While dealing with the loss of a friend, I found reprieve in a genre I had once resented.
In October 2019, in the middle of a writing workshop I was attending in Ghana, a text came in.
“Is it true, Ly?” the message read. “Is Lilian really dead?”
I did not know at the time I got the text, but within the next five minutes I would find out it was true: the girl who had been my best friend since the first week of university, who showed me the depth and purity of love possible in friendships, was gone.
Before Lilian’s death, it felt like life had handed me a raft: I finally had a job, and I had finished my exams for my Master’s. I had gotten over my fear of writing and published an essay that was well-received. The frequency of my panic attacks had reduced and my anxiety was under control.
But after Lillian’s passing, my body revolted against itself. My period stopped for months. I could barely sleep. I would wake up from nightmares I couldn’t remember with my heart pounding. I could not look at myself in mirrors. I was afraid of dwelling on losing her because it felt like mourning was the first step to forgetting.
But grief demands that you deal with it. If you don’t, it seeps through when you are not looking.
***
Why do people turn to cooking and baking during the lockdown? Studies reveal that such activities can help people work through grief, improve one’s mood and soothe anxiety. They are activities of mindfulness: you are doing something with your hands; there is a lot of movement; you will create something tangible at the end. You are present. But what if the present is dark and you are searching for light?
Romance novels gave me light and for that, I owe them for saving me.
I once considered romance stories frivolous, childish and unsuitable reading for me as a person building an academic career in literature. It was not just the characters that offended my feminist beliefs—I had grown into an age where I wanted to read stories that centered people like me and it was the dearth of diversity in the genre that calcified my decision. As a queer and fat woman, finding adequate representation of either of these identities in romance novels was like searching for a unicorn.
It was by chance that I found a bookstagram account dedicated to romance novels and run by a Nigerian woman named Jite. I was intrigued at the availability of stories that appeared to tick the boxes on what I once thought impossible.
Kept awake by anxiety one night, I decided to read “Get a Life, Chloe Brown” by Black British romance novelist Talia Hibbert; Jite had given it a glowing review. When I picked it, I didn’t have high hopes. I was fascinated by its Black, plus-sized protagonist but was uncertain of how her existence would be portrayed.
Chloe Brown, a woman living with chronic pain, is inspired by a near-death experience to take more risks and create a fuller life for herself. Armed with a bucket list, she moves out of her family home into an apartment of her own in a first step toward independence. In her new apartment, she meets Redford, an artist and her building’s superintendent, who is dealing with the trauma of an abusive relationship. Despite starting off on the wrong foot, they soon become friends and he agrees to help her fulfill her list. This friendship unfolds into love and strengthens them to face their personal demons.
The book unsettled me. It took me a few weeks to realise why: the author had written a Black woman who simply…lived. Chloe was plus-size, wealthy, and surrounded by a family who loved her to bits. This was one of the first books I read where Black joy was so plain.
In media and in novels, the narrative of the “strong Black woman” is so pervasive. Black women are hardly ever living their best lives; instead we are burdened with trauma, suffering, and navigating violence. Not that this is not the reality for some of us, but when that is the only story of ourselves we know, it can kill hope. It boxes our lives into a single story.
In “Guarding Temptations,” another steamy novella by Talia Hibbert, political campaigner Nina Chapman is threatened after publishing a controversial article. After getting doxxed and scared by unusual activity in her home, she goes to her brother’s best friend and long-time crush Jamie for help. Eventually, Nina resorts to an underhanded way of protecting herself – scoring an interview on a popular show where she will appear non-threatening and hope that the visibility she gets will protect her.
When James questions this decision, Nina explains: “I know what these people value in a woman,” she says. “Fragility is currency, but I’m not pale enough to be permitted too much delicacy.”
***
The novels centered Black women giving them a softness that is rare to see either in media or in literature. It was the tenderness surrounding Nina and Chloe that soothed my heart. It was Chloe’s sisters making sure her fridge was full at all times. It was the way James tried to protect and care for Nina while acknowledging and respecting her strength. Holding onto these stories of Black women loving and being loved felt like a balm on war wounds.
They did not only serve as an anchor for the grief in my heart; it soothed my anger at a society bent on making women synonymous with pain, and a news cycle that reminded me again and again that women—particularly those in Nigeria where I live—are not safe.
When I read romance novels that centre Black women, I am new. In these books, I reimagine a world where Black women have happily ever afters. They are triumphant against patriarchy and sexism. Queer bodies love loudly. Fat women are in love and we fuck however we want, not in positions that contour jiggly bodies. Black women have support. We have families that look beyond culture to love us as we need and deserve. We are fiercely in love and it heals. We live in abundance. We exist because we are.
***
I have recently become enamoured with the idea of resistance and the forms it can take. Online, I came across a tweet by Minna Salami an author, and founder of MsAfropolitan blog.
“What racism does is make white people the subject,” she wrote. “What patriarch does is make men the subject. What heternormativity does is make straight people the subject etc.”
She continued, “The counter-hegemonic act is to become subject not to further auto-objectify by lauding pity and coddling.”
Minna’s words struck me: I have come to this place where I have become tired of negotiating my existence. I want to see more besides women’s bodies burning. Where are the ones alive and dragging joy by the horns?
***
I believe that when Alice Walker spoke of her mother’s dedication to tending her garden at the height of blatant racism in America, it was making the choice to find joy in something no matter how insignificant others may see it. A call to choose something that you can control, and brings you joy in a world where women’s pain are being commercialised instead of laying down laws that actually protect us; simple joyful existence becomes as powerful as protesting on the streets.
Resistance is many things. It is creating and thriving in safe spaces. I didn’t consider that the choice I made that essentially brought me joy was a protest. I learned that resistance is not only placards and fire. Resistance is water, too—being, flowing, circumventing.
Romance novels may be considered as an unhealthy, simple escapism, but what is joy if not simple?
Losing someone that you shared dreams with grants you a startling clarity: It’s okay to just be. When I started feeding my soul joy, my dreams started to take a new shape. There is still always a form of chaos, but I’m steady. It feels more like when the characters I love are experiencing a form of conflict, but I am certain that there will be resolution by the end. By choosing to focus on stories that centred Black women loving and being loved, I was not only resisting a prevalent narrative but I was also caring for myself.
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