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Nudibranch
'Okojie is a dazzlingly wild, bold and imaginative writer who tells stories with captivating originality and intense drama' Bernardine Evaristo
Winner of the AKO Cain Prize
____________
In this stunning new collection of short stories from the award-winning author of Butterfly Fish, offbeat characters are caught up in extraordinary situations that test the boundaries of reality . . .
A love-hungry goddess of the sea arrives on an island inhabited by eunuchs.
A girl from Martinique moonlights as a Grace Jones impersonator.
Dimension-hopping monks sworn to silence must face a bloody reckoning.
And a homeless man goes right back, to the very beginning, through a gap in time.
Nudibranch is a dark and seductive foray into the surreal.
272 pages, Kindle Edition
First published November 7, 2019
41 people are currently reading
2139 people want to read
About the author
Irenosen Okojie
28 books123 followersIrenosen Okojie was born in Nigeria and moved to England aged eight. A freelance Arts Project Manager, she has previously worked at Apples & Snakes as the National Development Coordinator and for The Caine Prize as a Publicity Officer for their 10th Anniversary Tour. Her short stories have been published in the US, Africa and the UK. Her first novel, Butterfly Fish, was published by Jacaranda Books in July 2015.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 77 reviews
August 25, 2024
There’s speculative fiction. There’s weird fiction. And then there’s the fiction of Irenosen Okojie, where the term “weird” is taken not just to another level, but another dimension. The fifteen stories in “Nudibranch” are mostly (but not always) set in recognisable places: the streets of London and Berlin, a monastery (somewhere in England?), an international airport. Yet, what happens in them is so bizarre as to be almost incomprehensible. One story, for instance, features time-travelling monks carrying out bloody acts under the watchful eye of a team of saints. Another involves a woman who turns into liquorice.
These flights of fancy are certainly intriguing. However, getting through this collection was, admittedly, particularly difficult. Okojie not only presents the reader with surreal scenarios, but conveys them in a dense, metaphor-laden language which straddles the worlds of prose and poetry and makes the strangeness stranger. Whether one enjoys this depends, I suspect, not just on one’s taste but also on one’s mood at a given point in time. I must admit that there were times when I just couldn’t get into the stories. And there are some of the pieces which I just didn’t understand despite my best efforts. Recommended if you like your fiction different and challenging.
These flights of fancy are certainly intriguing. However, getting through this collection was, admittedly, particularly difficult. Okojie not only presents the reader with surreal scenarios, but conveys them in a dense, metaphor-laden language which straddles the worlds of prose and poetry and makes the strangeness stranger. Whether one enjoys this depends, I suspect, not just on one’s taste but also on one’s mood at a given point in time. I must admit that there were times when I just couldn’t get into the stories. And there are some of the pieces which I just didn’t understand despite my best efforts. Recommended if you like your fiction different and challenging.
July 10, 2024
The last monk told the tongue that holding a naked sheep’s head underwater would undo it all. (from 'Filamo')
I first encountered Irenosen Okojie's stories when the title story of this collection was featured in Best British Short Stories 2020 and then was drawn to read the whole collection both from the power of that story, and the conversation at the LRB the author had with my favourite author, the incomparable Isabel Waidner.
Ojokie's take on Waidner's brilliant Sterling Karat Gold, "a sublime, mesmerising feat blending the surreal and political. Waidner is a ferocious, uniquely gifted talent and the world feels all the better for it" could stand for her own work as well, albeit the politics is perhaps less explicit here.
In interviews Okojie has discussed the influence of her Nigerian and British heritage on her writing and, in particular, its own surreal nature:
This sense of "spaces where you never really fully comprehend what you’re experiencing but you’re compelled by it, you’re intrigued to keep wanting to know it" is very much what Okojie's writing achieves.
The prose alterates between the poetically surreal - the sort of writing that always brings to my mind Invalid Litter Dept by At The Drive In, and what seem relatively conventional stories, although the fantastical is never far away - and tongues recur frequently as a motif (often separated from their body).
From Cornutopia
I watched a light drizzle of snow falling for a few moments, steadying my breathing, hands on the window sill, in the spilled soil brushing the foreign growing sixth finger communicating silently with the hoof. I remembered that I used to have a recurring dream about ventriloquist dolls tumbling in the air through angles of snow, as though being baptised, the sly white tufts melting into their sinister expressions. And each time they landed, they searched for different things: pink tongues curled into the white, boomerangs they’d use for their next stretch of flight, damaged hearts, which were bombs ticking in the snow, waiting to explode at the feet of children threading between pavements, in the gazes of foxes at night, rummaging through overgrown shrubs, in the blind spots of bruised women wandering the city.
From Kookaburra Sweet, a story about a woman who literally turns into licorice (both surreal and also political, in terms of the objectification of black female bodies):
She switched on the light. The 60-watt bulb stuttered in anticipation as she rushed to the mirror, light flickering sporadically as though arguing with itself. Chest heaving, she stared at her reflection, her breath pale magician’s smoke. Sure enough she was not herself. Or she was herself but something different. Something skewed and accidental, something tainted with the margin particles of an incense-smelling man who could mimic the curves of a sidewinder. Her bathroom had become a circus balancing on two hinges, rocking unsteadily in the ether. She took tentative steps closer to the mirror. Sure enough she had transformed into liquorice, a black, sweet liquorice woman, a liquorice sweet black woman, bendy, stretchy, adaptable in harsh conditions, resplendent and irrepressible. Reconfigured heart oozing liquid midnight, necessary external jaggedness flung out like day traps, moist-turning tongue set anticlockwise to catch soft light, soft memory, soft landing.
