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Lily Allen, My Thoughts Exactly

author bio

I usually use this section to introduce this week’s writer, but the blurb of Lilly Allen’s book, My Thoughts Exactly, does this perfectly in itself: ‘I am a woman. I am a mother. I was a wife. I drink. I have taken drugs. I have loved and been let down. I am a success and a failure. I am a songwriter. I am a singer. I am all these things and more. When women share their stories, loudly and clearly and honestly, things begin to change – for the better. This is my story.’

review

I was so excited to read Lily Allen’s book, but not just in a happy-excited way. I’ve not read many celebrity autobiographies and, whilst I (as does Allen herself) acknowledge the privilege of those with fame and wealth, the lifestyle seems toxic and destructive at every turn. Not to play devil’s advocate in the privilege hierarchy, but I think we need to start talking more about the celebrity culture we uphold.

My Thoughts Exactly is exactly what a confessional, honest, defensive, this-is-me autobiography should be. Throughout, Allen declares her side of events – the side so often excluded by tabloid press – whilst also acknowledging that others might disagree. There is no propaganda to be seen here. From the start, we are aware that we are quite simply reading, as titled, her thoughts exactly. It’s refreshing, and places authenticity back in the power of interpreting one individual’s perspective.

Lily Allen delves into many different aspects of her life, making this book a truly fascinating insight into pop-fame. She neither boasts about her life nor claims to be totally hard done by – she simply tells her life how it is, the good and the bad included. In her early adulthood, she describes her sexual exploration, and how her lack of self-worth hindered her understanding of sexuality during her formative years.

I was confused at the beginning of my sexual life about my own desire for other people. Often, if a guy fancied me, that was enough for both of us. My self-worth was low and so being fancied, which I translated as being wanted (and thus loved), felt intoxicating enough to agree to sex.
p. 148

I related to this paragraph so much it actually shocked me. I’d never read someone putting these feelings out in such a clear way, but it made so much sense. My first boyfriend was someone who fancied me, and I genuinely can’t tell you how I felt back because I didn’t think about that; him fancying me meant we were good to go, and I’d finally been ‘chosen’. I can never really articulate how I even felt about this person, and to anyone asking ‘but if you didn’t like him why would you have gone out with him?’, this paragraph articulates those feelings perfectly.

Sexuality is a prominent theme throughout the book. From sexual exploration, to finally learning how to orgasm, Lilly Allen doesn’t hold back in telling us her story. (TW: sexual assault). Beyond her autonomous experiences, though, she also describes the assault she was victim to by a music executive. This section, quite late in the book, was uncomfortable to read but painfully representative of a much wider culture. Not naming the perpetrator, Allen describes having been drunkenly carried to the executive’s hotel room (despite her own hotel room being equally close by), and waking up in the early hours to feel his naked body attempting to rape her. Even writing this puts a lump in my throat, and its awful to read, but equally important as it is uncomfortable. Allen describes her ‘lousy’ feelings towards the fact that she didn’t report the executive, but in sharing her story she is chipping away at the shame in how we discuss assault in the music industry. Hopefully, these stories shared will induce a ripple effect.

My favourite parts of My Thoughts Exactly where when Lily Allen discusses the ways in which she has learned, always acknowledging her mistakes. At one point she discusses negative criticism towards the music video for her song Hard Out Here, which features a group of dancers in minimal clothing, dancing ‘provocatively’ (not even sure if that’s the right word) to the song that protests sexist standards in the music video. This song was what got me into Lily Allen, and I equally loved the video. I remember thinking I loved the racial diversity of the dance group. Now, I’m not an expert on understanding what is appropriate or inappropriate in these terms (why? hint: because I’m not a WOC so it’s not my say), but Allen describes one negative response to the video and its use of the dancers. I love this section because Lily Allen not only details this criticism (which she could have easily excluded), she also acknowledges how she was initially ‘livid’ until she then started to liten to the critic

But once I’d got over feeling defensive, I listened to what she had to say. What she said made me adjust and shift my thinking. It made me realise that my naïvety over the video and the reaction to it was the privilege of being a white woman. As a result, I began to read about intersectional feminism. I began to learn more and i began to look at my output in a more responsible and considered way.
p. 219

We may not all be music video choreographers, but this is a practice that we can all inhabit. Be strong enough to stand up for your views, but also always be ready to listen to others and adapt your thinking. Lily Allen’s honesty is refreshing and steers way from the classic ‘I apologise that my actions offended’ BS, into a ‘I won’t deny I wasn’t angry and defensive at first, but then I swallowed by pride and listened’. We’re in a world where we all make mistakes, and don’t think anyone could argue that Lily Allen’s response her is a model testament of the only way we can move forwards with voices that are both powerful and empathetic to others.

I want to speak up, and if that means I sometimes get it wrong, then I should be able to correct myself, apologise, move on and still carry on speaking up.
p. 334

This is not the only instance of Lily Allen’s empathetic tone. She later discusses the traumatic ordeal of having a stalker for years, who at one point entered her home, and declared to the police his intention to stab Allen in her face. Reading about her experience is shocking and terrifying, but this dramatic sequence of events is constantly pinned with acknowledgement of not only Allen’s own privilege, but also her empathy to the stalker. When the mother of her stalker opened up about her son’s mental illness, Lily Allen maintains that she wanted him not in prison, but in a psychiatric facility that could give him the treatment he needed. This in itself was refreshing, as rather than demonising her stalker as ‘psycho’ and reducing mental illness to a state of evil, she acknowledges his need for help whilst also maintaining the obvious point that she was a victim in this situation and was invariably put in danger. Most shocking in this discussion was the process by which the police conducted the investigation into her stalking; a process in which many details were hidden from her, and in which she wasn’t believed or taken seriously by police. (One example: the stalker’s declaration that he intended to stab her in her face was confessed to police, with police afterwards telling Allen that he clearly wasn’t a dangerous person). In addition to her empathy towards the stalker’s illness, Allen also remains constantly aware of her immense monetary privilege in affording high-security protection.

If i feel short-changed and I’ve got it all, then how fucking short-changed must every other victim feel, and why isn’t anything being done about it?
pp. 315

She constantly tells the reader that she understands that the security she was able to implement is not available to most victims, and angrily questions what those victims are suffering, when she herself is still suffering despite having ‘it all’. It is, above all else, a terrifyingly truthful point.

