The Nation Newspaper

Category: Olukorede Yishau

  • To Nigeria Revenue Service

    To Nigeria Revenue Service

    I write to you not as a mere observer but as a concerned citizen who recognises the gravity and the promise of the task before you. Nigeria stands at a historic crossroads. Your mandate to implement the new tax reform laws is not merely a bureaucratic assignment but a moral obligation, an act of nation-building whose consequences will echo through generations.

    Permit me, therefore, to speak plainly and earnestly about what this moment demands of you, and why your stewardship will determine whether these reforms succeed as instruments of renewal or perish as yet another unfulfilled promise.

    First, let us consider the stark reality these reforms seek to confront. For decades, our beloved country has sustained an impossible social contract: a state dependent on fickle oil revenues, citizens habituated to evading taxes, and a political class reluctant to demand honest sacrifice for fear of unrest or unpopularity. We have all borne witness to the consequences: a state impoverished of the means to build roads, hospitals, schools, or power grids worthy of our people’s aspirations.

    Nigeria’s tax-to-GDP ratio remains among the lowest in the world, an ignoble distinction that signifies not merely administrative failure but a profound breach of civic trust. While other nations have built prosperity on the sturdy foundation of a fair and effective tax system, we have too often treated taxation as an imposition without legitimacy, a transaction without accountability.

    Your mandate seeks to change this. And it is, in its ambition and scope, the most consequential reimagining of our fiscal architecture since independence.

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    The new laws you are charged with enforcing introduce digitisation of tax administration, stricter penalties for evasion, streamlined processes for SMEs, and targeted incentives to stimulate priority sectors. They aim to expand the tax net, modernise collection, and formalise the vast informal economy upon which so many livelihoods depend.

    In embracing technology, mandating electronic invoicing, integrating databases across ministries, enabling real-time monitoring, these reforms hold the promise of transparency, efficiency, and fairness. No longer should the tax office be a place of opaque negotiations and rent-seeking, but rather a professional service that partners with citizens in shared obligation.

    Equally significant is the attention given to the informal sector. For too long, we have looked away from the paradox that most of our people dwell outside the formal economy, unregistered and untaxed, yet vital to our nation’s commerce. Your task is to bring them into the fold, not with the mailed fist of coercion, but with the open hand of partnership. The presumptive tax models, simplified compliance procedures, and phased enforcement mechanisms envisaged by these reforms demonstrate commendable prudence. If properly implemented, they can formalise the economy without strangling the entrepreneurship that sustains millions.

    The reforms also promise to clarify and standardise the fraught terrain of value-added tax collection, long a source of confusion and intergovernmental friction. By establishing clearer rules and fostering transparency in revenue sharing, you will help build the predictability upon which investment and commerce depend.

    Yet for all these merits, I must warn you with equal candour that these reforms are neither flawless nor guaranteed to succeed. Their greatest threat lies not in design but in execution. And here your role is paramount.

    First and foremost, you must confront the issue of trust. No reform can endure if citizens believe their sacrifice will be squandered. They will not pay taxes willingly into a black hole of corruption. They will not comply out of patriotic fervor if their schools remain dilapidated, their roads cratered, their hospitals empty of medicines.

    You must, therefore, pair your enforcement with an unyielding commitment to transparency. Budgets must be published in accessible forms. Revenues must be tracked and disclosed. Procurement must be open to scrutiny. Auditors must be empowered to expose malfeasance. Without this parallel revolution in fiscal governance, your new laws risk becoming yet another tool of oppression rather than a pillar of renewal.

    Second, you must build administrative capacity. Technology can help, but it will not substitute for integrity or competence. Your agents must be reformed in culture and structure alike. Tax officers must be trained not merely as collectors but as educators, facilitators, and guardians of the public trust. Internal governance must root out corruption without mercy. Processes must be redesigned to limit discretion and arbitrariness.

    Third, you will face powerful vested interests. Be under no illusion: there are those who benefit from the status quo and will resist change at every turn. Large companies accustomed to exploiting loopholes will deploy all the tools of influence to retain their privileges. Informal sector operators, fearing the costs of formalisation, will resist registration. Even state governments will defend their fiscal autonomy against perceived federal overreach.

    You must navigate these shoals with political wisdom and moral courage. Dialogue will be essential, but so too will an unwavering commitment to the public interest. Compromise may be necessary in detail, but never in principle.

    Equity must be your watchword. For taxation is not merely about raising revenue, but about justice. You must guard against any tendency to shift the burden disproportionately onto the poor through regressive consumption taxes, while the wealthy and powerful find ingenious ways to escape. Progressive personal income taxes, property taxes on luxury real estate, tighter rules against profit-shifting, these are not optional addenda, but essential elements of a fair system.

    Nor can you ignore the social context. Our country remains wracked by poverty, inequality, and economic uncertainty. Inflation erodes purchasing power. The cost of fuel and food remains high. You must therefore sequence your reforms with sensitivity and communicate with candor. Citizens will bear sacrifices if they believe they are necessary and fairly apportioned. But they will not tolerate opaque demands from an unaccountable state.

    Despite these daunting challenges, I urge you to embrace this moment with hope and resolve. For what you are being asked to do is nothing less than to help birth a modern Nigerian state, one that can finance its own development, free from the humiliations of dependency on volatile oil markets or foreign loans.

    Remember that taxation is not merely an exercise in revenue collection. It is the foundation of the social contract. When citizens pay taxes and see services delivered in return, they gain a stake in the state. They become more demanding, more participatory, more invested in democracy itself.

    Your success will not be measured merely in naira collected, but in trust restored, in roads built, in clinics stocked, in children educated. It will be measured in the transformation of Nigeria from a rentier state to a true republic of mutual obligation.

    My final take: I beseech you as tax administrator: do not treat these new laws as technical regulations to be enforced mechanistically. See them for what they are, a solemn invitation to remake the relationship between state and citizen in terms of honesty, fairness, and shared sacrifice. If you rise to this challenge, you will earn not only the gratitude of your compatriots but the verdict of history as architects of Nigeria’s long-delayed greatness.

    With profound respect and earnest hope.

    A concerned citizen.

  • A jolly good ride with Bankole

    A jolly good ride with Bankole

    Climb in, buckle up, and adjust your mirrors because Olufunke Grace Bankole’s ‘The Edge of Water’ is no ordinary drive. It is a smooth, soulful cruise through winding emotional roads, sunlit stretches of cultural memory, and a few hairpin turns of fate that will leave you breathless.

