Contemporary Authors

• Breach ( short stories) Peirene Press (London, England), 2016
• When We Speak of Nothing ( novel) Cassava Republic Press (London, England), 2017

1. Breach https://lccn.loc.gov/2017491480 Popoola, Olumide, author. Breach / [Olumide Popoola and Annie Holmes]. London : Peirene Press, 2016.©2016 155 pages ; 20 cm PR6116.O66 B74 2016 ISBN: 9781908670328 (paperback) 2. When we speak of nothing https://lccn.loc.gov/2017431411 Popoola, Olumide, author. When we speak of nothing / by Olumide Popoola. Abuja, London : Cassava Republic Press, 2017. 253 pages ; 22 cm PR6116.O66 W44 2017 ISBN: 1911115456 (UK)9781911115458 (UK)9789785517712 (Nig)9785517713 (Nig)

• this is not about sadness - 2010 Unrast Verlag, https://www.amazon.co.uk/this-about-sadness-Olumide-Popoola/dp/389771602X
• Also by Mail - 2013 edition assemblage , https://www.amazon.co.uk/Also-Mail-Olumide-Popoola/dp/3942885387/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1529892000&sr=1-1&keywords=Also+by+Mail

• Olumide Popoola - https://www.olumidepopoola.com/

  BIO

  Photo credit: Deborah Moses-Sanks

  Olumide Popoola is a London-based Nigerian German writer and speaker who presents internationally.

  ​

  Her novella this is not about sadness was published by Unrast Verlag in 2010. Her play Also by Mail was published in 2013 by Witnessed (edition assemblage) and the short story collection breach, which she co-authored with Annie Holmes, in 2016 by Peirene Press. Her full-length novel When we Speak of Nothing was published in the UK and Nigeria in 2017 (Cassava Republic Press).

  ​

  Her publications also include critical essays (often on practice-led research and the novel), hybrid pieces and poetry.

  The scope of her work concerns critical investigation into the ‘in-between’ of culture, language and public space where a, sometimes uncomfortable, look at complexity is needed.

  ​

  Olumide holds a PhD in Creative Writing, a MA in Creative Writing and a BSc in Ayurvedic Medicine. She lectures creative writing.

  ​

  In 2004 she won the May Ayim Award in the category Poetry.

  She has received grants, fellowships and residencies from Grants for the Arts/Arts Council England, UEL, Djerassi, Künstlerdorf Schöppingen and Hedgebrook, amongst others.

• InterKontinental - http://www.interkontinental.org/2017/09/28/in-conversation-with-olumide-popoola/

  QUOTED: "The narrator is a Yoruba god called Eshu, god of the crossroads. Eshu is concerned with language and is a shape shifter who can transform himself. And because he is concerned with language, in “When we speak of Nothing” he is the narrator who takes on the language of the character he is expressing. It is my idea of Eshu transforming instead of having first person narration, which would have been limited to one person only."

  London-based Nigerian-German Olumide Popoola is a writer, speaker and performer. Her publications include essays, poetry, the novella this is not about sadness (Unrast, 2010), the play text Also by Mail (edition assemblage, 2013), the short collection breach, which she co authored with Annie Holmes (Peirene Press, 2016), as well as recordings in collaboration with musicians. Olumide has a PhD in Creative Writing and has lectured in creative writing at various universities. In conversation with Nigerian author und satirist Elnathan John, she discusses her latest novel When We Speak Of Nothing (Cassava Republic Press, July 2017), her choice of a main trans character and the rhythm of her stories.

  ELNATHAN: One of the things you have done with this novel is to handle language that dispenses with the needful particular words but instead uses feelings and ideas that describe moments in a way it makes the reader see things, feel things, almost want to touch things. How did you come up with this idea?

  Olumide: English is not my first language, German is, and there is a freedom in it to mash it all up. I live in London for quite a long time and I hear the different communities speak in different ways and I just like playing with that and creating one common life through the melody of it all. Actually, I think it starts with the melody and then the image appears.

  ELNATHAN: Talking about your character Karl. You hinted at Karl already a few years back and said he was going to be central to the novel. What brought Karl to life?

  Olumide: I cannot remember but I know he kind of snuck up on me and then developed. I know that the name was there before I had a sense of the character. For some time I have been interested in how especially young men not only portray themselves but also interact. Karl therefore is a sensitive, gentle young man who is also tough.

  ELNATHAN: Another point that struck me was the narrator. You have used the term it´s the third person narration in the first person voice. Do you want to explain what that means exactly?

  Olumide: The narrator is a Yoruba god called Eshu, god of the crossroads. Eshu is concerned with language and is a shape shifter who can transform himself. And because he is concerned with language, in “When we speak of Nothing” he is the narrator who takes on the language of the character he is expressing. It is my idea of Eshu transforming instead of having first person narration, which would have been limited to one person only.

  ELNATHAN: I am interested in the whole mythology of Yoruba culture and how Eshu as the central and first Orisha plays a role in the life of the main character Karl. Eshu is described as a trickster god but also as a god of mixed purposes. He invites good but also prevents bad from happening because bad is always happening. Is this something you thought of when writing the character and is it driving his life somehow?

  Olumide: I understand Eshu as someone who is tricking you so that you can get to the next level. You can improve on yourself. You can improve on your humanity. It is challenging you. For me it was constructional work coming down from Eshu to the actual story of the novel, the actual plotting.

  ELNATHAN: You mentioned once that you did about twenty drafts of the first chapter. Tell us the story of those drafts.

  OIumide: The chapters of this book are not so much about the words that I have written but very much about the rhythm. So the drafts were always about getting the sound right. I read them out and it was not right or maybe the tone was superfast and I then I did not know how I could sustain that. When I was writing I was in a residency and I was running, always looking for Eshu, because he is around the corner. In Yoruba culture, he is the one you have to address first, who will trick you and I think that is how I got exactly there, to the next level.

  ELNATHAN: You have said there are not enough role models in novels which portrait queer characters without making sexuality and gender an issue and therefore the book a gay book. This label often leads to the consequence that a book is delegated to the margins and then maybe advertised as being only for queer readers. Did you think about not writing a queer book or not marketing it as a queer book?

  Olumide: People, who are queer have told me that they find it very refreshing that it is not a coming-out story. It pleases me to hear that they think it´s just a story, a good read. Only the publisher chose to advertise it this way but it is actually not a queer book. It just happens to have a character who is trans but it is not about his transition. There were two other things I wanted to explore: Young black males, their friendship particularly and the Niger Delta.

  ELNATHAN: Let us go back to the language of the novel once again. As we evolve, our language also evolves. I am thinking of your movement to London and you having to switch your everyday language from German to English. Did this do anything to your evolution of your own language?

  Olumide: Language is a great playing field. There was a different option for the novel where Karl´s Yoruba pronoun would have been used, which is gender neutral. The idea that things have to be disruptive sometimes in order to arrive somewhere, that we need to be comfortable with life being disruptive, difficult and uncomfortable, is appealing and I discussed this with the publisher. It is uncomfortable to learn that we cannot just categorize somebody by simply looking at them. If we don´t know anything and sort of swim every time we meet someone for the first time, that is what brought my idea of the hybrid language forward for me but in the end we decided against it.

  ELNATHAN: In the book, you talk about the uncle why he was able to get to London. His UK visa from a trip earlier was still valid. Maybe a British character would not have thought about that because he can get in and out as he/she pleases. But as an African you have to think of the visa. What do those little details do to the characters?

  Olumide: Me, who has a German passport and does not have to apply for visas within Europe, always realize along those examples how different we move around in the world. In fact to my embarrassment first the uncle had a Schengen visa until I was told no, this visa will not let you enter the UK. I simply did not know.

  ELNATHAN: Karl, the trans main protagonist, has a much harder time finding acceptance in London than in Nigeria. You refer to Charlyboy for example who is a real person, cross dresses and tries to shock with his appearance. He is becoming more popular again now that he decided to lead a protest against the regime, which criminalizes homosexuality. You mention him and Area Scatter, who used to put on female clothes and performed in front of the king without anyone attacking him, as examples of visibilities for characters who may not fit the norm. Do you think this is a function of class as opposed to being a function of space and subjectivity?

  OLUMIDE: In my opinion, Charlyboy is a lot of promotion, he is shocking, he is a musician and he gets away with it. I have a feeling Area Scatter was different because he chose to go round in women´s clothes and said he was a woman. There is a difference between identity and performance. In terms of the novel: Karl is a working-class boy who goes to Nigeria and his father is a very nice settled middle-class man. But Karl enjoys his time much more with the poorer distant relative who is definitely working class, too. I did this on purpose because I wanted to show that we, the educated liberal people, have those hang-ups in mind, thinking just because the working-class has maybe not read the lasted gender theory they are not up to the task understanding. In the novel, I wanted to subvert that. I am not saying that Nigerian society would have embraced Karl much better than London or King´s Cross. But those particular people he meets love him and because of that there is no question whether they need to change him. I am trying to make a point about acceptance coming through having truthful interactions with each other. I wanted to highlight that acceptance exists.

  ELNATHAN: We know of many LGBTIQ people who did leave the Nigeria though because they did not find acceptance, not by their families and not in their neighbourhoods. Arrests take place often and many receive death threats. What would you say to a person who had to leave Nigeria and who told you that you are too hopeful?

  OLUMIDE: If we cannot imagine a different future, it cannot happen. As a writer, it is your job to put your vision on paper. It is right to imagine something, which may not yet be entirely true. For a young queer person for instance it may also be of value to find something beautiful in a book to identify with. This is why Eshu is so important. There is potential, as scholars, to read gender queerness into him because he is a shape shifter. He is described as both a beautiful woman and a very potent man. You are all welcome to disagree with me but I made him a patron for Karl and for the idea of queerness.

  Review Elnathan’s #BOAT with Olumide Popoola Sept. 2nd 2017

  INTERVIEW

  Every quarter widely praised satirist, author of Born on a Tuesday (#BOAT) and Caine Prize finalist Elnathan John leads through an evening of literature. His novel “Born on a Tuesday” will come out in German in August. In conversation with his guests from varied literary backgrounds and interests, he explores political and social questions of our times. Fiction, prose, poetry – join us for an astounding perspective on African literature. Next: Petina Gappah, 11th Nov.

• Goldsmiths, University of London - https://www.gold.ac.uk/ecl/staff/popoola-olumide/

  Dr Olumide Popoola
  Staff details
  PositionLecturer In Creative & Life Writing
  Department English and Comparative Literature
  Email o.popoola (@gold.ac.uk)
  Academic qualifications

  2015 PhD, University of East London
  2009 MA Writing: Imaginative Practice, University of East London

  Teaching

  Dr Olumide Popoola has been teaching Creative Writing at undergraduate level, in seminars and lectures, on courses she has devised as well as on colleagues’ courses as part of a team. Areas of teaching: creative writing, contemporary fiction and poetry.

  Examples of courses currently or recently taught on BA in English Literature and Creative Writing:

  Creative Writing Foundation workshop
  Poetry and Prose workshop
  Project development

  Publ

• Guardian Woman - https://guardian.ng/guardian-woman/olumide-popoola-i-bring-wild-rich-imagination-to-life/

  QUOTED: "It started as an exploration into young black and brown men in inner city London. I was working in a community centre with a youth programme at the time, and saw a lot of young men come and go. I was intrigued by their friendships, the way they were intimate with each other (as friends) in a different way than the young women were. I also wanted to learn about the Niger Delta so I created a reason to go there for research. This formed the basic idea about the novel."
  "Then the London (and UK) riots happened and all of a sudden I had this dual narrative with flames from gas flaring in the Niger Delta, and flames from burnt cars and buildings during the London riots."

  Olumide Popoola – I bring wild, rich imagination to life
  By GuardianWoman
  23 September 2017 | 4:25 am
  Abiola Alabi: We want to tell young people that you can pick yourself up and rebuild
  2 days ago
  “I am a born artist, all I want to do is create” - Esther Tom
  2 days ago
  Monica’s less travelled road
  2 days ago

  Popoola

  Olumide Popoola is a London-based Nigerian German writer and speaker who presents internationally. Her novella, This Is Not About Sadness, was published by Unrast Verlag in 2010. Her play Also by Mail was published in 2013 by and the short story Collection Breach, which she co-authored with Annie Holmes, in 2016 by Peirene Press. Her full-length novel When We Speak of Nothing was published in the UK and Nigeria in 2017.

  Her publications also include critical essays, often on practice-led research and the novel, Hybrid Pieces And Poetry.

  Olumide holds a PhD in Creative Writing, a MA in Creative Writing and a BSc in Ayurvedic Medicine and lectures in Creative Writing. In 2004 she won the May Ayim Award in the poetry category. She has received grants, fellowships and residencies from UEL, Djerassi, Künstlerdorf Schöppingen and Hedgebrook, amongst others. In this interview with Guardian Woman, she shares her thoughts on her new novel When We Speak of Nothing.

