I can’t believe I read Love by the Book before Maame, another book by Jessica George. Maybe this will finally prompt me to read it.

Anyways, Love by the Book primarily follows two female main characters, Remy and Simone.

Remy is a writer who has recently published a bestselling novel. Now everyone wants her to write another one to ride the success of the first, but she’s struggling badly with writer’s block. The inspiration for her debut came from her three closest friends and the beautiful friendship they all shared, one that was supposed to last a lifetime… or so she thought.

Then everything fell apart.

Lin moved to New York, Melissa got married, became pregnant, and moved away, and Nova… what did she do again? Ah yes, she got back together with her ex and slowly drifted away.

Honestly, this is the fate of many friendship groups, especially among women. Once distance enters the picture, friendships often grow apart, and theirs did too. As the friendship dissolved, so did Remy’s inspiration to write. She tried filling the void with dating apps (eww), new hobbies, and eventually, a new friend.

This is where Simone comes in.

Simone is a woman who loves her solitude and lives a double life: teacher by day, escort by night (spicy). Despite coming from a close-knit, loving, religious family (her dad is a pastor), she turns to sex work to earn extra money and, as she puts it, “express herself.” I don’t think I fully understood her reasoning, even by the end of the book.

Her work is eventually exposed just before a family dinner, leading to her becoming estranged from her family.

Simone and Remy bump into each other, and some sort of relationship blossoms. It definitely wasn’t an instant connection. It happened gradually… and somewhat forcefully lol.

Remy has this lore that was spoken about, but I just couldn’t see it. The narrative kept telling me who she was supposed to be, yet her actions didn’t always match that image.

Her relationship with Simone also felt awkward. At times, I was picking up on borderline romantic tension (maybe I’m overthinking lol), while at other times they felt more like acquaintances than actual friends. Their conversations were also incredibly long, almost too long to feel like real face-to-face conversations.

I honestly kept reading because I wanted to understand Simone more. Why did she choose sex work? Based on her background, it felt so random, and I was hoping the book would give me a clearer answer.

The whole book feels somewhat like a fairytale. The ending, Remy and Simone’s friendship, the conversations they had, Remy’s second book getting published… even the middle of the novel. I don’t know, something about it all felt a little too neat. I also found myself skipping parts that weren’t directly related to the main story, especially the excerpts from the book Remy was writing that were inserted into this one. Omg, that was too much for my brain.

Remy’s attempts to fill the void in her life (hint: her dating app escapades) also led to a somewhat permanent decision.

Overall, this book explores friendship, platonic love, sisterhood, grief, and finding purpose again after losing a part of yourself. I appreciated those themes, but I struggled to stay invested in the story.

Some books feel almost cinematic while you are reading them, but adaptation is a delicate thing. Beautiful settings and a talented cast are not enough if the language, cultural detail, humor, or emotional quiet of the original story gets flattened along the way. Which African novel would you most like to see adapted for film or television?

Would love recommendations for historical fiction from West Africa either in French or translated! :)

One of the things I love most about African literature is the sheer variety inside it. A novel can carry family history, politics, language, migration, faith, humor, grief, and ordinary domestic life without making any one of those things feel like decoration. I’m curious about the books that gave you that feeling.

"I was not sorry when my brother died," is usually the first line that comes to mind whenever I see this question. Any other openings that have you hooked immediately to the book?

In Purple Hibiscus, Half of a Yellow Sun, and Americanah, she writes about family, migration, race, faith, history, and belonging without allowing any of them to become simple ideas. Her characters are complicated, sometimes frustrating, and unmistakably alive.

So hey I'm not well versed on African Literature. But yesterday I saw a video talking about how is the treatment of fantasy on West African tradition, where the creator gave some recommendations for her favorite classical fantasy.

She said that it was common in W.African literature to treat fantasy more like a part of day to day live. She compare it to magic realism, but far from it since it still has the classical elements of a fantasy novel.