    With Hurricane Katrina looming in the rearview mirror, this novel revs its engine with an unforgettable blend of Yoruba mysticism, Nigerian and American realities, and the relentless force of destiny.

    Let us begin our journey with Amina, a woman parked at a crossroads, both literally and metaphorically. She is hunkered down in the eerie quiet of a powerless New Orleans dome, haunted not just by the storm around her, but by the whirlwind of her past in Ibadan, the remarkable city that sits pretty in the bowel of Nigeria.

    Like a rear-facing camera capturing every shadow, Bankole uses this moment of stillness to reflect on the long and winding road that brought Amina here, from Ibadan to New Orleans, from girlhood to womanhood.

    As you cruise through, you see that you are in a vehicle full of compelling passengers: Esther, the mother who writes letters weighted with regrets and longings; Oyin, the half-sister wrapped in layers of resilience and betrayal; Laila, the granddaughter in search of self; and men like Sani and Niyi, who drive more damage than direction. And there is George the liar, whose appearance gives the impression of a saint, but his disappearance without trace reveals that he is a wolf in sheep’s clothing; he is a proof that every great ride has its trickster hitchhiker.

    On the ride we find out that though Esther’s true love is Joseph, but fate takes a cruel turn: she ends up with Sani, a man who rapes her and is then compelled by his parents to marry her as restitution. The marriage eventually crumbles, but not before Sani fathers a child, Oyin, with Esther’s best friend.

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    After Oyin’s mother dies, she moves in with Sani, only to be driven out by his new wife. She eventually finds refuge with Esther and Amina in their Ibadan apartment where Amina discovers, to her heartbreak, that Niyi, the man she has fallen for, has also been romantically involved with her mother.

    As the ride continues and in a moment of soul-searching, Amina concludes that Nigeria is too small to contain her dreams. America, with its promise of possibility, beckons. She applies for the visa lottery and wins. Sani attempts to sabotage her relocation, but with Esther’s help, she prevails. Unbeknownst to Amina, Esther is silently carrying a troubling prophecy from the Iyanifa: that Amina’s destiny is bound to her motherland, and that it is Oyin, not Amina, who should journey to the so-called God’s own country.

    The ride occasionally departs from the strict historical details of Hurricane Katrina, treating them with a degree of narrative looseness. This allows the ride to focus more intimately on the hurricane’s impact on Amina, and on the choices she and her family made before, during, and after the storm. In doing so, Bankole does not diminish the magnitude of the disaster or its profound effect on people’s lives; rather, she deepens our understanding of its emotional and personal toll.

    At the wheel of this entire joyful ride, though, is the enigmatic Iyanifa, priestess, seer, and narrative GPS. Her voice, calm and commanding, guides the reader through moments of confusion with the assurance of a driver who knows the terrain. Her insight is like the taste of slightly-burnt jollof rice in the air: Unmistakable, nostalgic, and deeply satisfying. You’ll want to slow down just to savour her every word.

    On this ride, Bankole doesn’t just keep us going, she keeps us guessing. The narrative plays a fine game of hide and seek, with a narrator who withholds just enough to make you lean forward, hungry for more. It is that perfect blend of mystery and momentum that makes this drive a true literary joyride.

    At times, the route veers into heartbreak. Esther’s letters, especially towards the end, are the dashboard warnings you wish you’d heeded earlier. They are beautifully written, yet heavy with a mother’s sorrow and a daughter’s missed signals. You feel the sting of dreams deferred, of choices that boxed characters into cul-de-sacs they never meant to enter. They bear a mother’s regrets and induce the desire to turn back the hands of time, hands so stubborn no one has ever been able to turn back.

    But this is no tragic trudge. ‘The Edge of Water’ is a luxury vehicle with handcrafted details: culture stitched into the upholstery, spiritual reflections in the rearview, and music made from memory playing on the radio. Bankole’s choice to loosen the grip of historical accuracy around Katrina allows her to focus instead on the emotional wreckage and quiet triumphs that come with survival. 

    And just when you think you’ve reached your destination, Laila, Amina’s daughter, appears on the horizon, raising new questions about identity, belonging, and what it means to inherit both dreams and displacements. It’s a poignant reminder that every ride echoes into the next generation.

    You’ll enjoy the ride when it gets to the point where Joseph and Esther meet again, and the love that refuses to live the air after that.

    Despite the chaotic Hurricane Katrina looming in the background, the ride is not distorted and helps to explore the delicate interplay between fate and agency and the intersections of Nigerian, African, Christian and Yoruba cultures.

    Bankole’s message hums beneath the engine: heed the warnings, respect the map, and never mistake destiny for a detour. This novel reminds us that when you dare fate without checking your mirrors, chaos is just around the bend. And still, there’s beauty in the journey so long as we pay attention.

    Bankole has delivered a vehicle of rare design, layered, luminous, and full of literary horsepower. ‘The Edge of Water’ isn’t just a book, it’s a ride you’ll want to take again.

    You are likely to enjoy Iyanifa’s perspective, which provide the missing links in Esther’s and Amina’s narratives. This comes out as so ingenious and it gives the novel a feel so literary and creative. Reading Iyanifa’s parts gives the heavenly joy associated with eating the slightly-burnt part of Jollof rice.

    My final take: There are warnings that cannot and must not be ignored, daring fate is an invitation to chaos, and not cutting our coat according to our cloth is foolish in a flippant world that many take too seriously.

    Let’s end this ride with these Iyanifa’s words: “Blessings take the time they take—destiny does not hurry.” Permit me to add a jara, also from Iyanifa: “Children do not belong to their parents, but come through them to fulfill their own destinies, dreams to which parents are not privy.”

  • When blood isn’t thicker than water

    When blood isn’t thicker than water

    In life, fortune romanced Adebayo Alao-Akala like a loyal consort. Politics, not the badge of his police years, adorned him with gold and laughter. It was in the corridors of Oyo State’s power, first by robbing Rasidi Ladoja and later by the ‘will’ of the people, that his cup ran over. His days as governor dripped with bounty; the kind of opulence that lets a man rinse his fingers in rare wine and banish want with a finger’s snap.

    But when death knocked, as it does for kings and commoners alike, it asked no permission and made no exemptions. The once-bustling lion of Ogbomoso was lowered into the earth, wrapped not in silks or accolades, but in the humility of white shrouds. The ground, unhurried and ancient, went to work, first stealing the raiment, then the flesh, until all that remained were the bare, whispering relics of what once lived: bones and teeth.

