This is a brilliant novel and I’m really offended on its behalf that it has less than 100 ratings here.
I came onboard due to its setting in St Pauls, Bristol, a neighbourhood I spent a lot of time in back in 2012. Doing my disgraceful bit for gentrification. St Paul’s is right smack up against central Bristol, and in the 20th century it was home to large numbers of immigrants from the Caribbean; an irony, because its terraced houses were originally built with money from the slave trade. The newcomers were treated with discrimination by police and this eventually culminated in a riot in 1980, which is when this book is set. I loved St Pauls, though I bet St Pauls didn’t love me.
The opening pages show a violent incident a few days before the streets erupted:
I was sure one and two fights would’ve flare up another time, specially with so many of Joyce woman and we Ras about, but not now, not with our common enemy in front of we. Anyone who met I eye did nod, them own eye full up of upset and rage, and I did nod right back. I fed off them feeding and in turn them did feed of I-man.
The whole book is written in this style, a Caribbean patois that, I won’t lie, took me a bit of doing to break into. This isn’t just due to the language, but because we are introduced to the Rastafari movement, which I was vague about before, but which is the cultural background of the protagonist Jabari. His father, Ras Levi, is a major proponent of the Back-to-Africa movement. He’s evangelizing to the community that they should move to Ethiopia. But the community is by no means a monolith, and one of the strands of the novel is Rastafari’s complicated relationship with feminism, and Jabari’s wish to make his father proud, even as he is drawn to the women’s community centre and his friends there.
There is a lot going on here. Jabari’s relationship with his father, and what it means to love and honour a father who is dedicated to a cause as much or more as he is dedicated to you. The way society is organized in neglected and oppressed neighbourhoods—how children are raised, and whether children should always stay with their parents or in their culture. How boys are siphoned away from their mothers at a young age to be raised by their fathers, and the hard lessons that can ensue: “how every black fada of a black yute had the same choice to make: either them could teach we how cruel a place the world was, or the world would, and the world was far harsher than they.”
One thing I particularly loved was the details of characterization. Here is Jabari’s love-rival Prince:
Him fancy himself as something of a sweet-boy. Him keep a whole box of toothpick in him pocket and one in him mouth—you could hear him pocket rattle when him jog up the school stairs.
And his boss:
I went to Mr Delbert at the newsagent inna the morning. The man was a trilby-wearing local icon, deep in him eighties, and him stay inna pinstripe suit. You could call on him at four o’clock in the morning and him would never answer the door till him had change into one of him double-breast.
Characterization is often entwined with social commentary:
I remember Miss Wilson use to have a full house on City Road, and she need it too: she had nine children before she reach forty—them call her husband Straight Shooter and them call her Oven…. I was forever glad that I was born into Rasta, that I wasn’t a Day-by-Day, but if the pigs could beat and lock up I papa, right in front of I, then really I was quite like Miss Wilson: helpless and watching a great fire raze I home.
I found this novel impressive and satisfying on so many levels. I loved Jabari’s voice: caustic and questioning. Often he listens to his elders—admittedly because they’re too deaf to keep their voices down in the park, even when they are talking about him and he’s right there. Jabari is yearning for the love of his father, but he has some serious questions about his father and the role of the patriarch in the community, in the world and before God. He’s a boy who has absorbed his lessons: don’t be a Day-by-day (person who takes it as it comes) and the collective has priority above the individual. But it’s hard living that way. I also loved that this novel was set over a couple of days, and that we often follow Jabari for long stretches in real-time.
I loved the depictions of St Pauls and the surrounding areas and the pointed depictions of police prejudice:
Then them went through the rest of the place: into the bathroom where them rip her towel rack from the wall, her bedroom where them raid her drawer and threw so many of Joyce clothes into the corridor that their falling sound like the flight of bird, and finally them went inna the kitchen they them did find two pack of beer and claim she was serving liquor without a licence.
By the time the riot comes around, I was ready to riot myself. But the book never loses its focus on Jabari, and by the time the riot does come around, he’s on a new path, with new troubles.
Moses McKenzie has just catapulted into my “must read anything by” category.