Girl, Woman, Other

Book Review

Bernardine Evaristo's Booker winner of 2019, Girl, Woman, Other, is a novel that tells the story of 12 black British women, most of whom are lesbians. Aged from 19 to 93, they belong to diverse classes, cultures and sexual identities. One of them, Penelope, doesn't know who her real parents are until the end of the novel. And when she learns about them in the end, she realises that her DNA is 87% European and 13% African. And in the 87%, 22 is Scandinavian, 25 Irish, 17 British, and so on with 16% being European Jewish too.

What are we? This is a question that has enchanted writers for ever. We make all sorts of identities and fight in their names endlessly. The hippies want to live in communes sharing everything. Environmentalists want to ban a whole range of things like aerosols, plastic bags and deodorant. Vegetarians want a non-meat policy. Vegans want that policy to be extended to non-dairy. The Rastas want to legalise cannabis. "The Hari Krishnas wanted everyone to join them that very afternoon banging drums down Oxford Street." The punks want to play "shouty music". The gays want anti-homophobic legislation enshrined into the building's constitution. Feminists want women-only quarters. "The lesbian radical feminists wanted their own quarters away from the non-lesbian radical feminists." The black lesbian radical feminists wanted the same but keeping all whiteys of any gender far away. "The anarchists walked out because any form of governance was a betrayal of everything they believe in."

Well, that list gives you an idea of what the novel is like: witty, sarcastic, ironical, razor-sharp.

There is no story as such. The plot doesn't take you anywhere unless Penelope's discovery of the heterogeneity of her DNA is what you want in the end. Well, aren't we all as heterogeneous as that? [However much we may rewrite our histories, there will be a trace of bastardy somewhere in the line!]

All the characters are extremely fascinating. They are complex. They are flawed too. They are women. The men are there only to sow the seed into the wombs. Even Bishop Aderami Obi is no better. When he talked, it was to Bummi's bountiful breasts. Bummi wanted a financial help from the bishop. He agreed to give it to her. In return, Bummi let him undress her with his greedy hands in the vestry. She let him caress her released C-cup breasts. She let him pull down her lacy new undies. He entered her. Blessed be his holiness! He cried as he ejaculated into her. "Hallelujah! Sister Bummy, hallelujah!"

LaTisha KaNisha Jones gets three children, one each from three different men who use her just for that: sowing their little devils into her womb. Her first child came when she was just 16 from Dwight who refused to use a condom saying he would withdraw. He did withdraw but not in time. "Many times not in time."

Her second child came soon after the first from Mark whom she met in a nightclub and danced with. He danced like a gentleman without pressing his cock against her body. That was followed by a date. They got drunk. And then he did it to her in the back of his car. "I knew the minute I set eyes on you that we were meant to be together," Mark said as he made love to her. LaTisha thought her first son would now have a father. Instead she got a second son. And nothing more.

"Trey was the father of child Number Three." LaTisha met him at a party. He unzipped his pants while they danced and stuffed her hand into it. Soon she finds herself in bed with him inside her. "Get off me, please, Trey," she pleads. To deaf ears. Trey just vanished after that.

Every character in this novel keeps you glued to her. They are all connected with each other one way or another. That's the only unifying factor in the novel. Without that, the novel would have been just a collection of short stories. That is probably why the BBC review of the novel declared that in the end "the sum is not greater than the parts".

Bernardine Evaristo

We are condemned to live fragmented lives today. One way or another, life distorts our very being. Life tears us apart into fragments. Neat plots are hence not lifelike anymore. Bernardine Evaristo gives us a picture of the real life in contemporary England today. It may be the life of just 12 women. It is real but. That is what makes the book charming.

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