    It is these bones, those mute witnesses of his passage, that Oluwatoyin Alao-Aderinto, his first child, now seek to summon, not in memory, but in litigation. She is urging the law to exhume what remains of her father for a paternity test on herself and six others who bear his name: Olamijuwonlo, now a lawmaker; Olamide, Adebukola, Olamipo, Tabitha, and Olamikunle. Seven children supposedly bound by blood and now by a contested legacy.

    At the heart of this unfolding soap opera are properties, many amassed during his reign as governor. Some erroneously blame the brouhaha on the fact that when he died on January 12, 2022, he left this world with no written instruction, no map to guide his children through the forest of his estate. By October of that year, the first seeds of discord bloomed. His widow, Kemi, and her daughter, Olamide, secured a Letter of Administration from the Oyo State Probate Registry. They did so quietly, without Oluwatoyin’s knowledge or consent. And since then, the drums of war have been beating.

    As we await the court’s judgment on whether the bones will speak and clear or cloud the names etched on the family tree, my thoughts drift to two other families turned apart when wealth defeats wisdom.

    The first family is that of the legendary legal mind, Timi the Law, FRA Williams, one that proves that will is no guarantee of peace after a patriarch’s demise. He knew the cost of silence so he left a will. He had only one wife, and with her, four sons: Ladi (of blessed memory), Kayode, Folarin, and Tokunbo. Yet even with the clarity of paperwork, his death cracked open a chasm. Love faltered and brotherhood frayed. The house that had once held the promise of legal brilliance became a haunted echo of quarrels unresolved. When Ladi died in 2021 of COVID-19 complications, the wounds had not healed and to this day, the air in that lineage is thick with the ashes of unspoken things.

    The second family is that of Olorogun Michael Ibru, another instance where a child sought a paternity test to determine who should get inheritance.

    I particularly remember an incident a year after the passing of the visionary who built the Ibru Organisation from the dust of humble beginnings into a formidable empire. That Wednesday, family members gathered at St. Andrew’s Anglican Church, Agbarha-Otor in Ughelli North, Delta State, for a memorial service in his honour.

    Among those present were his only surviving brother, Chief Goodie Ibru; his sons, Oscar and Gabriel; daughters-in-law, and other relatives. But while hymns echoed through the ancient arches of the church and prayers were offered in remembrance, a quieter tension hung in the air, one that not even the most solemn liturgy could mask.

    It was no accident that the Bishop of the Ughelli Diocese, Rt. Rev. Dr. Cyril Odutemu, used the occasion to preach about unity. His voice rose, almost pleading: “Allow Olorogun Michael Ibru to live on. Conquer self, and let the life of this man be your mirror. In the history of Urhobo, who else shared their wealth so generously with brothers, sisters, even those only related by path? Everything he had, he gave freely. But be warned: this wealth can be sustained if you are sustained, or vanish like mist if you fall apart.”

    The priest obviously was speaking against the backdrop of the fact that six months after the patriarch’s passing, fault lines erupted into full-blown fractures.

    The father of these feuding children was not born into comfort. His father, Peter Ibru, was a missionary and nursing superintendent at Igbobi Orthopedic Hospital. His mother, Janet, sold fish in the creeks to keep the family afloat. Michael’s path to greatness was paved not with privilege, but grit. He only began formal secondary education at age 18, but quickly distinguished himself, leaping from elementary school straight into Secondary Class Two at Igbobi College, and graduating with distinction in the Cambridge School Certificate.

    In 1951, he joined the United African Company (UAC) as a trainee manager, but by 1956, he struck out on his own. At 24, he co-founded Laibru with expatriate partner Jimmy Large. One year later, he entered a then-overlooked market: frozen fish. It was a bold and ridiculed move. Competitors scoffed, calling his imports “mortuary fish.” But Ibru had vision, and more importantly, perseverance. He built cold storage facilities, secured import channels, and slowly won the trust of a growing customer base.

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    By the mid-1960s, he was a millionaire. By the 1970s, he controlled 60 per cent of the frozen fish market with turnover exceeding N90 million. He scaled beyond fish diving into transportation, palm oil, breweries, banking (Oceanic Bank), aviation (Aero Contractors), and insurance (Minet Nigeria). His company, Ibafon Oil, was another testament to his reach. His trawlers fished the Atlantic, while his footprints dotted Apapa, Victoria Island, London, and beyond.

    Ibru, who in 1983, tried to govern Bendel State but lost to Samuel Ogbemudia, kept family at the centre of his world, elevating his siblings, sponsoring their education, and giving them stakes in his ventures.

    During his 80th birthday celebration, Oskar proudly declared, “We grew up as a team… like a bunch of broomsticks.” That was despite Ibru having children from five women. So how did these tightly bound broomsticks fall apart?

    The trigger? A legal war. At the centre was Oboden Ibru, a former Oceanic Bank executive, who approached the Igbosere High Court in Lagos seeking recognition that all 16 children, regardless of maternal lineage, were entitled to equal shares of their father’s estate. Oboden also wanted an order that he, Oskar, Christiana, and Jero be appointed administrators.

    But not all siblings agreed. Janet Ibru, through her affidavit, urged the court to restrict inheritance to only those who could scientifically prove their paternity via U.S.-based diagnostic testing. She also sought reimbursement of $48,000 in legal fees spent defending their father during his final years.

    My final take: Estates don’t keep families together, hearts do. What balm can soothe when wealth outlives wisdom because fathers, who built empires in stone, failed in chiselling peace into the hearts of their children? Let every man, every patriarch, teach their children that unity is not born of shared blood alone; it is nurtured by shared love, mutual respect, and the humility to put the whole above the self.

  • Flowers for Agbaletu

    Flowers for Agbaletu

    I neither knew Dele Adeyanju nor his programme Agbaletu before I left Nigeria. I stumbled upon him not long after America became home. It must have been a chance discovery on YouTube while I was searching for something to ease the weight of boredom as life abroad can, at times, feel achingly quiet. Since that moment, I have been a devoted fan.

    Revelations tumble out on the show. Conjectures are corrected with facts. And opinions and facts are freely expressed, at times in manners that make grown men, seasoned, stoic men, shed tears.

    Under Adeyanju’s questioning, almost anything is possible. He has a rare gift for drawing out even the most reluctant voices, guiding conversations with a quiet persistence that disarms. He asks his questions with fearless integrity, regardless of whose ox is gored. You may choose not to answer, but he ensures it is on record that you’ve exercised your right to deflect.