From Daishuku, one of a number of stories with a south-London setting, both recognisable (the famous pink elephant) and yet otherwordly:
There’d been four occurrences of his body bending time backwards. Nobody would believe it but it had. Here. In this instance, he was fifty, fallen through the speckled void into London, languishing in one strip of intersecting subways pulsing like the city’s varicose veins. Here. Elephant and Castle. Night time. Homeless. A howl in competition with the roundabout’s traffic lights, the screeching of tyres, impatient bodies milling about. Daishuku prised his cold lids open as if to counter the ache in numbed fingers clutching a Styrofoam cup of tea he didn’t remember, of course he didn’t. He’d inherited the tea, the frost, the oil spillage on the steps leading in, the smell of chips in hastily coned paper, the patter of footsteps streaming to and fro, the looks of contempt, the swirl of coats hiding invisible pregnancies in thin linings, the occasional drop of coins threatening to scatter the murmurings of his head, like mosquito legs in the cold. He took a sip of the tea, shoulder-length stringy hair streaked with grey dipping forward. Mouth warmed, he gulped some more, a dark trail running into his beard. He set the cup down with a shaky hand, his knuckles red, the skin around it pale and thin, a cluster of tiny brown spots edging towards his fingers. He patted himself down slowly. He was clothed in rags; the scent of sweat mixed with beer lingered. He tasted beer in his throat, beneath the bland warmth of tea. Worn plimsolls on his feet were wrapped in white plastic bags. He considered the sum of his new beginning. Its parts separated in the dank subway. He considered the bleakness of it, crawling gently towards stained chip paper refashioned into greasy blueprints. He began to chant, ‘Daishuku.’ A name. A memory on his tongue. He poked coins in the silver bowl before him. A fleeting image appeared: the grotesque shopping mall’s pink elephant drinking oil from the subway steps before skidding on the ice, breaking its neck to interrupt the overwhelming feeling of loneliness.
Fascinating
I first encountered Irenosen Okojie's stories when the title story of this collection was featured in Best British Short Stories 2020 and then was drawn to read the whole collection both from the power of that story, and the conversation at the LRB the author had with my favourite author, the incomparable Isabel Waidner.
Ojokie's take on Waidner's brilliant Sterling Karat Gold, "a sublime, mesmerising feat blending the surreal and political. Waidner is a ferocious, uniquely gifted talent and the world feels all the better for it" could stand for her own work as well, albeit the politics is perhaps less explicit here.
In interviews Okojie has discussed the influence of her Nigerian and British heritage on her writing and, in particular, its own surreal nature:
I feel it’s in my writing DNA, by that I mean, I can trace it back to those stories I was told as a kid in Benin which were often fantastical so I carried that inside me. It adds other layers and dimensions to the work. It allows me to stretch the boundaries of form and language. I’m curious about in between spaces that appear indefinable, you know those spaces where you never really fully comprehend what you’re experiencing but you’re compelled by it, you’re intrigued to keep wanting to know it. It does that for me. If I’m curious and excited then that reflects in the writing.
This sense of "spaces where you never really fully comprehend what you’re experiencing but you’re compelled by it, you’re intrigued to keep wanting to know it" is very much what Okojie's writing achieves.
The prose alterates between the poetically surreal - the sort of writing that always brings to my mind Invalid Litter Dept by At The Drive In, and what seem relatively conventional stories, although the fantastical is never far away - and tongues recur frequently as a motif (often separated from their body).
From Cornutopia
I watched a light drizzle of snow falling for a few moments, steadying my breathing, hands on the window sill, in the spilled soil brushing the foreign growing sixth finger communicating silently with the hoof. I remembered that I used to have a recurring dream about ventriloquist dolls tumbling in the air through angles of snow, as though being baptised, the sly white tufts melting into their sinister expressions. And each time they landed, they searched for different things: pink tongues curled into the white, boomerangs they’d use for their next stretch of flight, damaged hearts, which were bombs ticking in the snow, waiting to explode at the feet of children threading between pavements, in the gazes of foxes at night, rummaging through overgrown shrubs, in the blind spots of bruised women wandering the city.
From Kookaburra Sweet, a story about a woman who literally turns into licorice (both surreal and also political, in terms of the objectification of black female bodies):
She switched on the light. The 60-watt bulb stuttered in anticipation as she rushed to the mirror, light flickering sporadically as though arguing with itself. Chest heaving, she stared at her reflection, her breath pale magician’s smoke. Sure enough she was not herself. Or she was herself but something different. Something skewed and accidental, something tainted with the margin particles of an incense-smelling man who could mimic the curves of a sidewinder. Her bathroom had become a circus balancing on two hinges, rocking unsteadily in the ether. She took tentative steps closer to the mirror. Sure enough she had transformed into liquorice, a black, sweet liquorice woman, a liquorice sweet black woman, bendy, stretchy, adaptable in harsh conditions, resplendent and irrepressible. Reconfigured heart oozing liquid midnight, necessary external jaggedness flung out like day traps, moist-turning tongue set anticlockwise to catch soft light, soft memory, soft landing.
From Daishuku, one of a number of stories with a south-London setting, both recognisable (the famous pink elephant) and yet otherwordly:
There’d been four occurrences of his body bending time backwards. Nobody would believe it but it had. Here. In this instance, he was fifty, fallen through the speckled void into London, languishing in one strip of intersecting subways pulsing like the city’s varicose veins. Here. Elephant and Castle. Night time. Homeless. A howl in competition with the roundabout’s traffic lights, the screeching of tyres, impatient bodies milling about. Daishuku prised his cold lids open as if to counter the ache in numbed fingers clutching a Styrofoam cup of tea he didn’t remember, of course he didn’t. He’d inherited the tea, the frost, the oil spillage on the steps leading in, the smell of chips in hastily coned paper, the patter of footsteps streaming to and fro, the looks of contempt, the swirl of coats hiding invisible pregnancies in thin linings, the occasional drop of coins threatening to scatter the murmurings of his head, like mosquito legs in the cold. He took a sip of the tea, shoulder-length stringy hair streaked with grey dipping forward. Mouth warmed, he gulped some more, a dark trail running into his beard. He set the cup down with a shaky hand, his knuckles red, the skin around it pale and thin, a cluster of tiny brown spots edging towards his fingers. He patted himself down slowly. He was clothed in rags; the scent of sweat mixed with beer lingered. He tasted beer in his throat, beneath the bland warmth of tea. Worn plimsolls on his feet were wrapped in white plastic bags. He considered the sum of his new beginning. Its parts separated in the dank subway. He considered the bleakness of it, crawling gently towards stained chip paper refashioned into greasy blueprints. He began to chant, ‘Daishuku.’ A name. A memory on his tongue. He poked coins in the silver bowl before him. A fleeting image appeared: the grotesque shopping mall’s pink elephant drinking oil from the subway steps before skidding on the ice, breaking its neck to interrupt the overwhelming feeling of loneliness.
