
A Today Show Most Anticipated Book of 2023
An Electric Literature Recommendation for 2023
A Goodreads Buzziest Debut of 2023
‘A beautiful ode to the power of storytelling’ Eleanor Shearer
‘A brilliant, compelling exploration of familial legacies. A mythic and edifying read’ Irenosen Okojie, author of Speak Gigantular
Growing up in Brooklyn with their Caribbean parents, Zora and Sasha Porter’s days were enchanted by stories from the islands – the mischievous spider Anansi both seductive and vengeful; the flame-breathing Rolling Calf who haunts butchers; and ocean-dwelling Mama Dglo, said to be half snake, half human.
Now they are teenagers, and life at home has become unbearable. Their parents’ tempestuous relationship has fallen apart, their mother Beatrice desperately ill, their father Nigel living with another woman. While an unsettled Zora escapes into her journal, dreaming of being a writer, Sasha discovers sex and chest binding, spending more time with her new girlfriend than at home. But they can’t hide forever. The Anansi Stories that captivated them as children begin to creep into the present, revealing truths about the Porter family’s past they must all face up to.
The Human Origins of Beatrice Porter and Other Essential Ghosts is an extraordinary debut novel, a celebration of the power of stories that asks – what happens when ours are erased? Do we disappear? Or do we come back haunting?
Read the opening below.
PROLOGUE
What’s My Name?
A Prelude
By the time you finish reading this I will be dead and you, dear reader, will have forgotten all about me.
You see I am what they call Your Faithful Narrator, found in places the West calls fairy tales, what men call gossip, what children call magic. Let me tell you a story. This one we call the first. It is a story that sounds like all the others, and yet it is also the one that has allowed for the existence of all that will come afterward—but we’ll get to that.
In this story, two women sit inside a bar. The first one says, “Let me tell you a story.” The second says, “So, tell me already!” “Okay, okay,” she goes. “Once upon a time, there was a girl,” she starts and looks into her drink. Her tongue starts to hang out like an udon noodle. “Well, go on,” the friend says, mistaking her hanging tongue for excitement. Only the girl’s tongue won’t move. The girl’s breath is fixed in midair. Her lips form the letter O. Her friend pricks the tongue with her fork to see what’s the matter, and the tongue falls out and skitters like worms on the ground. The bartender scoops up all the pieces he can find, and they wriggle in his hands. He worries about the mess he’s made. He asks the friend to fetch a jar and cap from the top shelf of the bar in order to contain the skittering tongue pieces. He looks down and notices no blood—only eraser dust.
The bartender thinks this is strange, but he goes to the bar to fetch his needle and thread. He begins to sew the tongue back together for the girl. This is a very difficult job for the man, as the pieces of her tongue keep moving. Like the tongue doesn’t want to be caught. Mountains of eraser dust are flying from her mouth, getting all over the floor. Her breath stands before them. The bartender does a good job of mending except that he sews her tongue onto a piece of paper and stuffs it into her mouth. The girl and her friend rejoice as the girl begins to speak again. But every time she tries to tell her story, the words come out backward. The ending changes.
Let me tell you a story. This one will give you hope. Once upon a time there was a girl. And this girl grew to be a woman. And this woman had the ability to conjure stories from ghosts. Now the conjure woman had three daughters who loved her stories so much that when she died it was all that she left them. Little did they know that these stories had a life before them. That this book had a life before me.
You see, the woman and her family existed in a place called Brooklyn where the maples lined the pavement, and the houses were made from limestone and brownstone that glittered like stars do under moonlight. It must have been divine providence that whitefolks refused to live on these streets, believing they were haunted, therefore leaving the most beautiful houses to be claimed by the descendants of slaves from all across the Atlantic.
Whitefolks were not entirely wrong about the haunting either. If you were to walk down these streets, you might hear the faint sound of steel drum and boom box and chickadee and pigeon. Or you might hear the chattering of ghosts—the spirits of colonialists, Ashanti warriors, slave holders, African griots, mythic creatures, and stories long since forgotten. But while whitefolks may call this a haunting, we know them to be the ancestors. After all, they only want to be able to walk through their homes like they did before their deaths—to sit in the kitchen drinking Milo, bestowing wisdom onto their children who are at risk of forgetting all about them.
Now this family lived in the only rose-colored building at the end of Maple Street. The youngest called herself Zora or She Who Will One Day Grow Up to Be a Great Writer Like Her Namesake. She could be found conjuring her mother’s words into stories or if not, she could be caught, face flushed with embarrassment, fantasizing about a boy or two.
And then there was Sasha, the eldest, who felt her story should shine brightest for once. Commonly referred to as the Black Sheep or She Who Nearly Disappeared Until She Found Her True Self—this girl did have spunk. They say the girl had a chip on her shoulder the size of El Tucuche Mountain for nearly everyone, but particularly for her father who, legend had it, defeated a Rolling Calf with only a penknife and the power of his gaze.