That probably provides an accurate representation of Lily Allen’s tone throughout the entirety of My Thoughts Exactly: detailing the suffering she has faced at the hands of a toxic industry, honestly laying out her own failings both personally and professionally, and maintaining a constant empathy for the sufferings and experiences of others. Lily Allen opens up a huge discussion into celebrity culture that, instead of branding celebrities spoilt and with perfect lives, exposes the dangers of the lifestyle whilst maintaining perspective, gratitude, and awareness for what she has.

Amika George, student/activist

AUTHOR BIO

Amika George is a 19 year-old activist campaigning for free menstrual products to be provided in schools. After learning about the impact of period poverty on young girls in 2017, George decided to take action and immediately began her #FreePeriods campaign. The campaign started as an online petition which gained huge traction, and has now become a national campaign. After plans to fund free menstrual products for schools were announced in Scotland last year, the campaign found great success in March of this year when the UK government announced plans to fund the scheme in English schools as well.

REVIEW

I’ve wanted to talk about Amika George for a while, because I’m extremely passionate about the importance of championing the voices of our younger generation. Whilst George is not primarily a writer, her plethora of articles discussing the #FreePeriods campaign gave me the perfect excuse to discuss her incredible work. In the mind-blowing simplicity of her realising an issue and deciding to do something about it, she is genuinely inspiring. Ultimately, George reminds us that we can make change if we aren’t happy with how things are.

The two articles written by George that I’ve chosen to discuss are:

‘Why I started the campaign to get free tampons in schools’

‘The stigma over periods won’t end until boys learn about them too’

In her article for Dazed, published in celebration of International Women’s Day 2019, George outlines how the #FreePeriods campaign came about, and how she was driven to fight for the issue. If you’re new to the campaign, this short article provides insightful background into the realities of period poverty in the UK, and the process of making change. George acknowledges the universal obstructions to the education of young girls, whilst also showing her shock at the severity of poverty faced in our own country surrounding the acquisition of menstrual products. To read what she has achieved in just two years, all still in her teens, is totally inspiring.

The right to an education is a fundamental human right – so says the declaration of Human Rights. Yet, we know that this is not happening the world over.
Amika George, ‘Why I started the campaign to get free tampons in schools’

I love Amika George because she is no longer ‘the kid who started that petition’ – she is a badass activist and throwing her all into this invaluable cause. She is now interviewing high-profile women, writing important articles, and broadening her activism far beyond period poverty alone. Now, she’s fighting to change the way to see periods altogether; to, as her Twitter bio states, ‘end the shame and stigma.’

In her article for The Guardian, titled ‘The stigma over periods won’t end until boys learn about them too’, George discusses the prolonged implications of stigmatising periods. This article resonated with me a lot, particularly when George discusses being taught to hide tampons up her sleeve and whisper when asking friends to borrow a pad. Honestly, I don’t think my friends and I made one single mention of periods at school, only discussing them one time, when we were in sixth form. Imagine, those hundreds of times I remember scurrying to the toilets with fear and embarrassment, terrified of anyone hearing the sound of me ripping off a pad – and not a single word of it discussed amongst my friends. George is right: governmental funding is vital, but so is open dialogue. Why are periods the one thing that men seem unable to fathom talking about?

I think what’s important about George’s article is it is an honest exposé of the ridiculous culture of disgust surrounding periods. I may have experienced this myself in school just six years ago, but even I had pretty much forgotten the obscenity of it all. This isn’t just childish embarrassment. On an institutional level, periods are hushed within the parameters of education and, as we subsequently grow in this conditioned state, within wider discussions around the world.

Not talking to boys and men about our periods means a quiet subservience, allowing separate, gendered spheres to exist, which validates the idea that anything outside the cis-male experience is abnormal.
Amika George, ‘The stigma over periods won’t end until boys learn about them too’

Also vital to George’s article is her statement on the exclusion of trans men from discussions around menstruation. Whilst it was ten years since I had sex education and things may have changed, the binary division of the girls and boys into different rooms for these teachings are incredibly damaging to trans and non-binary students in particular. As a whole, it’s quite terrifying that we’re thrusted with the message of being responsible and having safe, STI-free sex, and then expected to grow up and form mature adult relationships, whilst not even being taught the basic biological functions of both sexes. In what world does that make sense?

As a young person, I’m so proud of Amika George’s work and activism. Not only is she making incredible change, she’s also proving the power of young voices, and doubtlessly inspiring other young people to stand up when we’re not happy with our surroundings. With her equally intellectual and personal perspective on the issues of periods, her voice is not to be ignored – and it certainly won’t be anytime soon.

Grace Nichols, The Fat Black Woman’s Poems

AUTHOR BIO

Grace Nichols is a Guyanese poet, whose writing rose to great acclaim in the 1980s. After moving from Guyana to Britain in 1977, Nichols began publishing collections, now with over a dozen publications. Her writing delves into the vibrant, entrancing culture of the Caribbean, as well as the increasingly multi-cultural British society in which she lived. Nichols is simply a queen when it comes to powerful black poetry, and has won several awards as a result of her skill.

REVIEW

Having read a few of Nichols’ poems during my A Levels, I picked up The Fat Black Woman’s Poems recently and felt desperate to pour through it. This is everything I want on my reading list at the moment – proud, unapologetic identity-driven writing. As a relatively small collection, The Fat Black Woman’s Poems prioritises quality over quantity, and in quality it certainly delivers.

With many of the poems in this collection holding the prefix of ‘The Fat Black Woman…’ in their title, this collection feels very much like a progressive series of events. It’s like seeing the world through the eyes of the fat black woman for the brief period it takes to read the book. I adore ‘The Fat Black Woman Goes Shopping’ in particular, for many reasons. The title in itself feels like we’re about to go on an expedition; a seemingly mundane activity suddenly made more interesting by the fact that we’re clearly about to experience it from a whole new perspective, if you are not a fat black woman. My favourite stanza reads:

Look at the frozen thin mannequins
fixing her with gin
and de pretty face salesgals
exchanging slimming glances
thinking she don’t notice
Grace Nichols, ‘The Fat Black Woman Goes Shopping’

I love the juxtapositions here, between fat and slim, and between standard English and Nichols’ own dialect. ‘De pretty face salesgals / exchanging slimming glances’ places these women on the totally opposite side of the identity spectrum from the speaker, attributing a haughtiness to the saleswomen. Maybe it’s just me, but I still see Nichols as totally in power here; her heightened dialect suggests a conflict with the women’s presence and asserts herself speaking in a way that emboldens her. Despite their ‘slimming glances’, the women are portrayed as naive: ‘thinking she don’t notice’. The Fat Black Woman seems all-knowing, like the ultimate, wise, omniscient narrator.