Fascinating
August 9, 2020
If books were drugs, Nudibranch would surely be hallucinogenic. 'Wildly inventive' doesn't even begin to cover the kaleidoscopic strangeness of Irenosen Okojie's stories, in which concepts like 'logic' and 'reality' are not only dispensed with; they seem never to have existed in the first place. The first piece, 'Logarithm', is perhaps an indication of this, a cipher or a warning – it's a two-page list of sentences beginning 'Here is...', in which the relatively mundane (a river, a mirror, a yam) sit alongside the bizarre ('the reins for figures that become injuries', 'your fingerprints as hostages', 'the white lie fit for a vein').
The things Okojie does with language make me feel that the belief that I understand English may be nothing more than a long-standing illusion. Her sentences can be almost indecipherable, the sort of thing you have to read four or five times to tease out the meaning – '... the glint from the blade the kebab-shop owner used to carve scenes for three stillborn babies trapped in a revolving winter...' – or they can be immediately beautiful. In 'Mangata', the albino protagonist escapes a kidnapping and is 'an alabaster boy slipped from the world's pocket into the night's cruel playground.' In 'Cornutopia', the narrator narrowly survives a violent attack and feels 'the cold hand inside me hovering over my heartbeat... the night's traffic zipping past a tentacled tragedy.'
'Grace Jones', which recently won the AKO Caine Prize for African Writing, is an obvious standout: a vibrant story about a Grace Jones impersonator which gradually elucidates its protagonist's unbearably tragic past. Other favourites were the darkly funny 'Nudibranch', in which a shapeshifting goddess tries to form a relationship with a series of human men, but keeps eating them instead; 'Komza Bright Morning', the narrative of an incognito musician as he falls in love with a troubled trans woman in Berlin; 'Cornutopia', about a woman trying to rid herself of trauma by way of an unconventional treatment; and 'Zinzi from Boketto', set in 19th-century Prussia, where a dimension-hopping woman joins a circus troupe.
Really, though, almost every story left some sort of mark on me, had me rereading sentences and passages in the hope of understanding more. Indeed, it's the stories' very inscrutability that makes them effective and memorable. The nearest Nudibranch gets to 'straightforward' is 'Point and Trill', a horror story about a bickering couple going paintballing, and it's by far the weakest – the dialogue unconvincing, the plot twist predictable. Everything else is like an explosion of glitter: there's no way you can collect every piece, but it's dazzling.
TinyLetter | Linktree
The things Okojie does with language make me feel that the belief that I understand English may be nothing more than a long-standing illusion. Her sentences can be almost indecipherable, the sort of thing you have to read four or five times to tease out the meaning – '... the glint from the blade the kebab-shop owner used to carve scenes for three stillborn babies trapped in a revolving winter...' – or they can be immediately beautiful. In 'Mangata', the albino protagonist escapes a kidnapping and is 'an alabaster boy slipped from the world's pocket into the night's cruel playground.' In 'Cornutopia', the narrator narrowly survives a violent attack and feels 'the cold hand inside me hovering over my heartbeat... the night's traffic zipping past a tentacled tragedy.'
'Grace Jones', which recently won the AKO Caine Prize for African Writing, is an obvious standout: a vibrant story about a Grace Jones impersonator which gradually elucidates its protagonist's unbearably tragic past. Other favourites were the darkly funny 'Nudibranch', in which a shapeshifting goddess tries to form a relationship with a series of human men, but keeps eating them instead; 'Komza Bright Morning', the narrative of an incognito musician as he falls in love with a troubled trans woman in Berlin; 'Cornutopia', about a woman trying to rid herself of trauma by way of an unconventional treatment; and 'Zinzi from Boketto', set in 19th-century Prussia, where a dimension-hopping woman joins a circus troupe.
Really, though, almost every story left some sort of mark on me, had me rereading sentences and passages in the hope of understanding more. Indeed, it's the stories' very inscrutability that makes them effective and memorable. The nearest Nudibranch gets to 'straightforward' is 'Point and Trill', a horror story about a bickering couple going paintballing, and it's by far the weakest – the dialogue unconvincing, the plot twist predictable. Everything else is like an explosion of glitter: there's no way you can collect every piece, but it's dazzling.
TinyLetter | Linktree
Read
April 20, 2020DNF - Throwing in the towel on this one. Many of the stories are random and confusing to me.
November 27, 2019
(#gifted @dialoguebooks) It took me a while to write this review, and although I wrote down my thoughts on every story as I read this book, going back to them wasn’t exactly helpful. I had written things like ‘paint-balling gone wrong’, ‘woman transforms into liquorice’, and ‘time-travelling, gender-morphing, procoptodon-transforming monks’... all of which, to be honest, can give you an accurate idea of what to expect when you go into Nudibranch - the unexpected.
.
I think I prefer fantasy over magical realism because there’s generally an explanation, and just because of the type of person I am, I crave that explanation of WHY. Magical realism, a woman turns into liquorice and you’re just expected to go with it. But there WAS an underlying theme to a lot of the stories: transformation. Okojie is fascinated with the idea of transformation, whether it’s humans into inanimate objects, goddesses, killers, or just taking refuge in alternate personalities or lifestyles.
.
I tried to just let myself go with the flow (trying not to sound like a grandma here) and yet my favourite story (Cornutopia) was initially firmly rooted in a gritty reality from which the bizarre took hold... and I can work with that! If there’s some kernel of reality there, a reason for the madness, then I feel on much more solid ground.
.
There is a fierce imagination at work here, and while a few of the stories were too bizarre for me, if you’re a fan of the weird and wonderful then Okojie is a voice to keep your eye on!
.
