A review by carrietmills
Dear Senthuran: A Black Spirit Memoir by Akwaeke Emezi

5.0

I adore Emezi's work: The Death of Vivek Oji still makes me tear up if I linger too long in thought while waiting at stoplights. Freshwater opened up the long forgotten emotions around past trauma, allowing me to tap into the vestiges of a younger self, a younger mindset and worldview. So, I came into Dear Senthuran: A Black Spirit Memoir with high expectations.

I never worry about sounding arrogant; I think I have accepted that I am, in fact, outrageously arrogant. So be it; what else would anyone expect from a god?

Emezi identifies as an ọgbanje, emerging into self awareness of their god status tangled in a human body. At first glance, this makes their stories seem unrelatable, existing in an inaccessible plane. But it is precisely that many of the experiences documented in the book are so painfully human that the writing hits deep, pierces through the armor, comforts the spirit. After my hysterectomy, I craved others' experiences, desperate to hear how others advocated in a system obsessed with fertility above human rights. Emezi captures that aggravating and liberating experience flawlessly.

It was considerably difficult to convince a doctor to remove an uninjured organ, even though my wholeness depended on its absence, especially because that organ was reproductive and they thought I was a woman.

In ways, it is difficult and yet easy to blow through. Much of the subject matter is difficult and pings triggers, but there's something restorative to the way Emezi voices these experiences, bringing a sense of calm.