In this poem, the identity of the fat black woman is one of awareness of difference, and obstinance against her exclusion; she knows she’s excluded, and besides finding it ‘aggravating’, she just carries on. She is intelligent and bold. In ‘The Assertion’, a comedic scene-setting in which the fat black woman unapologetically and unashamedly unmoving. As white people look at her with ‘resignation’, she sits, ‘giving a fat black chuckle / showing her fat black toes’. That proud repetition of ‘fat black’ is enchanting, like a mantra of the woman’s power.

‘Invitation’ speaks directly about fatness, and the narrator’s comfortability in her own body. This poem is exactly why I adore Grace Nichols; she makes self-love seem so easy, so simple. Whilst we are now increasingly allowed and encouraged to love our bodies (though far from enough, still), this 80s poem is revolutionary in its time. Split into two sections, the first shows the narrator’s contentment in her body:

If my fat
was too much for me
I would have told you
I would have lost a stone
or two
[…]
But as it is
I’m feeling fine
felt no need
to change my lines
when I move I’m target light
Grace Nichols, ‘Invitation’

How incredible is that second stanza? It’s simple, but speaks to so many people so deeply. What’s incredible is that she’s not even screaming about adoring herself, she simply is feeling fine. Rather than feeling the need to excessively throw love into this stanza, the simplicity of its language makes this body acceptance feel more accessible to readers. It particularly strikes a chord with the idea of body neutrality – a growing movement which lessons the pressure of body-positivity into a simple respect for our own homely shells. The second half of the poem takes on the titular invitation:

Come up and see me sometime
Come up and see me sometime

My breasts are huge exciting
amnions of watermelon
your hands can’t cup
Grace Nichols, ‘Invitation’

YAASSS – is my reaction to this. Not overtly sexual, just absolutely owning the strength of her own body. We’re never actively invited to appreciate fat bodies – at best society tells us to tolerate them – so this is exciting and fresh. Don’t just allow fat bodies to exist, damn well embrace them! Here, Nichols tells the reader that we can’t even handle her body, it’s that powerful. It’s self-respect on a whole new level, and I only wish we had more of this narrative now.

In light of our current political ~~fuckedupness~~ climate, it seems fitting to mention ‘The Fat Black Woman Versus Politics’. Boy, can we all relate to this:

But if you were to ask her
What’s your greatest political ambition?
she’ll be sure to answer

To feed powercrazy politicians a manifesto of lard
To place my X against a bowl of custard
Grace Nichols, ‘The Fat Black Woman Versus Politics’

What an absolute mood. This hilarious denunciation of modern politics is painfully fitting to our current environment. It’s a power game, and it comes with a brief ease on our frustrations to read this poem and watch Nichols ridicule politicians with such tenacity. Politicians are powerhungry, whilst Nichols just oozes power.

It seems fitting to end by mentioning the final poem of the collection, ‘Afterword’. This is a true curtain closing finisher, and leaves a message that resonates deeply with me every time I read it. The poem envisions an apocalyptic world, in which ‘her race / is finally and utterly extinguished’. It is a poem that reminds us of the chance to start again, and the power of persistence. Not one to ever be shut down, the narrator storms forth: ‘The fat black woman / will come out of the forest / brushing vegetations / from the shorn of her hair’. A warrior, she emerges, from the erasure placed upon her by society.

when the wind pushes back the last curtain
of male white blindness
the fat black woman will emerge
and trembling fearlessly

stake her claim again
Grace Nichols, ‘Afterword’

This is fierce in every way, and that final line finishes me off. To the very end, she is unrelenting, and refuses to ever give up her space. The ‘fat black’ poems relish in the idea of taking up space, and consistently insists upon the fact that she. will. not. be. moved.

I think, in our own individual circumstances, we can all take something from that assertion.

May feature: Activist’s anxiety and duty of care

When deciding what topic to write this month’s feature on, I was horribly spoiled for choice. It feels as though so many massive issues and events have arisen in May, all of which I want to sit and dissect: the Alabama Abortion Ban; Theresa May’s resignation; the cancellation of Jeremy Kyle; growing criticisms over Love Island. There’s too much. The concept of having to “pick” one topic to write passionately about filled me with activist’s anxiety – a term I use to refer to my constant anxiety that I’m not doing enough, for enough issues, in the world. We are limited in our dispensable energy, so where should we direct it? (N.B. I do not consider myself an activist in the literal sense – I am using the word metaphorically to refer to anyone who fights for, talks publicly about, or tries to learn about current social issues).

When Emma Watson gave her famous UN speech when she was elected Goodwill Ambassador for Women in 2014, she declared the need to take action toward gender equality and make positive change. Concluding her speech, Watson encourages her audience to ask themselves two simple questions:

If not me, who? If not now, when?

With this, I felt an urgency and a need to do something. I didn’t know what, but I knew I wanted to do something. That same urgency is still with me now. When I rewatch that speech, I get the same single of excitement for the impact I can make on the world if I channel my energies in the right direction. But what is that direction?

Back to May 2019 – it’s been a mad one. There are a lot of issues I want to talk about, but anxiety is holding that back. (TW: Suicide). The main chip on my shouting-about-stuff-on-the-internet shoulder right now is television; namely, the recent tragedy of the late Jeremy Kyle guest, and subsequent discussions of duty of care in reality TV. Like most people, I am in full support of the show’s cancellation. Have I watched it before? Yeah, I have. But I’ve also learned a lot and come to realise the classist voyeurism that it really is. Despite the defense that “no one is forced to go on” and “they get paid and get put up in a nice hotel”, that’s not quite justification for faux help show in which guests are consistently and repetitively humiliated, shamed and ridiculed. Oh, and guests don’t actually get paid.

The fact that it took someone taking their life for this show to finally be cancelled is incomprehensible, and has rightly opened a massive discussion around duty of care. Now, as we enter the preface of summer, Love Island is on the horizon alongside the yearly analysis of its highly problematic production and orchestration, which still has had little impact on the show itself. In particular, criticism of Love Island has resurfaced given the tragic suicides of two former contestants – Sophie Gradon and Mike Thalassitis – within the past year. The extremely intense format of the show – basically Big Brother does dating – orchestrates romantic encounters and holds the participants captive on a ‘luxury’ holiday. Again, many argue the ethical issues with this are overruled by the participants’ consent. The issue there: many don’t fully know what they’re getting themselves into.

