100 Books Like We Need New Names

I read this book in hard copy first as part of my undergraduate readings at the University of Nigeria, and later on in my graduate studies programme. I have also found it useful for my students in my classes on political economy and decolonization of knowledge.

The book, even though written a long time ago, is a fine and thorough critique of colonialism and its apprehension as the roots of Africa’s development problems. It details how colonialism is one more step in a long history of the appropriation of the resources of the global South for the development of the global North. And how colonialism in its different ramifications is a strategic and emphatic tool of underdeveloping Africa.

I find the book very enjoyable since it was not written in any real esoteric style. It often reads like a fictional account, but is laced with realities and historical facts of… show more.

For those who study or teach about Africa, it is essential to know the pioneers of struggles for justice on the continent. African intellectuals eloquent in European languages began calling out injustices as early as the 18th century. To my mind, however, Nkabinde is a particularly impressive pioneer from the early 21st. It’s not just that African women have been routinely overlooked by historians. The very existence of African lesbians and transwomen was until very recently completely denied. Here, then, for the very first time, an African woman tells of her coming to sexual self-awareness, first as a spirit medium for a powerful male ancestor and then through modern sexual identity discourses. It is a poignant appeal to the humanistic potential of African traditional cultures when married to a universal human rights framework.

A big mistake in much radical analysis is to characterize problems in dualistic terms that externalize responsibility from Africa (Rodney, of course, is wide open to that critique). Thus, colonialism is not just irredeemably bad but simple to identify and directly related to white skin. The end of formal colonialism provided new targets in sometimes caricature form: black-skin-white-mask neocolonialism and neoliberalism, notably. Such things undoubtedly exist. However, Kenworthy’s brilliant, gob-smacking analysis of the unintended consequences of life-saving technologies reveals levels of complexity and complicity that belie easy dualisms. How does something that promises liberation from mass suffering and death (anti-retroviral drugs) become a machine to entrench corrupt elites and opportunistic NGOs, to sell cheap textiles in America, and to exploit poor women’s unremunerated care work? Read, weep, and lose your illusions about corporate social responsibility.

This is no less than Kasril’s fourth memoir, and the one that resonates most with my own existential worries as a privileged white man. Why did a nice, working-class, Jewish boy from Johannesburg take up armed struggle against institutionalized racism? Become a cabinet minister in the country’s first democratic government devoted to expanding social welfare for Africans? Become a trenchant critic of the rot that subsequently set into the party he helped bring to power?

With profound humility and wit, Kasrils takes us through his boyhood years to reflect upon the often-humiliating process of acquiring political consciousness. He speaks to anyone with a leg up in a rigged system: it’s good to have existential doubts about your privileges. But you should still, and more importantly, you can still do the right thing.

This novel explores themes of friendship, betrayal, guilt, and redemption against the backdrop of Afghanistan's tumultuous history. The relationship between Amir and Hassan is central, and the story delves into the power of mentorship and the possibility of atonement.

I could see, taste, and hear the sentences. The characters have stayed alive in my mind for years. One of my top ten books. Timeless. Breath-taking.

I read this book more than thirty years ago, shortly after it was first published.

The story is incredibly twisted and engaging. It features a loving mother who turns greedy and selfish, a very religious grandmother who hates her own daughter, and a grandfather who won’t die, which raises hopes for the mother and children. After the mother's husband dies, she moves her kids to Virginia to live with her parents, where the children are kept hidden away. Their grandmother, who is cruel and hateful, brings them meals but allows them no freedom or love. The attic they stay in is dark and filled with junk, but they also find adventure and creativity there despite being neglected.

The story is told from the perspective of the eldest daughter. She experiences love but eventually learns to hate as she grapples with her mother's influence. The narrative continues in sequels that explore… show more.

You know when you first go to someone else’s house and realise that not every family lives the way yours does?

It’s part of the coming-of-age process and can be both illuminating and destabilising. In Adichie’s story, set in post-colonial Nigeria, 15-year-old Kambili gets the chance to escape her wealthy but religiously-oppressive household and stay with her vibrant, liberal aunt.

I love the way Kambili’s narrative expresses the new freedom she feels there: she has a voice at last and the liberty to experience a sexual awakening. She needs these new strengths as her own family disintegrates into tragedy.  

The experience in this book of orphaned siblings living in the streets of Lusaka is harrowing. The children’s narration of their experience is told in a matter-of-fact way which makes it more poignant because they have accepted their fate. A recommended read for anyone who likes stories about the dark side of growing up and feels like a good cry. This is because although Chimuka the protagonist is fictional; they are thousands of real Chimuka’s growing up on the streets. 

I picked up this book because of its haunting cover—a black-and-white photograph of a girl staring directly into the camera’s lens. From the very first line, I knew I’d encountered something special. Without giving too much away, this book follows a South African family—the Swarts—throughout their lives. What most stuck with me was Galgut’s narration: a slippery voice that fluidly moves between the first and third person. This novel is a masterclass in narrative deftness and possibility. I can’t recommend it highly enough.  

I observe that most crime novels, even the best ones, are not literary masterpieces; it’s all about the plot. I found this book remarkable for numerous reasons, but particularly because it is so well written. It’s a murder mystery set in Zimbabwe’s second city, Bulawayo, on the eve of that country’s first democratic election over the Christmas period in 1980.

The characters are about half black and white, half male, half female, and all extremely well-rounded. That in itself is a remarkable literary feat. It is a murder mystery and deep political intrigue following 25 years of bitter civil war. It’s one of the best crime novels I have read and with an unusually warm woman’s touch. As a matter of interest, the author’s surname, Ndlovu, is also a clan name, meaning elephant.