I think I prefer fantasy over magical realism because there’s generally an explanation, and just because of the type of person I am, I crave that explanation of WHY. Magical realism, a woman turns into liquorice and you’re just expected to go with it. But there WAS an underlying theme to a lot of the stories: transformation. Okojie is fascinated with the idea of transformation, whether it’s humans into inanimate objects, goddesses, killers, or just taking refuge in alternate personalities or lifestyles.
.
I tried to just let myself go with the flow (trying not to sound like a grandma here) and yet my favourite story (Cornutopia) was initially firmly rooted in a gritty reality from which the bizarre took hold... and I can work with that! If there’s some kernel of reality there, a reason for the madness, then I feel on much more solid ground.
.
There is a fierce imagination at work here, and while a few of the stories were too bizarre for me, if you’re a fan of the weird and wonderful then Okojie is a voice to keep your eye on!
Want to read
January 22, 2020This is a whole ass book called Nudibranch.
May 29, 2021
I'm not sure how to rate this collection of short stories as it is way out of my comfort zone. The stories are well-written, but very weird. If you enjoy magical realism and would like to read more experimental stories in this genre, I would recommend this.
Irenosen Okojie won the Caine Prize for African Fiction in 2020. Grace Jones which was the Caine Prize winning story and is part of this collection may be read here: https://static1.squarespace.com/stati...
Irenosen Okojie won the Caine Prize for African Fiction in 2020. Grace Jones which was the Caine Prize winning story and is part of this collection may be read here: https://static1.squarespace.com/stati...
September 6, 2022
I will not be eating eggs or looking at tongues in the same way again.
A wildly inventive collection of 15 short stories, difficult to categorise because it almost minimalises it but the closest category may be weird speculative fiction.
It is unlike any collection I’ve ever read before, the stories are daring and artful which can be challenging, so I can see why it wouldn’t be for everyone, but I loved it.
Irenosen writes with flair and an imprecise precision which makes it easy to get lost but also there's never a sense of directionlessness. It's gripping and never feels dull, and some stories are easier to extrapolate meaning from than others, but I enjoyed how many of these flung me off-kilter. I love the idea of transformation throughout the collection, how everything feels alive, how visceral, and how unpredictable the setting for each story is - temporally and geographically. It's perfect for a range of moods, from the gothic to sensual to melancholic.
Some of my favourite stories include;
Point and Trill; Grace Jones; Saudade Minud One (S-1=); Nudibranch; Mangata; Cornutopia; Komza Bright Morning; Zinzi from Boketti and Dune Dunelm.
* One morning a woman finds that she has turned into liquorice after accepting the sweet from a stranger at the airport singing a weird song.
* A homeless man travels back in time to different points of his memories right up until his conception
* A shape-shifting sea goddess emerges from the coast of a small Island to charm new lovers, eating their hearts after she's had sex with them.
* A rockstar falls in love with a beautiful transwoman in Berlin but behind her intense paranoia lurks darker secrets.
* A woman raising 9 stillborn babies on her farm after a failed government experiment, is given a 15 year old son, another experiment, to help out on the farm.
What’s everyone doing this weekend? I’m looking forward to some rest and maybe squeezing in one last book for October!
A wildly inventive collection of 15 short stories, difficult to categorise because it almost minimalises it but the closest category may be weird speculative fiction.
It is unlike any collection I’ve ever read before, the stories are daring and artful which can be challenging, so I can see why it wouldn’t be for everyone, but I loved it.
Irenosen writes with flair and an imprecise precision which makes it easy to get lost but also there's never a sense of directionlessness. It's gripping and never feels dull, and some stories are easier to extrapolate meaning from than others, but I enjoyed how many of these flung me off-kilter. I love the idea of transformation throughout the collection, how everything feels alive, how visceral, and how unpredictable the setting for each story is - temporally and geographically. It's perfect for a range of moods, from the gothic to sensual to melancholic.
Some of my favourite stories include;
Point and Trill; Grace Jones; Saudade Minud One (S-1=); Nudibranch; Mangata; Cornutopia; Komza Bright Morning; Zinzi from Boketti and Dune Dunelm.
* One morning a woman finds that she has turned into liquorice after accepting the sweet from a stranger at the airport singing a weird song.
* A homeless man travels back in time to different points of his memories right up until his conception
* A shape-shifting sea goddess emerges from the coast of a small Island to charm new lovers, eating their hearts after she's had sex with them.
* A rockstar falls in love with a beautiful transwoman in Berlin but behind her intense paranoia lurks darker secrets.
* A woman raising 9 stillborn babies on her farm after a failed government experiment, is given a 15 year old son, another experiment, to help out on the farm.
What’s everyone doing this weekend? I’m looking forward to some rest and maybe squeezing in one last book for October!
December 10, 2019
Metamorphosis is the word I would use to summarise this collection, the second one from Irenosen Okojie. Everything is poised to become something else, to be shifted under the imaginative eye of an author who isn’t afraid to stretch our conception of reality and pull it into new shapes. Her language is full of unusual simile, revealing how the ordinary world is steeped in myth and fairytale.
There is something of Angela Carter in the transformations, in the interest in circus, witches, wolves, belief and desire. Monks carry living saints’ tongues in their pockets, waiting to pay for their sins with the hammer and nails of religious fervour. Women form themselves from water, from clams to tempt men, or contort themselves to stay alive. Children and love are always one step away from possible destruction. Nothing feels certain or stable, but the possibility of flux. Nudibranch is almost a philosophical tract on the mutability of life.
Sometimes stories settle in a present that opens into the surreal. Sometimes we slip into a near distant future where pain can be measured or stillborns reawakened as cyborg babies unable to grow and fed on pesticides. Peppered with hard scientific fact, the world of Nudibranch rips open new eyes for its readers. Nudibranch is exciting, fresh, angry, vivid, imaginative and routed to the stories of our past in ways that sometimes baffle but always delight. If you haven’t read it, just follow Ben Okri’s advice on Irenosen Okojie: ‘Read her for the risk, for the heart, for the imagination.’ Go on, you can still get it in time for Christmas.
