. I can have an afro this week, braids the next and wigs the rest of the month. This versatility is an essential and beautiful aspect of Black Beauty. I do get the point she is making about Black women in positions of power like Naomi Campbel who have a real opportunity to represent, teach and change the narrative, however I feel hooks could have dedicated more time in this chapter exploring the diverse reasons black women have with wearing their hair they way they do, – oppression and shame being some of those, but agency, freedom, choice, and autonomy also being part of those reasons.
Chapter 7: Facing and Feeling Loss
In this chapter, hooks writes about death and dying, something I felt sad about, knowing that she passed away in 2021. But it’s a reminder nonetheless that we are not on this earth permanently.
Chapter 8: Moved by Passion – Eros and Responsibility
Another mind-blowing one. Addresses sexuality and eroticism. Also addresses the love we show ourselves, others and our children. “Are we touched enough? Do we give Black children the touching they need?” p. 89. We do not show enough physical affection, but we need it. The point she made about Black children being so devoid of touch that the only touch they recognise is through sexual relations was valid and depressing. She goes on to write about other people’s experiences of lack of touch within families and so on, which is something I could intimately connect with because I grew up just like that – my family and I do not engage in physical affection. Although this did not mean we did not love one another, it did leave either a deep longing for touch or an aversion to it, because it was so foreign. I now describe myself as someone who is not tactile (except with my daughter, who is highly tactile, so I make sure to be that way for her), but it is something to reflect upon. Am I not tactile because I don’t know it? It is not part of my upbringing, so being touched feels strange or maybe even a trauma response? I know, for instance, that I know that I do not show affection easily as a trauma response and a deep fear of rejection. Or do I genuinely not enjoy being touched, which is also okay if that is the case? I think millennials and the generation after that have started changing this narrative. I, for instance, hug my daughter countless times a day, and all my friends with children do this too. We show physical and emotional affection to our children, something we ourselves did not really know. And so, when I read this chapter, I thought about my own childhood and how foreign it felt to be hugged and touched by someone else.
Chapter 9: Living to Love
This was an excellent follow-up to the previous chapter. She begins this chapter with “LOVE HEALS” (p. 97). Our historical experience as Black people living in a racist society has made it challenging to know love. Love is both an intention and an act. hooks addresses not confusing love with abuse, which is an essential issue to address within Black communities. It’s been difficult (not impossible, p. 98) for Black people to know love and very easy to understand pain and abuse. Some other notable quotes from this chapter:
“We know that slavery’s end did not mean that Black people who were suddenly free to love now knew the way to love one another well” (p. 99).
“Slave narratives often emphasize time and time again that Black people’s survival was often determined by their capacity to repress feelings” (p. 99).
“A slave who could not repress and contain emotion might not survive” (p. 100).
“The practice of repressing feelings as a survival strategy continued to be an aspect of Black life long after slavery ended.”
Black mothers/parents often do not validate the emotions of their children; they expect them to be emotionally strong, to be in a space where they are able to ignore their emotions. Example: a young girl comes home crying after racial bullying; her mother becomes angry, offers no emotional support, and goes to confront the bullies. hooks says this mother could have taught another valuable lesson- yes, we should fight oppression, but we should also expect emotional comfort from those around us.
Black mothers are hardly described by their daughters as loving and affectionate. Mothers often have a need to dominate and be right, constantly seeking to be correct and critiquing themselves. Lack of positive recognition and evaluation. Some Black women are addicted to controlling.
“Black women who are choosing for the first time (note the emphasis on choosing) to practice the art and act of loving should devote time and energy showing love to other Black people, both people we know and strangers” (p. 109).
I read this chapter multiple times because of the various excellent points hooks addressed. I am happy that hooks teaches (understanding where some of the issues Black people face come from- for African Americans, predominantly from the condition of enslavement- and this she does throughout the book), and also provides hope – it is not impossible to reframe, change and re-create. We can choose to love and be loved. It is not impossible to learn and unlearn internalised lived experiences.
