Naledi is a woman unravelling slowly, painfully, purposefully. Once full of promise, her life has shrunk into the claustrophobic walls of a home that no longer feels safe, with a husband whose love has curdled into something dark and dangerous. Between Instagrammable scones, lockdown picnics and a nursery that remains heartbreakingly empty, Naledi wages a quiet war against erasure of her name, her dreams, her body and her sanity.
Aunty, the quiet force in the shadows of Naledi’s crumbling marriage, carries her own scars. A Zimbabwean domestic worker with a fierce devotion to the children she left behind, Aunty watches, waits and bears witness. Between the two women, a fragile sisterhood grows – tender, complicated and not without its betrayals.
Told in alternating voices, Bosadi is a devastating exploration of gender, grief, immigration, violence and the impossible expectations that swallow Black women whole.
From the writing style to the unnecessary gaps in between chapters to the characters to the errors in the text, I genuinely can’t think of one nice thing to say about this book. I hated it and every character in it. There was about one sensible person in the whole book and even they met an untimely demise that felt so random.
I had so much hope with that first sentence in the book but it just kept going downhill the more I read. The ending left me yearning for more and felt abrupt, I was so confused when I turned the page and there was nothing but acknowledgments.
With the main theme being gender-based violence, a subject matter that is a very real issue especially in the South African context, I see what the book was trying to do but it did not work for me personally.
Bosadi is not a book you simply read, it’s a book you survive. Dr. Kopano Matlwa, already renowned for her unflinching social commentary in Coconut and Period Pain, turns her gaze inward, away from the grand failures of institutions and into the intimate, suffocating spaces where violence festers: the home, the family, the body.
Bosadi is a duet of pain and endurance. Naledi, the protagonist, is a woman whose marriage has become a slow, daily erasure. Her voice is interwoven with that of Aunty, a Zimbabwean domestic worker whose own scars, etched by migration, loss, and invisibility, mirror and amplify Naledi’s suffering. Together, their stories expose the brutal choreography required to perform happiness in a world that demands Black women be both strong and silent.
Bosadi is relentless in its honesty. The novel refuses the comfort of euphemism. Infertility is not just a subplot; it is a wound that throbs beneath every interaction, every expectation, every whispered prayer for a child. Family, far from being a sanctuary, becomes an accomplice, insisting on perseverance (kgotlelela) even as it turns a blind eye to Naledi’s unraveling.
Matlwa’s language is precise, almost surgical. She carves open the myth of the “Instagrammable” life, revealing the rot beneath the surface. The title itself, Bosadi, signals a refusal: a refusal to let English flatten the complexity of Black womanhood, a refusal to let suffering remain invisible.
Bosadi is a reckoning. It demands that we see the violence that is woven into the fabric of everyday life, that we acknowledge the invisible labour and pain of women like Naledi and Aunty. It is also a meditation on migration and xenophobia, tracing the ways in which borders and bodies are policed, violated, and survived.
Bosadi is not an easy read, nor should it be. It is a necessary discomfort — a prayer, a warning, and, ultimately, a call to action. Matlwa does not offer easy answers, but she does offer witness. And sometimes, that is the most radical act of all.
I have been a fan of Matlwa's writing since Coconut but each book since gets short and shorter. Bosadi could be a great novel but it needs to be longer to develop the characters and storyline more. There's so much that could still be said and it just didn't have much of a punch because of its length. I'm hoping the next one will have more of that depth.
“You learn that in this life you cannot control all of the things, but those that you can, you must do your utmost best.”
This was such an easy read and with the flow is that type of a book that you finish in one sitting. The main theme around the book is gender based violence that is told through Naledi’s perspective and it was during Covid. It actually made me reflect that most people were actually going through a lot during the pandemic. Naledi’s husband was physical abusive towards her and what was so painful to watch was that she was the breadwinner cos he wasn’t working, he was pursuing business opportunities but he was not bringing any money. Besides the abuse she also suffered grief where she gave birth to a stillborn then later had a miscarriage that was caused by Lesedi’s physical abuse.
The in-laws in this situation were typical in-laws where Rakgadi was always on Lesedi’s side even though they could see that his actions towards Naledi were so wrong and cruel. The last straw was when they threw a baby shower of one of Lesedi’s mistress at her backyard without her knowledge as a slap in her face because she wanted to have children so bad. Her mother didn’t help in the situation because all the time she kept on blaming Naledi, on some ‘what did you do to your husband’ and dismissing what her daughter was confiding in her. With everything that was going on the person that was very supportive to Naledi was Aunty, her domestic worker from Zimbabwe, I loved even when they were discussing their madams with her friends she always shielded Naledi and didn’t want to air her dirty laundry out there. So overall this is a book that is a great conversation starter to unpack the societal issues that we deal with in this country.
Some of fave quotes: “She'd make you feel lazy, that woman, the way she worked. But I got it; her entire family depended on her. If God gave me children to work for, I bet I'd toil away for them too.”
Once again, I am absolutely undone by the super power of Kopano Matlwa's writing. This devastating story, told in two voices, is extraordinary, original, and made me a complete emotional mess. The two women, flawed though they may be, struggle to fully come to terms with the pervasive and grotesque effects of GBV, and yet both of them are powerful, interesting and should not have to deal with it. Unfortunately, Kopano's depiction of men is not a surprise to South African women. But the telling of the story is riveting, simple, detailed, domestic, and bigger than that too. This short book is a punch to the gut.
The characters felt very one dimension and under developed. Because of the length of the book she didn't give herself enough time to truly take us on a journey with these characters and show an actual arc (perhaps that was the point)
I also felt the ending was quite erupt and was waiting for more. Seeing the acknowledgment page when I turned the page prompted me looking into space for 10 minutes
Quick read. Packed with emotion. Very clear motive. I like the back and forth between the two narratives and perspectives. Though she could have done more to distinguish the two voices.
It felt like I was reading a Vignette of a story, I was so excited to hear that this book has is being released. Unfortunately, I wanted more of this story.
The book felt a bit rushed. No proper character development. It is easy to identify themes covered in the book but there is no stable storyline that illustrates these particular themes.