  What interesting stories about your background led you to become a writer?
  I always wanted to be a writer from when I learned writing and composed little stories from then. I don’t know that it is my background that led me to writing, more an active imagination. I spent a few years with my German grandmother who was living in a small village, actually not even inside that village. It was a little isolated. Maybe the absence of a lot of school friends led to reading ferociously, which then spurred my imagination…

  What moment did you decide that you were going to become a writer?
  I was a child with a wild and rich imagination. I think when I realised that you could construct stories, put them together yourself, I knew that that is what I wanted to do also.

  What inspires your kind of story?
  The people around me – recently also ‘place’. Two of my books, including When We Speak of Nothing, are set in London. One is set a few streets from where I live, When We Speak of Nothing is set around the area I worked in for a long time, as well as Port Harcourt. I’m interested in the small, hidden away stories. What happens in those side streets that don’t get mainstream attention. London fascinates me like any large city would but I think I end up writing about London because I have been living here for quite a while. Writing about it is both a making sense and a claiming my space here. As an outsider, someone who moved here, who is familiar yet also has other reference points.

  Tell us about your recent project, When We Speak of Nothing.
  It started as an exploration into young black and brown men in inner city London. I was working in a community centre with a youth programme at the time, and saw a lot of young men come and go. I was intrigued by their friendships, the way they were intimate with each other (as friends) in a different way than the young women were. I also wanted to learn about the Niger Delta so I created a reason to go there for research. This formed the basic idea about the novel. Then the London (and UK) riots happened and all of a sudden I had this dual narrative with flames from gas flaring in the Niger Delta, and flames from burnt cars and buildings during the London riots. Both main characters witnesses to one side of it, far away from each other, their friendship straining.

  The main characters in the book, Karl and Abubakar, what makes them special? Despite their background differences, what makes them resonate so much with the readers?
  I think it’s their complexity. They are lovable guys, fun and interesting, with good manners, most of the times. Sometimes they are not so nice, sometimes they are angry or run away or get involved when they shouldn’t have. They do right and wrong things but ultimately they are there for each other. They know how to be friends, even if some learning has to be done along the way. I think we can all relate to being imperfect but trying our best. The feedback I get mostly is that the determination to remain friends, to be there for each other is the most moving for readers.

  Did you try to build these characters to mirror people and places that you’ve experienced?
  I wanted to capture a certain inner city London youth. And I absolutely wanted to capture the King’s Cross area of London, but the forgotten parts where people without much money live, and the Niger Delta (very small parts of it). The characters aren’t based on any real people, more on ideas inspired by young people I’ve met. The character of Nakale, who is an activist in the Niger Delta, is inspired by an activist who took me around the area but he is nothing at all like Nakale. The only thing they have in common is that they’re both completely dedicated, and very knowledgeable.

  What challenges did you go through while writing the book?
  I run into a hairy situation on my travel through the Niger Delta which made it into the book as something Karl experiences. When I was taking a picture of gas flaring just behind a village (actually almost inside the village) I was standing on a bridge, another activist on an okada, waiting for me. All of a sudden, we found ourselves surrounded by a growing number of young local men who were shouting ridiculous sums of money I should pay for my release. I waited patiently, my activist friend had summoned me to sit behind him on the motorcycle and not get off again, he was trying to negotiate. He was holding my hand, apologising for the behaviour of these young men, who were part of his local community.

  After 45 minutes in the sweltering sun and a lot of shouting on their side I lost my cool and gave them a piece of my mind. That albeit being light skinned and living in Europe had the right to be there and find out about my country. That I wasn’t sure what they were trying to do, what point they were trying to make but I was not a journalist selling any pictures (which is what they had claimed). I showed them my student card (I was doing my PhD at that time). They were shocked, as was my friend. I think I gave them £20 – just because – and we drove off while they were still trying to decide whether to kidnap me or not.

  What inspired you to write it?
  It started with learning more about the Niger Delta and the recession in the UK.

  Where can we buy or see it?
  The book is available for purchase on Cassava Republic Press website, or the Cassava Republic Bookshop in Abuja and any other major bookshop in Nigeria and the U.K.

  Would you like to share details about your next book?
  It is still so sketchy that there isn’t much to tell yet other than it will be set in London again (at least mostly) and will explore how we deal with a major trauma as an individual and as a group. I want it to be a dual narrative that juxtaposes between the collective and a few key character’s individual voices. We will see if that will still work when I get to the end of the first draft or if I will have to abandon that idea and find something else more suitable for the story.

  How can readers discover more about you and your work?
  My website is a good place www.olumidepopoola.com or follow me on twitter @msolumide

  What advice would you give to aspiring writers?
  To stick with it. Writing is much harder than you think. It takes perseverance and editing. Please believe in editing, it is the single most important part of writing. Writing is rewriting. But it is also immensely satisfying to immerse and invent. Find supportive writers you can exchange with. Find out what your voice is trying to say. Trust it. Hone it, polish it. Most importantly, let your voice soar.

• Badilisha Poetry Exchange - http://badilishapoetry.com/olumide-popoola/

  Biography

  Olumide Popoola is a London-based Nigerian German author, poet, performer and speaker who presents internationally, often collaborating with musicians or other artists. She has published fiction, drama, poetry and essays in magazines, journals, newspapers, memoirs and anthologies since 1988.

  The scope of her work concerns critical investigation into the ‘in-between’ of culture, language and public space where a, sometimes uncomfortable, look at complexity is needed.

  Olumide holds a BSc in Ayurvedic Medicine and a MA in Creative Writing. She is currently a PhD candidate in Creative Writing at the University of East London for which she is working on a novel that expands on her interest in cross-genre work, and the notion of vernacular or hybrid languages as literary opportunities for social and cultural change.

  In 2004 she won the May Ayim Award in the category Poetry in 2004 (the first Black International Literature Award in Germany).

  She has received grants, fellowships and residencies from UEL, Djerassi, Künstlerdorf Schöppingen and Hedgebrook, amongst others.

  Her novella this is not about sadness is her first book-length work of fiction, published by Unrast Verlag in 2010 through their ‘insurrection notes’ imprint. Her play Also by Mail was published in February 2013 by Witnessed (edition assemblage).

  She aims to finish the novel that is her PhD project in 2014/15.

QUOTED: "The timely issues of white police versus black youth and the pollution and danger caused by oil and gas companies will resonate with teens interested in social justice."

Popoola, Olumide. When We Speak
of Nothing
Debbie Wenk
Voice of Youth Advocates.
41.1 (Apr. 2018): p64. From Book Review Index Plus. COPYRIGHT 2018 E L Kurdyla Publishing LLC http://www.voya.com
Full Text: 4Q * 4P * S
Popoola, Olumide. When We Speak of Nothing. Cassava Republic, May 2018. 256p. $15.95 Trade pb. 978-1-911115-45-8.
Abu and Karl are two seventeen-year-olds in inner-city London in 2011 and are frequent targets of the neighborhood bullies. Just before summer break, Karl, who is transgendered, learns of a father he has never known, and with his new-found uncle, he arranges to visit Nigeria and meet his father. The visit does not go well and his father rejects him. Karl gains the friendship of university student Nakala who is researching the damage done to the environment by the big oil companies operating in Nigeria. Meanwhile back in London, Abu becomes attracted to the riots taking place following the death of a black man at the hands of the police. His interest leads him to go watch some of the looting, but his decency and sense of honor keep him from participating. When Abu is beaten into unconsciousness by some of the looting thugs, Karl realizes he needs to be back in London for his friend.
Friendship forms the main theme of the book--what it means, the forms it takes, whether a new friendship can alter the closeness of another friendship. Abu and Karl support each other through it all, even when they quarrel and are estranged. The boys both struggle with figuring out who they are and who they want to be and trying to become that person. The story is compelling although the prose is difficult for the average American teen; the vernacular of the youth in London and, especially, that of the characters in Nigeria are significantly different from what American youth typically know. The timely issues of white police versus black youth and the pollution and danger caused by oil and gas companies will resonate with teens interested in social
1 of 4 6/24/18, 8:55 PM
http://go.galegroup.com/ps/marklist.do?actionCmd=GET_MA...
justice and climate change. Popoola has crafted a book about which there is much to admire.-- Debbie Wenk.
Source Citation (MLA 8th Edition)
Wenk, Debbie. "Popoola, Olumide. When We Speak of Nothing." Voice of Youth Advocates, Apr.
2018, p. 64. Book Review Index Plus, http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A536746170 /GPS?u=schlager&sid=GPS&xid=1d1587f1. Accessed 24 June 2018.
Gale Document Number: GALE|A536746170

QUOTED: "an ambitious novel that attempts to explore important subjects about race and identity in the modern world."

2 of 4 6/24/18, 8:55 PM

http://go.galegroup.com/ps/marklist.do?actionCmd=GET_MA...
Popoola, Olumide: WHEN WE SPEAK OF NOTHING
Kirkus Reviews.
(Apr. 1, 2018): From Book Review Index Plus. COPYRIGHT 2018 Kirkus Media LLC http://www.kirkusreviews.com/
Full Text:
Popoola, Olumide WHEN WE SPEAK OF NOTHING Cassava Republic Press (Young Adult Fiction) $15.95 4, 3 ISBN: 978-1-911115-45-8
Two black London-based teen boys navigate the complexities of racism, class differences, and identity in this intricate coming-of-age tale.
Abu and Karl are twinlike in appearance, but their lives could not be more different. While Abu hails from a stable two-parent home, Karl's family life is shrouded in mystery, so he spends most of his time as an adopted son within Abu's family. Together, the boys survive bullies, being beaten up, discrimination, and discovering sexuality. Life for both teens changes irreparably when Karl finds a letter addressed to his mother from an uncle whom he never knew. After discovering that his father is alive and living in Port Harcourt, Nigeria, Karl leaves London with his uncle to visit Africa and discover his family and heritage. Popoola's (Breach, 2016, etc.) novel has all the requisite threads for a completely engrossing book, but so much is crammed into its pages that the story feels like a mess of tangles rather than a neatly stitched product. The reader barely gets to know Karl before he is off to Africa--a decision so rushed that it is sapped of dramatic heft--and so reader investment in his problems suffers. The stream-of-consciousness narration jars the reader out of the narrative and prevents the characters from becoming fully formed people as opposed to character studies.
An ambitious novel that attempts to explore important subjects about race and identity in the modern world. (Fiction 14-18)
Source Citation (MLA 8th Edition)
"Popoola, Olumide: WHEN WE SPEAK OF NOTHING." Kirkus Reviews, 1 Apr. 2018. Book
Review Index Plus, http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A532700440/GPS?u=schlager& sid=GPS&xid=0fa9ee45. Accessed 24 June 2018.
Gale Document Number: GALE|A532700440
3 of 4 6/24/18, 8:55 PM

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When We Speak of Nothing
New Statesman.
146.5385 (Sept. 22, 2017): p59. From Book Review Index Plus. COPYRIGHT 2017 New Statesman, Ltd. http://www.newstatesman.com/
Full Text:
When We Speak of Nothing Olumide Popoola
In 2011, two black teenage boys are growing up on a council estate in London's King's Cross, an area undergoing rapid regeneration. Soon the capital will erupt into riots after the killing of Mark Duggan. Meanwhile, Karl and Abu are trying to negotiate local thugs, first love, sexuality and identity--leading Karl to travel to Port Harcourt in Nigeria, to meet his father for the first time. The London-based Nigerian-German author Olumide Popoola delineates her characters in inventive, slang-rich prose, telling a coming-of-age story for the 21st century.
Cassava Republic, 256pp, 9.99 [pounds sterling]
Source Citation (MLA 8th Edition)
"When We Speak of Nothing." New Statesman, 22 Sept. 2017, p. 59. Book Review Index Plus,
http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A509722612/GPS?u=schlager&sid=GPS& xid=1d7d9041. Accessed 24 June 2018.
Gale Document Number: GALE|A509722612
4 of 4 6/24/18, 8:55 PM

Wenk, Debbie. "Popoola, Olumide. When We Speak of Nothing." Voice of Youth Advocates, Apr. 2018, p. 64. Book Review Index Plus, http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A536746170/GPS?u=schlager&sid=GPS&xid=1d1587f1. Accessed 24 June 2018. "Popoola, Olumide: WHEN WE SPEAK OF NOTHING." Kirkus Reviews, 1 Apr. 2018. Book Review Index Plus, http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A532700440/GPS?u=schlager&sid=GPS&xid=0fa9ee45. Accessed 24 June 2018. "When We Speak of Nothing." New Statesman, 22 Sept. 2017, p. 59. Book Review Index Plus, http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A509722612/GPS?u=schlager&sid=GPS&xid=1d7d9041. Accessed 24 June 2018.