The internet right now is positing Love Island in a marmite situation, with half of people ready for weeks of binging the show, and the other half calling for its cancellation. ‘Jeremy Kyle was cancelled after one suicide – why hasn’t Love Island been cancelled after two?!’ A valid question, and one I keep asking myself.

Love Island and The Jeremy Kyle Show are fundamentally different, in that Jeremy Kyle positions the audience in power, able to laugh at and ridicule its contestants. The show even became its own descriptor for personality – ‘they’re the kind of person that would be on Jeremy Kyle’. Love Island, on the other hand, encourages us to idolise perfectly sculpted, socially adored people who fit beauty standards. However, that in no way undermines the factor of mental health in the show’s production, particularly given that the level of fame is much greater in this show, with contestants often facing piercing hatred online, clinging to them for years. Clearly, something needs to change, and this is something that the public are increasingly discussing – we now need producers to listen and act. We also, though, need to acknowledge our role in the Love Island dialogue, and cut the cruel judgements and criticisms thrown at contestants every year across social media. Omg, so-and-so is like really annoying and not even that attractive and needs to shut up?! Listen to what you’re saying. Remember the impact that could be having. And be quiet.

Besides this fatal issue, Love Island is not exactly well known for its diversity. One box-ticking POC each year and now one plus size model? That’s not enough, ITV. Whilst I’m anxious to denounce the show altogether when I don’t know all of the facts, I can’t help but feel my chest tighten at the thought of Sophie and Mike, and the undeniable influence the show had on their lives. It makes me uncomfortable at best. This, to me, feels not enough – to simply feel anxious and uncomfortable. At the end of the day, I’m not doing anything to help. This is when we need to give ourselves a bit of a break.

We need to realise the importance in the ‘try’ and the ‘talk’. We place such emphasis on doing enough, to the extent that we live in our own self-destructive all or nothing binary (what is it with this society and binaries?!). Mostly vegan people are slammed for not being fully vegan. Someone who fights against the barriers women face in management positions is criticised for not focusing on more life-threatening issues like poverty. We are all fearful of not doing enough, that we forget that the world is made up of small things and different things. Yes, there is a time for lobbying and protesting and boycotting, but that isn’t everyday. If it was, we’d live in total anarchy. Those small efforts formulate the granular construction of our existence. Those fleeting conversations are what infuse our living rooms with a better, more progressive attitude.

I will angrily shout about issues that fill me with rage, and use my voice and ability as best I can to do something good, but I will try to quieten that internal voice that tells me I’m not doing enough, or that I’m doing it wrong. If we’re doing something, then it’s likely not wrong, because it means we’re either progressing or we’re learning. That fear I got from Emma Watson’s call to action was not the idea of doing something, but the idea of doing enough. In realising the power of our small contributions, that mantra takes on a more accessible light. I don’t know for certain, but I’d guess that most social progress started, at some point or other, with someone feeling uncomfortable.

Pandora Sykes, journalist/podcaster/speaker

AUTHOR BIO

Pandora Sykes is a journalist, podcast co-host and public speaker based in London. She has a monumental catalogue of writing, having contributed to an impressive number of publications. Currently, she writes for Elle, as well as co-hosting iTunes number 1 pop culture and current affairs podcast The High Low. To add to her array of achievements, Sykes also recently published her longform essay The Authentic Lie in March 2019.

REVIEW

I chose to review Pandora Sykes this week because recent articles of hers have really stuck with me, and I think it’s important that we all listen. Without further ado, here is the article that I chose:

‘The internet trend for ‘cancelling’ women has to stop’

The title, ‘The internet trend for ‘cancelling’ women has to stop’, immediately grabbed me. Much like I discussed in my previous post ‘how social progress is hindered by prescriptive morality’, this post shows Sykes exploring our ever-growing ‘cancel’ culture in which people are simply deleted for their anomalous mistakes.

I’ve wanted to write about cancel culture for a while, because it’s a pressing issue. We are in a time when it is vital to say no to abusive and derogatory behaviour, to eradicate the Chris Browns of the world who thrive despite their horrific actions. It’s an ideal prospect to denounce these perpetrators and strip them of their power, but it seems we’re not doing it right. Instead, Chris Brown continues to infect the music scene, and whilst we continue to hate him, many of us are spending far more of our time tearing down other people for comparatively minute mistakes. Women, it seems, are often on the receiving end of this.

In her article, Sykes writes about the numerous incidents she has recently encountered in which a woman has been ‘cancelled’ for a not-that-huge error. What makes the article so important is its honesty; she is open about the fact that these women being cancelled aren’t perfect, and have indeed made mistakes. She openly speaks about her own negative reaction to statements certain women have made – and which we all make, when we don’t like what someone is saying – but brings the point home that this should never equate to total cancellation. If we cancel anyone who says the wrong thing, or harbours a controversial opinion, how will we learn? What the hell will we discuss and debate? Will we all just be unanimously insentient robots? I’m getting carried away.

The point is, Sykes doesn’t scream ‘women can do no wrong!! leave us alone!’, but rather criticises the unhelpful and regressive way with which we tackle problematic viewpoints. Unless someone is genuinely dangerous or harbours an undeniably hurtful, discriminatory viewpoint, then cutting their legs from beneath them will not help. On Sykes’ podcast, The High Low, her co-host Dolly Alderton discussed the issue with left-wing voters patronising and talking down to Tory voters, and how this may actually spur on the Tory movement – her point being that, if we’re ridiculed and talked down to, are we ever going to listen to what the other person is saying?

I’m getting into sticky territory now, because I’m extremely anti-Tory and even writing that sentence felt icky, but I certainly see Alderton’s point. And Sykes, in her article, executes this very effectively.

Is it that we like women to be agreeable, and free from fault? Or is this merely a reflection of the internet’s ever deepening empathy deficit?
Pandora Sykes, ‘The internet trend for ‘cancelling’ women has to stop’, The Guardian

(TW: Suicide) One example of female cancellation that Sykes discusses is the recent controversy surrounding Chidera Eggerue, known on Instagram as ‘The Slumflower’. In recent months, Eggerue made a statement something along the lines of ‘If men are committing suicide because they can’t cry, how’s it my concern?’

So that’s obviously a highly problematic statement on a flammable topic. Do I agree with what she said? Absolutely not. Having read her statement on it at the time, I saw that Eggerue was saying quite simply that male welfare is not a concern within her feminism. She is a strong public figure, and an activist against sexism, having done great things to support the movement of ending body shaming and other feminist issues. She’s valiantly outspoken, unapologetic in her views, and generally not held within the timid frame that women are often encouraged to inhabit.