There is something of Angela Carter in the transformations, in the interest in circus, witches, wolves, belief and desire. Monks carry living saints’ tongues in their pockets, waiting to pay for their sins with the hammer and nails of religious fervour. Women form themselves from water, from clams to tempt men, or contort themselves to stay alive. Children and love are always one step away from possible destruction. Nothing feels certain or stable, but the possibility of flux. Nudibranch is almost a philosophical tract on the mutability of life.
Sometimes stories settle in a present that opens into the surreal. Sometimes we slip into a near distant future where pain can be measured or stillborns reawakened as cyborg babies unable to grow and fed on pesticides. Peppered with hard scientific fact, the world of Nudibranch rips open new eyes for its readers. Nudibranch is exciting, fresh, angry, vivid, imaginative and routed to the stories of our past in ways that sometimes baffle but always delight. If you haven’t read it, just follow Ben Okri’s advice on Irenosen Okojie: ‘Read her for the risk, for the heart, for the imagination.’ Go on, you can still get it in time for Christmas.
March 28, 2022
When I was a teenager, I was absorbed by A.S. Byatt's 'The Stone Woman', about a woman who is gradually turning into stone. Much more recently, Sarah Hall's memorable 'Mrs Fox' told the story of a woman who turns into a fox, although from the point of view of her husband. Therefore, the premise of the first full-length story in Nudibranch, Irenosen Okojie's new short story collection 'Kookaburra Sweet' - which is about a woman who turns into liquorice - wasn't in itself off-putting. I sometimes think that I don't like 'magical realism', but, even putting aside the problematic ways in which that term has started to be used so broadly, I'm not sure that's true; I do like magical realism when it's done well. Unfortunately, this is a tremendously difficult thing to do, and I don't think most of the stories that I read from this collection pull it off.
For me, 'magical realism' in its broad sense is distinguished from speculative or science fiction, or even from horror, by its lack of boundaries. So, in speculative fiction, strange things might happen but they tend to have a rational explanation, even if it's impossible; even in horror or ghost stories, there are certain rules that govern the monster's behaviour ('don't stay in the old house overnight'). Magical realism, it seems to me, doesn't really deal in rules or explanations, because it's trying to convey reality in a different way. However, for this to work for me, the stories need to feel psychologically real, and that was what was lacking throughout much of the first half of this collection. Byatt's 'The Stone Woman' made such an impression on me because of the horror the central character feels when she realises she's turning to stone. In contrast, Kara, the woman who turns to liquorice, doesn't seem too bothered; after her fingers almost melt under the hot water from her taps, she just goes back to what she was thinking about before: 'Sydney had been a disaster. She was broken by it. Almost.' While I understand that the story isn't meant to be read literally, this weird mix of realism and the magical didn't work for me.
Part of this is due to Okojie's writing. I read her first collection, Speak Gigantular, when it first came out and remember very little about it other than that it felt under-edited. Much of her writing here also has that first-draft feeling; there are wonderful sentences, but then others that just aren't very good. Often the similes are just too complicated, as in the opening to 'Grace Jones': '
'Once the stray parts of a singed scene had found their way into the bedroom, onyx edges gleaming and the figures without memories had lost their molten heads to the coming morning... the phone rang, shrill, invasive, demanding. Still on the floor, the wood cold against her skin, she crawled to the receiver tentatively, as if her limbs were tethered to a thread on the earth's equator, the thread bending and collapsing into the different stages of her life.'
Certain images reoccur in this collection - body parts turn up in unexpected places, things melt, people perform rituals - but there doesn't seem to be much purpose to it. Some stories conjure up fascinating worlds but then don't make much use of them, such as 'Filamo', set in an otherworldly monastery, and 'Saudade Minus One (S - 1 = )', which looks at a future in which children are malfunctioning. The one story of those I read which worked for me was 'Point and Shrill'; Okojie's writing is much more restrained, and it allows the eeriness of the story to take centre stage as it moves from naturalism into horror.
I read about half of these stories, but then concluded that this collection wasn't for me. It reminds me most strongly of a less accomplished version of Carmen Maria Machado's Her Body and Other Parties, so if that's your sort of thing, this might work better for you. 2.5 stars.
I received a free proof copy of this collection from the publisher for review.
For me, 'magical realism' in its broad sense is distinguished from speculative or science fiction, or even from horror, by its lack of boundaries. So, in speculative fiction, strange things might happen but they tend to have a rational explanation, even if it's impossible; even in horror or ghost stories, there are certain rules that govern the monster's behaviour ('don't stay in the old house overnight'). Magical realism, it seems to me, doesn't really deal in rules or explanations, because it's trying to convey reality in a different way. However, for this to work for me, the stories need to feel psychologically real, and that was what was lacking throughout much of the first half of this collection. Byatt's 'The Stone Woman' made such an impression on me because of the horror the central character feels when she realises she's turning to stone. In contrast, Kara, the woman who turns to liquorice, doesn't seem too bothered; after her fingers almost melt under the hot water from her taps, she just goes back to what she was thinking about before: 'Sydney had been a disaster. She was broken by it. Almost.' While I understand that the story isn't meant to be read literally, this weird mix of realism and the magical didn't work for me.
Part of this is due to Okojie's writing. I read her first collection, Speak Gigantular, when it first came out and remember very little about it other than that it felt under-edited. Much of her writing here also has that first-draft feeling; there are wonderful sentences, but then others that just aren't very good. Often the similes are just too complicated, as in the opening to 'Grace Jones': '
'Once the stray parts of a singed scene had found their way into the bedroom, onyx edges gleaming and the figures without memories had lost their molten heads to the coming morning... the phone rang, shrill, invasive, demanding. Still on the floor, the wood cold against her skin, she crawled to the receiver tentatively, as if her limbs were tethered to a thread on the earth's equator, the thread bending and collapsing into the different stages of her life.'
Certain images reoccur in this collection - body parts turn up in unexpected places, things melt, people perform rituals - but there doesn't seem to be much purpose to it. Some stories conjure up fascinating worlds but then don't make much use of them, such as 'Filamo', set in an otherworldly monastery, and 'Saudade Minus One (S - 1 = )', which looks at a future in which children are malfunctioning. The one story of those I read which worked for me was 'Point and Shrill'; Okojie's writing is much more restrained, and it allows the eeriness of the story to take centre stage as it moves from naturalism into horror.
