Review copy provided by the publisher.
One of my complaints about noir written in this century is that some of the people who try it are trying for an aesthetic rather than depth. Onyebuchi has both here. There is the form of noir, which is easy enough, but also its deeply disaffected substance. The reality of French colonialism in West Africa has seriously informed this short fantastical novel–there is a richness to the details, even the ones that are not within our physical realm. It feels simultaneously extremely fresh and specifically creative–post-colonialist genre noir West African fantasy, not very common in publishing to date–and so well combined that it feels natural, almost inevitable. It’s a hard balance to pull off, and Onyebuchi does it beautifully here.
Boubacar has had a run of catastrophically bad luck, and his work as a private eye is not going well. Disappearing women (cut to bloody ribbons!) on his doorstep do not make him feel like his luck has turned. And his city–which is his all the way through, French occupiers’ and indigenous dugulen’s quarters both fitting and neither fitting him–is getting more full of gory mysteries by the day. It’s hard for Bouba to stay true to his inmost self when he’s not sure what that is–and maybe getting justice is more important anyway? but if he could see his way clear to both….