I repeat: I do not, in any way, agree with Eggerue’s statement. In my feminism, I want equality for both sexes, and whilst women naturally are my usual topic of discussion, I also care deeply about male sufferings under toxic masculinity. Having suffered from mental illness, this is simply one of my priorities. For Eggerue, it is not. Yes, her execution of the statement was brash and unsympathetic, and we can disagree with that, but why the hell would we cancel her? She’s not saying she wants men to feel this way – she’s literally saying it’s not one of her concerns. Fine. We can’t all fight for EVERYTHING, we’d literally combust. We all have our thing, yet here we are cancelling women for daring to admit that we don’t do all of the things.

Whilst I’m getting quite emotive here, this is where Sykes writes it best – she is cool and eloquent in her writing, stating quite simply that cancellation is not helpful or conducive to social progress. Besides that, to ‘cancel’ people for a mistake (because I do believe that Eggerue’s tone in this statement was a mistake), is to make us all terrified of saying anything at all. What’s that, you say – robots? Yeah. Insentient robots. No thank you.

Sykes’ article is a carefully written examination of social trends, as well as a cry for us to break free from these shackles. She reminds us that not only should we resist this vicious attack that turn opportunities for improvement into someone’s famous last words – but we should also remember that we’re not all obligated to perfectly do everything. Our voices all matter and are powerful, but we’re also just tiny components of a much bigger social discourse.

No single woman is responsible for an entire culture. […] As Eggerue reminded her critics, when speaking to The Independent: she is just ‘one woman’s voice.’
Pandora Sykes, ‘The internet trend for ‘cancelling’ women has to stop’, The Guardian

If I had to describe Pandora Sykes in two words? Eloquent & articulate. Her words, both written and spoken, are intelligent and effortlessly fluid. In the nerdiest way possible, I just love her linguistic style, and it is quite frankly #goals (as I pray one day I’ll cut past the mumbling and stuttering). I would hugely recommend checking out her featured articles which can all be found on her website, as well as listening to her podcast The High Low. There’s nothing else to say except thank you, Pandora, for writing about important pop culture topics with pure class.

Maggie O’Farrell, I am I am I am

AUTHOR BIO

Maggie O’Farrell is a Northern Irish novelist, and author of seven books, including The Hand that First Held Mine which won the 2010 Costa Novel Award. After growing up in Wales and Scotland, O’Farrell now lives in Edinburgh with her husband and their three children. In her latest memoir, I Am I Am I Am, O’Farrell describes personal experiences, including the viral infection that caused her to miss a year of school when she was a child.

REVIEW

When my wonderful friend lent me this book, my first feeling was utter love for its title, paying credit to the famous line in Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar, ‘I am I am I am’. Since this is one of my favourite ever books, and definitely my favourite line in literature, O’Farrell’s memoir drew me in rapidly.

Whilst I was eager to read this book, I was apprehensive about the looming presence of death. It is, fundamentally, a book about death, and presents a world in which near-death situations relentlessly appear. I’m not normally a fan of dark, deathly writing, and worried that this book would make me feel a bit odd. Wonderfully and surprisingly, it made me feel incredibly alive. It’s remarkable how O’Farrell manages to make a book about death, so full of life.

Written in a first person, non-linear structure, this memoir is a big journey. It flicks seamlessly between the 80s, 00s and 90s in successive chapters, bending time in a way that somehow makes sense. The stories are both uniquely individual and clearly interconnected, with cross-referencing throughout. Whilst I occasionally became confused by this time-hopping (‘wait, what year is it now? how old is she?’) I found overall that it added to the sense of adventure. In a strange way, this book quickly becomes rather exhilarating to read – not sure if that sounds a bit sadistic, but something about watching the protagonist continually escape death gives it a real thrill factor.

Thrilling, nerve-wracking and terrifying, it certainly is – but this is also a deeply emotive book. Each story of a near-death encounter is padded with delicately sentimental anecdotes and backstories. For every scary situation, there is its delicately personal counterpart where we learn about the protagonist’s life, loves and family. Many of the near-death experiences themselves are also laced with poignant emotion, such as her problematic labour. Chapters like these create a whole new kind of fear that’s almost painful. I can only imagine what this experience would be like for readers who have first-hand experience in these situations. For me, young and relatively inexperienced in life’s chaos, my fear is very much detached.

The book my delve into near-death, but death itself does appear. It feels important to point this out, as many could be affected by the topic – miscarriage. Of all the chapters in the book, I found this by far the most difficult to read. The exhilaration, anticipation and suspense of each chapter subsides here, replaced by a numb lifelessness. It’s a tough chapter to read, and that’s coming from someone with no personal experience in this suffering. If any good can come from it though, it is that O’Farrell really showcases the power of her writing. It perfectly combines an intimate dive into the protagonist’s own experience, and an invitation to the reader to connect with her feelings and explore their own pain.

This book has been unlike any other book I’ve read. Emotionally speaking, it was anything but an ‘easy read’, but it was certainly an insightful and moving read. It teaches a lot about the love and loss of life, with a unique structure and theme. Maggie O’Farrell’s I Am I Am I Am plays with structure and form as opposed to an overly complicated plot, and it is this playfulness that shows the true intellect of her writing.

Hoda Katebi, fashion writer/creative

Author bio

Hoda Katebi is a Muslim-Iranian creative, fashion writer and activist, with a voice that is as unapologetic as it is powerful. The daughter of Iranian immigrants, Katebi writes from a on ethical issues on fashion created by the capitalist western world. Her sensational blog, Joojoo Azad, platforms her insightful and eye-opening articles. She doesn’t stop there though – Katebi is also: author of the book Tehran Streetstyle celebrating illegal fashion and Iran; host of worldwide book club #BecauseWeveRead; and founder of Blue Tin Production, ‘an all-women immigrant and refugee-run clothing manufacturing co-operative in Chicago’. Yeah, this woman is doing absolute the most.

REVIEW

Whilst Katebi’s blog is loaded with essential reading, I’ve chosen to focus on the following two:

‘How H&M is erasing war crimes in their latest marketing campaign’

‘All fast-fashion requires systemic gender-based violence: Conscious collections are fake news’

If you’ve ever shopped at ASOS, H&M, and the like, you’re probably wincing at those titles. So did I – because I have been a thoughtless customer of these brands for years, only recently becoming conscious of the dangers of fast fashion. In our growing movement in environmental concerns, fast fashion is the most devious industry. As Katedi writes, brands increasingly make feeble changes and mask themselves with labels like ‘fairtrade cotton’ and ‘conscious collection’. This makes it easy to feel as though our guilt can be relieved. I certainly hid behind this screen for a while, but Katedi’s powerful words make that almost impossible uphold that charade.