I read about half of these stories, but then concluded that this collection wasn't for me. It reminds me most strongly of a less accomplished version of Carmen Maria Machado's Her Body and Other Parties, so if that's your sort of thing, this might work better for you. 2.5 stars.
I received a free proof copy of this collection from the publisher for review.
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November 25, 2020Surrealism and repeating motifs - splitting migraines, yolks, tongues - brim over in this book. I'm still processing. Going to be a while, I think.
June 11, 2022
I liked most of the stories, but as a collection it is a bit uneven. There are some stories, where the combination of surrealist imagery, feminist writing and a sort of neo-African folklore don’t quite work out. Sometimes it’s the piling on of surrealist images, that is a bit too much, sometimes the explanation given for the protagonists surrealist, fantastical or very strange ways of seeing and feeling are a bit too mundane. But nevertheless, I enjoyed reading the stories, and some of them, like the title story or Grace Jones or the story about the mysterious tailor or about Zinzi the acrobat are brilliant.
October 12, 2019
Transformations, turning points and trajectories.
This short story collection is populated by Grace Jones impersonators, sea goddesses and time-hopping vagrants. Characters reinvent themselves (Grace Jones and Komza Bright Morning), they grapple with situations not of their making (the loss or absence of a child is a recurring theme), and they find themselves at turning points, recognising, too late, the trajectories they might have taken (Kookaburra Sweet and Cornutopia).
The collection opens with the incantatory Logarithm serving to place the reader in the world of Nudibranch. Here, the ordinary meets the fantastic, the familiar is defamiliarized and natural phenomena are celebrated.
Okojie’s writing is multifaceted: earthy, baroque, brutal and rhapsodic. She paints striking images which pries open the reader’s mind. The language is a marvellous symphony of sound and ideas. Her prose rewards careful reading.
Striking and extraordinary.
Many thanks to NetGalley and Little, Brown Book Group UK, for the ARC.
This short story collection is populated by Grace Jones impersonators, sea goddesses and time-hopping vagrants. Characters reinvent themselves (Grace Jones and Komza Bright Morning), they grapple with situations not of their making (the loss or absence of a child is a recurring theme), and they find themselves at turning points, recognising, too late, the trajectories they might have taken (Kookaburra Sweet and Cornutopia).
The collection opens with the incantatory Logarithm serving to place the reader in the world of Nudibranch. Here, the ordinary meets the fantastic, the familiar is defamiliarized and natural phenomena are celebrated.
Okojie’s writing is multifaceted: earthy, baroque, brutal and rhapsodic. She paints striking images which pries open the reader’s mind. The language is a marvellous symphony of sound and ideas. Her prose rewards careful reading.
Striking and extraordinary.
Many thanks to NetGalley and Little, Brown Book Group UK, for the ARC.
May 26, 2020
I really didn't get on with this collection at all. The stories just did not grab my attention.
Also, what's with the obsession with yolks (and, to a lesser degree, tongues)?
Also, what's with the obsession with yolks (and, to a lesser degree, tongues)?
March 17, 2024
Best collection I’ve read since Ted Chiang’s The Story of Your Life and Others. Lyrical and surreal.
July 7, 2020
I’m still getting into the way of reading short stories, so I find them tricky to review, but this is one of the most striking collections I’ve read so far. It’s edgy, experimental, bold and otherworldly. My favourite story is Point and Trill, which I’d describe as a thriller that examines humanity’s most primeval instincts. When it came to the end I wanted to read more, the sign of a great story! A few of the stories went slightly over my head, but I just went with the flow and enjoyed the imaginative writing by this talented author.
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Thank you @dialoguebooks for this #gifted review copy. @dialoguebooks are one of my favourite publishers as they focus on stories for, about and by LGBTQI+, disability, working class and BAME communities.
3.75/5 🌟
September 23, 2020
I really enjoyed this book. The short story format was used really well, with multiple stories staying with me days after reading them. I particularly loved Grace Jones, Point & Trill, Nudibranch, and Cornutopia. There were elements from every genre, mixed surrealism that reminded me of David Lynch. I would highly recommend.
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August 20, 2022I encountered this book from the Books on the Go podcast, and I'm glad I tried it. It was too difficult for me - I see a lot of reviews use words like "weird," "hallucinogenic," and "surreal," and I guess it was just too much for me. I had heard the most about the Grace Jones story, so I made sure to read through that one, but that's as far as I got.
November 29, 2023
Dark, very disturbingly sexual in some instances, and also very interesting. The first 3 stories were the worst, but the collection improves after that. Her writing was dense and so full of writing tools that it made it hard to sit through a paragraph at some points. I would not recommend the entire collection, but I have starred certain stories that I feel are excellent independently.
January 3, 2021
Didn’t get on with this collection of short stories, read to over the half way mark before finding to any characters I could connect with.
September 11, 2021
This book is certainly an acquired taste...unfortunately it's a taste I don't have.
January 7, 2025
I discovered Nudibranch through “Logarithm,” the opening story, assigned as part of my Art of Short Fiction class. I didn’t know what to expect (especially since it was class reading assignment), but I was immediately pulled in.
The style, the brevity, the lyrical quality of the prose—it read like a prose-poem, seamless and evocative.
Disclaimer, that story requires more than one read though (I still remember the long discussion we had in class about its meaning and the underlying story).
After reading Logarithm, I was immediately intrigued and knew I had to read the entire collection.
One thing became clear as I read: the author has a wildly imaginative and impressive mind. The otherworldliness of the stories is striking, yet they feel vividly real and immersive. It makes you wonder—where do these ideas come from? How does the writer make the strange and surreal feel so tangible?
A standout for me was “Point and Trill.” The unexpected twists left me marveling at the writer’s ability to get you to go “WTF”—in the best possible way.
This collection is daring, experimental and boundary-pushing.
Stories like Grace Jones redefine what’s possible in storytelling, challenging form and convention while keeping you hooked.
Did I love every story equally? No. Some resonated deeply, while others didn’t connect as much, and a few were somewhere in between. But do I think this collection is worth reading? Absolutely.