    Adeyanju has carried the flame of musical memory, crafting a public archive for genres often underappreciated by younger audiences but foundational to Nigeria’s identity: Fuji, Juju, Apala, Highlife. Through his work on Agbaletu TV Uncensored and Agbaletu Radio, he has become a bridge between generations and preserver of legacies too easily forgotten.

    His gift lies not only in his encyclopedic knowledge of Yoruba musical traditions but also in his extraordinary interviewing technique. His conversations with musicians, many of them ageing veterans, unsung pioneers, or complex legends, are not merely exchanges; they are acts of restoration. With gentle insistence and cultural fluency, he coaxes out stories that span decades and lifetimes, bringing nuance to personalities that might otherwise be flattened by time or tabloids. Where others press for gossip, he listens for truth.

    In his hands, an interview becomes a sacred space: elders are given time to remember, not merely respond. His voice, calm, respectful, patient, creates the kind of trust that allows artists to open up about rivalries, regrets, triumphs, and transformations. Through these sessions, he has not only preserved history but made it resonate anew, offering younger generations an unvarnished lens into the complexities of Nigeria’s musical evolution.

    From Evangelist Ebenezer Obey to Alhaji Kolington Ayinla to King Wasiu Ayinde Marshal and Sir Shina Peters, Adeyanju has grilled them all. Band boys of these veteran musicians have also had generous time with Adeyanju and what they have had to divulge show that the old generation of music stars got a lot of things wrong. The sessions have also shown that many of the band men, like Sule Adio Atawewe insisted they must be called, also wasted their resources on women, alcohol and sometimes hard drugs.

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    The programme has illuminated overlooked aspects of Nigerian music history. Notably, it has unearthed the true composers behind songs popularized by icons like Chief Ebenezer Obey and King Sunny Ade. It revealed, for instance, that the late Ambrose Campbell, widely regarded as Nigeria’s first international music star, was the original performer and composer of several songs that were later rebranded as hits by others. Obey’s track ‘Eni ri nka he’ is one of such songs. KSA’s well-known jam ‘E kilo fomo Ode’, which was assumed to be an attack on Emperor Pick Peters, is another. They originated from Campbell’s earlier recordings with the West African Rhythm Brothers.

    The programme also dispelled the myth that stars like Yinka Ayefele and King Sunny Ade create all their music singlehandedly. It showed instead that they, like their counterparts abroad, have long relied on the creative brilliance of composers behind the scenes. There is nothing wrong with having composers. Yet in our society, music stars often prefer to be seen as self-contained geniuses: singers, songwriters, producers, instrumentalists, and more. Consequently, when songs are written for them, the composers are expected to remain forever in the shadows, their contributions unacknowledged in the public narrative.

    Another distinctive aspect of his programme is its inclusion of former band members of music superstars, many of whom now reside in the United States or the United Kingdom. A number of them remained abroad after “dropping” during international tours with star artists they describe as selfish. Thanks to technology, these musicians have been able to share their stories. And when they visit Nigeria on holiday, Adeyanju seizes the opportunity to conduct in-person interviews with them.

    There are a number of similar programmes on You Tube, but Adeyanju beats them hands-down. When a guest muddles up facts, especially about discography, he straightens out things. He never allows a glaring slip pass uncorrected.

    For his boldness in offering his platform to the aggrieved (allowing them to voice their grievances without censorship), he has often come under fire, particularly from devoted fans of late Fuji icon Sikiru Ayinde Barrister. Many of them struggle to accept that the legendary Fuji creator, like all humans, was not without flaws. Yet, Adeyanju remains undaunted, committed to telling the full story, not just the flattering one.

    Adeyanju is more than a curator of memory; he is a cultural custodian in the truest sense. His work defies the ephemerality of modern media. While the music industry marches on in search of what’s next, Adeyanju looks back, not with nostalgia, but with responsibility. He recognises that every beat has a birthplace, that every star once stood in the shadows, and that without the wisdom of those who paved the way, the future is an echo with no source.

    In an age where fast fame often silences deep legacy, Adeyanju stands firm, an archivist of soul, rhythm, and lived experience. His contributions remind me that music is not just to be heard, but remembered; not only performed, but understood.

    And in preserving the voices of Fuji and Juju’s finest, he has carved his own name into the soundscape of Nigeria, not with instruments, but with intention.

    He is leading an important conversation about the need for reform in the relationship between Fuji and Juju musicians and their band men. May his tribe increase!

    My final take: The Nigerian music industry, particularly in Juju, Fuji, and gospel circles, needs urgent reform. It is unjust for band members to languish in poverty while band leaders live in opulence. True progress requires equity and dignity for every contributor. At the same time, instrumentalists who squander their earnings on alcohol, drugs, and fleeting pleasures must also take responsibility and chart a better course. The time for change is now.

  • When science is trumped

    When science is trumped

    I can’t remember ever reading a book and feeling like I had no right to enjoy it; this is neither about poor writing nor lack of depth, but because of the sorrow, the tears, and the blood soaked into nearly every page. These are not the imagined sufferings of a fictional character, but the lived realities of a 42-year-old woman whose wounds are still tender. Her debut work of fiction, ‘Tearless’, never made me feel like a sinner finding pleasure in someone else’s pain. I must have consoled myself with the fact that the pains were created and so unreal. But ‘Grips of Grief’ is different. It is Ayo Deforge’s haunting experiences. And because she beautifully renders this odyssey through loss, loneliness, womanhood, and the cruel, quiet anguish of infertility with unflinching honesty, it grips me, not for entertainment, but as a testimony I’m almost too humbled to witness.

    At once heartrending and redemptive, ‘Grips of Grief’ opens with the weight of a life marked by relentless trials, each one a scar etched into the soul of a woman who, against all odds, chose to believe in God. Deforge’s life is a journey paved with heartbreak: a childhood shattered by the death of her mother, the cold abandonment of a father who didn’t look back and ejection by a maternal uncle who years later will feign ignorance of his cruel act. Through the heartbreaks of the early years, she learnt to mother herself, scraping strength from sorrow, and daring to hold space for love where life had only taught her loss.

    With no mother and a father uninterested in fatherhood, Deforge pushes forward, carving a path for herself through school, securing decent jobs, and, approaching 30, praying for a Christian man who could speak French. Despite her years of rebellion against God for taking her mother, her prayer is answered in the form of Alain, a Frenchman. At first, she hopes he will relocate to Nigeria, but when prospects of a good job for him dwindle, she makes the painful decision to leave her beloved homeland. With cautious excitement, she looks forward to a new life in Nice, in the south of France. They marry at 30. In the early months, she searches for a job that seems not to exist. When she finally lands one, she later discovers she is paid far less than the person who held the role before her.