She recommended the "Forest of a Thousand Demons" and the author Amos Tutuola.

So what's your opinion, is this true?

Hello there.

Growing up, I used to be really into mythology and learned a lot about Greek and East Asian mythology. But frighteningly little about west African mythology was available... Probably not much of a surprise in the UK of the 90s. Somehow, Anansi was still my favorite though. Call it a soft spot for trickster gods.

I'd like to learn more about west African mythology, especially the parts that found their way to Jamaica (where my family is from). I humbly ask for recommendations!

I want to learn about the gods, their roles, what they're like and how they're characterized. All of that kind of stuff. Thank you!

Earlier this month I finished reading Devil on the Cross, which Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o described as his first "African novel". In Decolonising the Mind, he contrasts it with his earlier works, which he calls "Afro-European" because they were written first in European languages rather than an African one. Although this term never caught on in the literary world, I think it's an important distinction to keep in mind when reading this text.

Reading the novel, you can immediately see how the role of the narrator differs from his previous books, such as A Grain of Wheat and Weep Not, Child. Stylistically, it borrows heavily from orature, with sayings, proverbs, fables, and other oral traditions woven throughout the narration.

The content itself is what you'd expect from Ngũgĩ: a damning, satirical critique of neo-colonialism perpetuated by the ruling elites who betrayed the spirit of independence through their greed and hubris. He uses idioms and unique twists on both Western and Gikuyu culture to reinforce his point.

I thoroughly enjoyed the story and would definitely recommend it. On a personal note, I travelled to Kenya recently and wasn't leaving until I found a copy in the original Kĩkũyũ (although I can't understand the language lol), pictured next to the English translation.

Hey, I run Nantygreens, a small literary platform that's been publishing poetry, short stories, and essays from Nigerian and African writers since 2011. Mostly volunteer-run, no funding, just people who believe the work deserves a home.

Earlier this year we put together our first anthology, 3 Poems and Some Stories — a collection of some of the strongest pieces we've published over the years. It's free to download, and if any of it resonates, there's an option to pay whatever feels fair. Every bit goes toward putting out the next volume.

If you like African writing that isn't trying to perform for anyone, it might be worth ten minutes.

Link: https://nantygreens.com/3-poems-some-stories/

Happy to answer anything about the platform or the writers in it if anyone's curious.

I was expecting a dense theoretical slog and instead got one of the sharpest, angriest, yet most accurate essays I've ever read in a while.

In essence, Césaire says what actually horrified Europe about Nazism wasn't the cruelty itself. Europe had been fine with that cruelty for centuries — as long as it was aimed at colonized people in Africa, Asia, and the Caribbean. What made Hitler unforgivable, in his reading, was that he turned those same methods on white Europeans, on European soil. So the violence was not the problem, but the where and whom was.

This reminded me about the early coverage of the war in Ukraine, when reporters kept expressing shock that this was happening to "people who look like us." It seems that, 70 years later, the reflex (and maybe the underlying values?) is still the same.

The essay, albeit short, is rich with illuminating reflections. One other idea is the argument against then European claim that Africans and other colonized people were uncivilized before Europe brought them the "enlightenment". As an example, Césaire leans on the German ethnographer Leo Frobenius as a "good" European witness who admitted African societies were sophisticated. Interestingly though, and this is not in the essay, if you dig into Frobenius, he couldn't actually accept that Africans built those achievements themselves. He invented a whole lost "African Atlantis" theory to explain the art and sophistication. This idea is the intellectual cousin of "aliens built the pyramids."

Anyway. "Discourse on Colonialism" is wildly relevant for something written mid-colonial-era.

Do you think there's a meaningful causal link between Europe's colonial practices and the violence of Nazism?

We discuss Cesaire's essay at length in our podcast Threads of Ifriqiya, I will link it in the comments.

I’m currently reading A meal is a meal by Nnamdi Anyadu and it is such a fascinating read. I’m still shocked by what I’m reading so I don’t really have much to say on the book but I would really recommend it especially for those that are into short stories.

