Our experiences with loss and grief have taught us various coping mechanisms, some of which have been passed down across generations, and others which have developed out of sheer necessity. One particularly notable method that stands out is the way we grieve our losses, especially the death of loved ones, future tenses we cannot properly account for.
We make the dead exist in a future we will never step into, a fabricated tomorrow where they are simply away, “gone on a trip,” “living abroad,” or “working somewhere far.” This form of coping is so widespread that it almost feels cultural, like an accepted way of easing children, and sometimes even ourselves, into a reality too painful to bear all at once.
So, when a child asks about the whereabouts of a family member, be it a father, mother, sister, or brother, the adults often reply with stories that imply the person is still alive, just not currently present. “He traveled.” “They’re abroad.” These answers are given with a smile that conceals grief and sorrow. The child clings to this narrative, perhaps asking periodically when the loved one will return. Eventually, the questions stop because they have internalized this truth. And thus the illusion lingers until the child matures enough to realize the grim reality for themselves, and by that time, the damage has already been done.
If we were to pause for a moment and consider the lasting effects of this habit, this cultural form of protective lying, we might recognize how it fractures emotional development. The adult who was once the child grows up with hope permanently suspended in time. This hope, when it inevitably shatters, leaves behind confusion, unresolved grief, and a complicated sense of betrayal. The realisation that those we trusted deliberately lied to us, even if done out of love or fear, can spark anger and mistrust. These are some of the things Aishat Adesanya interrogates in her debut collection, Funerals and Firecrackers and Other Stories.
This collection, comprising ten deeply-moving short stories, is an exploration of the emotional labyrinth that is the human experience: the struggles for self-worth and sanity, the lasting effects of grief, pangs of loss, the insatiable longing for ‘greener pastures’, and familial conflicts. The stories oscillate between Nigeria and Overseas– some stories are set in England while some are set in Nigeria– but this does only prove that the human condition is the same everywhere.
In the titular story, “Funerals and Firecrackers”, the narrator grapples with the death of his twin sibling, Kehinde. He grows up clinging to the lie told by his uncle that Kehinde had simply “travelled.” Even as he matures and begins to sense the truth, he refuses to fully accept it, holding onto a fragile hope. When the truth becomes undeniable, his grief morphs into anger, particularly towards the uncle who lied to him. This is one of the ways Adesanya illustrates the ripple effects of how a lie told to “protect” a child can become the foundation for deep psychological unrest in adulthood.
Similarly, “The Typewriter”deals with the aftermath of losing a romantic partner. The narrator is thrown into a vortex of emotional turmoil, haunted not just by the absence of her partner but by the context that surrounds his death.
Readers journey with her through the stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and, hopefully, acceptance. For those who have never experienced a personal loss, nor an encounter with grief, the struggles of the narrator are not foreign because of the sheer humanness of the emotions, and consequently, the connection formed with the narrator by the end of the story. But for people whose lives have been latched with grief, the feeling of camaraderie is poignant.
Beyond grief, Adesanya also focuses on trauma, particularly the kind inflicted within family structures. She investigates how parenting decisions, or the lack thereof, can shape a child’s entire future. In several stories, the adults we meet are in some way dysfunctional, and Adesanya often leads us back to their childhoods to uncover the roots of their brokenness. Her approach feels investigative. She doesn’t blame; she probes. What roles did their parents play? What words were said or left unsaid? What emotions were allowed to grow wild, and which were starved?
In “Fugue”, for example, the protagonist’s pain is traced back to a decision her father made during her adolescence which ultimately contributed to her dysfunctional adulthood. In The Typewriter, the narrator is vilified by her mother-in-law after her fiancé’s death, bearing unjust accusations which pushes her to make a life-altering decision. These portrayals invite readers to examine character flaws not as inherent defects but as outcomes of unaddressed pain, miscommunication, and emotional neglect.
By the end of this book, it is important to point out an observation. And it is that the stories do not offer tidy resolutions. Instead, they remain honest in their messiness, allowing readers to sit with discomfort and ambiguity. They challenge us to rethink what we consider ‘normal’.
Aishat Adesanya’s writing is unflinchingly tender. Her language is simple but striking, and her characters linger long after the stories end. This lasting effect was what made the book a great read for me.