‘How H&M is erasing war crimes in their latest marketing campaign’

In this article, Katebi very importantly analysis the marketing practices of H&M in the context of green-washing: ‘an attempt to use self-proclaimed environmental sustainability to wash (or attempt to hide) the human rights abuses that the rest of their clothing is complicit in’. In this practice, brands hide behind futile labels – that don’t even cover their entire range – to mask their unethical operations. I for one can’t deny that I have walked into a H&M store before, looked at an ‘organic cotton’, green-labelled T-shirt, and thought, ‘wow, I love that H&M are becoming more eco-conscious!’ Honey, no.

Because logically, if H&M has constructed an entirely separate ‘sustainability’ collection, what are they then implying about how the rest of their clothing is made?
Hoda Katebi, ‘How H&M is erasing war crimes in their latest marketing campaign’

What’s brilliant about Katebi’s writing is that she places no blame whatsoever on the consumer here. Shopping at shamelessly cheap, fast-fashion brands like Boohoo and Pretty Little Thing is hard to justify if you’re economically able to shop better, but when brands like H&M plaster ‘eco’ on their labels, we (the consumer) are tricked. It’s only because I follow fast-fashion fighter Venetia Falconer on Instagram that I ever discovered the use of greenwashing at H&M, and without that I’d still be happily consuming their BS. We can’t possibly expect every individual to research the exact manufacturing process behind every product or item they consume – that’s on the business. And H&M is failing us. That’s why Katebi’s article is so effective – rather than saying ‘why are you shopping there? don’t shop there!’, she’s saying ‘H&M are tricking you whilst mistreating their workers and that is not ok’. By making consumers feel tricked rather than guilty, we can increase the allure for ditching these brands altogether.

In the main section of this article exploring its titular issue, Katebi explores the revolution-washing behind H&M’s latest marketing campaign. The campaign is in collaboration with fashion blogger Andy Torres and explores Israel, branding it as a fun, happy, progressive destination. As Katebi states, ‘in short, H&M’s latest collaboration with Andy Torres works to portray a violent apartheid state as the world’s next best travel destination’. Being honest, I know very little about the current political and social climate of Israel, so I don’t want to comment much on something I don’t understand. However, I understand the basic gist of it from Katebi’s accessible and informative writing. In an easily-digestible nutshell, H&M are essentially erasing the destructive political and social happenings of their glammed-up campaign destination, turning it into the backdrop for photoshoots of models in cute £4 tops. What do we say to this kind of green/revolution/everything-washing? Not today.

There is nothing apolitical about a fashion editorial story that works to wash out (whether intentionally or not) war crimes and make normal what is not: Israeli apartheid.
Hoda Katebi, ‘How H&M is erasing war crimes in their latest marketing campaign’

‘All fast-fashion requires systemic gender-based violence: Conscious collections are fake news’

This article was difficult, poignant, and wholly essential to read. As a feminist, I felt appalled that I’d been supporting the faux-green, unethical practices of gigantic corporations that directly harm female workers. If you feel like you want to know more but don’t know what to think when every tweet and article is pulling you in a different direction, then Katebi’s article is for you. She articulately uses fact, first-hand experiences of abused workers, and certified reports to convey the barbarity of brands like H&M in their supply chain. In a time of greenwashing, this is the wake up call we all need.

Pulling hair, hitting breasts, firing pregnant women, threats of sexual violence and non-renewal of work contracts are just some of the forms of difficult-to-read gender-based violence documented in the report that frame the daily realities of female garment workers across South and Southeast Asia.
Hoda Katebi, ‘All fast-fashion requires systemic gender-based violence: Conscious collections are fake news’

What makes Katebi’s article so powerful is that the facts she presents are both difficult and easy to believe – although undeniably hard to swallow. When we pour into our favourite shops for the week’s new items, we forget the significant of the fact that fashion really is a weekly event now. A ‘season’ has been reduced from an actual season, when our clothing choices endure practical changes, to mere weekly rotations of new prints and ‘essential’, ‘must-have’ styles. I remember when I was younger and everything I owned was either summer or winter clothing – each year, my mum would take me on one shopping trip to buy any new summer clothes I needed, then once again in winter. Now, the need to keep up with the conveyer belt of mass production is forced down our throats at an ever growing rate.

When we think about the mass and frequency of clothes produced by many brands, to then be sold for a feeble £3.99, can we even be surprised that factory workers are being abused in the process? Even for those being paid a fair wage (which is rare), the demand for mass consumption means that factory workers are being ran off their feet, forced to work at an unachievable pace and punished when they aren’t able to do so.

Garment factories exist in nations of color due to the legacies of colonialism, and are systematically dependent on exploitation and gender-based abuse to function within the fast-fashion model of production.
Hoda Katebi, ‘All fast-fashion requires systemic gender-based violence: Conscious collections are fake news’

Again, I want to point out that this isn’t my specialist area of knowledge. I know shamefully little about the realities of fast fashion production, but I’m learning. People like Hoda Katebi are making a huge impact by raising their voice on these essential issues. I love Katebi’s writing in particular because of her unapologetic, angry stance – she is taking no BS from fast fashion, and she does all she can to ensure her readers don’t fall victim to this greenwashing. I particularly love how she intersects fast fashion with other issues, such as feminism and colonialism. Whilst these are all inherently tied to fast fashion anyway, Katebi’s exposure of these ties brings the issue into more easily accessible dialogue. With writers like Katebi in the world, none of us can close our eyes to the facts.

Charly Cox, She Must Be Mad

AUTHOR BIO

Charly Cox is a writer, producer and poet. At the age of 23, she is already a bestselling poet, with her debut collection She Must Be Mad reaching incredible acclaim in 2018. Cox will be releasing her second collection, Validate Me, later this year. In her witty, bluntly confessional poems on mental health and the pain of growing up in the modern world, Charly Cox is a true icon. On a personal level, she is my greatest influence as a writer at the moment, and her achievements at just 23 seriously motivate me to get my writing ass into gear.

REVIEW

I don’t think that I can start this review in any other way than to say – and Charly Cox would probably laugh painfully at this phrasing – that her writing is a genuine breath of fresh air. I’m a big fan of bringing under-represented issues and modern experiences into the creative sphere, so when Cox released a collection of poetry and prose about the very issues I care most deeply about, I was ready.