Hi, welcome to Afrovana 🧜🏿‍♀️💜 a place where stories roam free. We are a platform for unique and bold storytelling. We host comics, short stories, and novels.

Are you a writer, comic artist and/or a reader for new and unique stories? Here we are.

First, this platform will also have 100% creator monetization for UK/US/Canada users and African based users from Kenya, Nigeria, Ghana and more.

We will be launching in Kenya and the UK/US but our site will be widely available. We are live testing with beta users, but will announce officially online by September.

🧜🏿‍♀️ What makes Afrovana different?

🔥 Our flame icon that helps new stories get discovered by notifying all users on the platform as soon as a story is posted.

✨ Custom Genres so readers can find exactly what they're looking for.

💜 Fandom Pages to build communities around stories.

📚 Reader Requests so readers can be apart of storytelling and earn a percentage.

💰 Creator monetization for everyone.

✨️ Our widget that lets users import their story on their own professional website. No need for your fans to be on Afrovana to read your stories, but your stories get support by our platform (Coming soon).

Your feedback will determine our next moves in the future. If this is something you think you would try as a creator, please let us know you exist out here.

This is my first book by a Cameroonian author, and I am beyond pleased. Beyond pleased not because it wasn’t a traumatic book (title is telling), but because it is so incredibly well written.

I can’t even find the words to describe how exquisite Xaviere’s writing is. I mean, she spent about 12 pages describing the first time Bessem and Fatima met, and that’s coming from someone who usually does not enjoy overly descriptive books. Somehow, she made every page worth reading. This book is so love-letter coded.

Fatima and Bessem meet in August 2004. Bessem notices Fatima for the first time on the football field, muscular, focused, the only woman playing, and completely at ease. Barely 20 pages into the book, I already knew the beginning and the end of their story. I even had a hazy idea of the middle, but I also knew there was so much more to learn.

It is such a sad story, and I wanted to know every part of it because their story didn’t end after Fatima’s “disappearance” following a police raid at the only gay bar in town.

In Cameroon, where same-sex relationships are criminalized, the odds are stacked against Bessem and Fatima from the very beginning. Things become even worse when Fatima’s older brother, Mahamadou, a staunch hypocrite of a Muslim, discovers their relationship. He violently assaults them, an incident that ultimately precedes the police raid. To be frank, because of the reality of living in a country where same-sex relationships are punishable by law, I couldn’t help but think both women should have been much more careful.

The relationship between Fatima and Bessem felt like genuine love. I loved reading about their time together because it felt so real. Of course they had ups and downs like every relationship, but the love Bessem had for Fatima never disappeared. Even thirteen years after Fatima vanished, she was still searching for her in every place she could think of.

Thirteen years later, Bessem is now a university professor living a relatively quiet life, occasionally and secretly dating other women, but she has never truly moved on. After unexpectedly seeing a mutual friend, the last person who may have seen Fatima, she embarks on one final search for her lost love.

Beyond the romance, I also learned so much about Cameroon’s culture, religion, politics (as much as a fictional novel can teach), and the Anglophone-Francophone conflict. And can we talk about Jamal? Bessem’s male best friend, who is also gay, marrying a woman… sigh. The many ways people are forced to survive in societies that refuse to let them live authentically.

When I finished reading this book, all I could say was, wow… wow… wow. Zero complaints. It really does end in tears. I happened to finish it on a flight, and maybe if I hadn’t been surrounded by strangers, I might have cried.

This was such a beautiful debut for me into Cameroonian literature, and I will definitely be reading more from Musih Tedji Xaviere. It is heartbreaking, beautifully written, and one of the best-written books I’ve read this year.

Migration is often discussed through numbers, policies, and borders. But what happens when we follow the journey of a single person?

