Reviewed by: Ifeoluwa Nihinlola
The book cover |
If I were to judge Olubunmi Familoni’s
‘Smithereens of Death’ by its cover, I would say it is a collection of
stories about a man researching death and I would have been, at once,
right and wrong.
Death is indeed the major theme in almost
all twenty-five stories in Familoni’s debut collection, but what makes
this book different from the crime section of national dailies is the
author’s writing. To borrow the words of Henry Hitchens, Familoni
understands the secret life of words.
The stories in ‘Smithereens of Death’
bear some semblance to Lydia Davis’s stories, in that they are mostly
microfiction filled with absurdities and slices of life without a
resolution. Unlike Davis, however, Familoni’s style is not entirely
minimalist. His work brims with witticisms, and he paints his characters
in ways that make us recognize them fully even in the limit of the
words chosen. Also, the stories are filled with fluid dialogue served
just right. When a character says to another “Here, wash the French out
of your mouth…” I struggle to think up a better retort.
Most of the stories in this collection
are set in Lagos, Nigeria, and readers who have experienced Lagos
firsthand can identify many of the characters in the book: Bus
preachers, street urchins, commercial sex workers, professors in bar
parlors, etc. The characters have their stories well-written by
Familoni.
There are moments when I feel
‘Smithereens of Death’ could have benefited from another edit, but this
does not reduce its allure. As a matter of fact, WriteHouse Collective,
deserves praise for publishing the book. It is a small victory for
presses like WriteHouse to produce books that cannot be readily
dismissed by over-zealous critics.
Collectors of beautiful sentences will have fun highlighting many in this book. One of my favourites is: “The
risen man, stalled in his designs by the sudden appearance of this
other man, stayed frozen on his feet, his plans congealed in that black
space between thought and action.”
The temptation to read all 124 pages in
one sitting is strong, but the stories are best read slowly, like taking
tiny sips of the finest tea, coffee, or whatever you fancy. Thankfully,
all the stories are equally rewarding.
Bunmi Familoni’s brilliance is one of the
best-kept secrets in Nigerian literary circles. Anyone can write about
death—the dour metro section of newspapers is evidence of this; anyone
can go for the absurd as a way to excite readers, but very few can do it
with the panache that Olubunmi brings to the table. This is why I would
have been wrong if I judged the book by its cover: it is much more than
just a collection of deaths, there’s life in those pages.
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