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    Another chapter of waiting begins. Months stretch into a year. The first year becomes the second, and then the third, until a decade has passed and still, no child to call their own. In those long, silent years, she endures the heartbreak of IVF failures, the cold finality of science declaring her eggs depleted, the fleeting hope of donor conception that ends in a medically advised abortion, and the quiet suffering brought on by fibroids, by grief, and by the heavy loneliness of unanswered prayers.

    A few weeks after her pastor prays with her, she falls ill. Unlike her usual self, she struggles to work for even an hour. Her eyelids feel heavy, as if weighted by invisible hands, and she begins to nap during the day, exhaustion clinging to her like a shadow that refuses to let go. She tells herself she’s just tired, tired from promoting her book, juggling her job, and trying to be a good wife. But food, once a comfort, now repulses her. Every meal leaves her bloated, tormented by relentless heartburn.

    Always, she is tired, drained of every ounce of energy. Mornings are the worst. She wakes up hollowed out, too weak to sit up in bed, let alone walk to the toilet.

    When the symptoms persist, her husband suggests she take a pregnancy test. To their utter amazement, it’s positive. Bewildered, she wonders if she somehow underwent IVF without remembering. “How is this possible?” she asks. “Didn’t the doctors say I had no eggs left?”

    A blood test confirms it, she is indeed pregnant. The doctors are baffled. They call it one of those rare miracles they witness from time to time. Yet they take no chances. Her antenatal care becomes meticulous, almost sacred. And each time they examine her, the baby is thriving, a quiet, powerful testament that when God is in charge, science must take a bow.

    This memoir offers a succinct exploration of how childhood grief differs from adult grief. It reveals how children internalise and process loss, often in silence, and examines the deep emotional tension between believing in God and feeling abandoned by Him. Through the author’s spiritual journey, we gain insight into navigating doubt, disappointment, and the complex path towards renewed faith. The memoir also highlights how the absence of a parent can shape a child’s sense of self-worth and influence critical life decisions well into adulthood.

    At its heart, the book probes how our relationships with our parents shape our earliest understanding of love, both given and received. It explores the enduring conflict between the desire for independence and the human need for love, support, and spiritual connection. The narrative also reflects on how personal experiences with our earthly parents can profoundly shape, or distort, our view of God as a Father.

    Cultural expectations around motherhood, religion, and respect are woven throughout the story, revealing how societal norms can either comfort or complicate the grieving process. The author’s friendships provide a lens into the nature of trust, boundaries, and betrayal and what happens when we expect our friends to fill emotional voids left by family or faith.

    In addition, the memoir thoughtfully engages with societal narratives around infertility, womanhood, and self-worth. One of its most striking revelations is the contrast between the author’s experience with infertility in France, where she faces no stigma and is supported by her in-laws, and the stark reality in Nigeria, where a woman without a child is often treated with suspicion, pity, or even disdain.

    My final take: Science is undeniably a powerful tool, one that has transformed our understanding of the world and improved countless aspects of human life. Yet, there remain profound gaps that science continues to struggle to fill, questions of meaning, purpose, the soul, and the complexities of human emotion. These gaps are not merely due to limitations in current knowledge or technology; rather, they exist for a reason. They serve as a humbling reminder that human beings, despite their brilliance, are not all-knowing. Perhaps these unanswered questions are necessary to prevent us from mistaking ourselves for the ultimate authority, from assuming a godlike completeness. In a world increasingly defined by reason and evidence, these mysteries invite reverence, reminding us of the sacred unknown and the wisdom of our limitations.

  • To whom it may still concern

    To whom it may still concern

    I write this not as a heart in mourning, a conscience under siege. Being in a nation where the noise of sirens has become a lullaby, and the scent of gunpowder no longer startles but settles like dust, I find myself asking, again and again: Is America still concerned?

    Because if we are truly concerned, how can we live with the silence that follows five gunshots in a mall in Waterbury, Connecticut?

    On May 28, inside the Brass Mill Centre, a place that should echo with laughter, music, teenage flirtations and the occasional hum of a food court, five people were injured in a burst of gunfire. The shooter, 19-year-old Tajuan Washington, reportedly had a personal conflict that spiraled into something else entirely. Not a school shooting. Not terrorism. Just another “incident,” another “dispute” that turned five lives into statistics. The mayor called it “an awful thing that makes people feel unsafe,” but what language is left for a country where malls, movie theatres, parades, schools, and churches can all become crime scenes before sundown?

    America cannot say it didn’t see it coming. In fact, it has grown so accustomed to seeing it that it barely reacts anymore. Local news reported that the mayor is requesting $2 million in violence prevention funding. That’s a drop in the ocean when you consider what has been taken, not just lives and blood, but innocence, safety, and trust.

    But perhaps no story from this past week haunts me more than the one from Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. In that quiet suburban cul-de-sac, Rodney Shippy, 58, killed his 10-year-old son Logan and his 20-year-old daughter Alyssa before turning the gun on himself. He also killed the family dog. All of them found together, inside the home where they once celebrated birthdays, watched movies, maybe even said bedtime prayers.

    I can’t stop picturing Alyssa, twenty years old, with a whole life ahead and little Logan, just a boy. I wonder if he still had his baby teeth. I wonder if he was asleep when it happened. I wonder if he called out for help. But no one came. Because there was no one left. His mother and grandmother had both taken their own lives months earlier. This wasn’t a singular tragedy; it was a collapse. A lineage swallowed by despair.

    What happens when trauma becomes hereditary? When sadness metastasizes like an ailment passed from a parent to a child? Oklahoma has been wrestling with the consequences of untreated mental illness and rising domestic violence for years. In 2023, domestic violence-related homicides hit a record high in the state. How many families need to vanish before mental health is treated like the emergency it is?

    Meanwhile, in Greenville, Mississippi, an 18-year-old football player named Alex Foster, newly recruited to Baylor University, was found shot to death in his car. There were no suspects at the time of reporting. No answers. Just a mother somewhere wondering why her son, her baby, didn’t come home. Just a city imposing a curfew as if curfews could protect against the rot inside the bones of a country that seems to raise boys for burial instead of brilliance.

    They called Alex a rising star. I’m tired of hearing that phrase. So many of America’s brightest stars are being extinguished before they can shine fully; they are shot down in streets, cars and at homes before we even know what they could’ve become. Scientists. Artists. Fathers. Dreamers. Gone.