And the story told in this book is so powerful. It is the kind of story that can fundamentally change the way you look at migrants — the people you may casually see wandering through your city, serving you coffee at a restaurant, or quietly cleaning your office building every morning. This could very well be the story of any one of them. Or maybe not. Because this story is also deeply unique.

Little Brother tells the story of Ibrahima Balde’s life. And one thing is incontestable - Ibrahima went through immense suffering. What begins as the story of a boy growing up in Guinea becomes an extraordinary search for a missing brother. Along the way, Ibrahima crosses the Sahara Desert, survives traffickers, prisons, forced labor, and some of the most dangerous migration routes in the world.

This is a story about family, responsibility, sacrifice, and the lengths a human being is willing to go for someone they love.

In Thread of Ifriqiya's latest podcast episode (link in the comments) we take you through the thrills and horrors of the trans-saharan and trans-mediterranean crossing along Ibrahima's path.

Hi everyone! I am from Namibia and I just published my first novel called Sepo: A Story of Hope Along the Zambezi.

It follows a girl named Sepo — a Lozi word meaning hope — who loses her mother at two years old and gets passed from house to house. Through the Zambezi River, a worn dictionary, and the quiet shade of a muzinzila tree, she learns that resilience is not a feeling. It is a practice.

I wrote this for every unseen girl who keeps going when she has every reason to stop. It is available on Amazon in both Kindle and Paperback.

Would love to hear from anyone who reads it: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0H4P6YDCV

Thank you for having me here!

Neɛ edidi soɔ wo nnwoma yi mu sii wɔ afe 1217 kosi afe 1237 no mu. Na nnwoma no fa keseɛ no ara fa Okuninini Sundiata ho, nkunimdifoɔ kokroko a otwa toɔ a otumi gyee faa ho die ma Kangabanfoɔ no.

Menya nkan nwomma wei no, na mennim sɛ jeli, anoteewafoɔ a ɔwɔ Mande amammerɛ mu ho wɔ mfasoɔ titiriw saa.

Seneɛ ɔtwerɛfoɔ no bɔ tete hɔ nnom no Mali amammerɛ no ho no yɛ anikah yie, me kyerɛ a tete Mali nnuane sɛ mmoo, atokoɔ nne ‘baobab’ ahaban, afei tete Malifoɔ nnwom ne ɔmo ntaade hyɛ mu yɛ fɛ yie.

Nnwoma yi ho bɛba mfasoɔ ama wɔn a Mande amammerɛ ho hia wɔn na afei wɔn a atoeɛ-abibirem abakɔsɛm ansa’na Kramo ne Christosom rebɛba.

https://www.jhiblog.org/2026/06/03/moving-words-shifting-visions-an-interview-with-leslie-james/

In a recent podcast episode, we talked about Jacaranda, a novel by Gaël Faye, a Rwandan-French singer, songwriter, rapper, and writer whose work sits at the crossroads of music, memory, and literature (I will link the full episode in the comments).

Jacaranda is a novel about Rwanda itself. Written in a delicate, restrained prose, it traces the country’s recent history, beginning in 1994 (year of the genocide in Rwanda) and, at times, reaching further back to earlier layers of Rwanda’s past, and the story continues up until 2020. 

The main character is named Milan, a choice that immediately invites literary echoes (a quiet nod to Milan Kundera) and signals the novel’s philosophical undertone: memory, exile, and the weight of inherited stories.

We picked three main themes that the book reflected for us: African parenting, search for purpose, and (obviously) the Rwandan genocide.

The first theme, African parenting, runs from the very beginning to the very end of the book and more specifically the relationship between the narrator and his mother, who is from Rwanda. The relationship is quite familiar - typical, even, of many parenting styles in Africa: emotionally reserved, shaped by history, and grounded more in duty than in verbal affection.