• TRIBUNE2LARTISTE
  https://tribune2lartiste.com/not-sadness-olumide-popoola/
  Word count: 536

  “this is not about sadness” by Olumide Popoola

  Posted on 03 Juin 2012 By admin Livres

  p_rr11About the Author
  London-based Nigerian-German Olumide Popoola is a writer and performer and presents internationally. She is the recipient of the May Ayim Award (category poetry) and currently a PhD candidate in creative writing at the University of East London, for which she is producing a cross-genre novel.
  Her work has appeared in anthologies, academic publications, magazines and on recordings in collaboration with musicians.
  Her novella this is not about sadness was published in 2010 by Unrast Verlag, Germany, her play Switch off the Light (working title) is due for publication in 2013 by edition assemblage’s book series Witnessed.

  What inspired this work
  When I moved to London I encountered this immersion in the different cultures and accents, in particular the many different black communities. I felt because we live so close together and culture spills over into one’s own almost organically, that things were possible that often we say aren’t. And like any big city there are lonelinesses behind the walls and facades, things we don’t speak about because they find no space or no one that would listen. They seem unspeakable. But despite the anonymous life of a metropolis there is a graceful tenderness that permeates through the smallest cracks, and sharing consoles, even those seem-able unspeakable things, sometimes without words.

  The realization of the work
  It began as my master dissertation (for MA in Writing) and was expanded afterwards.

  – Background Editorial: under what conditions or situations have you written
  A lot of editing took part at my then admin job!

  Anecdotes and scenes surrounding this work
  Three days before I handed in my MA dissertation I was wondering ‘and what next? how is it going to go forward?’ I opened my email to a message from my now editor Sharon Otoo (who is also the author of ‘the things I’m thinking while smiling politely’). She was part of a new series and said they would like to publish my work, did I have anything suitable (book length wise). It was a timely surprise!

  This isn't sadnessA short summary of this work.
  In this is not about sadness, an unlikely friendship between two complex and traumatised London-based women, one an older Jamaican, the other a young South African, is explored through each character’s use of specific language to relate to space, memory and silence. The lyrical dual-narration allows vernacular language to shape the structure and flow, echoing call-and-response modes familiar to international storytelling traditions.
  The novel follows pensioner Mrs. Thompson’s and young activist Tebo’s developing friendship and the problems that arise due to their different views on political issues. Their conflictive personalities make for an unusual pair and both carry unspoken trauma. When Tebo cries one day to offer empathy for Mrs. Thompson’s pain, the silence is broken. Their bond is sealed through the acknowledgment of the other’s pain, the personal histories arrive in a space where understanding difference creates possibility for healing and alliance.

• The Book Banque
  https://www.thebookbanque.com/literary/interview/speakofnothing-popoola
  Word count: 1822

  Walking Characters To Life: In Conversation With Olumide Popoola
  Interviews
  BY NIKI

  In conversation with Olumide Popoola on her new novel - When We Speak Of Nothing.
  Olumide-Popoola.jpgPopoola_WWSON.jpgWWSON_TBBNQ_.jpg

  R

  esidents of a certain London borough would have had the unknown pleasure of walking past Olumide Popoola taking her “character for a walk” whilst composing her novel When We Speak of Nothing. This, as with many other quirky and amusing anecdotes, Popoola shared with me over tea and cake on one of the last true sunny days of the British summer.

  Other than scrumptious treats, we shared a wonderful conversation led by my admiration for When We Speak of Nothing. This novel, set in a council estate in the borough of Kings Cross in central London and oil rich city of Port Harcourt, is a story about two boys - Karl and Abu - discovering the distinct difference between having an individual voice, and making oneself heard. The theme of crossroads - unmissable throughout the book - is both a testament to the author’s research on the Yoruba God, Esu, and a metaphor for the many difficult decisions the characters come up against all through the novel.

  The concept of taking characters for a walk was explained by the revelation that, amongst her many academic accolades, Popoola is also a graduate of theatre school. Doing this allows one to observe public response to the character. Specifically she says “if you put a big hoodie on, hair scraped back, no makeup, everything changes and I remember that from theatre school.” The focus then, for Popoola, is not only finding out the character identity but also situating the character in a believable environment: “the response tells you a lot about the world.” It is key that she write realistically about environments and issues tackled.
  ON REPORTING AND VISIBILITY

  The locations of the novel: inner city London with its issues regarding race and class as well as the Niger Delta - an ecological site of human rights crisis - are very realistically constructed. This is because of Popoola’s experiences in a Youth centre and a trip to the Niger Delta. Describing her trip to the Niger Delta as “great, scary and sad – mind blowing in a bad way”, the author noted this opportunity as a great way to personally “see the fumes and smell the gas and flaring” rather than through the pages of “The Guardian or National geographic.” By having an Ogoni Activist act as guide, she could also ask questions, and in turn, create the character - Nakale - whose friendship with Karl is an invaluable contribution to the novel.

  Having had an experience navigating Lagos, Nigeria with a British accent and lighter complexion, myself, I was curious as to the author’s experience navigating the Niger Delta region as a visibly foreign individual. This curiosity stemmed from the freedom her protagonist, Karl, seems to have as a mixed-race, British born boy navigating Port Harcourt for the first time at age 17. Like myself, Popoola recounts that she “was very aware of being very visible, being mixed heritage and light skinned”, owing to the attention she garnered.

  However, when writing Karl’s experience, she was conscious of making it “a reflection of the way you can be” and determined to show that “kidnapping and all these things happen but not all the time,” as reflected by media reporting. Popoola also explained that “as a man,” Karl’s experiences would be different from that of a woman. This is a decision she came to after comparing the treatment her brothers receive when visiting Nigeria against what she receives: “a woman could never have gone to Nigeria and walked around that free because nobody would let her.”
  WRITING THAT EXHUMES

  In London, where the focal community is working class, Popoola touches on the impact of gentrification on inner city London. Her writing on this is informed by time spent volunteering “in a Youth centre, a few streets from the location of the narrative.” The disappointment in Popoola’s voice was impossible to miss as she discussed the contrast between the “the huge gentrification project” underway in Kings Cross and the long-term residents - many of whom are forced from their home, in order to make way for capitalism.

  Being able to organically observe the indigenes of these communities, and the resultant impact of gentrification, allowed for the author to strengthen her chosen plot. Popoola shares that, as of the time of our interview, “these youth centres were mostly shut down because funding was cut”, or otherwise said, reallocated to the desires of urbanism and a more prominent social class. Thus, for Popoola, writing When We Speak of Nothing provided the chance to tell “the forgotten stories.” That is, the stories that lie beneath the shiny developments and appearances of wealth.

  That her time at the Youth centres was used well, not just as service to the community but as fodder for her novel, is evident in the friendship between the protagonists - Karl and Abu. In When We Speak of Nothing, there is a beautiful portrayal of male, adolescent friendship. So much that first reactions to the novel have often been regarding the friendship shared by these two teenagers, Popoola notes. Citing the novel’s copy editor, Lisa Smith as an example, Popoola reveals that Smith was so inspired by the characters’ resilience in not giving up on their friendship that she had to “reach out to an old friend.”

  This friendship, evident from the outset of the novel, is strengthened by the amount of time the protagonists spend together, particularly in Abu’s familial residence - where Karl, due to his mother’s health issues, spends a lot of his time, and is accepted. The setup of this friendship is such that Popoola was able to highlight male friendship as “intimate, tender and loving” - adjectives rarely used in a discourse on adolescent male friendship. It also gave Popoola the space to question our perceptions of ‘normal’ familial structures.

  Through the novel, Abu silently struggles through issues like racial profiling and the emotional drama that comes with first crushes. Reading his story, I was rather drawn to his character and thus, was keen to further uncover his character with Popoola. The author, interestingly, succinctly mirrored my feelings, stating that “Abu always gets forgotten.” Explaining this, she says: “I think it was because of Karl’s family structure, so everyone always felt that he needed looking after, where Abu has more of a publicly accepted family structure.” This encapsulation of familial dynamics would have one rethinking the pity, by default, heaped on Karl.
  LOVE BEYOND BORDERS

  The way LGBTQ chracters are represented in the Niger Delta in When We Speak Of Nothing will undoubtedly challenge perspectives on Nigerian reception to LGBTQ issues. Going by the media, one may be forced to believe that LGBTQ individuals in Nigeria are the scourge of society and unacceptable by the general populace. Popoola’s When We Speak of Nothing, however, paints a different picture. For Popoola, exploring this theme gave her “a chance to make a point” — the point not being “that Nigeria as a society is more LGBTQ friendly than the UK, but that within any society you will find people that are accepting and do not really give a s--- but like you for who you are.”

  Essentially, her writing is reflective of the LGBTQ activists and supporters present in any society, who are helping to fight discriminatory practices. Specifically, she says: “I find sometimes, we are very self-congratulatory in the UK or in the West. We think we have all these laws hence we are accepting, but any LGBTQ person will also tell you: ‘I get harassed sometimes; I am scared sometimes; I might not reveal myself because physically or emotionally, I might be scared.’” When We Speak of Nothing thus provides a narrative showing that the safety of LGBTQ individuals in any space is down to the people occupying that space with them, regardless of country.

  Asked if she is worried about any backlash from this portrayal of LGBTQ discourse, specifically from the Nigerian audience, Popoola expresses more of a “curiosity.” She admits that living in the UK separates her from the reality of LGBTQ conversations on ground. A smile in her voice, however, surfaces as she shares her suspicions that many of the Facebook requests she has received of late are from “queer young guys.”

  Rather, if anything, her interpretation of the Yoruba God, Esu, is something that she worries may receive backlash. Referred to as the god of crossroads, the author draws inspiration from Esu for references to crossroads the characters encounters in the novel. Where Popoola worries she will face condemnation is in her interpretation of Esu as “an androgynous and a very beautiful woman.” She believes this description could be “the Yoruba way of talking about queerness” - a position that could be interpreted as sacrilegious by some Nigerian readers.
  CURIOSITY FED THE CAT

  Unable to shake my curiosity, I made a point of inquiring about her decision to situate her novel in two disparate places at such pivotal times. The answer? Coincidence and necessity. “It was a point for me that the boys were not together if they were to develop their individualism,” Popoola candidly stated. The separation was also necessary, she explained, for the boys to learn to maintain the tenderness of their relationship when apart. The setting for them to do this came about naturally because “the riots happened just as I began writing and I wanted to learn about the Niger Delta, not just write about it but visit. So, I created a reason to visit.”

  Things, however, took a turn for the weird as “we had all the burning here [with the riots] and the burning in the Niger Delta [from the oil rigs], so it would have been odd not to write about both.” The amalgamation of personal interest, research and kismet: aided, of course, by man-made violence, came together to create a thought-provoking and lyrical novel that challenges not just personal perspectives, but also the way literature is presented. If nothing else, one will remember When We Speak of Nothing for the language - one reminiscent of inner city London yet avoiding the trap of being a cheap imitation, masterfully.

  Read Niki's review of When We Speak Of Nothing, and see pictures of Popoola and Niki below.

  Purchase When We Speak Of Nothing here or from us in Nigeria here. You can also rent a copy from us!

• Johannesburg Review of BOok
  https://johannesburgreviewofbooks.com/2018/06/04/a-victorious-coming-of-age-novel-outlwile-tsipane-reviews-olumide-popoolas-superb-debut-when-we-speak-of-nothing/
  Word count: 1327

  QUOTED: "When We Speak of Nothing may not be a new story, but the manner in which it is told is new. The novel is deeply encouraging, and seems to indicate a blossoming, of sorts, of things to come."

  A victorious coming-of age novel: Outlwile Tsipane reviews Olumide Popoola’s superb debut, When We Speak of Nothing
  June 4, 2018Outlwile Tsipane1 Comment on A victorious coming-of age novel: Outlwile Tsipane reviews Olumide Popoola’s superb debut, When We Speak of Nothing
  The Johannesburg Review of Books

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  A victorious coming-of age novel: Outlwile Tsipane reviews Olumide Popoola’s superb debut, When We Speak of Nothing
  June 4, 2018Outlwile Tsipane1 Comment on A victorious coming-of age novel: Outlwile Tsipane reviews Olumide Popoola’s superb debut, When We Speak of Nothing

  Olúmìdé Pópóọlá’s debut novel, When We Speak of Nothing, seems to indicate a blossoming of things to come, writes Outlwile Tsipane.

  When We Speak of Nothing
  Olumide Popoola
  Cassava Republic Press, 2017

  What becomes of stories that are not told during their time? Do they eventually emerge, and can they encapsulate their own time if they do?

  In an interview in 2013, Alice Walker said she wrote The Color Purple because the stories of the people she knew and loved were not being told. ‘If you deny people their own voice, you’ll have no idea who they were,’ she said. This quotation epitomises London-based Nigerian-German writer Olúmìdé Pópóọlá’s debut novel, When We Speak of Nothing.

  It is evident from the first page of When We Speak of Nothing that Pópóọlá is unperturbed by the precepts that govern conformity in writing. Her prose is bold and brave, and her sincerity is evident in the brevity of her phrases and words. Pópóọlá adopts the voices of London, Port Harcourt and, in part, Lagos, with a tinge of youthful exuberance throughout. In telling this story of familial squabbles—some silent, others forceful—the testing tribulations of friendships, and how to navigate racial bigotry, homophobia, culture and love, Pópóọlá seems to be making a parallel call that all inhibitions be dispensed with, the prize of this being that people tell their own stories.

