“Let lyrics or songs kick start a story, write the story, title it after the song. The formula wasn’t broken, and I wasn’t trying to fix it. Some stories were harder than others, but thankfully I’ve forgotten which ones now.”
And maybe that’s how the best stories are born, not out of perfection, but out of persistence, out of the quiet ache that refuses to stay silent.
I first picked up this book because of a rather unromantic reason: I am planning a trip to East Africa and decided to google “unknown African writers.” Garricks’ name appeared, even though he is not from the countries I am going to visit, he turned out to be exactly what I needed today.
With a title like A Broken People’s Playlist, it didn’t take much convincing. A fusion of music and books? Well, that is my weakness. I am, after all, a hopeless devotee of both, sometimes in that order, sometimes not. And on a day when I find myself revisiting every hour, minute, and second of something that happened in 2012, this book felt like the right companion.
I bought the audiobook and went for a walk. A long one.
In Dublin, the city where Garricks was born (though he grew up in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. A detail worth noting, to remind us how stories cross oceans, just as easily as songs do).
Ten minutes in, somewhere between the city and the sea, I was already crying.
There are twelve short stories, each orbiting a song, each centered on someone that is a little, or a lot broken. Men and women cracked open by love, loss, family, or life’s unrelenting unfairness. Some mend their fractures, others simply learn how to live with them. But every single one feels real, alive. Bleeding, breathing, reaching through the page (or in my case, through my headphones).
Garricks’ writing is raw, honest, precise and tender, all at once. With a precision that cuts, but with the compassion of someone who has suffered quietly and learned to listen.
His words carry weight, rhythm, and dust. And though steeped in Nigerian life and language, they somehow felt familiar, as if pain and music speak the same language everywhere.
And I want to write like that someday. Raw and unfiltered. Honest enough to sting. Brave enough to talk about sex like coffee, because it is something ordinary, human, essential. And Garricks reminds me that writing isn’t about being smart, it is about being real.
And maybe that is the magic of his writing, it reminded me that people are playlists too. Some tracks are joyful, some are messy, some we don’t even understand until years later.
Note to the author:
Dear Mr. Garricks: I loved your writing. And now, after a six-hour walk, with knees that are burning I am “just a girl standing in front of a phone” writing down this review with one small request: please release your other book on Kindle or Audible.
I have made a solemn promise not to buy physical books for a while, and I’d rather not break my own rule… but for you, I just might.