This collection is a raw and honest documentation of growing into adulthood, encumbered by a mass of mental and societal issues, as well as a bursting wealth of emotions. From the first page, Cox’s voice is authentic and confessional, bursting with stories and sensations from times close and far away. Whilst it includes both poetic and prosaic forms, these seem to weave interchangeably. She Must Be Mad is one of those real gems where you almost forget what the writing is exactly, because you’re so immersed in each word.

Charly Cox is just two years older than me and, with many similar experiences in adolescence, this collection tugs at many chords within me. I appreciate that others might not find such a close bond with the book on a personal level in relation to mental illness and body anxieties, however this does not undo the beauty of each work. Anyone can feel connected to the delicacy and fragility with which she describes love, and the poignancy in her writing on adulthood, childhood and family.

It’s hard to choose favourites in this collection. They all feel so closely intertwined, like a family of poems – some sister poems, some cousin poems, some parent-child poems where you can recognise the different perspectives she develops. Split into four sections (:’She must be in love’; ‘She must be mad’; ‘She must be fat’; and ‘She must be an adult’), Cox compartmentalising these experiences whilst simultaneously transgressing those boundaries as each poem invariably connects with another. As a whole, the collection was soothing to read, like the cool relief you expect from anti-anxiety meds that you don’t ever get, instead just feeling a bit less shit (half joking, half painfully true – but everyone’s different). Whilst the beauty of reading is in the transition of power from the constructive writer to the interpretive reader, I can’t help but connect with Cox’s expressed emotions in imagining this book to have been a welcome weight shifted from her shoulders. Like the horrific vomit whilst hungover that makes you feel surprisingly better. (Me right now: reads Charly Cox once and tries to make everything into a funny, chatty metaphor).

Circling back – I find it hard to choose favourites considering I’ve dog-eared half of the book’s pages, but some poems really stood out for me. Namely: ‘She moves in her own way’; ‘I prescribe you this’; ‘all I wanted was some toast’; ‘wrong spaces’; ‘kindness’; ‘pint-sized’; and ‘seaweed – for grandad’. They are all poems that I will inevitably return to on dark days – and good days even. Brutally honest and times, and cosily charming at others, Charly Cox appeals to the mind in every state. What’s funny is that throughout this review I keep referring to Cox’s writing as poetry, when some of it is prose. To be honest, it’s all poetry, because it’s written with that delicate, witty, intricate, meaning-manipulating rigour that comes with good poetry. Charly Cox is a poet through and through, and a damn good one.

Tolani Shoneye, writer/podcaster

Author bio

Tolani Shoneye is a digital content creator, known for her tell-all articles and hilarious, no-nonsense podcast, The Receipts Podcast. On the podcast, she puts her personality out there to the point that every listener feels like her friend (I wish). As a Nigerian-born Londoner, she talks openly about her experience in both cultures, also drawing on her relationships, friendships, and lifestyle in her content. Under the nickname of Tolly T, she really is your dream best friend who will shut down your nonsense and make you laugh until you cry.

Review

I could talk about Tolly’s The Receipts Podcast endlessly, but I’m here to discuss her writing. The beauty of any podcaster-cross-writer is that it’s easy to read their words in their own voice, always bringing the story to full life. As a freelancer, Tolly has written for numerous publications, but I have chosen to discuss my favourite one:

‘As a black woman, I hate the term ‘people of colour”

‘As a black woman, I hate the term ‘people of colour” was an insightful, challenging read. As a white woman who tries to be a good ally to BAME communities, I think a lot about the preferred terms in conveying people’s identity. From going through the works in recent decades, recent years have settled on ‘people of colour’ as the most politically correct term of address. I jumped on board.

However, ‘black’ is also in the mainstream dialogue surrounding race. Both seam to be in the ‘acceptable for use’ realm (although can be skewed if a derogatory tone is used), so many white people settle down happy in the knowledge of what words to use. Personally, I hold no valid opinion because I am not black or part of a BAME community, but I’m interested in the views of BAME people themselves. I think often, we forget that we norm can still be disputed – in this case, Tolani’s dislike of the term ‘people of colour’.

The tone with which Tolly writes is exactly the same as how she speaks – no nonsense and unapologetically honest. I love that the subheading of this article reads: ‘Although the term feels politically correct, it’s inclusive and is better than the previously used ‘coloured’, I am still not here for it’. When was the last time you heard a black/BAME person say ‘yes this is completely fine, politically correct, and inclusive, but I don’t like it’? Probably never. We spend so much time discussing what is inclusive/exclusive and fighting those who discriminators, that we forget that under that binary of right and wrong there is room for opinion. Really backwards people would even take a ‘you can’t complain’ stance, which reinforces the point that we have so far to come. It isn’t enough to stop using racist terms – we need to allow BAME people to have their goddam autonomy and individual perceptions.

I first came across the buzzwords on social media: POC (people of colour) and WOC (woman of colour). Initially I had no problem with them. The terms were convenient. They provided me and my diverse group of friends with a title. But at the same time, social media was making these terms into lazy ways of addressing people.
Tolani Shoneye, ‘As a black woman, I hate the term ‘people of colour”, The Independent

Labelling terms such as POC ‘lazy’ is such an interesting take on this evolution of language. I love hearing new opinions, and I see Tolly’s point here – ‘POC’ could potentially act as a label that you whack onto any statement. A ‘I am a good white human give me cookie’ sticker. In that line of thought, we could consider, does the intention/consciousness of the use of the term matter as long as the term itself is inclusive? Or is the intention/consciousness of the speaker that matters most? That’s a whole new discussion that I have zero energy for right now, so I digress.

See, this is the kind of conversation Tolly’s writing opens up. She entertains but also makes you think. Linguistically, terms of address referring to race and/or ethnicity are engineered to operate in the most inclusive, humanising way, but as any phrase can, they can be interpreted differently by different people. When I got into this article and started thinking about the term ‘people of colour’, I wondered – as a white person, with no first-person experience backing the idea – whether it could be construed as passive and therefore dehumanising. ‘Of colour’ might suggest an affliction or an attribute, rather than a fundamental strand of identity. In her article, Tolly writes:

My blackness means too much to me to hide it under the guise of “people of colour”.
Tolani Shoneye, ‘As a black woman, I hate the term ‘people of colour”, The Independent

This perfectly conveys what I was thinking – that ‘of colour’ acts as a kind of ‘guise’, deflating the boldness and strength within black people. When I hear Tolly on The Receipts Podcast refer to herself as a ‘black woman’, I hear the pride and strength with which she says it. As she would say – she says it with her whole chest. That is the kind of tone that seems to be missing from ‘people of colour’. But hey, I know that my opinion on this is inauthentic because I’m white – I just love exploring social semantics.

