Books like Crick Crack, Monkey — picked by fans

I did not take to this book right away. Both main characters seemed rigid and selfish in ways that put me off initially. When I came back to the novel some years (decades?) later, I could better see and appreciate the complexity of building a life in racist America of the 1920s. The rigidity that had initially put me off seemed much more understandable as a defense mechanism in a society that was largely hostile to them as women of color.

Giving the book another go, I’ve come to admire the way Larsen uses her characters’ decisions (about whether to pass as white, have children, trust the men they’ve chosen to live with, etc.) to explore complicated ideas surrounding color and race. There are also some scathing indictments of whites, particularly white men that raise some pretty big questions about how race and gender work together, even in our own… show more.

Every time someone asks me whether I, a Black woman with albinism, would have ever considered passing for white, I think of the unnamed protagonist of this book and his conflicting desires to uplift his own race while also escaping the dangers of being a Black man at the height of America’s obsession with lynching. (And let’s be honest, he also enjoys the social privilege and upward mobility that come with being mistaken for white.) Of course, the title tells us which choice he’s going to make long before we read it for ourselves, but I was still unprepared for the gutting last lines of this book. It is a master class in telling the story of the backward glance, and in what one loses by trying to save himself. 

I wasn’t far into Love before it became crystal clear why its author fled her native Haiti after publishing it, in spite of the fact that the novella is ostensibly historical fiction. The narrator Claire’s depiction of a Duvalier-esque commandant is a scathing one, and in truth, no one escapes Claire’s acerbic wit, keen eye for detail, and incisive observations about colorism, class, and the perpetual violence that is engendered by colonial rule and persists long after its end. Claire is both an unreliable narrator—she is jealous, petty, and bitterly indignant about her treatment by her family—and yet, a trustworthy one. Love taught me how to create a Black woman narrator who does not have to be trusted (or even liked) to be listened to, believed. 

I have loved Black literature written in Southern AAVE since reading Charles Chesnutt’s The Conjure Woman in graduate school. But perhaps what I love most about the narrator, Octavia (also known as Sweet Pea), is that she’s fluent in many languages: the language of the hood where she lives, of the classroom where she excels, and of the playground, where her poverty is often a cause for ridicule, but where her sassy, outspoken nature is treated with grudging respect. Early 1980s Atlanta is an unsafe place for children: drugs, gangs, and the Atlanta Child Murders are threatening their very existence, and like many of the stories on my list, Octavia’s triptych also ends with a departure. However, her wit and savvy make clear that, wherever she lands, she’s going to be alright. 

This is a series of essays that examine the importance of bringing historical knowledge to the community and also providing concise accurate information on African history and Caribbean and African American assertions for moving beyond the imposed limitations. It is preceded by a timely introduction and followed by a series of essays which reflect on the contributions of one of the most important Caribbean historians of the African experience who lived a life which manifested the Caribbean radical-intellectual tradition.

This book is an intensive examination of "Rhodes Must Fall" – a student-led movement that erupted in South Africa in 2015 to protest the persistence of the legacies of apartheid more than two decades after its formal end.

The movement called for the removal of a statue of settler colonist Cecil Rhodes from the University of Cape Town as a metaphor for the dismantling of these legacies.

I love the book because while it is written in solidarity with the movement’s aim to dismantle white supremacy, it is also deeply attentive to how easily a politics of decolonisation can be misdirected at other marginalised groups – in this case, Black migrants from outside South Africa, who have frequently been at the receiving end of xenophobic violence.      

This middle-grade horror novel follows Corinne, a courageous girl who isn’t afraid to go into the forest she’s been warned about, but when she does, something evil follows her back out.

The jumbies of Caribbean folklore are malevolent tricksters, and there is one image from this book that I will never, ever get out of my head. I’m not going to tell you what it is! But it’s toward the end and has to do with the douens and backward feet. It’s a great spooky read, but I really love how the heart of the story is rooted in loss, memory, and trying to save a parent. And not for nothing, it’ll make you crave oranges! 

The best book on the legal basis for reparations from the Caribbean’s foremost historian. It offers a historical examination of the justification for reparations for the cost and lost labor the British gained during enslavement and brings together African and indigenous people's rights.

The story is set in Canada during the 1920s but Baxter, the main character, is an immigrant from the Caribbean and exemplifies a consequence of the region’s slave history. He is part of the diaspora of descendants seeking better lives in other parts of the world. But although in a different country, Baxter does not escape the pressure to accept a position in a subservient class.

Mayr effectively creates the sense of threat that pervades Baxter’s environment, intensified by his sexual orientation. A saving grace is his peer group of fellow porters. Initially they seem cruel and disinterested, but when faced by oppressive authority, they rally around him. This book reminded me that though the physical confinement of slavery has ended, the devaluation of Blackness continues.

What I personally loved about Open Water was just how original it was. From the second-person narration to the poetic prose and the beautiful portrayal of a Black man, not only being on the receiving end of love but also, the giver – a depiction we don’t see enough in publishing. I also enjoyed following how two artists fell in love, organically. And yet, I didn’t feel like a fly on the wall. A key takeaway I got from the story was how freeing vulnerability can be, but also, how difficult it can be to express emotions in words. Although triggering in places, overall, I found Open Water a comforting read; there were lots of cultural references that made me smile and nod my head, such as Peckhamplex cinema and Morley’s chicken shop.