Yewande’s switch between clarity and ambiguity is a brilliant style, the work of a poet who writes for herself, and for us, and who addresses — even wonders whether she belongs eternally among — the living through a spirit that never dies or among the dead through a body that begins to die the very day we are born.

Each page of the novel enveloped me in a shroud of uncertainty as the book burst in suspense. There were a lot of twists and turns as well as highs and lows that increased my yearning for what was to come.

Mondays, in the past few weeks, always find me in a tight spot. I can’t figure out in good time…