  To an eye accustomed to more conventional reads, Pópóọlá’s colloquial approach may not be that easy to follow at first, but the manner in which she suspends and weaves together the different tales is the necessary warm-up that eventually enables one to appreciate the refreshing and superb work-out that is the novel as a whole. The idiomatic language could have led to misplaced or unintended humour, but Pópóọlá maintains the decorum necessary to do these important stories, and their accompanying serious themes, justice.

  The novel introduces us to Karl and Abu, best friends and residents of a racially tense London. The pair are nearing their eighteenth birthdays, and grappling with the happenings of everyday life in their often unfriendly city, where you have to carve out your own happiness. Being accosted by gangs and seeing situations turn ugly are norms they frequently contend with, sometimes unsuccessfully so.

  The relationship between the friends, as well as their families, changes drastically when Karl discovers that his mother, Rebecca, has been concealing information about his father. With the help of his uncle and legal guardian Godfrey, Karl arranges to go to Nigeria to meet the father he has never known.

  Karl’s relationship with his mother has never been cozy. A single mother, Rebecca is forced to wrestle with the intricacies of raising a teenage boy in an unforgiving city. Their communication is routine and stifled. Rebecca suffers from multiple sclerosis and often falls into bouts of depression, which compounds her illness, making her a regular hospital visitor. Their troubled relationship, in which many things have been left unsaid over the years, means that Karl cannot bring himself to tell his mother of his impending mission—nor even his discovery of the information about his father—and only shares snippets and half-truths about his whereabouts to keep her motherly nose at bay.

  Karl’s journey to his father’s native country does not, however, result in the reunion he expected. Their eventual encounter is brief, taut and unpleasant, his father refusing to accept that Karl sees himself as transgender. ‘I think it’s best for you to return to London straight away,’ his father says dismissively, concluding a meeting that took a great deal of effort to arrange.

  But the trip itself proves not to be a futile exercise, yielding as it does new connections of friendship and love in Port Harcourt, as Karl befriends Nakale, an environmental activist concerned with the Niger Delta, and falls in love with his cousin Janoma.

  When We Speak of Nothing juxtaposes the social ills of racism and homophobia that plague Abu’s London with the unethical business practices afflicting the community of oil-rich Port Harcourt, which Karl comes to learn about from Nakale. The novel’s multiple and layered themes of gentrification, cultural ignorance, and class and racial differences are interwoven with care, ensuring that their essence is not lost, and all the while Pópóọlá provides necessary impetus and pace to the narrative.

  Pópóọlá takes care not to create an Africa of abject poverty, as happens all too often in fiction, but equally doesn’t shy away from asserting that it has its share of problems. In a dialogue between Karl, Nakale and Janoma, Pópóọlá introduces the environment activism of Ken Saro-Wiwa and his contemporaries in Ogoniland in the Niger Delta, and his death by execution when General Sani Abacha flexed his iron fist in Nigeria in the mid-nineties. By showcasing Nakale’s activism, which is of a not too dissimilar nature, Pópóọlá seems to imply that, at its core, the situation in the Niger Delta is essentially the same as it was decades ago.

  In her previous work—which includes a novella, this is not about sadness (2010); a play, ‘Also by Mail’ (2013); and a collection of stories, with Annie Holmes, on Europe’s refugee crisis, breach (2016)—Pópóọlá has often dealt with migration and displacement, and what comes to the fore in When We Speak of Nothing is her belief in humanity—that ordinary folk can prevail despite the heavily stacked odds against them.

  What initially seemed like a brazen act of effrontery on the part of Karl—to leave London and travel to Nigeria, testing the resolve of his relationships—concludes with a sense of fulfillment. His quest feels justified, a victorious coming-of age feat, in which he ultimately gains more than he loses. When We Speak of Nothing may not be a new story, but the manner in which it is told is new. The novel is deeply encouraging, and seems to indicate a blossoming, of sorts, of things to come.

  Outlwile Tsipane is a book evangelist. He studied African Politics and Trade at TMALI and worked in the property industry for over a decade. He recently founded an entity that aims to make books available to all, sometimes sell books from the boot of his car, and administers a book club of 900 members. Follow him on Twitter.

  Author image: Deborah Moses-Sanks/Composite: The JRB
  Africa / Fiction / International / LGBTQI+ / Nigeria / Reviews / United KingdomAlice Walker Cassava Republic Press Ken Saro-Wiwa London Migration Niger Delta Olumide Popoola Outlwile Tsipane Port Harcourt Reviews Sani Abacha The Color Purple Transgender identity When We Speak of Nothing

• The Guardian
  https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/jul/29/breach-by-olumide-popoola-annie-holmes-review-short-stories-refugees
  Word count: 828

  QUOTED: "By giving the voiceless of our time their voices back, voices vibrant with humour, truth, and knowledge, Breach serves everyone, greedy or lost or both, with a fresh dollop of humanity."

  Breach review – short stories exploring the refugee crisis

  Olumide Popoola and Annie Holmes’s collection of fine, suspenseful fiction is an attempt to explore both the lives of those on the run and the fears of those who wish to close borders

  Kapka Kassabova

  Fri 29 Jul 2016 02.30 EDT
  Last modified on Thu 22 Feb 2018 07.54 EST
  Refugees clamber into the back of a lorry in Calais
  Human lives in extremis … refugees clamber into the back of a lorry in Calais. Photograph: Philippe Huguen/AFP/Getty Images

  Writing from Calais last year, where she and Annie Holmes were gathering refugees’ stories, Olumide Popoola asked: “What happens when we try to know another’s painful journey? When we try to hold it in some way, to say: you are here. I see you.” This, and other conundrums, is what the short stories in Breach illuminate with great narrative panache. The first in a series of specially commissioned fiction engaged with unfolding political crises, Breach was conceived as an attempt to explore, not through reportage but through literature, the lives of those on the run and also “the fears of people in this country who want to close their borders”. To my knowledge, it is the first full-length book of fiction about the current refugee crisis since it entered our consciousness, and it possesses a timeless quality, despite its obvious timeliness.
  Top 10 refugees' stories
  Read more

  This is fine, suspenseful fiction springing from human lives in extremis; despite the historical distance, I was reminded of Varlam Shalamov’s Kolyma Tales and the grace fiction can distil from desperate material. Here are two accomplished writers co‑authoring a work without taking credit for individual stories – the style and tempo are consistent throughout the changing perspectives. It would be fascinating to hear how Popoola and Holmes crafted this level of artistic unity, almost a sustained act of ventriloquism.

  Written entirely in the present tense,which here does a good job of conveying urgency, each story takes us on an exciting misadventure. Some are set in “the Jungle” – Calais and the wider world of refugees, smugglers, well-wishers and ill-wishers. In “Paradise”, an English volunteer takes her niece to Calais, hoping she would “fall in love with justice, with activism, not some boy”. Two Eritrean girls desperate for money try to prostitute themselves to local truck drivers, with tragicomic results; a smug volunteer’s attempt to be chummy with the two girls is equally tragicomic. In the striking “Ghosts”, a clear-eyed, articulate people smuggler nicknamed Ghostboy is indefinitely stuck in Calais because “our country is just plain out of date”. Ghostboy has some good lines – on the refugee condition: “For you and me, there’s only now.” On the human condition: “People are the same wherever. Greedy or lost or both.” A French unreliable narrator in “The Terrier” welcomes two young Syrian Kurds into her farmhouse, but frets: are they underage siblings, or terrorists?
  Canterbury Tales rebooted with refugee stories of trafficking and detention
  Read more

  Popoola and Holmes’s vision of life on the edge is rich with ambiguity. We are given the experience from within, with panic attacks inside freezer trucks and texts to worried parents back home who have bankrupted themselves to pay for their child’s passage. In “Oranges in the River”, a punchy two-hander, Dlo is “weighed down by his father’s sacrifices”, but his friend Jan “drove himself forward, drilling towards the future, relentless and unstoppable”.

  We meet a guy who sleeps with his trainers on in case he has to run; a man living in Birmingham who wants to visit his sick mother in Iran but is trapped in a Kafkaesque confusion. We see what it’s like to have to bureaucratically “summarise” your predicament (“How do you summarise genocide?” says one deadpan Sudanese narrator), and discover the stark sensation of being an ‘involunteer’ at the mercy of pitiless forces. Most hauntingly, these stories explore the existential impasse of being young and filled with wasted energy, like Alghali, who has made it to Bolton just in time to be beaten up by locals on the day of the Paris bombing. He contemplates a “distant future that could come tomorrow, that could come months down the line. Or never.” By giving the voiceless of our time their voices back, voices vibrant with humour, truth, and knowledge, Breach serves everyone, greedy or lost or both, with a fresh dollop of humanity. I’d even say hope.

  • To order Breach for £9.84 (RRP £12) go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £10, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of £1.99.

• Peace News
  https://peacenews.info/node/8514/olumide-popoola-and-annie-holmes-breach
  Word count: 769

  QUOTED: "Beautifully written, these stories demand that we debate how sympathy can become effective engagement, both humanitarian and political."

  Olumide Popoola and Annie Holmes, Breach
  More Reviews
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  Bob Hughes, The Bleeding Edge – why technology turns toxic in an unequal world
  Andrew Smart, Beyond Zero and One: Machines, Psychedelics and Consciousness
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  Review by Kelvin Mason

  Peirene Press, 2016; 160pp; £12

  ImageIn her foreword to this short story collection, publisher Meike Ziervogel writes that she ‘commissioned Olumide Popoola and Annie Holmes to go to the Calais refugee camp to distil stories into a work of fiction about escape, hope and aspiration.’

  The ethical challenge of distilling the stories of people living so precariously into a work of fiction is clear: the charge of exploitation lies in ambush behind every sentence. This risky endeavour has paid off, however, producing a poignant and indelible work of fiction and a politically unsettling insight into ourselves. These stories are at once an insightful social commentary and an acute reading pleasure, empathetic and intimately human, demanding the reader’s personal and critical engagement, challenging preconceptions at every turn.

  Refugees are portrayed as diverse, nuanced individuals: memorably, the defiant Omid, Mariam’s self-sacrificing female friend, and the troubled Farrukh. Breach defies the reader to lump such people together: you may neither despise nor give value to them en masse.

  Thrust into each other’s company, such people must wrestle with the desperate dilemma of mutual aid versus survival of the most treacherous. Understated and sometimes comic, the stories convey a real sense of the dangers of fleeing war by surviving perilous sea crossings or braving death-by-freezing in a refrigerated truck.

  As well as the hopes of the refugees, Breach also engages with the fears of those on the other side of the fence. These fears are neither assuaged nor ridiculed. Rather, they are confronted and complicated, revealed in all their prejudice and reason. We must learn to live with the entangled tussles of truth versus compassion, propriety versus discrimination, the rule of law versus justice.

  In one of the most disturbing tales, we inhabit Ghostboy, a people smuggler, glimpsing how a human being becomes callous as a survival strategy – his own and that of the refugees whose hopes only he can help realise. ‘Does a rock have a family?’ he asks, ‘Does a knife?’

  Beautifully written, these stories demand that we debate how sympathy can become effective engagement, both humanitarian and political.

  Topics: Refugees

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• The Herald
  http://www.heraldscotland.com/arts_ents/14652223.__39_Stark_snapshots_from_the_refugee_camps__39__Review__Breach_by_Olumide_Popoola_and_Annie_Holmes/
  Word count: 1284

  QUOTED: "Tough and tender, subtle yet hard-hitting, these compelling stories matter, and with luck will make a difference."

  Stark snapshots from the refugee camps' Review: Breach by Olumide Popoola and Annie Holmes
  Malcolm Forbes
  (2) View gallery

  Breach

  Olumide Popoola and Annie Holmes

  Peirene Press, £12

  Review by Malcolm Forbes

  TWO weeks into the EU referendum, surveys showed that immigration had leapfrogged the economy to become the main factor driving the leave vote. Sifting the grubby lies, casual generalisations and hysterical scare stories churned up in the wake of Brexit, one pertinent truth about immigration emerged: namely that anxiety about immigration held greater sway among voters than immigration itself. Fear, then, won the day.

  How effectively the flames of fear were fanned by the false threat of an imminent Turkish invasion following EU membership, or the cheap press-ganging of Syrian migrants into poster-people to illustrate a “breaking point”, belongs to another discussion. Suffice it to say, Brexit won’t completely kill off that fear, for asylum seekers will continue to come here, either in legally decreed quotas in accordance with the UN Refugee Convention, or in illegal dribs and drabs via Calais.

  An insightful new book chronicling the plight of refugees in the so-called Calais Jungle ought to be mandatory reading for anyone troubled by the crisis or mistrustful of Johnny Foreigner. Breach is the first title of Peirene Press’s new imprint Peirene Now!, a series which, according to the blurb, will engage with current political hot-topics. The book arrives at a timely juncture and tackles head-on the hottest topic for years.