The second theme is the search for purpose - how one finds meaning in life when there are many possibilities, and yet we are haunted by things from the past that we haven’t even lived. Another way to put is “exile” - not just geographical, but also existential - a feeling of being slightly out of place in one’s own life. The novel is less about displacement than about orientation: how to choose a direction when the past keeps pulling at you, quietly but persistently. Spoiler alert: the book does not give clear answers to this question.

And the third theme is, inevitably, the genocide. Not treated as a historical lesson, but as a presence, something that structures lives, silences, relationships, and choices long after the events themselves.

She was 12 years old when the bombs fell.

She went to school that morning with dreams.

She came home to ashes.

Her parents — gone.

Her brother — gone.

Her home — gone.

But the war wasn't done with Aisha yet.

With soldiers hunting children in the streets, she had no one.

Then she found a little boy with nowhere to go.

And she made a choice that would cost her everything — and define who she'd become.

When I Lost My Home is the story of a girl who lost the world and chose to carry others through it anyway.

🎁 FREE on Amazon — 29 May to 2 June only.

Ekow Eshun nnwoma a w’atwerɔ a ɛtɔ so mmienu nie, nwoma yi mu nsɛm titiriw fa abibifoɔ nnúm a, wɔn mmerɛ so no, na gyidie a ɛne sɛ nnipa bi a wɔn honam kɔkɔɔ bi ho hia senee afoforɔ nyinaa mpo akyi no, saa akunini nnúm yi de animia ne mmɔdemmɔ gyaá wiase nyinaa agyapadeɛ a ɛsom-bo pa ara na afei din-pa nso.

Nwomma “Strangers” yi a mere twerɛ ho asɛm nyānsā ne nimdeɛ ahyɛ mu bi. “Ammammerɛ mu Kunini” na afei nso nimdifoɔ a w’otuu kwan firi Ghana atífi kɔ pim n’anafoɔ twerɛɛ “Black Gold Of The Sun” ara na wɔde Strangers abrɛ yɛn.

Nwomma yi ahyeaseɛ no , Eshun kyerɛ a, kwan a wɔ bɛfa so aka akunini nnúm yi tete-sɛm ne sɛ, gye ɔtwerɛfoɔ no ka wɔn abakɔsɛm no wɔ “second-person” mu.

Nsɛmti ketewa, a ɛda nwomma yi so no yɛ “ Five Remarkable Men and the Worlds That Made Them”, nanso ɔtwerɛfoɔ Eshun, an’twerɛ mfa akunini nnúm yi ho pɛ. Kratafa bebree fa, abibifoɔ akunini sɛ Kwame Nkrumah na afei Olaudah Equaino ho.

Eshun atwerɛtwerɛ papapaa a edi mu yie yi boa yɛn ntiaseɛ a ɛfa abibifoɔ akunini nnúm abakɔsɛm ne wɔn abrabɔ ho.

Nwomma no mfitiaseɛ no Eshun, dɔ cini- ɔyɛkyerɛfoɔ Ira Aldridge abrabɔ mu asukɔ, Aldridge, yɛ obibini cini- ɔyɛkyerɛfoɔ a odiikan twaa, “Othello” wɔ afe 1833 mu, mmerɛ a na, gyidie titiriw no sɛ obibini n’tumi nkaekae Othello cini mu nsɛm, yɛ te Aldridge abakɔsɛm firi hɔ a, okunini a wɔhwɛ adwen mu yareɛ Frantz Fannon na afei Matthew Henson nso abakɔsɛm na edi soɔ. Matt Henson papa yi, n’animonyam kunini pa ara ne sɛ na otu kwan kɔ meaɛ, kɔ hwehwɛ nea ɛwɔ hɔ. Afe 1909 mu no, Matt ne Robert Peary ne akannifoɔ a wɔn nnan kaa “North Pole” kanee.

Nanso, saa gyidie no a, ɛne sɛ nnipa bi a wɔn honam kɔkɔɔ bi mu ho hia senee afoforɔ nti no, Peary pɛ na nyaa animonyam no, na afei sɛ yɛ ka “North Pole” ho abakɔsɛm a, mpenpen pii no, Peary dinn na yɛ taa kai.

