A Review of Olukorede S. Yishauʼs After The End
Yishau opens his novel After The End with a quote from William Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar—“The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.” This foreshadows the plot, that certain actions often lead to destructive consequences. The quote itself is from a longer passage in the play, and uttered by Mark Antony at the funeral of Julius Caesar. But, far from this quote being about Caesar, it is actually about Brutus, his killer and betrayer. Such is the nature of legacies, Shakespeare seems to say, that memories of goodness often fade from the world, while on the other hand, evil thrives in perpetuity.
After The End is Yishauʼs latest foray into the world of fiction, coming after the publication of his first novel, In the Name of Our Father, and the short story collection which followed, Vaults of Secrets. But while In the Name of Our Father was longlisted for the NLNG Prize for Literature in 2021, it also drew scathing criticism from a reviewer, Ugochukwu Anadi, who questioned Yishauʼs storytelling techniques and faulted his writing for having too much of a journalistic tilt.
In After The End, Anadi might recognise a technical improvement in Yishauʼs handling of story within this fourth charm of a book. As another critic Nzube Nlebedim confirms in his review, there is a stylistic growth in Yishauʼs storytelling this time around, his writing having taken on “a firmer authority of prose.”
But away from the critics, After The End draws a bit of inspiration from the characters in “Lydia’s World,” one of the short stories in Yishauʼs Vaults of Secrets. And yet, the scale and depth of After The End not only surpasses the aforementioned short story, but unfolds a compelling premise that makes this novel out to be Yishauʼs most impressive literary effort yet.
The story is anything but a singular thread, although it is the death of a character, Ademola “Google” Phillips, that opens up the world Yishau weaves from his life. Until the point of his untimely demise from a congenital heart disease, Demola appears to have been quite the lovable husband and father to his wife, Idera, and their three children, Tunmininu, Pamilerin, and Ilerioluwa. They are the picture-perfect immigrant family in London, after all. At least until after Demolaʼs passing, when Lydia surfaces at the doorstep of their home to shatter this burnished image. Once a carefully hidden secret for years, Demolaʼs relationship with Lydia, which produced a child, is presented tenderly to Idera but still works to upend her world. All of a sudden, Idera is forced to come to terms with a disquieting reality: that not only had she been betrayed, but she could no longer claim to have truly known the man who she loved.
Ideraʼs painful predicament is evocative of a similar misfortune wrought upon Nnam in Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbiʼs Commonwealth Prize-winning short story, “Letʼs Tell This Story Properly.” Just like Idera, Nnam is forced to balance the pain of grief with the shocking hurt of betrayal, like taking the weight of a blow to the liver while shedding tears from a different injury. When Nnam realises that there is “no sight more revolting than a corpse caught telling lies,” it is almost as if her suffering mirrors that of Idera.
In the webbed tangle of connections that are an unavoidable consequence of the novelʼs explosive revelations, Yishau also paints a vivid portrait of the social and cultural nuances that contribute to migrant angst in a time when right-wing politics whip up nationalistic fervour. This more or less enables the rise of Brexit, and subsequently, anti-immigration sentiments. But rather than present all of this as mere exposition or background static, Yishau is able to draw emotional connections between such overarching realities and the grounded experiences of migrant lives such as those of Idera and her children.
Following the tragedy of Demolaʼs death and the exposure of his unflattering secret, the storyline expands to accommodate yet another tragic event. Ideraʼs eldest son, Tunmininu, is brutally assaulted in what is initially assumed to be a racially motivated attack. This attack causes Idera to philosophise: “I had seen enough suffering in my life, endured enough loss and seen others endure the same, that I didn’t feel singled-out or unduly punished by fate anymore.”
Still, Yishau makes a case for stubborn optimism and sheer grit, values which come naturally to migrants/immigrants striving to carve dreams out of hostile environments in the diaspora. It is this unwillingness to sink in despair that forms the central theme of After The End. Faced with great odds and thrust into bleak situations, people such as Idera are left with no choice but to keep on moving. This is also why Idera says, “I had to show them that surviving a tragedy wasn’t only possible but crucial.”
And she survives. They all do: Idera, Lydia, Justus, Tunmininu—they all claw their way out of misery and despair, whether it be from a shattering betrayal, or a repressive society, or gruesome, mindless violence. In negotiating new realities following the destruction of known certainties, Idera and Lydia are not only able to move on, but prevent the sins of one man from taking too much of a toll on innocent victims. In Ideraʼs case, the hard-edged sensibilities of her closest friend Suliat makes her an invaluable source of support to the former, and their connection further points to the restorative power of sisterhood and feminine bonding. If this book were to be a Netflix-styled documentary, it would no doubt be titled Surviving Demola or something of the sort, something equally dramatic.
However, and quite fortunately, Yishauʼs deft storytelling steers After The End away from the terrain of cheap drama and overfamiliar tropes. By fully immersing the reader in the lives, voices and perspectives of four different people, Yishau serves up a narrative that deftly blends psychological depth with well-paced suspense. His control of the narrativeʼs non-linear progression, and development of the characters, translates into revelations about the human condition, as well as a poignant lesson about the ties which bind past to present and future. In Demolaʼs case for instance, the story of his father’s marital mistakes adds a layer of significance to his own errors in marriage. We are all important to the nature of endings, Yishau seems to say, in the sense that we can either end destructive patterns or enable a continuous cycle of pain, abuse, and betrayal.
One might, in thinking far ahead of this story, ponder on the possibility of either one of Ideraʼs children treading a path similar to that of their father. To this, Yishauʼs shrewd grasp of human psychology is enough for reassurance. This understanding is pronounced in his centering of maternal love. A mother’s love and care are absolute expressions of humanity. In After The End, Yishau shows that these qualities can sustain a family with warmth, but are better complemented by fatherly guidance, hence the importance of Justus Kensingtonʼs arc to the storyline.
With After The End, Yishau shuns the familiarity of explosive conflict resolutions. What occurs towards the end of the novel is arguably better, even though the initial shock of the premise dwindles until the storyline nearly becomes predictable. Still, the patient reader is led through a measured flow of catharsis, with endings being knotted or untangled under the broader messages of hope, perseverance, forgiveness, acceptance of fate, and loveʼs enduring power. There is peace for all in the end, it seems, but what are endings even? Can any singular ending be considered truly final at all, or are endings merely new beginnings disguised, abiding time in order to ripen into fresh realities?
These questions might not be fully answered within the context and scope of the story in After The End, but it is the reckoning of thoughtful literature that the best stories often invite endless critical interpretations. Yishauʼs latest book is a grand mark of his improvement in storytelling. As he aims for further mastery, readers can at least look forward to new beginnings in his forthcoming works. For now, this is a good enough end to yet another thrilling chapter in his own story as a teller of tales.♦
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Sima Essien’s review won second place in the After the End Book Review Competition.
Sima Essien won the OkadaBooks Campus Writing Challenge 2018, the Freedom Magazine Prize, and the Abubakar Gimba Flash Fiction Prize. His works have been published in Al Jazeera, The Nation, The Lagos Review, The Muse Journal, Ngiga Review, and Ìtànilé. His writing explores the complexities of family, mental health, and abuse. 𝕏