  Peirene’s publisher, Meike Ziervogel, explains at the beginning of Breach that she commissioned its two UK-based authors, Nigerian German Olumide Popoola and Zambia-born Annie Holmes, to visit the Calais refugee camps “to distil stories into a work of fiction about escape, hope and aspiration.” Both have produced four tales apiece which, cumulatively, urge us to appreciate our own comfort and security, and force us to look afresh and attentively at a calamity that is worsening on our doorstep.

  The first story, Popoola’s ‘Counting Down’, tracks the jagged route and fluctuating fortunes of a group of Calais-bound migrants. All have “survived the boat” and “survived the crazy people who want to keep their beach clean, free of refugees”. They share anecdotes and advice (“Italy is like Greece. Collapsed.”), pool their resources and pick up fellow travellers on the way. But when money goes missing, it becomes clear that one of their number has a separate agenda and is only looking out for himself.

  Holmes’ first tale, The Terrier, is narrated by Eloise, a French woman who has opened her door to two Kurdish refugees. Every day, after a warm, safe night in Eloise’s home, Omid and his sister Nalin go to the jungle to assist others and mingle with friends. For a while Eloise keeps them and the “filth and disease” of the camp at arm’s length, preferring to lose herself in laundry and pick fruit in her orchard. But gradually, after absorbing the siblings’ account of their arduous flight to freedom and the parlous conditions of the jungle, she takes an interest, drives to the camp and enters their world.

  For Eloise, the camp’s fenced-in inhabitants resemble “figures from history or documentaries…like second-hand memories of war.” She recalls watching them trudge across Eastern Europe on the news: “it was something more brutal, like a forced march.” Popoola reaches for different imagery in Lineage. “The Jungle is like a laboratory,” one man says. “You have to live with people, get along.”

  If there is a chink of light in these stories it is indeed the sight of all walks of life getting along – coming together and creating a ramshackle but functioning community within the confines of the camp. Several stories, including the cruelly-titled Paradise, depict an attempt at normality. Volunteers and refugees build makeshift schools and hospitals or congregate at the Afghan café. Musicians on a stage, stinking toilet cabins and a tent emblazoned with a marijuana leaf with an accompanying sign saying "Keep on the grass" turn a squalid holding-pen into a rough-and-ready music festival.

  However, that sanitised gloss can only conceal so much. Spies and smugglers prowl the camp for desperate victims. Women sell themselves to truck drivers. Stowaways endure cold, airless mobile prisons. One man believes London will be “a place of angels”. A fire in the camp prompts one Calais local to say “Maybe this is the only way to get rid of them – smoke them out.”

  Despite masquerading as fiction, all eight stories feel like reportage, a succession of stark snapshots of real lives. They are neither plot-driven nor adorned with stylistic tricks. Rather than replicate the grittily original descriptions of ground-down refugees found in novels, such as Cormac McCarthy’s The Road – “Creedless shells of men tottering down the causeway like migrants in a feverland” – Popoola and Holmes tell it straight, and in doing so get quickly to the heart of the matter.

  By rights these stories should be blighted by moments of tendentiousness: during low ebbs or bouts of injustice we should discern hints of polemic, ripples of authorial condemnation or blasts of anger. But both writers hold back and allow their characters to speak for themselves and display, unmediated, their pain, grievances, misplaced hopes or stoic determination.

  In her introductory comment, Ziervogel also writes that this book will “take seriously the fears of people in this country who want to close their borders.” Breach is therefore a bridge, one that spans both sides of a difficult debate and encourages reasoned and proactive discourse. Tough and tender, subtle yet hard-hitting, these compelling stories matter, and with luck will make a difference.

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• Media Diversified
  https://mediadiversified.org/2017/02/27/stories-of-migration-and-exile-in-conversation-with-writer-olumide-popoola/
  Word count: 2597

  QUOTED: "It was a complex experience. My first visit was in October 2015. When I entered the camp for the very first time I noticed a sort of change. Everything slowed down, although it was actually super busy — lots of people walking back and forth, organising their sleeping, eating and similar. Maybe it was the collective limbo that was tangible, the ‘waiting in the daytime’ because you could only approach trains and lorries to make it across the channel at night. ... The second thing I noticed, almost simultaneously, was that I had entered an area that was populated by men."
  "We were never going to write up the interviews as such. We were looking to find stories but not necessarily the ones people told us. The imperative was to look for unusual angles, to not repeat the narratives that appeared in mainstream media too much. It was more a case of being inspired by all of it: the interviews itself, the research we had done, what we saw in Calais, what we thought about it all, our role in it all."

  Stories of migration and exile: in conversation with writer Olumide Popoola
  AuthorMedia DiversifiedPosted onFebruary 27, 2017CategoriesAcademic, Yasmin GunaratnamTagsAcademic, book, Calais, conflict, exile, France, migrant, Migration, politics, Refugee, Writing

  by Yasmin Gunaratnam

  “Calculate is angry because all of his things were stolen in Puglia. He has nothing but his good English. He went to the police…He didn’t think. Next thing he was standing in a police station and someone wanted to fingerprint him. But you can’t get fingerprinted there. Unless you want to stay. Italy is like Greece. Collapsed. There is no future there. It won’t come if you stay. Your future will disappear. And I have already seen that. In my own village.”

  This is Europe, circa 2015. Europe through the eyes of ‘Calculate’, a resident of the Jungle camp in Calais, where reckonings of time —is a future possible here?— are spliced onto place. Calculate is a protagonist in ‘Breach’, a collection of short stories about the Calais camp, written in extraordinary emotional sync by Olumide Popoola and Annie Holmes (Peirene, 2016). The precarious, thrown-together community of the French camp, bulldozed in November 2016, is the mortar of the book, standing as it does for the human detritus of an immigration regime that is fixated on the impossible fantasy of stopping human mobility. At the time of writing, many of the refugees are in hiding in fields and abandoned buildings, mostly in Northern France, near the ports. Minors are especially vulnerable. A recent dispatch from the academic Sue Clayton, who heads the project “Calais Children – A Case to Answer“, is grim reading. “Two weeks ago the Home Office declared the ‘Calais Children’ operation to be over and the French centres temporarily housing the minors all over France, are being closed between now and end Feb.”, she writes. “Many of the minors have already run away: This is mainly because either (as prior reports) they were being underfed, subject to racism and in some documented cases even bullied and attacked by (untrained) staff; or because since they’ve told they’re not going to UK, they have made their way back to the north, where they still against all odds seem to think the Jungle would be there, or a jungle would be there…”

  With no hard evidence of what camps, razor-wire fences and walls achieve in the long term, the collection is a sort of rogue experiment against forces of dehumanisation within the eerie “laboratory” (as one Breach character calls it) that was the Calais camp. Refugee stories brush up against those from reluctant hosts, xenophobes, smugglers and naïve, heart-in-the-right-place volunteers. “It’s that dialogue that isn’t happening in real life”, Meike Ziervogel, who commissioned the work, says in the Preface to the collection.

  Here I talk to Olu Popoola about the book and how she sees the politics of displacement and exile at this time of heightened suspicion and rage against strangers.
  Calais migrant camp by Malachy Brown
  Calais migrant camp by Malachy Browne

  Yasmin: The stories in Breach fictionalise the lives of those who passed through the Jungle, mostly young men. You and Annie visited the camp in 2015, what was it like?

  Olu: It was a complex experience. My first visit was in October 2015. When I entered the camp for the very first time I noticed a sort of change. Everything slowed down, although it was actually super busy — lots of people walking back and forth, organising their sleeping, eating and similar. Maybe it was the collective limbo that was tangible, the ‘waiting in the daytime’ because you could only approach trains and lorries to make it across the channel at night.

  The second thing I noticed, almost simultaneously, was that I had entered an area that was populated by men. It was like a weird men’s club, which was obviously not a club at all. Lots and lots of men, mostly youngish. It felt like a bustling village, on first sight. A poor one, but organised, with shops and a sort of “high street” that run through a part of the camp. There were cafes and eateries, places to go out to at night, mosques, a church. On my first day, a Saturday or Sunday, there were loads of volunteers who had driven from the UK to deliver aid. There were constant distributions where volunteers handed out items like tents and clothes, and food. These were organised in a particular way so that queues would be forming on certain corners.

  Six weeks later, on my second visit, women and families were much more visible. I know the numbers increased significantly between October and November 2015.

  Generally, men were open to chatting and approached us/me a lot, asking where we were from or just wanting a bit of conversation. The single women (those without families) were very guarded. It was difficult to engage them in conversation. It felt like there was no incentive for them to talk to us, so why bother?

  What struck me were the areas divided by ethnicity. There were clear sections, Kurdish, Sudanese, Afghan, Iranian and so on. As you got further into the sleeping areas there were also little congregations of tents, sometimes with a seating area in the middle, perhaps a fireplace or kitchen area. People made little compounds, helping each other survive.
  Calais migrant camp by Malachy Browne
  Calais migrant camp by Malachy Browne

  Yasmin: Today, refugee and migrant stories are a form of currency, sometimes even a sort of passport. Exiles are compelled to shape and tell their stories in certain ways for state agencies, NGOs, for the media, for us. How did you as storytellers fit into this marketplace of stories?

  Olu: We were never going to write up the interviews as such. We were looking to find stories but not necessarily the ones people told us. The imperative was to look for unusual angles, to not repeat the narratives that appeared in mainstream media too much. It was more a case of being inspired by all of it: the interviews itself, the research we had done, what we saw in Calais, what we thought about it all, our role in it all.

  In fiction, you just need one thing that sparks off the whole narrative. For instance, the story you quoted above started with names, GPS and Obama (there really was an Obama in Calais!). It developed from there. I am still in contact with the person who inspired it (not Obama by the way) but there isn’t anything about his story in it, not as such, although on a more subtle and deeper level there is.

  He made it across the channel soon after I interviewed him in Calais and we have remained in contact. I visited him straight after his arrived in the UK and a bit later when he was moved on to another city. We spoke a lot on those visits but it was more personal then. I wanted to understand what this ‘making it across’ is like. What does it mean, physically, emotionally? What are the details of it? I learned more about his culture and life but also I learned a lot about humanity and remaining oneself under immense stress and in deep limbo (for a lack of better words). His focus and clarity were unshakeable. It humbled and still humbles me. The most important thing was this awareness and exchange, the checking in with each other. It is something that is of friendship, not of collecting stories. There is something immense and tender in being each other’s witness and this witnessing goes both ways, if you are open to it and present.
  Calais migrant camp by Malachy Browne
  Calais migrant camp by Malachy Browne

  Yasmin: Some philosophers tell us that for unconditional hospitality to become a reality, we must be able to address our guests as unique human beings, as individual and irreplaceable. We must know their names. What struck me in Breach was your use of names – we are never really certain of names. There’s that very funny exchange in the book that you’ve just mentioned, when one of the boys chooses to be known as Obama (Barack and definitely not the French ‘Michel’ suggested by one of his companions). In another story about a Syrian brother and sister, their French host is very aware that she might not really know the identities of the people living in her home. She says, “I call him Omid, the young man. It’s the name he asked me to use when they arrived, he and his sister, and he said I was to call the girl Nalin”. The Jungle residents’ play with names and many are reluctant to give their real names so that there is something a bit ghostly about the relationships throughout the book. Was this ghostliness deliberate?

  Olu: Some of the names are not as ghostly as it might seem. The real person behind Obama is a buoyant young man we met in Calais. His friends all had interesting nicknames (Whatsapp…).

  I think more than the names one exists because one is seen. It is important to know names, to be named, to have that name acknowledged — very. But it is more important to be recognised (seen) and have one’s humanity respected. You can do that without knowing someone’s name. I think in the past few years we have failed quite terribly in this regard, in respect to the so-called refugee crisis in Europe.

  But to answer your question, yes it was a deliberate choice to address all these different facets of namelessness, naming and misnaming.
  Calais migrant camp by Malachy Browne
  Calais migrant camp by Malachy Browne

  Yasmin: Breach was written pre-Brexit, pre the rise of Theresa May and Donald Trump, before the bulldozing of the camp and the recent UK government decision to end the Dubs Amendment, which required the Home Secretary to resettle a certain number of unaccompanied refugee children. The political context in which you were writing both within and outside the camp was bleak. It’s something that hit me in “Expect me”, the last story in Breach which chronicles the life of a boy who finally makes it to England legally. For all the human misery of the camp, its violence and insecurity, it feels that the destruction of the camp and the dispersal of those living there is somehow, and perversely, worse?

  Olu: I think it was a cruel thing. Anyone could predict that the issue would not go away, people would not simply stop coming or all disappear (although quite a few, especially minors, have actually disappeared). It was simply a destruction of infrastructures and resources, all the small things that had made life in the camp a little easier. There are lots of other camps, then and now. They will continue to grow. It was pointless in terms of addressing the problem of mass displacement but I think the reason was always to destroy those infrastructures and to disperse communities that had formed.

