Book Review: You Made A Fool of Death With Your Beauty
Helen Hosein talks us through this powerful story by Akwaeke Emezi
A review of Akwaeke Emezi’s You Made A Fool of Death With Your Beauty - a story of love, overcoming grief and self-acceptance.
By Helen Hosein
I was eager to read You Made a Fool of Death with Your Beauty, by Akwaeke Emezi. As a devoted reader and lover of their previous works - Freshwater, Pet, and The Death of Vivek Oji, I would definitely consider myself a fan of their work. Familiar with their ability to move seamlessly from one genre to another. Romance novels aren't always my cup of tea, but I couldn't resist giving Fool of Death a go, and, it turns out, I was in for something special. Despite the mention of death in the book’s title, the theme of grief took me by surprise, as did its profound healing powers. This book came at a very pertinent time for me, and I suspect for us all.
“While I wouldn't wish grief upon anyone, having a friend who shared my sentiments of loss kept me grounded. “
In the months before the release of this book, I lost my mother. Her passing was part of a string of funerals that came in the wake of the pandemic: those that survived over a year of isolation, the virus itself, only to succumb to the internal ailments they had been fighting as soon as the world reopened. Perhaps they were holding on, yearning to hug and embrace their loved ones one final time. The day after I returned from Trinidad, where I had gone to arrange my mother's belongings, I attended the funeral of my best friend's father. 2022 was like that. While I wouldn't wish grief upon anyone, having a friend who shared my sentiments of loss kept me grounded. We shared stories, milestones, and experiences that only those in grief can understand—experiences that I saw in Feyi, Fool of Death’s main character.
Grief can be very personal and, at times, like a burden carried only by you, but when you find someone whose loss echoes your own, that burden becomes shared—even briefly—and lightened. Feyi finds solace in someone who, like her, has lost an intimate partner. That person is on a similar journey, one that mirrors the same pain and suffering. That is what makes this love story so special: by loving this person in their grief, Feyi is learning to love herself in hers.
“Feyi devours her first lover with the fervour of a first proper meal at the end of a long day.”
We first encounter Feyi stepping out on Memorial Day, marking what promises to be a hot girl summer. Full of anticipation and risk-taking in an attempt to reclaim a sense of intimacy, connection, and normalcy. Like many of us venturing back out into the social world post-lockdown, spurred by an insatiable hunger for connection that drives us past our fears, even into recklessness at times. Feyi devours her first lover with the fervour of a first proper meal at the end of a long day. The urgency is palpable in Emezi's prose, as Feyi breathlessly gasps, "Faster." This contrasts beautifully with the introduction of the main love interest.
In interviews, Emezi describes it as a "slow burn". As a reader, this feels less like the teasing suspense of a will-they-won't-they situation and more like the slowness with which you'd savour a gourmet meal. There's no rush to move on to the next course while the lingering flavours of the amuse-bouche are still dancing on your palate. The book ends with the fitting words, "We have time." Time can often feel like it's running out when the presence of death is everywhere. Learning to live again is learning to savour the time we have.
Feyi finds strength isn't solely based on romantic connection but also in friendship and art. Feyi's aptly named bestie, Joy, her ride-or-die, is a constant presence throughout the novel, even defying the boundaries of distance. Joy roots for Feyi, validates her, and helps her find the courage to go after what she wants, imbuing her with the courage to explore both romance and art. Feyi's art is a soul-baring outlet for her grief—something she considers frivolous at first but eventually has the confidence to demand a fair price for. All of this is part of Feyi's healing journey. She isn't in search of a romantic partner to complete or complement her; rather, she views romance as one of many beautifully woven threads of self-acceptance.
Emezi's work leaves little room for criticism. The unnamed island felt like home, down to its dewy sunrises and singing Kiskadees. By deliberately leaving the location unspecified, Emezi leaves room for every islander—whether by birth, heritage, or simply by affinity—to find the comfort of home in it. However, in a world that fetishises the Caribbean as a (holiday) destination rather than a place, a name would have given it more grounding and permanence. There is an intangibility to "The Islands," the Global North's vacation spot. Yet, despite the hashtags, it is a real place where people live, work, sweat, and get their hearts broken. All of these realities happen on Emezi's island; therefore, it deserves a name, even if a fictitious one.
There is a nod to queerphobia on the island, which, sadly, is an enduring, though evolving, issue. The queerness of Emezi's characters surfaces as a way of bringing them together but otherwise feels a little superficial. Queerness did not, for better or worse, colour every character's experiences the way their grief did. My grief is Queer, and my grief is Black, because I am Queer, and Black, and never one without the other. I would have liked to see more of that in Fool of Death, beyond isolated instances of queerphobia. Emezi's characters are always richly complex, and illustrating that complexity on the page can be a challenge; however, I think they can lean further into those intersections while remaining on theme. Regardless, it is wonderful to have complex, intersectional characters like me represented on a page at all. For that, I am grateful to them.
The greatest pleasure of this novel is Emezi's writing, which is both visceral and vibrant, as always. We can see it, taste it. The food, the art, and the sex. We are there. In bringing these characters to life, they bring us to life in a way that is ultimately fulfilling and joyful. There is one moment where a character compares grief to a venomous Lionfish and the devastation it wreaks with its spikes. And yet, with care and preparation, the same lionfish can become a delicious meal. To paraphrase the author's own words, let us celebrate Emezi and the art that they make that reminds us that grief, when shared, can also be the softness we feel when the spikes that pierce through us are removed. Something that gives us joy. Something that can fill our souls. For that, we thank them.