    And then there is Washington, D.C., where four members of the so-called “Get Back Gang” have now pleaded guilty to multiple murders and drive-by shootings. These were not men in suits playing power games in boardrooms. These were young men, caught in cycles of retaliation, chaos, and desperation. Southeast D.C. has long been marked by a pattern of violence that doesn’t make the national headlines unless there’s an election nearby. These kids did not wake up one day and decide to kill. They grew up in places where the state failed to protect, to educate, to nurture. The gang was their safety net. Their family. Their reckoning.

    I’m tired of America’s willful amnesia. It acts shocked when these stories break, then move on with the next TikTok trend or scandal. But these are not aberrations. They are the symptoms of a system in need of redemption.

    In New York City, violence simmers not just in gunfire but in everyday commutes. Assaults in the subway are up 19 per cent in the last five months, with police officers and Metropolitan Transportation Authority workers increasingly the targets. That’s not just crime; it’s a measure of how fractured the social contract has become. You cannot pack hundreds of thousands of people into a city, strip away mental health resources, housing, employment, and expect peace to bloom out of chaos.

    We’re told, however, that the national murder rate is dropping. The FBI reported a nearly 12 per cent decline in homicides in 2023, and early 2025 projections are even more optimistic. On paper, things are getting better. But paper doesn’t hold candles at vigils. Paper doesn’t explain why millions of Americans still feel unsafe in schools, churches, homes, and trains.

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    We live in a country of paradoxes. Fewer murders, but more mass shootings. Lower crime rates, but higher fear. The dissonance between statistics and lived experience is growing, and it is fertile ground for apathy and disillusionment.

    And now, as the trial for Bryan Kohberger (accused of murdering four University of Idaho students in 2022) looms, we are forced once again to confront the brutality of senseless loss. Four lives ended. Four families grieving. The prosecution will present a knife purchase, a criminology essay, a chilling digital trail. And yet, even this story, which once gripped the nation, now competes for attention with the next tragedy on the horizon.

    Even the justice system is overwhelmed. In D.C., a man named Darrell Moore, once granted early release from a life sentence, was convicted of another murder just eight months later. He was given a second chance, and someone else paid for it with their life. What do we do with that kind of pain? How does a country where mercy and accountability seem unevenly applied ensure balance?

    This is not a letter of answers. It is a letter of aching questions. It is a howl in the dark. A lament for a country numbed by repetition. A prayer for the souls lost in violence and for the ones still clinging to life in its shadow.

    I fear Americans and other residents are adjusting their expectations downward to the extent that they now teach their children not how to live, but how to survive and they raise them not to dream, but to duck.

    My final take: But I still believe. I believe in communities that rally after tragedy. In parents who choose love despite their pain. In teachers who shelter their students during active shooter drills and then go home and weep alone. I believe in the tired social worker, the determined youth counsellor, the neighbour who calls 911 because she can’t ignore the screams next door anymore.

    And I believe in the power of remembering. Of refusing to let these names, these places, these heartbreaks fade into forgettable blur. Because the moment we stop caring is the moment we become complicit.

    So, to whoever still reads this, to whoever still feels, please do not look away.

  • Fatima Bala’s ‘Hafsat Bebi’

    Fatima Bala’s ‘Hafsat Bebi’

    For most children, parents are their first examples of what to aspire to, and we often assume they are perfect. When they fall short of that expectation, it’s not just disappointing—it can be deeply unsettling, leaving us struggling to accept reality. And when a major secret, whose burial was thought to have been well-done, tumbles out of the earth, hearts are shattered, but ways must be found to mend them.

    Welcome to the world of Hafsat in Fatima Bala’s sophomore novel, ‘Hafsat Bebi’, which like her first, ‘Broken’, is set, largely, in Northern Nigeria and Abuja and has characters who are Moslems and battling with living in accordance with the dictates of their religion.

    The novel features many unforgettable characters, but four stand out: Ibrahim, a medical doctor and businessman; Zuwaira, a former auditor with the Central Bank of Nigeria; Sadiq, a businessman; and Hafsat, an entrepreneur. The story unfolds through each of them in first person.

    Sadiq is the first the author introduces us to. At the time we meet him, he is a medical student at home because of a strike by university lecturers. It doesn’t take long before we are also introduced to Zuwaira. They both live in the same compound but different flats.

    With time, they become friends and find time to spend time together despite their peculiar situations. In no time, Ibrahim begins to day-dream about a possible future with Zuwaira, but before his dream drags too much, he is brought back to reality when Zuwaira becomes the wife of a rich man who needs replacement for his third wife who just died from child-birth complications.

    Before we become too invested in Ibrahim and Zuwaira, Bala throws us into the world of Hafsat and Bashir, who is soon displaced by Sadiq. Though what is breeding between them is initially undefined, we aren’t in doubt that they are fond of each other and something more is possible.

    The way Bala presents Hafsat to us gives the impression that there is a link between her and Ibrahim and Zuwaira whose story is set over two decades before Hafsat’s. This serves as a pilot for the plot, and it helps fly us around Abuja, Jos, Kaduna, London and Vancouver.

    The more we flip the pages the more invested we become. Sixty pages in, we begin to appreciate the dilemma the author has put us in, and we soldier on searching for answers that she makes sure eludes us until the last bit of this genre-bending work of art that is both a romance novel and literary fiction.

    In this work, Bala educates us about the culture in Northern Nigeria; she immerses us in aspects of Islam and clears our confusion about how both culture and Islam handle issues about inheritance, divorce and more.

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    She also strikes at the heart of identity and how knowing who we truly are can either make or mar us depending on how we handle it.

    Bala explores the essence of unconditional love, including the risks it willingly embraces to stay alive and the likely consequences of its boldness.

    There are also commentaries here and there on political and social matters, especially domestic violence and abuse, and how people’s public personas aren’t always a true reflection of who they are in private. We see the role of bloggers in our society, especially how they are used to bring down people with unsubstantiated information.

    The novel also brings to fore how children try to be different from their parents, but most times end up finding themselves in the tight corners their parents were in.

    The novel is an absolute delight to read.

  • Voting by force is not democracy

    Voting by force is not democracy

    Once again, our lawmakers missed the point, but for the upteenth time, Nigerians made sure they heard it loud and clear. A controversial bill seeking to make voting compulsory for Nigerians of voting age has now been withdrawn following widespread public outcry. The bill, which had scaled second reading in the House of Representatives, threatened non-voters with fines of up to N100,000 or six months in prison. Championed by Speaker Abbas Tajudeen and co-sponsored by others, it claimed to “deepen democracy” by forcing citizens to the polls.