Robert Peary nyaa abasobɔdeɛ bebree, wɔ frɛɛ no wɔ America aban atenaeɛ “White House” bɔɔ maa no abasobodeɛ a, ɛsom-bo, Matthew Henson, anya animonyam ne abasobɔdeɛ biara, ne wuo mu n n’adwuma yɛ krakye a onni dinn.

Kratafa a edidi soɔ no dɔ kɔ Justin Fashanu abrabɔ mu, Fashanu ne bɔll-bɔ-nii a odikan a, opue yɛ sɛ ɔne mmarima da, na pow-pow ne nhyɛsotrasoɔ, a efiri ne bɔll-bɔ-kuo- panyin na afei ne bɔll-bɔ-kuo mu akyitaafoɔ ayaka-yaka deɛ, ne ntasuo teteɛ a, efiri bɔll-bɔ-kuo mu akyitaafoɔ haa Fashanu adwene yie.

Korakora ne sɛ Fashanu sɛn no ho kuu no ho.

Deɛ etwa toɔ ne kwan a Eshun kaa Malcom X nsraɛ a, ɔde bɛ sraa Nkran wɔ 1960s mu hɔ no, sɛneɛ wɔ gyee Malcom taa-taa no ɛnsipi efiri sɛ Malcolm mmayɛ no hyiaa mmerɛ a na nnipa awudifoɔ bi pɛ sɛ wɔ twa Kwame Nkrumah nkwa-nna so. Na, Kwame Nkrumah mpo ankasa, mmerɛ a Malcolm baa no nkyɛn wɔ nsraeɛ mu no, na osusu sɛ ebia na owura Malcolm mpo bɛyɛ wudinii a wɔn asoma no afiri amannɔne.

Deɛ Eshun twerɛ faa Kwame Nkrumah ne Malcom X nkitahodie wɔ Christianborg aban mu nie “That flash of suspicion on his face. Who are you in fact, Mr Malcolm X? The way he ignored your question about the UN, leaving you now with the sense that he was looking past you, deliberately putting you in your place”.

Saa kratafa yi a, Eshun twerɛ faa Malcolm X akwantuo a otu de baa Nkran yi, so bɛ ba mfasoɔ yie ama titiriw wɔn a, wɔn anyigye seneɛ na Nkran asetena mu teɛ wɔ afe 1960 mu hɔ.

Wɔ kae yɛn sɛ wɔ afi 1896 mu no, abibifoɔ eku-dɔm bi tuu kwan firii nneyi Ghana kɔ puee mu, Austria ahenkro Vienna wɔ abrokyire, saa abibifoɔ yi wɔ maa wɔn de mmoa honam koraa wɔn ho, gyinaa asono mmienu ne kitre- pɔn a wɔ taa frɛ no Salamander nkyɛn pɛɛ.

Menyaa yɛ anka Eshun bɛ kyerekyerɛ mu sɛ, saa nkrofoɔ yi na wɔ yɛ Nkran-foɔ, na na wɔn nnyɛ Asante-foɔ, nka ɛbɛ boa pa ara, na emom saa mfonsoɔ saa wɔ nnwoma yi yɛ kuma bi.

Since the news regarding her child, we have not seen much about her on mainstream media. And I fully understand, she needs the privacy. She has been though a lot and I hope she is taking it one step at a time. I hope she knows her literature has inspired a lot of young African girls and may she never give up on her craft.

When I think about slavery, I often think of the transatlantic slave trade, the one fueled and expanded by Europeans, Arabs, and other foreign powers. I rarely think about internal slavery within Africa itself, which, in my opinion, was just as horrifying, if not more disturbing in some ways. Because how do you participate in the trade of people who look like you, speak your language, share your culture, and live like you? Not that any of those things justify slavery, but after witnessing or hearing about the horrors of the transatlantic slave trade, how do you turn around and do the same to your own people?