  Yasmin: Breach is a compelling and constantly surprising read. Both you and Annie manage to get at such rich and complicated layers of life in a camp that is also very much a community. What role do you think fiction can play in these dark times?

  Olu: We need our imagination! We need to dream up that which will conquer and subvert these times. We cannot be stuck here. We can’t remain in a state of shock, anger and somewhat confusion. Fiction allows not just for analysis but for that way out, both as an escape and vision.

  Of course we must also resist in other ways but you asked about fiction.

  Yasmin: And what’s next for you?

  Olu: I have just finished editing my new novel When We Speak of Nothing. It is coming out later in summer with Cassava Republic Press. It follows the friendship of two young adults who live in King’s Cross. They are best mates but one of them goes to Port Harcourt (Nigeria) and becomes friends with a local activist there, while the other one gets tangled up in the 2011 riots. It’s about loyalty, alternative families, masculinity, gender and love of course. All against a backdrop of issues surrounding the Niger Delta and the London riots. I’m very excited!

  All work published on Media Diversified is the intellectual property of its writers. Please do not reproduce, republish or repost any content from this site without express written permission from Media Diversified. For further information, please see our reposting guidelines.

  Olumide Popoola is a London-based Nigerian German writer and lecturer. Her novella this is not about sadness was published by Unrast Verlag in 2010. Her play Also by Mail was published in 2013 by Witnessed (edition assemblage). When we Speak of Nothing will be published by Cassava Republic Press in 2017. You can find her on Twitter @msolumide

  Yasmin Gunaratnam is a writer and academic, interested in illness, death, migration, the body and feminism. She teaches in the Sociology Department at Goldsmiths College on research methods, culture, representation and difference and feminist theory. Yasmin is the curator of Media Diversified’s academic space. Her latest book Death & the Migrant (Bloomsbury Academic) is about transnational dying and care in British cities.

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  Word count: 917

  QUOTED: "flamboyant and moving debut novel."

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  When We Speak of Nothing by Olumide Popoola — London falling
  A vivid novel about young black men grappling with urban injustice and gender identity

  Save to myFT

  Diana Evans August 18, 2017
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  We’ve heard the story before of the two teenage black boys living in one of London’s inner city estates, grappling with racism and lack of opportunity, and their friendship being tested by the choices they make. But we haven’t heard it like this. Here one of our protagonists is also grappling with gender identity, and it is his quest to find a state of “wholeness”, a place to “be myself”, that makes Olumide Popoola’s flamboyant and moving debut novel stand out.

  Best friends Karl and Abu live in the shadows of the “fancy-pantsy King’s Cross major reconstruction mayhem”, as they think of it (“how much building could you do in one effing junction?”). It’s the summer of 2011, when the UK is still locked in the fall-out from the banking crisis and the riots sparked by the killing of Mark Duggan are waiting in the wings. With classes over for the year, Karl decides to embark on a sudden trip to Port Harcourt in Nigeria to meet his father for the first time, leaving Abu to help keep this a secret from Karl’s sick mother. Meanwhile, Abu is love-struck by fellow student Nalini and in need of wooing advice and general emotional support. He sends Karl increasingly angry texts as his absence goes on for longer than expected.

  “tired of cleaning up after u. all u do is disappear. whatevr. movin on,” Abu writes. “Only been few wks,” Karl messages back. Popoola cleverly uses text-speak to convey whole movements of plot and character emotion. The novel has a language all its own, composed of London slang, tech jargon, black dialect, vivid poeticism, and the musicality of grime and rap: a business partner is a “biz bro”, a hospital is described as “long corridors of hush hush rush”, Nalini has a “fuchsia-framed smile”. It’s almost a listening experience, as well as a very visual reading experience, and the overall effect is a deeper intimacy with Abu and Karl’s complex inner-worlds. “You could see it. Inside, thoughts speeding, mind flying all over. Like major fast,” Karl thinks when hearing news of his father’s untimely disappearance.

  The Nigeria sections of the novel, interspersed with Abu’s London narrative, are particularly lively in their description, with the “gooey air” and the houses that looked “like they needed moisturiser” and the traffic that “put King’s Cross in the shade like proper”. There is a funny scene on the drive from the airport that conveys Karl’s sense of bewilderment: “This is the airport road. This is this. This is another this. And this info belongs to this another this. It is related to that (story etc) and ah you will understand later” is his impression of his Uncle T’s energetic tour-guiding. When they reach Karl’s father’s house, however, the confusion intensifies, as Karl has failed to meet his father’s expectations and the welcome he had been hoping for is nowhere in sight.

  Still hopeful of a paternal embrace, Karl stays on to explore this country of half his blood, and finds that he feels more accepted here than in London. He learns of the oil crimes affecting the Niger Delta and how small one’s problems become in the face of mass murder. He meets a beautiful fashion student called Janoma and braves the ultimate exposure of his true self, the realities of King’s Cross “slowly fading away, like a painting left on the side of a street”.

  His return to London is fraught with the consequences of Abu’s involvement in the riots, and this is where some of the most poignant and heart-wrenching moments of the novel occur, in the troubled waters of an enduring friendship and the reuniting of a fractured family.

  It’s not often we hear in such exacting articulation the voices of the young from behind the cranes and forklifts of London’s eternal regeneration crusade, from the wastelands of financial and political corruption, from the rubble that looks like the future. “I didn’t make this mess,” Abu rightly states. All he and Karl can do is find a way to live inside it, and this book bears witness to that difficult journey with a sense of truth, nuance and comedy. A satisfying and perceptive examination of the emergence of the whole person against the odds posed by a constricting society.

  When We Speak of Nothing, by Olumide Popoola, Cassava Republic Press, RRP£9.99, 256 pages

  Diana Evans’s new novel, ‘Ordinary People’, will be published by Chatto in March 2018

• https://therustintimes.com/2018/02/01/book-review-when-we-speak-of-nothing-by-olumide-popoola/
  The Rustin Times
  Word count: 803

  QUOTED: "The storytelling was layered, evoked emotion and teaches empathy. This was a story that needed to be told."

  Book Review: When We Speak of Nothing by Olumide Popoola
  February 1, 2018

  When We Speak of Nothing by Olumide Popoola is a raw story, which tugs at the humanity of all of us. The story opens up with Abu and Karl; brothers beyond blood, bound by camaraderie and seared in unspoken words. Their shared experience keeps them together, especially as racially motivated violence lurks around them, reminding us yet again how dangerous the west can be for people who look a certain way. When We Speak of Nothing however was off to a slow start and struggles to pick up steam such that impatient readers may give up early but if you soldier on you will find that the story really packs a punch especially after Karl lands in Nigeria.

  The characters were well thought out, back characters were also well developed and recognizable. Olumide wields a fearless pen, bravely crafting a vivid story down to the minutest of details. Nigeria remains a dangerous place for people who do not conform to traditional sexuality and gender identity and they are often demonized. Olumide however tells the story of Karl with such bravery and frankness that his humanity shines through; she is an effortless story teller save for with a few bumps, but she holds you spell bound with the way she gradually builds momentum. One thing that stood out for me was how she masterfully springs details on you, a bit like a snake attacking prey. For instance, having read the synopsis my first thought was that Tunde was the queer character and I kept waiting for the big reveal. I did not expect that it would be Karl eventually, it was beautifully done.

  I do care about believability when I am reading fiction, and I think there were parts of this story that bordered on fantasy. I did not understand how nearly everyone who met Karl in Nigeria was accepting of him. Nigeria is a dangerous place for queer people, it didn’t read like the Nigeria I know. Olumide did say in interviews that she wanted to paint a picture of a Nigeria she would have liked to see, one not contaminated by colonial inspired bigotry. While this may be true, I think there is a conversation to have about painting pre-colonial Africa as this open inclusive society where everyone mattered. I don’t agree that Africa was like that before the white man came.

  I also didn’t think that Portharcourt was vividly described in the book; I didn’t smell the city, I didn’t see it, I didn’t taste it. I really would have loved to read in detail the back story between Karl’s parents and why they never worked out, and I desperately wanted to read more about Tunde’s own life. He was the character who stood out for me the most and the snippets of him we saw made him even more alluring.

  In all however this was an intersectional story, one which evoked a cerebral response in me. I am always thrilled to see queer representation in literature particularly in this part of the world, so it was refreshing to read about Karl and his struggles. I also enjoyed the sub themes of parenting, the Niger Delta environmental assault and living in a racially charged world.

  Homophobia and transphobia thrives on dehumanizing people and taking away their agency. I also think Nigerians will be more likely to accept LGBT people when it is someone they know personally. I liked that this story played up Karl’s humanity in an organic way which was smooth and left the reader to make their own interpretations. Olumide did not descend into the area, which is very easy to do when writing stories that deal with strong political themes.

  I strongly recommend this book for anyone who wants to learn about Trans people but also because the story telling was layered, evoked emotion and teaches empathy. This was a story that needed to be told.

  When We Speak of Nothing was reviewed by Franklyne Ikediasor
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  February 1, 2018 The Rustin TimesArtsBook Review, Franklyne Ikediasor, Olumide Popoola, When We Speak of Nothing
  1 thought on “Book Review: When We Speak of Nothing by Olumide Popoola”

  https://therustintimes.com/2018/02/01/book-review-when-we-speak-of-nothing-by-olumide-popoola/

• Ragged
  http://ragged.media/2017/06/speak-of-nothing-olumide-popoola/
  Word count: 1023

  When We Speak of Nothing by Olumide Popoola review

  An ambitious personal story of friendship, belonging and adulthood that dissects big political issues at a human level

  When We Speak of Nothing takes place primarily in London in 2011, focusing on best friends Karl and Abubakar (‘Abu’), both nearing their 18th birthdays. It takes readers on a journey from Kings Cross, London to Port Harcourt, Nigeria, to the ecocide of the Niger Delta and back to the aftermath of the killing of Mark Duggan.

  The reader is dropped into a brief but pivotal period in Karl and Abu’s lives as they negotiate the challenges and possibilities of being young men of color in the capital. Shunning longer, detailed introductions in favor of dialogue-driven scenes, the characters, their flaws, and how you understand and judge them build over time as the story develops.

  An important bedrock to the whole book is Karl and Abu’s close friendship. It is a bond built on loyalty, love and support, providing them with a means of survival. Through their experiences and conversations, the book explores absentee fathers, mental health, falling in love, gentrification, bullying as well as social worker-youth relationships.

  The book is ambitious in drawing in such a broad and important set of themes and issues, but they are made human, situated in relation to key characters. They are put in context and reflected on from the perspective of those at the receiving end. This is particularly the case in the aftermath of the killing of Mark Duggan, as Abu observes:

  “You can’t make a move without being wrong. I can’t even walk along the street without someone following me around because I look like a terrorist in the making. No one gave a shit about that guy in Tottenham. The one the police shot. No one cared. Now they are all upset because someone is burning a bin somewhere.”

  The discovery of the existence of Karl’s father, Adebanjo in Nigeria and Karl’s drive to find him threatens to uproot the two friends’ universes. It pulls not just at their relationship but all the other characters around them. It is from here that the story really begins to spiral out and develop in its complexity.

  The reader is taken on a journey that is as twisting and turning for them as it is for Karl, as he seeks to make sense of the years he has lost, why his mother Rebecca had kept his father secret for years as well as now questioning his sense of identity and belonging.

  With the two central characters separated, Popoola has ample room to play with the storyline, allowing Karl and Abu’s characters to develop their own space, while giving the opportunity to explore the interplay between two different worlds – what it means to be young in Port Harcourt, Nigeria and Kings Cross, London.

  Popoola explores Karl’s character fantastically. At times, we are drawn in so close, feeling his emotions through the twists and turns of his story – the excitement of finally meeting his father, the disappointment when he’s a no-show at the airport and the rush of everyone wanting to tell him and show him everything about Nigeria. At other times, we feel as distant from him as those around him – unaware of where he’s really at and what his eventual plans are as he gets lost in his new world.

  Through a cast of new characters who seek to befriend and show him around, we meet activists working to spread the truth about the inequality, severe health impacts and environmental damage of the country’s oil extraction. Nakale who uses his university’s lab to analyze soil samples tells Karl:

  “They neva tell us how much de danger, what it go do for us. For our health… This money, the oil money, it has made our country. But de people here, who are suffering because of it, we have not enjoyed. We have not seen our share.”

  It is while in Nigeria that Popoola introduces Karl as trans. While other readers may have picked up on his identity (and inevitably others will read and experience the characters differently) I personally hadn’t until then.

  While Karl’s story is intersectional – he is trans, but also young, black and poor – I feel more space could have been given over to explore his trans experience, for example his coming out to his close friend Abu or his mum Rebecca and some of the challenges he has faced.

