Fans pick 100 books like The Two Princes of Calabar

Sensbach combines impressive archival skills with sophisticated analyses of textual and visual evidence to reconstruct the extraordinary life of a formerly enslaved woman of African descent, whose interracial marriage and missionary calling took her from the Caribbean to Germany and West Africa.

Rebecca’s Revival is a methodological tour de force, working from fragmentary evidence to reveal the complexity of issues of slavery, religion, and identity in the transatlantic eighteenth-century world.

Refusing to over-simplify the certainty of the evidence or its implications, Sensbach’s frequent use of words like “may,” “might,” “if,” and “perhaps” reflects not the weakness of indecision but rather the strength of a historian who discriminates the known from the unknown, and more importantly, the possible from the probable.

Equiano’s autobiography fascinated me when I stumbled upon a paperback edition of it in a local bookstore nearly thirty years ago.

A bestseller during Equiano’s lifetime, his Interesting Narrative is appreciated as a work of enduring historical and literary value. The odyssey he recounts takes him from enslavement as a child in Africa to becoming a leading figure in the struggle to abolish the transatlantic slave trade.

Along the way, he serves in the British Royal Navy, gains his freedom, participates in a scientific expedition to the Arctic, has a religious conversion, observes various kinds of slavery in North and Central America, England, Europe, and the Middle East before agreeing to help administer settling in Africa formerly enslaved poor Blacks who had joined the British forces during the American Revolution.

A masterful recreation from fragmentary evidence of the life and zeitgeist of an extraordinary individual, Sweet’s microhistorical biography demonstrates how an individual life can illuminate the culture of the African-Portuguese diaspora in Africa, South America, and Europe during the eighteenth-century.

Sweet’s subject is a very uncommon representative of the common man or woman. Like other slaves, Álvares repeatedly resurrected himself by creating networks of kinship and community through a combination of resistance, accommodation, and appropriation.

His reputed power to heal soon caused him as much trouble in Brazil as it did in Africa.

Sweet argues that the similarities between Roman Catholic and African theologies account for why Álvares so quickly (and apparently sincerely) embraced baptism, communion, and confirmation in the Church, without rejecting his African beliefs and practices.

Rather than writing the life of just one person, Pybus scours fragmentary church, legal, military, and prison records on three continents to create what might be called a cumulative biography.

Pybus reconstructs the lives of individuals in the diaspora of men, women, and their families who embraced Britain’s offer of freedom to anyone who fled rebel enslavers to join its forces during the American Revolution.

Among them were men formerly enslaved to George Washington and Patrick Henry.

Evacuated by the withdrawing British forces at the end of the war, the continuing quest for freedom of Black Loyalists brought them to Canada, Britain, Africa, and Australia.

Exquisitely written and profoundly wise, this is one of my all-time favorite novels. Ifemulu and Obinze meet in high school, forming a deep attachment that continues into university. When political turmoil in Nigeria forces them to emigrate to separate countries, their love story comes to an unexpected halt.

As I read this book, I was moved by Ifemulu’s struggle to recapture her sense of self and stirred by the grief she felt, both for her broken relationship and for her country. Alternating between Nigeria and the USA, the novel transported me into Ifemulu’s world, making me reflect anew on questions of race, identity, and belonging. 

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.

Released in 2021, God of Mercy satisfied my need for history and fantasy with an authentic portrayal of Igbo traditions, language, and spirituality. This dark tale follows Ijeoma, a girl blessed with the ability to fly, and delves into the complexities of faith, community, and the clash between traditional religions, ancient customs, colonial encroachment, and modern ideas.

Nwoka's beautiful prose and intricate storytelling immersed me in a world where the supernatural smoothly integrates with everyday life. The novel’s depiction of a small village struggling to preserve its cultural heritage in the face of external pressures struck a chord with me as I grew up at a time when traditional religions were still contending with colonial religions in my country’s native villages.

This novel offered me a profoundly enriching reading experience that honored the past while stimulating the imagination. Trigger warning: child abuse and torture.

I knew nothing about this book’s author but was immediately hooked by the engaging voice of the young protagonist. I would have followed her anywhere. She led me out of Nigeria, on the run from warlords who burned her village, to a refugee detention center in the UK. Then on the loose, an undocumented young Nigerian woman searching for the one man in London who could vouch for her. What she does find is the man’s widow. And I found a story I couldn’t stop reading. Only later did I learn that the author is a man. And that he’d written the book to shine a light on the cruelty done to Nigerians in the name of oil rights, and the mistreatment of refugees in UK detention centers. Well done, Chris.

Unimpressed by Amos Tutuola’s debut novel, I approached My Life in the Bush of Ghosts with caution. However, I’m glad I took the leap. Tutuola’s vivid descriptions of supernatural entities from Yoruba tradition appealed to both the avid fantasy reader and the cultural historian in me.

The narrative of a young boy’s journey through a mystical forest paints an uncluttered picture of postcolonial Nigerian life. Despite my preference for complex prose, this simple storytelling evokes memories of time spent in my ancestral village, listening to tales told by the elders. Tutuola’s writing style, influenced by oral tradition, captivated my imagination, taking me on a uniquely Nigerian adventure.

Writing about a Nigerian family’s migration from Nigeria to the US, I appreciated Atta’s ability to masterly cover a wide range of issues without losing focus.

I was totally charmed by the remarkable way in which this novel managed to take me along on a journey that ultimately raises deep appreciation of each character’s point of view in the course of touching on issues such as interracial as well as intra-racial tensions and familial strains exacerbated in a new geographic and cultural environment.