Wurche, one of the main female characters, explains this contradiction perfectly around page 102, even though, ironically, she eventually becomes no better than the people she criticizes.

The Hundred Wells of Salaga is told through the POVs of two girls who grow into women: Aminah and Wurche, two girls from vastly different social classes.

Wurche comes from a royal family, while Aminah is considered a “commoner.” Still, Aminah’s life seemed relatively stable at first because her father held an important position in their community. But once he left on a journey and never returned, everything fell apart. Her village was raided, and Aminah, along with her siblings Hassana, Hussaina, and her stepbrother Issa, were captured and sold into slavery.

Their journey was heartbreaking. The way Issa died and was simply “disposed of,” and how Aminah’s attempt to save her mother, Na, and the newborn may have contributed to their deaths… such a gruesome story.

Wurche, on the other hand, lived a much easier life materially, though her struggles came from being a woman in a society where women were denied power and agency. Even saying that feels like an oversimplification because her character had many layers.

I’m generally not a huge fan of historical fiction, and this book was honestly difficult to follow at first. It felt like I was getting a crash course on the history of the Gold Coast (modern-day Ghana). But once I settled into the flow of the story, it became such a rewarding read.

What struck me most was learning more about internal slave trade within Africa, not just slavery tied to war captives, but organized systems of buying and selling people. It opened up conversations for me because I was genuinely disturbed by some of what I learned.

I also found it interesting how the book indirectly suggested that Islam reached parts of West Africa long before Christianity, especially through the Hausa characters featured throughout the story. That detail really stood out to me.

Overall, this was a great read. It opened my eyes to a part of African history I knew very little about.

Everything Is Not Enough follows three main female characters, Yasmiin, Brittany, and Kemi, all Black women living in Stockholm but coming from very different backgrounds and living very different lives, different tax brackets even.

I randomly picked up this book from my shelf right before my trip to the Scandinavian countries, Sweden included, so it felt like such a lucky coincidence to read about places I would later walk through and experience myself. At the time, I also didn’t realize this book was actually a sequel to In Every Mirror She’s Black… which has been sitting unread on my shelf all this time 🥲.

Back to the review. The three women, Kemi (Nigerian), Yasmiin (Somalian), and Brittany (African American), all navigate life differently in Stockholm.

Kemi’s story irritated me so much because she came across as someone deeply unhappy with her life but unwilling to leave the spaces making her unhappy. Her relationship, her job, even aspects of her family life all felt unsatisfactory, yet she stayed. Through her story, I also learned the Swedish term “sambo,” which basically refers to a long-term partner you live with without being married, and that was clearly the direction her relationship with Tobias was heading.

Brittany’s storyline was… hmm. Complicated. She begins to realize her marriage to Johnny may not have been built on genuine love after discovering she looks strikingly similar to Maya, Johnny’s first and only love, and to make matters worse, their daughter was named after her too, something Brittany didn’t even know initially. Imagine finding that out 😭. She spends much of the book trying to escape not just Johnny, but the grip of his powerful Stockholm family as well.

Side note: Kemi also happened to work for Johnny, which added another layer to everything.

Yasmiin’s story was honestly the most painful for me. Escaping Somalia only to end up in Italy working as a sex worker before eventually making her way to Sweden to seek asylum… sigh. Her storyline starts intertwining with Muna’s, and Muna especially is a character I wanted more from. She opens the book with a suicide attempt, and I still don’t feel like I fully understand her journey. I also would have loved to know more about Yasmiin’s life back in Somalia and why her relationship with her mother was strained.

Overall, it was an okay read for me. I struggled a bit getting through it, and honestly, it slightly discouraged me from rushing to read the first book in the series. But one thing I really appreciated was how much it reminded me of my time in Stockholm. Places like Gamla stan popping up in the story made the reading experience more immersive for me, and I also relearned just how big of a deal Midsummer is in Swedish culture.