The writer’s talent and unique voice deserve all the recognition they’ve received and more.
If you’re up for something unconventional and wildly imaginative, give Nudibranch a read.
The style, the brevity, the lyrical quality of the prose—it read like a prose-poem, seamless and evocative.
Disclaimer, that story requires more than one read though (I still remember the long discussion we had in class about its meaning and the underlying story).
After reading Logarithm, I was immediately intrigued and knew I had to read the entire collection.
One thing became clear as I read: the author has a wildly imaginative and impressive mind. The otherworldliness of the stories is striking, yet they feel vividly real and immersive. It makes you wonder—where do these ideas come from? How does the writer make the strange and surreal feel so tangible?
A standout for me was “Point and Trill.” The unexpected twists left me marveling at the writer’s ability to get you to go “WTF”—in the best possible way.
This collection is daring, experimental and boundary-pushing.
Stories like Grace Jones redefine what’s possible in storytelling, challenging form and convention while keeping you hooked.
Did I love every story equally? No. Some resonated deeply, while others didn’t connect as much, and a few were somewhere in between. But do I think this collection is worth reading? Absolutely.
The writer’s talent and unique voice deserve all the recognition they’ve received and more.
If you’re up for something unconventional and wildly imaginative, give Nudibranch a read.
February 6, 2020
This is a somewhat unpredictable collection of short stories. Okojie is a deft writer with an ear for inventive bold imagery and action; however the writing style is often uneven, lyrical in one section, then tangled in the next. The quirky plots do not always work: the trope of the 'woman' metamorphosis feels random in some stories then too obvious in others. Okojie seems more interested in the end-product, and its 'shock value', rather than exploring the act of transformation itself. I guess if you are a reader of realist fiction then this collection may seem experimental yet fans of fantasy/horror will probably find this book fairly accessible. Strong stories include 'Nudibranch', 'Grace Jones', 'Magenta' and 'Dune Dunelm'.
May 11, 2020
This collection is one where the situation and format in which I read it made a huge difference to my interpretation and enjoyment. Having originally picked this up as an ARC, I'd been fitting in stories here and there around my commute, but I was bouncing off most of them as my exhausted Tuesday-brain struggled to put together the weirdness and to switch from one story to the next (the formatting, which didn't have page breaks after each story, really didn't help with this) . Frustrated but not totally put off, I found the physical book in a bookshop, bought it, opened it back up at the beginning, and read it in one sitting at a coffee shop - with very different results. Of course, that's not to say that Nudibranch - a collection which takes its name from the group of vibrantly coloured, delightfully bizarre sea slugs - is not a weird book. From the adopted-son-turned-farmhand-turned-government-weapon of "Saudade Minus One (S ̶ 1 =)" to the eponymous backwards time traveller of "Daishuku" to the transdimensional tongue-protecting monks of "Filamo", Nudibranch is, by turns disjointed, disorienting and completely at home from everything to mundane slice-of-life flashes to high-concept time travel. While it starts with the very high concept flash piece "Logarithm" (which, alas, did nothing for me), and is quite definitely a literary fiction collection in its sensibilities, there's also a lot for fans of speculative fiction and shortform worldbuilding to enjoy here, with some lush writing to boot.
Two things seem to link Okojie's diverse set of protagonists. First, quite a few of them find themselves shifting from high concept slipstream weirdness into utterly mundane scenes of London life (I mean, who can't relate to turning into a giant human liquorice and then popping over to the Horniman Museum?) Second, and more interestingly, the characters of Nudibranch almost all come undone at the ends of their stories. Some of the moments are ambiguously metaphorical, like the protagonist at the end of "Cornotopia", who goes into an experimental treatment for post-trauma depression and ends, once the treatment apparently begins to work, by shrivelling up "like a carcass that had finally stopped tricking people into thinking it could breathe"; or a horror-like cutaway like "Point and Trill", a story which begins as the mundane tale of a struggling couple going on a night-time paintballing retreat, and then takes some very dark turns. Then there's the quite literal falling apart of the liquorice protagonist at the end of "Kookaburra Sweet" and the bizarre yet fitting sacrifice of the big-dreaming protagonist of "Mangata". Regardless of how it happens, what runs through this collection is the sense that these are people who, once their varied circumstances play out, then effectively come apart, exciting the stage in a variety of morbidly fascinating literary flourishes. It may sound a bit much, but I still managed to finish the collection in one sitting without feeling overwhelmed by morbidity, so its not nearly as grim as all that. In the end, I'm glad I persevered (and spent money on!) Nudibranch, a collection whose strongest images I suspect are going to stay with me for quite some time.
Two things seem to link Okojie's diverse set of protagonists. First, quite a few of them find themselves shifting from high concept slipstream weirdness into utterly mundane scenes of London life (I mean, who can't relate to turning into a giant human liquorice and then popping over to the Horniman Museum?) Second, and more interestingly, the characters of Nudibranch almost all come undone at the ends of their stories. Some of the moments are ambiguously metaphorical, like the protagonist at the end of "Cornotopia", who goes into an experimental treatment for post-trauma depression and ends, once the treatment apparently begins to work, by shrivelling up "like a carcass that had finally stopped tricking people into thinking it could breathe"; or a horror-like cutaway like "Point and Trill", a story which begins as the mundane tale of a struggling couple going on a night-time paintballing retreat, and then takes some very dark turns. Then there's the quite literal falling apart of the liquorice protagonist at the end of "Kookaburra Sweet" and the bizarre yet fitting sacrifice of the big-dreaming protagonist of "Mangata". Regardless of how it happens, what runs through this collection is the sense that these are people who, once their varied circumstances play out, then effectively come apart, exciting the stage in a variety of morbidly fascinating literary flourishes. It may sound a bit much, but I still managed to finish the collection in one sitting without feeling overwhelmed by morbidity, so its not nearly as grim as all that. In the end, I'm glad I persevered (and spent money on!) Nudibranch, a collection whose strongest images I suspect are going to stay with me for quite some time.