  Despite this, the choice of Nigeria as the site where this part of Karl’s story is explored makes sense as it is now something hidden or unknown to those around him, rather than a given. Popoola is sensitive in exploring Karl’s struggle over when, what and how to tell the new people he encounters, whether they know and what will happen when they do.

  In a relatively short space of time, When We Speak of Nothing covers a great deal of ground. It offers a politically potent reflection on growing up as a young person of color in London, gentrification, borders and boundaries, global and local inequalities and more.

  Much like Popoola’s work in breach did with the refugee crisis and the realities of living in (or passing through) Calais, When We Speak of Nothing keeps big issues rooted, focusing always at the level of the human. They are made legible and knowable as the characters in the book work through and live in spite of them. At its core it is a story of friendship, love and belonging on the verge of ‘adulthood’ but as you delve deeper, it offers a great deal more.

  When We Speak of Nothing is published by Cassava Republic on Monday 3rd July

  Olumide Popoola’s Biography can be found here

  Image: Rob Schofield

• Brittle Paper
  https://brittlepaper.com/2017/08/book-feature-speak-olumide-popoola/
  Word count: 780

  QUOTED: "When We Speak of Nothing is ... simply a beautiful read. The story is built on multiple threads of suspense. The brisk, airy, and youthful language of the novel gives the reader the feeling of having encountered something truly new. But what glues the reader to the page is the lives of two teenagers set adrift against currents of history that threaten to overpower and silence them."

  Features, Reviews 2017/08/14
  Olumide Popoola’s When We Speak of Nothing is an Ode to Queer Black Life

  Olumide Popoola recently joined Cassava Republic‘s impressive list of writers. This places her in fine company—with the likes of Sarah L. Manyika, Abubakar Adam Ibrahim, Nnedi Okorafor, Elnathan John, and Yemisi Aribisala.

  On July 3, Cassava Republic published her debut novel, When We Speak of Nothing. Popoola, a London-based Nigerian-German writer, presents a story that mirrors her own multi-cultural experience as a person with multiple ancestry and cultural contexts. The novel tells the story of Karl and Abu, two 17 year old boys and the series of events that sends Karl to far away Port Harcourt in a bid to escape the lure of violence in his estate community while entangling Abu in the web of violence that engulfs the city of London after the shooting of Mark Duggan in 2011.

  Here is the synposis:

  Best mates Karl and Abu are both 17 and live near Kings Cross. Its 2011 and racial tensions are set to explode across London. Abu is infatuated with gorgeous classmate Nalini but dares not speak to her. Meanwhile, Karl is the target of the local “wannabe” thugs just for being different. When Karl finds out his father lives in Nigeria, he decides that Port Harcourt is the best place to escape the sound and fury of London, and connect with a Dad he’s never known. Rejected on arrival, Karl befriends Nakale, an activist who wants to expose the ecocide in the Niger Delta to the world, and falls headlong for his feisty cousin Janoma. Meanwhile, the murder of Mark Duggan triggers a full-scale riot in London. Abu finds himself in its midst, leading to a near-tragedy that forces Karl to race back home.When We Speak of Nothing launches a powerful new voice onto the literary stage.The fluid prose, peppered with contemporary slang, captures what it means to be young, black and queer in London. If grime music were a novel, it would be this.

  In this urban coming of age story, Popoola places the question of difference at the heart of storytelling. When We Speak of Nothing weaves a powerful story around the angst of youth butting against the vulnerability of queerness and racial difference. It is a novel that gives us the personal, private dimension of what it means to be young, black, and queer. But it also reminds us that the private and subjective aspects of life is always being shaped, hemmed in, and threatened by something outside and far bigger than the individual.

  There is so much that is fascinating about the book. For example, the novel is framed by a prologue featuring Esu the Yoruba deity, who is known for being a trickster and the guardian of crossroads. In many ways, the form of the novel— its multi-layered narrative universe and its investment in the intersections of race, queerness, and transgendered life—speak to the hybridity and dynamism attributed to Esu. We love this idea of rooting the logic of storytelling on an African cosmological element. It is innovative and worthy of note.

  When We Speak of Nothing is also simply a beautiful read. The story is built on multiple threads of suspense. The brisk, airy, and youthful language of the novel gives the reader the feeling of having encountered something truly new. But what glues the reader to the page is the lives of two teenagers set adrift against currents of history that threaten to overpower and silence them.

  Kudos to Popoola for writing such brilliant and essential work of fiction. Her investment in queer experience places When We Speak of Nothing within a growing body of work, which includes Chinelo Okparanta’s Under the Udala Tree and Diriye Osman’s Fairytale for Lost Children—work that bear witness to the growing diversity of African fiction through the documentation queer black/African lives.

  You can begin reading When We Speak of Nothing by clicking HERE.

  **********

  To stay up to date with Popoola and her work:

  Follower her on twitter: @msolumide

  Visit her website: olumidepopoola.com

• The Book Banque
  https://www.thebookbanque.com/literary/review/speakofnothing-popoola
  Word count: 2132

  Beyond The Silence: Olumide Popoola's When We Speak Of Nothing
  Reviews
  BY NIKI

  This copy of When We Speak Of Nothing was kindly sent by Cassava Republic, in exchange for an honest review. All thoughts expressed in this review are that of the writer.
  Image: Niki for The Book Banque.

  Image: Niki for The Book Banque.

  T

  o be young, a person of colour and in search of a concrete identity are major concerns of Olumide Popoola’s debut novel - When We Speak of Nothing. Set in a council estatea in the borough of Kings Cross in central London and simultaneously in the oil rich city of Port Harcourt, this novel is a story about two boys - best friends discovering that there is a distinct difference between having an individual voice and, making oneself heard.

  A novel inspired by research into the Yoruba god, Esu, the characters repeatedly encounter crossroads; highlighting that, in life, nothing is linear. The most marked ways the reader encounters this is in the discussions about the 2011 London riots; an unavoidable discourse given that the events of the novel coincide with the riots. The reader also learns this through Karl’s sojourn to Nigeria - in search of his long-lost father - and inferences to sexual and gender identity.

  On reading Elle Magazine’s review saying: it “captures what it means to be young, black and queer in London”, I assumed it would deeply explore LGBTQ issues from a black person’s perspective. I, however, discovered - upon reading it - that sexual identity, though important, was secondary to the actual story being told. Instead, When We Speak of Nothing focuses on the complexities of life and marginalised identity outside of sexual and gender identity.
  SOMEWHERE BETWEEN ‘BRUV’ AND BROTHER

  Abubakar (Abu) and Karl, growing up in a council estate, are in the heart of a working class community. As such, their speech is peppered with ‘slang’ reflective of London’s inner city youth and working class communities - both of which have always had a separate language from the ruling class. This language, or vernacular, has a performative aspect which makes Olumide Popoola’s writing style unconventional.

  It, however, took till near mid-read to get really comfortable with the book and warm up to the characters; despite having grown up on the outskirts of London, and being familiar with the lingo used by the protagonists and their friends. This could be down to personal disassociation with their voices or the fact that there is just a strong difference in how language is received when it is spoken, as opposed to when written.

  Thus, audiences wholly unfamiliar with inner city London dialects may find this form of ‘insider’ communication - though it somewhat enriches the novel - difficult to translate. This play on language and the unique writing style was, however, a risk Popoola was willing to take with When We Speak Of Nothing; owing to the need to capture a specific voice. The language, distinctly London, encapsulates the world of the characters, doing justice to their realities.
  FRIENDS ARE THE FAMILY YOU CHOOSE

  Another captivating factor is the friendship between the protagonists - Abu and Karl - who are introduced to the reader as being “like twins.” From the moment the reader encounters the boys till the end of the novel, there is a sweetness to this relationship. This may be because friendship between boys, especially teenage boys, is often not presented, in literature, with the tenderness that the author gives in fleshing out Karl and Abu’s relationship.

  Popoola reiterates the tenders parts of this friendship by spotlighting the familial bonds the boys have been able to develop. By informing the reader that Abu’s “mother, and later the dad, accepted Karl as the brother from another mother”, the reader is made aware of all the ways that their friendship has been legitimised. That the father is complicit in accepting Karl to familial status shows just how much time Karl spends with Abu’s family.

  Karl’s “more, in[s] than out[s]” of Abu’s flat, is later understood when the reader learns of his mother’s ailment, which leaves him in the care of a very on-hand social worker - Godfrey. His father, on the other hand, is unknown to him, as his mother never revealed his father’s identity to him. Despite the closeness that follows the two boys, the routine to their relationship is prominent.

  For Abu, silence covers up the things that hurt whilst Karl favours speaking to mask the pain. These dynamics are exemplified when Karl takes the trip to Port Harcourt, Nigeria in the search of his father, without confronting or informing his mother. On arriving the Niger Delta, Karl encounters complexities, which compounded by his youthfulness and lack of experience facing difficult conversation, causes him to play conversation-coward. This, coupled with Abu’s brooding silence, leads to a communication breakdown that impacts the fluidity of their relationship.

  As a metaphor for both silence and fuller conversation, the novel’s title When We Speak of Nothing encapsulates the positions both boys take to avoid dealing with weighty issues. The boys, through Blackberry Messages (BBM) and patchy international calls from make-shift phone booths, nonetheless, try to navigate the emotionally trying time in their relationship. Watching (or reading) this unfold, one is, quickly reminded that technology, in its wonder, is still unable to answer to the complexities of humanity.
  NAVIGATING THE OIL CAPITAL

  The Niger Delta proves a pivotal place in terms of personal development for Karl. It is also where Popoola chooses to make a statement about LGBTQ identities and societal relationships to them. Given the misconception - aided by the criminalisation of LGBTQ identity by Nigerian government- that Nigeria as a whole condemns these identities, this is an interesting space to explore this theme. It shows that there is a level of acceptance of identity, both gender and sexual, in Nigeria. This also highlights the fact that in any given space, there will always be people who are unconditional in their love.

  During his time in Nigeria, Karl works through the core issues experienced with his father and mother. By discovering the truth of his Nigerian heritage, Karl is able to cement his black identity. His journey of self-discovery is, however, met with familial conflicts which work to his advantage and allows him spend most of his time exploring his native land, accompanied by Nakale and a host of other Ogoni activists.

  Karl, aided by his father’s driver - John - and public transport, is shown to navigate the streets of Port Harcourt. When considered vis a vis my personal experience navigating Lagos with a foreign accent, a level of scepticism regarding the absence of (communication) barriers. Taking into account, also, the high level of insecurity and kidnapping of foreign workers, the freedom with which Karl navigates the region is somewhat less believable.

  Admittedly, Karl does encounter local thugs who ironically see his possession of a foreign accent as proof of his wealth. This moment is, however, written in an almost throwaway manner that implies his safety is in no way at stake. Perhaps, considering gender dynamics, and comparing the experiences I have had with my freedom of movement in Nigeria against that of my brother, Karl’s freedom of navigation may be more believable.

  The payout of this freedom of movement, nonetheless, is that it allows for the reader to have a peek at the detrimental effects the oil industry has on the ecology and health of the Niger Delta people. For Karl, this experience allows him to see the world as bigger than the block on which he grew up. It also provides a distraction from the familial conflicts on ground, and draws a learning curve much different from anything offered at college - from which he took leave of absence to make this trip.
  KISMET: EXHUMED HISTORIES MEET MODERN MOB RESISTANCE

  In making the decision to skip the last few weeks of college for Nigeria, Karl misses a series of lessons regarding Britain and the slave trade - a topic that ignites a fire in Abu. The timing of these lessons coincide with the beginnings of what will come to be known as the 2011 London riots: inspired initially by the murder of Mark Duggan by London police, and amplified by the spread of crippling recession.

  The discovery of Mary Prince’s story, and how close to home it is, has Abu questioning his education. It also gives him a reason to connect with his long-time crush - Nalini. This representation of young love in inner-city London, which blossoms from intellectual discourse, is a unique take in literature. Popoola creates well-rounded characters that are more than hormonal teenagers grasping for hidden sexual encounters away from the prying eyes of parents. This relationship is wholesome, as we see the two challenge one another, particularly when it comes to the London riots.

  Through this relationship, Popoola presents multiple views about the London riots that contradict the single narrative presented in the media. Abu and Nalini, ironically, engage in nuanced - though sometimes flawed discourse - about the pros and cons of engaging in the London riots. The reader sees, for example, a discourse weighing the anger of those incited by the racial factor of Mark Duggan’s murder, against the immorality of opportunists that caused property damage on undeserving small business owners. Without taking a stance on the riots, Popoola encourages the reader to look at the event from multiple angles.

  WHAT HAPPENS AFTER

  Post-riot incidents force conversations that are pushed aside for a huge chunk of the novel. These events also bring the worlds of London and Nigeria together as Abu encounters a tragedy that compels Karl to return. This point in their relationship signifies a turn in tables: in which Karl, who previously had a monopoly on any physical support the boys deigned to express towards one another, is now on the other end. Abu’s tragedy is the beginning of emotional growth in Karl.