Chapters 10 and 11: Community, Communion, and Reconciliation
These two chapters connect us all as people living within communities. This is important because our reserves of resilience can be stored within our communities. Our communities possess healing qualities, and these qualities depend on various aspects, such as forgiveness, which she addresses in Chapter 11. Healing communities: as a people, we are our own communities of healing. Binding together is valuable in this healing. Sweet communion: communities are a healing place. The joy of reconciliation: forgiveness is important. We must say it, even if we feel it.
Chapters 12–13: Touching the Earth; Walking in the Spirit
The final two chapters bring us back to connecting with our environments and spirituality. The penultimate chapter (12) – Touching the earth addresses Black people’s connection to the world – We wish to live, and so do we hold this wish for others. Loving our environment is part of making living possible and continual. We are also a people of the earth – traditionally, we cultivate our food from the land – the land belongs to everyone, despite the ways of whiteness (p. 130).
The final chapter (13) – Walking in the Spirit, hooks addresses spirituality and various connections we have to it. Cultivating a spiritual life can be an essential aspect of healing, involving the recognition, understanding, and acknowledgement of the divine connection within ourselves.
Closing Reflection
This is a book filled with nuggets of knowledge delivered gently and delicately. And even then, hooks was not afraid of being honest in this work. The parts about Black women not knowing love were particularly poignant. hooks addresses various other aspects that are important in Black people’s lives – the historical, generational and environmental trauma that Black people, particularly Black women, face. hooks covered a wide range of lived experiences in this book, including healing, motherhood, love, work, death, spirituality, community, and the earth, among others. It was great to read something I could reflect on personally and recognise patterns that show up in my own life – it feels validating. It opens up the gateway to knowing, being known and choosing an appropriate healing that is relevant to me.
I hope that other readers of this book find it relatable in some ways. If not, I hope it can serve as a means to understand those around us and support them in an informed and sensitive manner.
Recommendation
Everyone, especially Black women, should read this book.
About the Author
bell hooks (1952–2021), born Gloria Jean Watkins in Hopkinsville, Kentucky, was an American author, cultural critic, educator, and Black feminist thinker. Her pen name was inspired by her great-grandmother, and she intentionally wrote her pen name in lowercase to divert attention from her name and identity to her work. She published more than 30 books spanning feminism, race, class, love, education, and culture, including Ain’t I a Woman? (1981), Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center (1984), Teaching to Transgress (1994), Sisters of the Yam (1993), and All About Love (2000). hooks taught at institutions including Yale, Oberlin, City College of New York, and Berea College, where the bell hooks center was established to continue her legacy of radical love, community, and transformative pedagogy. She died on December 15, 2021, from kidney failure, aged 69.
How To Say Babylon is my second Caribbean-authored book this year, and I have learned a lot about Rastafarianism and Jamaica. I always wondered about the significance of former Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie to Rastafarians but never took the time to research it, and this book brought much-needed clarity.
The first thing I thought when I started reading How To Say Babylon was how poetic Safiya’s writing was. I found out later in the book that she indeed is a poet, a very successful one. She uses her gift of poetry to tell her story in a gripping, yet lyrical and enchanting way. This, so far, was one of the most unputdownable books I read this year.
It had me asking so many questions, though. Like, why are so many places, faiths and cultures so oppressive to women? Learning about Rastafarian culture in this book had me return to this question time and again. Why do so many aspects of life around the world fixate on subjugating women and positioning men in power, dominion and control?
There seems to be no safe spaces for women; this is not surprising, but I still get utterly disappointed when I learn about another platform where men take power to rule over women. Even men who seem promising and want to help, like Safiya’s mentor in this book, always seem to want to get a piece of a woman.
Book Summary
Safiya leaves no stone unturned in this telling of her family’s story. She starts with her father and mother’s younger days. Their history, their relationships with their own families. Her father’s abandonment by his mother due to his Rastafarian religion and how her parents eventually met, leading up to her birth and that of her siblings.
