Off the TBR Pile: New York, My Village by Uwem Akpan

I should have remembered what time of year it was before I started “New York, My Village.”

Uwem Akpan’s exploration of racism, religion, war atrocities and family is a tour de force in tragedy sprinkled with satire — an excellent piece of literary fiction for which I should have considered its themes before picking it up to read while in the throes of the seasonal blues. (Which, by the way, now starts for me on January 2 and doesn’t lift until the first 65-degree day or when tree leaves bust through — whichever comes first.)

For me, this book, and the context in which I was reading it, is all about perspective. First, the way in which this book landed on my TBR pile a year ago — my daughter had picked it up while interning in NYC herself — so she was able to connect to Akpan’s protagonist, a Nigerian editor named Ekong who was on a work visa to NYC to experience the publishing industry at one of its epicenters. Ekong’s daily journeys to and fro within Manhattan and beyond in some respects were the lighter part of the novel. The food, the neighborhoods, the sights and sounds were brought to life through the eyes of a first-time visitor and was the more glorious perspective of the city that never sleeps.

Then there’s the inside look at the publishing industry and a half-hearted attempt to incorporate diversity into its output. The heartache suffered by Ekong at the hands of supposed friends was wrenching. It’s a bit of a “in your face” kind of moment for readers willing to consider their own biases when it comes to personal diversity efforts. And Ekong’s perspective of and reaction to his experiences is especially critical to consider when the reader remembers that much of what is happening is impacted by the fact it is his first time in America, and everything in his life up to these moments is clouded by memories of war and conflict between neighboring communities inside Nigerian borders.

Then there are the war atrocities themselves — having read similar tomes in which authors have no issue with brutal honesty in describing just how bad things were, I was reminded, “Hey, maybe when it’s -20 degrees with the wind chill outside and you are essentially hating your existence, it’s probably not the time to read about war crimes on children and families.”

And last but not least, I offer this additional trigger warning: bugs. It’s a lot. And when you are cooped up inside and start getting the heebie jeebies, all I can recommend is that the book could possibly serve as inspiration to go on a cleaning frenzy.

Timing aside (I’m thinking there’s a three-week period in the fall I could have pulled this off better), the novel serves as an excellent reminder that nobody knows what anyone is going through — and that even when you ask, you may not be getting all the details. There is joy in Ekong’s ability to rise up through all that he endures, and the storytelling is both artful and impactful.