  For the most part of When We Speak About Nothing, there is a tidiness to the narrative that I generally detest in literature. This tidiness is, however, relegated to the affairs of now, rather than an encapsulation of the future. The novel, till the end, is grounded in reality rather than the fairy tale of “happily ever after.” The constant conversation on the sustenance of healthy relationships is iterated throughout the novel.

  So also, Popoola's portrayal of Esu and his relationship to crossroads is maintained till the end. The author shows - through her characters - that the sum of our lives is dependent on the choices made. By having both boys uncover monumental human rights issues at the same time but on different continents, Popoola highlights how no one issue is empirically greater than another. When We Speak of Nothing is indeed a well written narrative that refreshingly explores - with a respect for depth - friendship, masculinity, race and socio-economic issues that span London and Port Harcourt.

  When We Speak Of Nothing is available to purchase online here. Alternatively, purchase or rent a copy from us in Nigeria here. Watch Olumide Popoola speak about the novel here.

  Notes

  a A socio-political answer to the disparity between the cost of living and the reality of wages in the UK, council estates are a multi-national, multi-ethnic collection of apartments. Its residents are working class individuals likely to be living paycheck to paycheck, or on subsidiaries from the government.

  Council estates were initially integrated into middle and upper class neighbourhoods as a means - mainly - of ensuring equal educational opportunities. However, the rise in gentrification has led council estates to thrive in predominantly working-class areas. The contrast between the realities of council estate life and the commercial developments in the Kings Cross area allows for the novel to also be a discussion about gentrification and racism in London.
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• The Writes of Women
  https://thewritesofwoman.com/2017/08/23/when-we-speak-of-nothing-olumide-popoola/
  Word count: 760

  When We Speak of Nothing – Olumide Popoola
  Posted on August 23, 2017 by thewritesofwoman@gmail.com

  The what to do and when to place it. The how to undress and how much to leave underneath. The give someone all that could hurt oneself. Or them. And then stand still. Just stand.

  Karl is Abu’s ‘brother from another mother’. The pair are seventeen years old, studying for A Levels and living with their families in the King’s Cross area of London. The novel opens with them walking home from school.

  Then, out of nowhere, three wannabe guys they knew from sixth form jumping them, right at the corner to Leigh Street. Like real jump. Two of them at Abu calling him Abu-ka-ha-ba-ha-ha-ha-r-pussy and other things that shouldn’t be said in front of anyone, twisting his arm back in its socket like they just got their GCSEs in bullying.

  It was crunching. Abu whined.

  Being beaten up is a regular occurrence for their pair. The reason for this is revealed as the story unfolds: Karl is transgender and some of his classmates take this as a reason to be abusive towards him and Abu.

  And Karl would be all, ‘You know you can just tell them you ain’t gay and be done with it. It’s just me this is for anyway.’ And Abu would be, ‘For real? Bruv, do I look like I have a problem with gay or anything? They know we ain’t gay. I’m not even going to go there. When have I ever let you down? Tell me? Do I really look like I will talk to some pisshead? Got better things to do with my time, mate. If you want to preach again find yourself someone who doesn’t know how to act. Ain’t me.’

  Part of what makes this book great is the level of acceptance for Karl from Abu, Abu’s family and Karl’s mum. This isn’t a story about someone transitioning, it’s a coming of age tale of a teenager trying to find their place in the world.

  The narrative’s driven by Karl’s lack of contact with his father whom he’s never met. While his mother, who has Multiple Sclerosis, is in hospital, Karl opens a letter from his Uncle Tunde. In it, he tells Karl’s mum, Rebecca, that Karl’s father is ill and now knows of Karl’s existence. He wishes to see Karl. With some manoeuvring that involves Karl, his guardian, Godfrey, and Abu’s family lying to Rebecca, Karl flies to Port Harcourt to meet his father. Things don’t go as expected though: Karl’s father is mysteriously absent and Karl begins to fall in love with a young woman he meets. Back in London, violence is escalating, not only against Abu but across the city following the killing of Mark Duggan.

  The novel could’ve been weighed down by the issues it covers. The story meets at the intersections of race, class and gender and considers what it’s like to be a transgender teenager in two different communities; how single parents with health issues cope, and why people respond to a range of situations with violence. However, Popoola’s management of these areas is skilful: she refuses to offer any easy solutions – much of the novel operates in the grey areas of life; there is a clear story about two teenagers negotiating their entry into adulthood, and her use of language is thoughtful and aids in making these characters convincing. She interweaves the vocabulary and speech rhythms of London and Port Harcourt. It isn’t simply a matter of throwing in some dialect or imitating an accent, the grammatical structures echo the spoken word.

  When We Speak of Nothing offers a view of teenagers, and of London, rarely seen in literature. It is a tale of friendship, of acceptance, of deciding what’s worth fighting for.

  I spoke to Olumide Popoola about writing teenagers, creating a transgender protagonist and playing with language.

  Jendella’s playlist is here.

  When We Speak of Nothing on Amazon and Waterstones.

  My review of The Book of Memory by Petina Gappah. The Book of Memory on Amazon and Waterstones.

  Thanks to Olumide Popoola and Cassava Republic for the interview and for the review copy of the novel.

• Mail & Guardian
  https://mg.co.za/article/2018-01-19-00-when-we-speak-of-london
  Word count: 1227

  QUOTED: "Hers is a triumph of the incorporeal joys of writing. The simultaneous habitation and juxtaposition of worlds. The complex, sensorial world of sensuality. And the crafty ability to make a text both complex and accessible."

  When we speak of London

  Kwanele Sosibo 19 Jan 2018 00:00
  When we Speak of Nothing by Olumide Popoola

  When we Speak of Nothing by Olumide Popoola

  London town is an almost mythical city. Full of colliding worlds. Diasporic to the core. Ancestry in progress, to borrow shamelessly from Marie Daulne. And yet, it’s not easy going for generations who have flocked to it in search of a better life. In the immortal words of Linton Kwesi Johnson, Inglan is (still) a bitch.

  Last year, on June 16, penniless in my hometown of Durban, I had no friend but a hotel room and Sky News for viewing. As I sat there consumed by the horror of the Grenfell Tower fire, watching the people of West London cuss out Prime Minister Theresa May and callous developers, I turned to the only soul I know from the Big Smoke. A homeboy, from Durban just like myself, he broke it down to London’s history of building vertical ghettos.

  “The area never used to be so affluent but gentrification hit about 10 years ago. Looks like the building was an eyesore for affluent residents, keeping the house prices in check. So the council refurbished the towers with cheap flammable materials.”

  It’s a typical story in London, I’m told, lives falling through the cracks of gentrification. The Grenfell Tower tragedy unfolded in the midst of a grime resurgence that saw the city’s police clamp down on this genre, which has so deftly captured the circumstances of London’s African diaspora, resulting in the repressive, racist 969 laws, which pre-emptively choked the prospects of young artists trying to earn a living in the city’s nightlife. (The law was scrapped late last year.)

  In the aftermath of the Grenfell Tower fire, I would keep running into Lady Skollie’s painting titled Jump: Escape from the Tower, a work that emanated from her dreams after having spent a few weeks in London. For the artist, a dream of jumping off a tower represents renewal. What I couldn’t get over was that she had completed the work a few days before that vertical inferno occurred, causing more than 70 deaths.

  [Intense: Lady Skollie’s ‘Jump: Escape From the Tower’ was finished just days before London’s Grenfell Tower went up in flames. Her tower painting was about renewal; the Grenfell tragedy left more than 70 people dead]

  I can’t remember the sequence, except to say that it was at about this time that I was given a soft copy of Olumide Popoola’s debut novel When We Speak of Nothing. A PDF copy, the book took me longer than usual to plough through, resulting in me missing several prearranged opportunities to interview her.

  The world I speak of earlier is conjured directly and indirectly in the lives of principal characters Karl and Abu. Their lives, already eventful enough, are lived under the spectre of the reconstruction of King’s Cross, a major London transport junction, and the 2011 Tottenham riots.

  Key to the novel’s impetus is how Popoola chooses to convey this sense of estrangement. While she orientates us within the physical environs of her story, we actually inhabit the story through the emotions and thoughts of the protagonists.

  When Abu, adrift and not quite gelling with a new crew of friends, decides to head to fiery Tottenham anyway, Popoola problematises the image of disenchanted youth by offering us a snapshot of Abu’s mind as he descends the bus.

  “Abu grabbed the railing. He was angry with the country but it didn’t boil the same way other things did. His neighbourhood. The wannabes who thought they could make his and Karl’s life shit as if they weren’t as left out from the regeneration. As if there was some shiny future dangling in front of them they could reach for. As if they were not all going to be left behind, pushed out eventually, out of the area, out of opportunities.”

  As London burns, Abu wants in because inside he is an inferno too.

  Beyond grand societal issues, there are the dynamics of family and sexuality that the two friends are navigating, hence the reference to “wannabes” who terrorise Abu and Karl on their way to and from school, in particular because Karl is a transgender youth who is seen as a soft target in the face of their pubescent angst.

  When Karl visits Nigeria for the first time to meet a father he has never met, he leaves Abu, his ace and protector, to wade through this freefall on his own, putting a strain on their friendship.

  The counterpoint of London and Nigeria, on which this novel hinges, creates a powerful foundation from which to explore the experiences of diaspora and hybridity.

  Although Popoola’s prose is urbane, up to the time and steeped in the context of grime culture, the writing itself is neither flashy nor grandiose.

  Popoola explores dialect and slang with the purposefulness of a linguist, sometimes earnest in these explorations, sometimes playful, but always with the intention of dissecting the multiplicity of a supposedly marginal existence.

  Throughout the book, she uses dictionary-style definitions of words as a device to ground us, perhaps metaphysically, in an experience or theme. For example, as Karl — usually the recipient of curious stares —finds love in Port Harcourt, we learn that the definition of “hotness” is simply “intense”.

  Although this speaks to human desire and how it courses through the body, Popoola seems to be describing, in shorthand, the temperature and the overarching feel of Port Harcourt. These quirky turns of phrase are quite numerous in the novel and indicative of the interesting games Popoola plays with her positions as author and narrator.

  In these dual roles she is neither static nor neutral. She inhabits the milieu of her characters but is able to zoom out effortlessly, stretching her audience. As a storyteller, Popoola is unburdened by the pressures of descriptiveness, often conjuring how spaces feel rather than premising the need to be architecturally precise. She spins deliberate, playful yarns that sometimes do not deliver consistent intensity.

  Although the story resolves itself emotively in the final chapters, reading Popoola’s novel is a reward beyond the joys of narrative arc. Hers is a triumph of the incorporeal joys of writing. The simultaneous habitation and juxtaposition of worlds. The complex, sensorial world of sensuality. And the crafty ability to make a text both complex and accessible.
  Kwanele Sosibo
  Kwanele Sosibo

  Kwanele Sosibo studied journalism at Durban's ML Sultan Technikon before working at Independent Newspapers from 2000 to 2003. In 2005, he joined the Mail & Guardian's internship programme and later worked as a reporter at the paper between 2006 and 2008, before working as a researcher. He was the inaugural Eugene Saldanha Fellow in 2011. Read more from Kwanele Sosibo

• National Daily NewsPaper
  http://nationaldailyng.com/when-we-speak-of-nothing-olumide-popoolas-debut-novel/
  Word count: 362

  QUOTED: "When We Speak of Nothing is a gripping, well-told story that shows the intricacies of friendship, acceptance and dealing with gender identity and difference."

  When We Speak of Nothing’, Olumide Popoola’s debut novel
  By Admin -
  October 6, 2017
  0
  720

  ‘When We Speak of Nothing‘, a novel by London-based Nigerian-German author, Olumide Popoola and published by Cassava Republic Press, is now available for purchase in Nigeria after the book’s massive success in Europe.

  With its initial release in London in July 2017, the novel was described by Elle Magazine as a “smart novel with electric prose that tells us what it means to be young, black and queer in London,” while award-winning British novelist, Diana Evans, writing for the Financial Times, noted that ‘When We Speak of Nothing’ is “a satisfying and perceptive examination of the emergence of the whole person against the odds posed by a constricting society.”

  Peppered with modern slang, Popoola’s debut novel is a fast-paced narrative, that takes a deep look into the lives of the book’s lead characters in Port Harcourt and London, examining their struggles, identity and experiences as they navigate through their lives while pointing out social issues such as the Niger Delta ecocide and racial tensions in London.

  ALSO SEE: Much ado about FGN bond, Sukuk

  It follows the lives of best friends, Karl and Abu, two black London-born seventeen-year old boys who are navigating through the last years of their teen, discovering and learning about themselves and the world around them. Although the book’s entire length takes place within a short period of time, it however, offers readers a critical look into the individual lives of the boys as they both find their paths in different locations while still trying to maintain a friendship that is fast unraveling.

  When We Speak of Nothing is a gripping, well-told story that shows the intricacies of friendship, acceptance and dealing with gender identity and difference, including the dilemmas faced by teenagers on the brink of adulthood. It is by all standards, a beautiful story.

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