She speaks fully about her family and what being a Rastafarian has shaped her existence. Her father carved out an exclusive path for a family that did not fully align with other Rastafarian sects, but one that Safiya came to call the Sinclair sect, totally and tightly controlled by her father. He made the rules and made all the family decisions. He decided what males’ and females’ roles were in his household – giving various passes to her brother/his son, but clamping down on his daughters and wife. He decided their diet and what aspects of the wider world, what he called “Babylon”, they participated in and defied.
Living as a recluse family who moved homes frequently, Safiya and her siblings were the subjects of abject bullying and harassment in school. However, they were all exceptionally bright children, taught mainly by their mother, and usually stood out in school for their intellectual ability, often becoming recipients of scholarships. I certainly rechecked whether I knew how to spell Czechoslovakia when reading this book!
For a few years during her childhood, their household was happy. Their father, a budding Rastafarian musician, was doing well, and he was loving and kind towards his family. He obtained a recording contract in Japan, and for about two years, he was living between Jamaica and Japan, doing well and providing for his family.
That was until his fellow musician double-crossed him, and all was lost. His music career failed, never to pick up again, and he had to return home to Jamaica empty-handed. Poverty ravaged his family, and he turned on them, creating even stricter rules for his wife and children to preserve their lives and turn them from the ways of “Babylon.”
His rage turned to violence over his children, with Safiya receiving the brunt of most of it. If he wasn’t lashing her down with his red belt, he was doing so with his words. Nothing Safiya did was ever good enough. Her father turned into someone his own family feared. There was always unease and tension whenever he was around. He became bitterly terrible to his wife and children, tearing them apart bit by bit.
Safiya finished her secondary school with flying colours, but her family could not afford to send her to university. She stayed at home for an extended period, becoming more exposed to her father’s bitterness every day as they both spent time at home during the day while the rest of their family was out. As he worked nights performing at hotels, he was home during the day. Safiya used this time to write and reflect, and when she started publishing, one of her well-received written works was one about her father.
Safiya, however, took her power back as she began to challenge her father and his beliefs. Started telling him to stop talking negatively about her and started creating a distance between them. She stood in her power several times, risking becoming homeless. She pierced her ears and started wearing lipstick, much to her father’s dismay. Furthermore, Safiya continues to aspire and work towards achieving her goals. Her family’s financial situation might have been dire, but Safiya never stopped going for opportunities to realise her dreams.
Eventually, they all started moving away from their father one by one.
Reflections & Themes
While reading How To Say Babylon, I reflected on several themes:
The treatment of Rastafarians in Jamaica, something I was unaware of.
Mr Sinclair’s double standards: he positioned himself as a righteous man who stood for purity, but he did the opposite – he ruled his family with rage, cheated on his wife, and performed at hotels of “Babylon”.
Constraint: I often thought of how the lack of choice kept Safiya going back to living in her father’s rented homes. How suffocating and difficult that must have been.
Freedom: freeing themselves one by one from their father, cutting their dreadlocks and leaving his house one by one.
A mother’s strength: Their mother was remarkable. Her strength in caring for the children, finding ways to feed them when there was no food in the house. Educating them.
Recommendation
This is a 5/5 recommendation from me, I think everyone should read it.
Safiya Sinclair is a Jamaican-born writer from Montego Bay. Her memoir, How to Say Babylon, is highly acclaimed: winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award in Autobiography, a Kirkus Prize finalist, longlisted for the Women’s Prize in Non-Fiction and the OCM Bocas Prize, and featured on numerous “Best of 2023” lists (including the New York Times, Washington Post, The Atlantic, TIME, NPR, The Guardian, and more). The audiobook was also named among the year’s best by Audible and AudioFile. She previously published the poetry collection Cannibal, which won major honors including a Whiting Award, the American Academy of Arts and Letters’ Metcalf Award, the OCM Bocas Prize for Caribbean Poetry, and the Prairie Schooner Book Prize.
