88 books like The Man Died

This book by Franz Kafka may well be the OG book in the pursuit of weirdness in long-form fiction. Telling the harsh and anxious story of Joseph K’s unexplained arrest, Kafka brilliantly creates a universal allegory for the way we often feel like we must defend ourselves against a world that feels impossible to understand.

I admire Mandela’s strong character in overcoming what must’ve been his pursuit of a seemingly impossible goal. At the time, his fight was against the overwhelming strength of the people in power, who had no hesitation about using extreme force and imprisonment to prevent him from achieving his goals. 

When we think of scary animals we think of gnashing teeth and tearing claws, but obviously Orwell’s famous parable presents a very different kind of malevolence: that of overweaning ambition and our deep-seated instinct to control.

The pigs that present themselves as heroes and then slowly, greedily, inexorable turn into murderous dictators, forcing the other animals to do their bidding and then slaughtering them when they become too old, are of course not really pig-like at all—they are human-like, and therefore all the more terrifying. 

I studied this great work of literature in the 1960s in Secondary School in Mombasa and the injustice of humanity in this tragic story is still indelibly etched in my heart. The story is set in Ndotsheni, a poor, agricultural village in South Africa but with a strong sense of community and in the city of Johannesburg a corrupt, big city where it's every man for himself. It is about a Zulu pastor, Stephen Kumalo, who receives a letter that his sister in Johannesburg has fallen sick. Kumalo undertakes the difficult journey travelling from his village to the city in the hopes of aiding his sister and of finding his son, Absalom, who left to go to the city and never returned. What really moved me is the estranged relationship of two fathers and their sons that evoke anguish in the fathers. Upon reading this book the message that resonated… show more.

I haven’t read a better book in a long time than YZ Chin’s collection of linked stories.

At the centre of a panoply of characters and ways of thinking, we find Isabella Sin, a woman who might be taken as a personification of Malaysia, a troubled young nation searching for an identity as it struggles against its own history.

Not unlike what is required of her country, what is ultimately required of Isabella is to “become who she was.” YZ Chin’s voice offers the sort of nuance and depth that I feel characterises the best in literary fiction.

I really enjoyed this excellent, ethereal collection of stories from Booker Prize winner Ben Okri who, from early on, has always infused the supernatural and dream logic into his literary work to get at a deeper truth in his very grounded stories about post-independence Nigeria and Nigerians. The lightest on its speculative elements out of all the books I’ve recommended, it’s also a great entry point for literary fiction fans looking to ease into the more flighty and wild parts of African speculative fiction. There are all the realities of life – anxiety, joy, poverty, war, love, but there are spirits and strange things too. Okri’s writing lures you in and takes you on a journey to observe Nigerian life from a skewed angle with unexpected tenderness. 

In Odenigbo, the Professor of Statistics at Nsukka University who is a main character in Adichie’s powerful novel, she gives us a mathematician who is both brilliant and flawed, both good and bad.

He is a mass of contradictions, as we all are: a fully-rounded person. Adichie’s parents were caught up in the Biafran-Nigerian civil war – the subject of this book – and her father James Nwoye Adichie was a real-life Nsukka statistician.

There’s a tell-tale gap in his research output: between 1967 and 1974 he published no papers. Call me sentimental, but when Adichie gives to Odenigbo’s lost research articles titles that might fit with her father’s work, I like to think that it’s a tribute to the work he also did not have the chance to complete.

This compelling and beautifully written story begins in 1968 during the Biafran civil war in Nigeria, creating a unique setting of hardship, hunger, and death afflicting the people living in the area. Ijeoma, the 11-year-old protagonist, is sent away after a life-changing event and lives in a squalid hut when a young girl from another tribe comes to stay. Despite the difficulties surrounding them, the girls fall in love and the intensity of their desire continues as they grow. I enjoyed how Okparanta writes of the naturalness of this first love and how they cared for each other. Though the girls are separated, they reunite, but face religious repression from their community, which uses the Bible against them. The girls move on with their lives and Ijeoma finds another love, but this too, suffers from cultural and religious constraints. According to Okparanta (who lives in NY), Nigeria is a very… show more.

English enslavers called Ancona Robin Robin John and Little Ephraim Robin John “princes” because they were literate English-speaking members of one of two ruling African slave-trading families in present-day southeastern Nigeria.

The lives of the Johns illuminate the surprisingly complex relationships among the participants in the transatlantic slave trade, when African suppliers of enslaved Africans often had as much economic and political power as their European customers.

The English allies of the rival family captured the two men during a trade war between the families in 1767.

They were taken to the Caribbean and North America, with several escapes and recaptures, before being brought to England, where they successfully sued for their freedom. They returned to the family business in Africa.  

I admire the author's ability to write about the conflicting mesh of emotions she had to cope with after her father's unexpected demise. After losing my mother in 2021, I realized that grief isn't a linear process. Instead, it often felt like I was navigating unfamiliar terrain without a roadmap.

Adichie's memoir helped me understand that grief is a “cruel kind of education,” and we need to equip ourselves for it by having more meaningful conversations about death. Notes on Grief also encouraged me to view grief as an opportunity for self-reflection and spiritual growth.