    But Nigerians were not fooled. This bill was never about democracy, it was about coercion. And in a country where trust in governance is already hanging by a thread, criminalising non-voters was not just misguided; it was dangerous.

    Democracy is built on choice. The right to vote is sacred, but so is the right to abstain. Around the world, the most respected democracies (the United States, the United Kingdom, Canada, and many others) protect this freedom. They recognise that choosing not to vote can be a legitimate form of protest, a signal of disillusionment with the candidates, the process, or the system itself. Forcing people to vote does not restore that trust. It only deepens the alienation.

    Supporters of the bill argued that compulsory voting would reduce voter apathy. But apathy is not the issue. Nigerians are not staying away from the polls because they are lazy. They are staying away because elections are often marred by violence, rigging, intimidation, and a total lack of faith in the system. You cannot legislate trust. You have to earn it.

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    Even in countries that practise compulsory voting, such as Australia and Belgium, enforcement is light, and the focus is on encouragement, not punishment. By contrast, our lawmakers proposed heavy fines and jail time  in a system already weighed down by corruption and selective enforcement. It was hard to see this as anything other than another tool for harassment and control.

    Thankfully, Nigerians spoke up. Civil society groups, media voices, legal experts, and everyday citizens pushed back. And in the end, the pressure worked: the bill has now been shelved.

    But the fact that it was even considered should concern us all.

    Higher voter turnout doesn’t automatically make a stronger democracy, especially not when it’s achieved through threats. What builds a healthy democracy is trust, fairness, transparency, and accountability. Countries with high voter engagement, like Sweden and Germany, don’t use force. They earn participation by ensuring that elections are credible, and that every vote truly counts.

    That’s what Nigeria should be striving for. Instead of punishing people for not voting, let’s address why they no longer believe their votes matter. Let’s eliminate vote-buying, ensure electoral transparency, and hold elected officials accountable.

    This bill was a distraction. It tried to blame citizens for the failures of the political class. But Nigerians refused to be scapegoated and they won.

    My final take: True democracy is built through persuasion, not compulsion. Civic participation cannot be imposed by law. It must be inspired by leadership. The withdrawal of this bill is a victory for common sense and for the democratic right to choose, even when that choice is to withhold a vote. Now, let’s turn our energy toward fixing the system that drove so many away from the polls in the first place.

  • NOA’s charter for our common values

    NOA’s charter for our common values

    Cultism, the get-rich-quick syndrome, and a general disregard for ethical norms are troubling trends our dear Nigeria contends with. These forces, often intertwined, have eroded the moral foundations of our society, replacing hard work and integrity with shortcuts.

    We also see a situation where social pressures blur the lines between right and wrong and leave us to confront the consequences of a culture veering off course. Closely related to this is the foundational challenge of absence of trust and shared purpose.

    Enter the National Values Charter (NVC), a brain-child of the National Orientation Agency (NOA)!

    The NVC offers Nigeria a chance to rebuild something deeply foundational: trust, identity, and shared purpose. But like any charter, its worth will be judged not by its eloquence, but by its effect.

    During the last General Election, the division between Nigerians was on full display. Trust became a scarce commodity and suspicion was the product of the era and so many people patronised its merchants who made a kill.

    I was one of the many who were worried about the manner the electioneering period drew us apart as a people. As a nation of a people richly diverse and, at times, deeply divided, a shared sense of purpose is not a luxury; it’s a necessity. The National Values Charter, a key plank of the NOA’s National Identity Project, arrives at a time when cynicism towards public institutions is high, civic apathy is widespread, and national unity feels more aspirational than actual. Yet, if taken seriously, the NVC might just be the moral compass we need to steer Nigeria towards a more cohesive and ethically grounded future.

    At its core, the NVC is a deliberate attempt to renegotiate the social contract between the Nigerian state and its citizens. It lays out a “7 for 7” framework. The Federal Government makes seven promises, which are equality, democracy, entrepreneurship, peace and security, inclusivity, freedom and justice, and meritocracy. In return, the citizens have seven responsibilities, which are discipline, duty of care, tolerance, leadership, accountability, environmental awareness, and resilience.

    So far, this seems more than just a lofty manifesto. It gives the feel of a blueprint for national character, anchored in mutual responsibility. The charter makes it clear that governance cannot be effective without a morally engaged citizenry, just as citizens cannot thrive under a government that lacks integrity or purpose.

    NOA Director-General Mallam Lanre Issa Onilu emphasized the importance of taking the rebranded message of the National Values Charter “down to all nooks and crannies across the nation.” Speaking through NOA State Director Mrs. Tracy Ikolomi at a town hall in Asaba, Onilu described the NVC as a call to national conscience and civic awakening. He added that Nigeria had been grappling with disturbing social trends such as cultism, the get-rich-quick syndrome, and a general disregard for ethical norms.

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    In this context, the NVC is not just a policy tool but a cultural intervention. The town hall meeting, which also spotlighted the National Anthem as a symbol of unity, served as a feedback loop, a way for citizens to speak and be heard by their government.

    This initiative is not about preaching from podiums. It is about engaging communities, listening to concerns, and collectively agreeing on the kind of Nigeria all of us desire and should work to build.

    The concept of a national values charter is not uniquely Nigerian. Rwanda’s post-genocide recovery, for instance, was powered in part by Imihigo, a culture of performance contracts and civic accountability. Singapore institutionalised shared values such as nation before community, embedding them in both education and policy. In South Africa, the Batho Pele (“People First”) principles aimed to redefine governance through transparency and citizen-centered service delivery.

    These examples share a common thread: they sought to build nations not just with roads and buildings, but with values. The NOA, by launching the NVC, is joining this tradition of value-centered nation-building. Like in Singapore or Rwanda, where these values were reinforced with consistent follow-through, Nigeria must ensure that the NVC doesn’t become just another document that gathers dust on a shelf.

    A particularly commendable aspect of the NVC is its planned integration into school curricula and government training programmes. This long-term view, starting from the classroom to the executive council, is a step in the right direction. It aligns moral development with national education and governance, allowing for a generational reorientation.

    The NOA’s town hall efforts, such as the one in Asaba, are also critical. These engagements move the conversation from policy papers to real people, bridging the gap between governance and everyday life. The flyers being distributed carrying the message “Let us build Nigerians to build Nigeria” sum it up best. It’s not just about a better government; it’s about better citizens.