Good writing is timeless, and Woman at Point Zero proves exactly that. I’ve often seen this book recommended in reading circles focused on African women writers, but I deliberately avoided captions and reviews; I prefer to go into books completely blind. I wasn’t prepared for what I encountered in this novel. The title is telling, yet I still wasn’t expecting how deeply the protagonist’s journey would take me. Firdaus, the woman at the centre of this narrative, truly finds herself at “point zero” multiple times throughout the book.
Summary of the Book
The novel follows the life story of Firdaus, told in her own voice just hours before her execution on death row. This framing reminded me of The Book of Memory by Petina Gappah, which I recently reviewed; both feature protagonists recounting their lives as they await execution, although their journeys are vastly different.
Woman at Point Zero is widely regarded as an African feminist classic. Firdaus is a woman who experiences relentless disenfranchisement, yet, like a phoenix, she rises again and again. Initially reluctant to speak, she eventually agrees to share her story in full, moments before her death.
Firdaus’s Journey
Firdaus begins her story in a small Egyptian village. Her father is portrayed as a deeply selfish man, religious and utilitarian, yet unconcerned for his family’s well-being. He hoards food while his wife and children starve, and even during harsh winter nights, he prioritises his own comfort over theirs. Firdaus’s mother obeys him unquestioningly, setting the tone for the gender dynamics Firdaus will later navigate.
After her parents die, Firdaus is taken in by her uncle in Cairo. At first, she finds happiness living with him and is put through school. However, this ends abruptly when her uncle marries a woman who despises Firdaus and convinces him to marry her off to an older widower with a facial deformity, a man who is both physically and emotionally abusive.
Firdaus endures unimaginable hardship in this marriage, eventually running away. Seeking safety with her uncle again, she is turned away and forced back into her abusive situation. Ultimately, she escapes and begins wandering Cairo’s streets, desperate to survive.
Survival and Power
Firdaus encounters a café owner who initially appears kind but soon imprisons and abuses her, even allowing his friends to exploit her. Her eventual escape leads her into sex work, a turning point in her life. In prostitution, Firdaus discovers an unexpected sense of power: control over her body, her time, and her income.
Despite societal condemnation, she finds that sex work affords her financial independence and, paradoxically, dignity. She contrasts this with the limited and often exploitative options available to “respectable” women in Egyptian society.
Even when Firdaus secures an office job, the meagre pay and poor living conditions make her question whether so-called legitimate work truly offers women more respect or freedom. Her reflections on this subject are some of the book’s most striking feminist critiques.
The Cycle of Control
Though Firdaus achieves a degree of autonomy, men continue to re-enter her life, seeking to control her. One man forces himself into the role of her pimp, exploiting her success. When Firdaus refuses his control, she takes matters into her own hands in an act of defiance that ultimately leads to her imprisonment and a death sentence.
Her story is unrelenting in its portrayal of how patriarchal societies break women down at every turn, yet it is also a narrative of resistance. Firdaus’s refusal to be controlled, even in her final moments, is revolutionary.
Reflection
Woman at Point Zero is not an easy read, but it is an essential one. Firdaus’s life is filled with hardship and injustice, yet her voice is unflinching. Through her story, Nawal El Saadawi offers a searing critique of gender, class, and power in Egyptian society, while also highlighting universal patterns of patriarchal control that resonate far beyond its setting.
This novel left me reflecting on the thin lines between respectability, survival, and agency. Firdaus’s observations about the relative “freedom” of sex workers versus “respectable” women remain hauntingly relevant.
About the author
Nawal El Saadawi (1931–2021) was an Egyptian physician, psychiatrist, feminist, and author whose work challenged the political and sexual oppression of women in the Arab world. Often called “the Simone de Beauvoir of the Arab world,” she wrote extensively on patriarchy, religion, and women’s rights, drawing on her medical and psychiatric background. Educated at Cairo, Columbia, and ʿAyn Shams universities, El Saadawi worked in Egypt’s health ministry before being dismissed for her groundbreaking book Women and Sex (1969). Her experiences inspired seminal works such as Woman at Point Zero (1975) and The Hidden Face of Eve (1977). Throughout her life, she founded organisations like the Arab Women’s Solidarity Association, faced imprisonment and legal challenges for her views, and became an internationally celebrated voice for Arab women’s liberation (Britannica, 2021).