December 8, 2019
There were some great stories but I think overall the collection wasn't for me. There are some really original ideas but I felt a bit like I was drowning some of the time, with nothing to grasp onto and no idea of what was actually happening/ what was metaphor. The first story, the one with the Grace Jones impersonator, and the one that felt like a horror that started with the couple driving to meet friends in the country were the standouts for me.
November 9, 2019
The stories in this book were poetic, strange, otherwordly and haunting.
It's rare to read something so unusually vivid, but that makes the stories linger and stay with you for a while after you've read them.
I thoroughly enjoyed. I would read this again as well as being open to reading other works by Okojie. I would definitely recommend.
It's rare to read something so unusually vivid, but that makes the stories linger and stay with you for a while after you've read them.
I thoroughly enjoyed. I would read this again as well as being open to reading other works by Okojie. I would definitely recommend.
June 13, 2020
Read this with gaping eyes and a quickened pulse. An absolute battering of the senses.
November 9, 2019
This is an interesting collection of short stories, often in the realms of magic realism or symbolism. Throughout the collection, the motif of transformation dominates: a woman wakes up to find she has turned into a piece of liquorice; a group of friends gather for an evening of paintball only for it to turn into an horrific gore-fest; a woman earns her living by impersonating Grace Jones; people literally shed their outer skin and become something other...
Okojie is clearly a wonderful writer, her turn of phrase is deft and exact, and there are glimpses of some wonderful poetic prose; in one story a man falls for a trans woman, describing her as 'the curve of a kaleidoscope landed on a moon'. Wonderful. These are involving and elusive stories, where the idea of mutating becomes a metaphor for something wider in each case. And the stories are wide-reaching in their geographical setting, veering from London to Berlin to Africa and the US.
The reader is constantly left with unanswered questions, having to work out just what might be going on, typified by the final story where the main character had suffered a previous brain trauma and wonders if he might be undergoing another. Challenging and just slightly out of reach of your fingertips, this is a fascinating collection, with some stories being stronger and more engaging than the others. For all that, much as I enjoyed it, it just felt a little same-y, and after the first 'story' - a lyrical invocation that sets the tone for what is to come - it never quite hits those heights again. Definitely recommended, a strong 3.5 stars.
Okojie is clearly a wonderful writer, her turn of phrase is deft and exact, and there are glimpses of some wonderful poetic prose; in one story a man falls for a trans woman, describing her as 'the curve of a kaleidoscope landed on a moon'. Wonderful. These are involving and elusive stories, where the idea of mutating becomes a metaphor for something wider in each case. And the stories are wide-reaching in their geographical setting, veering from London to Berlin to Africa and the US.
The reader is constantly left with unanswered questions, having to work out just what might be going on, typified by the final story where the main character had suffered a previous brain trauma and wonders if he might be undergoing another. Challenging and just slightly out of reach of your fingertips, this is a fascinating collection, with some stories being stronger and more engaging than the others. For all that, much as I enjoyed it, it just felt a little same-y, and after the first 'story' - a lyrical invocation that sets the tone for what is to come - it never quite hits those heights again. Definitely recommended, a strong 3.5 stars.
August 4, 2020
Nudibranch was a fun and at times difficult read - these are both good things. The only reading experience that I can say was as entertaining and challenging as Nudibranch is Carmen Maria Machado's Her Body and Other Parties. Like Machado, Okojie has written a collection of genre-bending, experimental stories that present more questions than answers. I loved that Okojie's writing is so divinely unpredictable and leaves me, at times, thinking deeply about her stories well after I have read them. Nudibranch is definitely a collection of short stories that require a clear and open mind and your undivided attention.
One key thing that struck me when reading an interview with Okojie, was her keenness to present and explore the lives of 'messy Black women' in some of these short stories. It then struck me how we do not gain much insight into the lives of Black women in the media, unless we are doing something criminal, suffering from racism and poverty, or are ultra-successful - there doesn't seem to much in-between. In particular, for me, it sure was liberating reading about Black women who do not live - or strive to be - examples of Black excellence, they just are themselves. They make mistakes, they are murderous, they fall back on rent, they are irresponsible, they don't have plans for their next career move. Whilst some of these are, unfortunately, a worrying reality for some Black women - a reality that has been exacerbated by Covid-19 - it was refreshing being able to encounter these characters who defy the constraints of perfection and success put on Black women to make us more likeable.
One key thing that struck me when reading an interview with Okojie, was her keenness to present and explore the lives of 'messy Black women' in some of these short stories. It then struck me how we do not gain much insight into the lives of Black women in the media, unless we are doing something criminal, suffering from racism and poverty, or are ultra-successful - there doesn't seem to much in-between. In particular, for me, it sure was liberating reading about Black women who do not live - or strive to be - examples of Black excellence, they just are themselves. They make mistakes, they are murderous, they fall back on rent, they are irresponsible, they don't have plans for their next career move. Whilst some of these are, unfortunately, a worrying reality for some Black women - a reality that has been exacerbated by Covid-19 - it was refreshing being able to encounter these characters who defy the constraints of perfection and success put on Black women to make us more likeable.
October 3, 2021
This is a collection of short stories which might fall broadly into fantasy/science fiction genres, but there's little traditional about those themes here. The prose is excellent - Okojie is a brave stylist - and whilst 'surrealism' is often bandied about without much understanding, it is very much the case that a healthy dose of it is intertwined in these tales, many of which allude to folklore just beyond our reach but are told both familiarly and unfamiliarly. The best surrealism uses language that should be incongruous and yet which fits like a glove, and this is the case with this collection. Mostly these stories invoke a new way of telling, with the reader encouraged to give careful attention to the text which can turn in a sentence. Frequently I was reading sections aloud to my partner, savouring the prose. I won't pick out any stories, other than to say that the final piece, "Dune Dunelm", ends the collection on a perfect note: the story of a chef who finds a living fossil which transforms into something inexplicable is wonderfully pitched: "At night, she leaned against his shoulder mimicking a random selection of sounds: a kettle hissing, the whirring of a washing-machine's spin cycle, the tent collapsing. And the discharges from her body, miniature lacunas, glimmered beautifully." A collection to enthuse over.
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