    I believe that to succeed, the National Values Charter must transcend political cycles and become a permanent national ethos. This requires ownership from the government to the civil society, religious institutions, the private sector, and most importantly, everyday Nigerians. These values must show up not just in official speeches but in market transactions, social media discourse, neighbourhood interactions, and courtroom decisions.

    Moreover, the NVC should be evaluated and reported on regularly through an independent, non-partisan body that tracks how both citizens and the government are measuring up to their ends of the bargain.

    It is a good thing that President Bola Tinubu understands the urgent need for a bold national orientation campaign, one that fosters patriotism, nurtures love for country, and inspires collective action. He recognises that Nigeria’s progress depends on a shared commitment between the government and its citizens, built on trust, cooperation, and unity across our diverse population.

    My final take: Nigeria has long struggled to agree on what it means to be Nigerian. The National Values Charter offers a starting point, not a perfect answer, but a framework around which consensus, character, and country can be rebuilt. If we seize the moment, household by household, classroom by classroom, street by street, office by office and every nook and cranny, this could be more than just policy. It could be a new national path forward.

  • Lola Akinmade returns with ‘Bitter Honey’

    Lola Akinmade returns with ‘Bitter Honey’

    Onoaralolaoluwa Akinmade Åkerström, better known as Lola Akinmade Åkerström, faces microaggressions almost daily in Sweden, a country she has called home for several years since leaving the United States. It is thus not surprising that we see this in her novels.

    In her third novel, ‘Bitter Honey’, in which the trials and triumphs of Nancy, a single mother, Tina, her superstar daughter, and Tobias, her son, are laid bare, Sweden isn’t flattered. It is made to walk on all fours and unclad. We see its imperfections, its struggles, its pretence and its glory. We see that despite its years of being home to Black people, they are yet to be fully accepted. In fact, in every mirror, they are still Black and given the cold shoulder. The case of mixed race people isn’t much different.

    Without Lars, the father of Nancy’s children, this novel’s staying power won’t have been there. Of course, there are a couple other characters who make the novel remarkable, but Lars, alive and dead, enlivens the book with his bad and ugly ways.

    What manner of a man is Lars? How should a mother handle a daughter who looks so much like her father, who is a heartbreaker? These are questions that this novel may pose to a reader.

    Although ‘Bitter Honey’ is not a direct sequel to the author’s previous novel, ‘Everything Is Not Enough’, it features returning characters Nancy, Tobias, and Tina. These characters were initially introduced in that earlier novel through Kemi, one of the main characters in both the author’s first and second works. Tobias’s romantic involvement with Kemi brought his mother, Nancy, and sister, Tina, into the storyline.

    Set against the backdrop of key global events, including the Eurovision Song Contest in Greece, the FIFA World Cup in Germany, the Arab Spring, an attempted coup in Gambia, a Nobel Prize ceremony honouring former Swedish Prime Minister Olof Palme, and the royal wedding of Diana and Charles in England, the novel places Nancy, Tina, and Tobias at its core.

    The story unfolds through dual perspectives: Nancy’s chapters explore her past, tracing her meeting with Lars, a university lecturer who won her heart, the subsequent births of Tina and Tobias, and the aftermath of Lars’s mistakes. Tina’s narrative captures her journey to fame as a music star in Sweden and delves into the complexities of navigating life as a mixed-race individual, born to a Gambian mother and a Swedish father. This third-person dual-faceted storytelling approach enriches the themes of identity, race, ambition, and the legacies of love and betrayal, which are similar to the ones in her first two works.

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    The dual perspectives in ‘Bitter Honey’ enrich the narrative, allowing readers to witness the generational echoes and subtle parallels between mother and daughter. This structure highlights how Tina, despite her success as a rising music star in Sweden, mirrors some of the choices and missteps that once derailed Nancy’s path. Nancy’s recounting of her past with Lars, how he captivated her, the joys and pains of their relationship, and the fallout that ensued, creates a contrast with Tina’s present-day struggles and ambitions.

    Tina’s sections reveal her determination, yet the shadow of her mother’s experiences looms, suggesting a cycle of repeated patterns influenced by heritage, identity, and unresolved familial tensions. This reflective storytelling hints at a deeper question: are we bound to repeat the mistakes of those before us, or can we forge new paths despite shared vulnerabilities? The layered perspectives amplify this theme, giving the novel vibrating resonance and inviting readers to consider the impact of choices across generations.

    The novel explores fame and its darker sides, delving into the chaos of the American music industry. By following Tina’s journey, the narrative exposes the glittering yet perilous nature of stardom. We see how indulgence and downfall are intertwined. Without being preachy, the novel critiques the industry’s excesses and pitfalls, especially those scenes that bring to mind the P Diddy affair. The author sheds light on the glamorous yet dangerous sides of the music industry, including its excesses, indulgences, and moral pitfalls.

    The deportation of Malik, Nancy’s first boyfriend, exemplifies the power of resilience and the ability to rise above adversity. His transformation later in life reveals that adversity isn’t the end of life. Malik’s role, intertwined with the novel’s intricate drama, is one of the propelling forces of this remarkable work.

    The novel delves into how choices and traumas, especially those involving love, betrayal, and identity, are passed from one generation to the next. It also raises questions about the long-term impact of absent or toxic fathers on both mothers and children.

    It also highlights issues of racial identity, exclusion, and the struggle for acceptance in a society that still marginalises Black and mixed-race individuals.

    The novel also critiques Sweden’s racial dynamics and the persistent experience of otherness faced by people of African descent.

    We see how women try to understand and redefine themselves amidst societal, relational, and internal pressures.

    The book portrays the emotional and cultural chasms between generations and across continents, showing how hard it is to bridge these divides without confronting the past.

    Most chapters conclude with cliffhangers, packed with thrilling moments that leave you in awe.

    Spanning four decades and three continents, ‘Bitter Honey’ is a sweeping tale of a mother and daughter almost torn apart by buried secrets and the struggle to bridge generational and cultural divides.

     This heartfelt novel offers a deeply moving look at the complex dynamics between mothers and daughters, highlighting themes of love, trust, forgiveness, and the journey of women discovering themselves.

     ‘Bitter Honey’, through well-realised characters, believable plot, historical accuracy and smooth prose rendered mostly in present tense, succeeds as a fantastic work of art and shows the author’s mastery of the craft.

    My final take: No society is perfect; no home is perfect; there are no perfect parents, no perfect countries, and no perfect works of art. If perfection existed in these things, the world would be dull. It is in their imperfections that the drama and dynamism that make life meaningful emerge.