Ever read a book that stayed with you for years? That was Half of a Yellow Sun for me. What happened to my favourite character, Kainene, towards the end was deeply unsettling. I first read Half of a Yellow Sun in 2018 and knew I would need to revisit it. Seven years later, I returned to it. Chimamanda’s writing has a way of hooking one immediately, and even though this was a re-read, it was just as gripping as the first time I read it.
Book Summary
Half of a Yellow Sun is a story of so many things and so much learning. It is a complex interweaving of many layers of life, love, career, loss, war, and ultimately, survival. A thriving young professional couple, utterly smitten with one another, are tested in ways that can break anyone, but they survive.
Olanna and Odenigbo were living the life of their dreams. They loved each other and had moved in together, crafting a simple yet happy life for themselves. They were both educated and had a houseboy who adored them – Ugwu, and great friends who frequented their home for food, drink, and stimulating conversation. Odenigbo had great aspirations and strong beliefs for his country. Olanna’s twin sister, Kainene, always called him “the revolutionary lover.” Olanna was the daughter of a well-connected, wealthy man. What could possibly go wrong? Surely their love story was one written in the stars? But life, as we know it, is unpredictable and can change in an instant.
Odenigbo’s mother wanted a grandson, and Olanna was not producing one, even though this was not due to a lack of trying. So, the old woman devised a terrible plan to get her grandchild. As fate would have it, the grandchild she got was not the one she wanted: a boy. She got a girl instead and wanted nothing to do with her. Olanna immediately took her in and cared for her, despite the fact that the deceptive act of bringing that child into the world almost broke Olanna and Odenigbo. Olanna’s character was easy to love and adore. Still, this act of kindness on her part, taking in her husband’s child from an extramarital affair and loving her completely, was something to cherish about Olanna.
Just as life was about to get normal again, a civil war broke out, and Olanna and her family were on the side that wanted to break off from Nigeria – Biafra. This part of the book was a challenging read, as events escalated rapidly. Chimamanda described the devastation in incredible detail, which stays with you. Especially because the war did happen, and even though this was not a true retelling, it still made one think, because it’s not difficult to imagine that very similar events occurred in real life. The senseless killing of the Igbo people. The rape of women. The bombing and shelling, the starvation and death, and the utter deprivation that families suffered. From thriving, happy lives to being forced out of their homes and cities, becoming refugees and struggling to feed themselves and their children, to survive.
Kainene was one of my favourite characters in this book, which is why what happened to her still haunts me today. Kainene was a strong and resilient woman who lived life on her own terms. Having known her character from this book and having read all of Chimamanda’s books, I often feel that there is a character resembling her in many of Chimamanda’s works. In Dream Count, Omelogor reminded me a little of Kainene. Kainene was involved with a white man named Richard, and I couldn’t quite place why he was a character in the book.
Another favourite of mine was Ugwu’s character from the very beginning, and my heart broke for what the war did to him, but I suppose those are the consequences of such times. He was, nevertheless, a pure and good person, loyal to the core and full of love. Chimamanda, of course, wrote such a brilliant plot about Ugwu, and ultimately, I was happy he made it.
Before 2018, I had not studied African history extensively and had not read many books written by African women. I had also not travelled much outside Namibia. I was grateful to read this book and take further steps to learn about the Biafran War, which I had previously only heard about.
Chimamanda did an incredible thing with this book. Reading it felt like she sat down and wove an intricately complicated yet beautiful African basket: layered, twisted, decorated, and also complex and sturdy.
I would therefore recommend everyone to read this book.
See my review of Dream Count to learn about the author.
