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291 pages, Kindle Edition
Published May 7, 2026
They teach you in AA that addiction is hereditary. That one way or another this insatiable yearning opens up within us and sobriety is learning to live with the reality it will never be filled. But I left the conversation with Mum feeling so angry. So enraged. The way Yarl’s Wood security walked me out of the visiting area. The smiles from the receptionist as I left. The normality. Acceptance that this place can exist. I hate it all. I hate the politeness of this country. I hate having a stiff upper lip and pretending these systems are acceptable. That we can’t all agree that removal centres should not exist, and are neither discussion worthy or vote dependent, but stand as lessons that humanity should never put in place again. Then there’s Mum and her f*** generation. Why is pain such a taboo? Why are we told stories but never allowed to ask details? Why is it so hard for her to admit for once in her life that she is suffering?
Listen, di number-one rule about being a West Indian in London? Promise everything. Have nothing.
It’s 1961 and thousands of people from the Caribbean, now known as the Windrush generation, are arriving in England, amid a government call to help rebuild post-war Britain. Among them is Lucinda Brown, only 19, traveling from Barbados searching for Clarence Braithwaite, the father of her three-year-old son, whom she has to leave behind on the island. Onboard the ship, Lucinda meets the charming Raldo, with whom she forges an indelible connection that she mostly refuses to acknowledge, choosing the troubled Clarence instead.
Five decades later, she receives a letter from the Home Office telling her there is no record of her arrival, that she’s in the UK illegally and will be detained and deported imminently. Her children do all they can to help (bar her politician son), but the government destroyed all the arrival documents several years earlier, putting thousands of West Indians who arrived legally, at risk. The only way to help her, is to go digging into her past.
‘Smallie’ (an informal West Indian term for someone from a small island) is a moving, gripping debut. I knew about the real-life Windrush scandal, but not nearly enough. This crucial book, which is said to be the first novel about this topic (has no one thought to write about this important subject in fiction before?!), has changed that. It is heart-wrenching to think what thousands of people, like Lucinda, have had to endure because of deliberate bureaucratic cruelty.
Eden McKenzie-Goddard’s use of language is fascinating: Lucinda spends her childhood looking through dictionaries and thesauruses, while her strict minister father, forces her to learn ‘correct’ English pronunciations. The author chooses words with care, plays with them – both English and Bajan – and has a rare, luminous turn of phrase that is unique (at least, to me) amid the vivid prose.
This is a story that is ultimately about identity and belonging, and comes at a crucial time, amid strong anti-immigration sentiment across the world, including the UK. Lucinda has no family or connections left in Barbados, yet that isn’t even taken into consideration during the deportation process, never mind that Lucinda has made economic contributions to the economy, such as paying taxes, for decades, or that she worked for the NHS.
It’s also a story about love and loss, about family – both found and blood – about deep friendships, the betrayals people will make and endure, thinking they are doing the right thing. I would perhaps have wanted a stronger ending, because the rest of the book is so powerful. That said, it is a memorable read that I’ll think about for a long time.
I highly recommend this novel if you want to understand more about the Windrush generation or simply want to understand the history of immigration in the UK a bit better.
Thanks to Penguin Viking and NetGalley for my eARC in exchange for an honest review.
Other notable quotes:
This has to be bullsh*t.
Unfortunately not …
I hold in my hands a newspaper clipping from the Daily Mail archive, a long shot of Mum wielding a baton, over a police officer.
The streets of London are filled with the phantom children of immigrants. When you see a mother without her child, recognise you are not seeing her. You are seeing limbs that do, eyes that see, and a mouth that says. But she is not there. She is wherever they are.
When you fall in love, your senses have purpose, you volunteer yourself to feelings.
A thing, is a thing, is a thing, I say. And Mum shares the same fate as people who are being removed from Britain … But you’re not worried about that. What your fear is simple. If Mum is considered illegal, then in the eyes of Britain, you will be too.
"...Acceptance that this palce can exist. I hate it all. I hate the politeness of this country. I hate having a stiff upper lip and pretending these systems are acceptable. that we can't all agree that removal centres should not exist, and are neither discussion-worthy nor vote-dependent, but stand as lessons that humanity should never put in place again."