I love Tolly’s writing for a specific reason. Besides her bold, unapologetic tone, she delves into issues that aren’t quite the biggest fatalities of society – rather, she starts conversations that aren’t being had, opening up nuances in the grand scheme of issues of race, sex, jobs, and more.

Chimamamna Ngozi Adiche, Americanah

Author bio

Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche is a Nigerian writer, known for her novels, short stories, and non-fiction. After growing up in Enugu, Nigeria, Adiche studied medicine and pharmacy at the University of Nigeria, before moving to the United States to study communications and political science. She also completed a Masters in creative writing as well as being awarded multiple other degrees and fellowships. Now dividing her time between Nigeria and the US, Adiche continues to write whilst also teaching creative writing workshops in Nigeria.

REVIEW

When I first read Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche’s book-length essay, ‘We Should All Be Feminists’, I knew I needed more. With her articulate and powerful writing, I was hooked, and immediately bought Americanah. This was a year ago. Despite my irrefutable bookishness, the near-500 pages of small text had me subconsciously postponing picking it up. Rookie error, given that I now wish the book had been even longer.

Americanah is a novel about Nigerian identity; both in itself and in its hybrid forms with Western identity. Whilst it follows a story of timeless love, the novel is fascinating and intellectual in its exploration of Nigerian identity and race. Alongside the charming story of Ifemulu and Obinze’s lives, there runs the inquisitive and often critical commentary of social norms across continents. Needless to say, it is a love story with a big voice. In each uncomfortable dialogue about issues of race and racialised attitudes in Western countries, Adiche seamlessly interweaves discussions of the matters that so clearly concern her most. From reading her ‘We Should All Be Feminists’, I hear Adiche’s analytical and explorative tone clearly in her questioning of racialised and gendered representation throughout the novel. Nonetheless, this does not take away from the genuine authenticity of her characters, who each bring their own unique insight to the table.

The novel so clearly emulates the life of Adiche herself through Ifemulu’s experiences growing up in Nigeria, before having her entire self-perception upturned after she moves to America. There’s something totally polarising about the clash between American and Nigerian identities; equally proud and culture-bound. However, contrast inhabits a jarring imbalance when Ifemulu moves to America. Whilst I expected to see more overt racism in the novel by white characters, instead Adiche focuses on the cultural shifts. This often results in non-racist individuals nonetheless exhibiting arguably problematic views. Ifemulu’s white employer, Kimberley, whose children Ifemulu cares for, is the perfect example. Whilst undeniably holding good intentions, Kimberley reflects many liberal mindsets in her compassionate but often naive and unconsciously patronising tone.

“At first, Ifemelu thought Kimberly’s apologizing sweet, even if unnecessary, but she had begun to feel a flash of impatience, because Kimberly’s repeated apologies were tinged with self-indulgence, as though she believed that she could, with apologies, smooth all the scalloped surfaces of the world.”
Americanah, p. 163

This passage in particular makes me think of the growing discussions around white saviourism in the media. We are becoming increasingly conscious of the naivety in thinking that one can be either ‘racist’ or ‘not racist’; our perceptions of race are inherently complex through the power imbalance that has been ingrained in us. Kimberley means well, but Ifemulu’s frustration is essential in teaching us that this isn’t enough. In contrast to Ifemulu’s experience, Obinze’s friends in Britain uphold strong-middle class pride and discuss racial issues in an airy, ‘educated’ way. At Emenike’s dinner party, the conversations held are incredibly interesting, though nonetheless uncomfortable as opinions awkwardly clash. This is made ever-more poignant in juxtaposition with Obinze’s imminent deportation, and his bitter struggle through migrant life. When he is being deported, Obinze makes a raw observation on the language in this event:

“[The lawyer] was going to tick on a form that his client was willing to be removed. “Removed.” That word made Obinze feel inanimate. A thing to be removed. A thing without breath and mind. A thing.”
p. 279

Adiche’s exploration in cultural differences between Nigerian and Western identity spans much further than race alone. Particularly in Ifemulu’s introduction to America, the cultural differences in perceptions of mental health and wellbeing are rife:

“Depression was what happened to Americans, with their self-absolving need to turn everything into an illness. She was not suffering from depression; she was merely a little tired and a little slow. […] Nobody in Kinshasa had panic attacks. It was not even that it was called by another name, it was simply not called at all. Did things begin to exist only when they were named?”
p. 158

This period of Ifemulu’s life was very difficult to read. To witness her slowly deteriorate into a shell of her former self, having been indoctrinated to dispute the validity of mental illness, was heartbreaking. Particularly in her immersion into a whole new life, the loneliness she faces is almost contagious. In this context, I genuinely admire her strength in pulling through. However, despite its sadness, this extract reminds us of Ifemulu’s constant consciousness of cultural differences of identity. From her confusion in navigating American dialect, to her utter shock at the concept of the thin ideal body image, Ifemulu faces cultural barriers at every turn, with little support from others in breaking them down. This is particularly true in her Auntie Uju, who appears to shift seamlessly into American life and consequently causes Ifemulu to feel even more alienated.

Auntie Uju is actually my favourite character. I surprised myself in this because I usually go for the classic feminist hero who takes no shit and tells it like it is, which would undoubtedly be Ifemulu (who I LOVE). My interest in Auntie Uju is less fan-girly and more fascination. She is perhaps the most fluctuating character in the whole book – not in terms of Adiche’s writing consistency, but in Uju’s rocky life experiences and her constant need to adapt. With her multitude of relationships, fleeing Nigeria in a state of emergency, and bringing up her son Dike in American whilst scraping through her studies, Uju clearly as a difficult life. From entering the story as Ifemulu’s soft-natured, blessed Auntie, she becomes roughened at the edges by the struggles of her life, gaining sensational strength in her autonomy. She may not be the frilliest character, but Uju is strong, persistent, and opinionated – she embodies the reality of struggle, reminding us that we will do whatever we can to survive.

I could talk forever about this book, it is truly fascinating. Coming from a white background with little-to-no diversity in my home town, it’s refreshing to encounter such a powerful voice breaking down the barriers in cross-continent identity. Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche is truly a wonder, and I’ll certainly be picking up more of her work soon.