I met Bernardine Evaristo. Here are the questions I wish I'd asked her. And the one that I did.
Or, local woman gets tongue-tied upon meeting a favourite author
In 2019, Bernardine Evaristo was announced as the joint winner of the Booker Prize, along with Margaret Atwood, for her book Girl, Woman, Other. She made history because she was the first Black woman to win the prize. Marlon James, a Jamaican author, had won the prize in 2015 for A Brief History of Seven Killlings, but I wasn’t as invested in literary news back then. If a furore had been made from his win, I remained unaware. But when Evaristo won, I was deep in the zeitgeist. One of Nairobi’s most popular bookstores, Prestige Bookshop, placed hardbacks of the book in every slot in their display. At the time, I couldn’t afford the hardback and decided to wait until it appeared in second-hand stores, or something.
By 2020, the pandemic had begun and Libby made some libraries available to international readers. I decided to borrow the book. It became one of my favourite books of all time. It follows twelve Black British characters, 11 women and a non-binary person, differing in age, politics, background, and creed. It was one of the most effective displays of Black heterogeneity in British society. One of the most outrageous characters was Winthrop, a post-middle-aged woman who sacrificed everything for her daughter’s wellbeing, except the opportunity to fuck her son-in-law. It’s a blip, a moment in time. It made me lose my breath. I couldn’t imagine a world where a mother betrayed her daughter so brazenly but then again, men don’t have a monopoly on bad behaviour. The affair started innocuously enough. Lennox walked in on Winthrop after a shower. She dropped her towel. He dropped to his knees. She was having too much fun. She loved her husband and daughter dearly but they had never made her feel so alive. Then one day, Lennox just stopped. We aren’t told why. Lennox shows up to visit and Winthrop somehow knows their dalliance is at an end. I vowed if I ever met Bernardine, this would be the first question I’d ever ask her. Why did Lennox end the relationship? They weren’t at risk of being caught. He didn’t suffer an attack of conscience. It all just ended, like buying a book and finding the rest of the pages aren’t printed. Bernardine came to Kenya for the 2024 Nairobi Litfest held from June 28th-30th at the Eastlands Library. I got a chance to ask her one question. I didn’t ask about Winthrop.
The question I asked
When Bernardine walked into the hall set aside for her panel, I sympathised with the girlies who weep, wail, throw up when they see their favourite pop star. I’m a passionate woman. Everything I love and hate, I do with every strand of my DNA. I don’t come to these emotions lightly because the rest of the time, I’m simply inert. But after reading Girl, Woman, Other, I felt like the book changed me spiritually. It challenged me in ways I had sparsely encountered in contemporary literature. I had never imagined a world where I was in the same room as her. When she walked in with her signature big hair with a scarf tied around it, a white shirt, colourful pants, and green shoes, I understood why fans try to rip clothes off their favourite celebrities. They want a piece of them. I wanted to cry and hug her. But I am also a Kikuyu woman. We only show emotion when we win or lose money.
I remained in my seat, vibrating as I listened to her voice and how she saw the world. The host of the panel, Considering the Othered, SomaNami’s Muthoni Muiruri asked questions about her background, her career, her mentorship. A lot of this was discussed, at length, in her memoir and call-to-action for writers, Manifesto: On Never Giving Up. I felt like a teacher’s pet, wanting to shoot up my hand every time she spoke about something I recognised from her book which I read earlier this year.
It was fascinating to listen to her talk about the history of Black literature in Britain, including an initiative that she’d taken up with the Royal Literature Society to publish backlist books by Black authors who historically went under-marketed or unpublished. She also talked about a mentorship she’d done in partnership with Rolex where she was working with an author in their 40s. Something I found admirable and refreshing because every other mentorship seems to exist for prepubescent 20-year-olds who sponsors feel are the only ones that need a leg up. Bernardine also spoke about her personal history in theatre and the Catholic Church and how it influenced her writing.
So when the time came for questions, I decided to ask her something I hadn’t come across in all the interviews and profiles I’d read about her. Bernardine is eager to show the diversity of Black people in her books. And so I asked her what are some of the most informative novels she’s found that inspired her throughout her career. When you search for her favourite books or authors online, you’ll find the same answers of Kazuo Ishiguro or Toni Morrison. I’d hoped to unearth a new author, perhaps even an overlooked book by a seminal author. Donna Tartt, my favourite author of all time, was asked the same question. If you google her favourite authors you’ll get responses in the vein of Tolstoy, Dickens and Virginia Woolf. But only one article talked about her love for Evelyn Waugh. It’s well-known that Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited influenced The Secret History but only one article talked about how her favourite book was Vile Bodies, a book I’d never heard of. I was trying to make lightning strike twice. Bernardine seemed unenthused by the question, even suggesting I make use of booksellers to get such recommendations. She mentioned the same authors found in articles about her: Ishiguro, Morrison, Jacqueline Woodson. She also added Safiya Sinclair, a bestseller in Kenya right now. I wasn’t disappointed by her answer but I was in myself. I should have asked a better question.
The questions I didn’t ask
1. The first question
For literature to be inclusive, it needs to reduce the overwhelm of white-centred voices. A New York Times report in 2020 found that 95% of books are white-authored. Literature is too global for major publishing houses to concentrate so much on white global north voices.
Bernardine’s work in her varied positions in literary establishments in the UK is to redress this imbalance and give more of a chance to marginalised authors—with a focus on Black British and African authors. She talked about how when she was younger, she was driven by anger and was always protesting or “throwing stones from the outside”. After winning the Booker Prize, doors opened for her within the establishment and she saw she could finally enact change. It got me thinking about the principles of change, revolution, and abolition. In many instances, wanting to reform an institution that was previously oppressive from within can be an uphill task. Changes made are done as tokens, where a handful of marginalised people become representative of steps taken to alter the status quo. The institution then remains complacent and when called out, refers back to their token minority as evidence of change. Some questions I wanted to ask include—considering this documented history in other industries like Hollywood, how does Bernardine maintain her integrity? As a leader in the industry, how does she enable putting more marginalised people in leadership positions to ensure they’re not overlooked in the future? Has she received any retaliation from white people, like those who complain about reverse racism when companies have diversity initiatives? This change was only possible because of winning the Booker Prize but there are less established authors who want to ensure they can diffuse the homogeneity of their various industries, does she have any advice for them?
2. The second question
At the end of the Q&A, we were herded outside to a desk where Bernardine would be signing books. I carried the three copies I own of her books which are now proudly labelled with her signature. This was my very first book signing. I always enviously watch our Global North counterparts attend the signings done during their book tours. Unfortunately, even though most popular authors have global appeal, it’s impractical for them to make one stop in Nairobi. Even if it’s only for my sake and I am worthy of it. I am worthy of everything I desire. But even then I couldn’t open my mouth to say anything.
Bernardine mentioned that our paperback editions of Girl, Woman, Other are not particularly common in the rest of the world. She was fascinated. And even then, I said nothing. Before the signing, we were given papers to write down our names with the spelling we desired to make it easier for Bernardine to make the signatures. She only asked me if the leading letter in the name I gave was an M. I nodded, then hoarsely said yeah. I couldn’t open my mouth to enunciate my name. I thought about asking her another question then. From her memoir, it’s clear that Bernardine thinks extensively before writing each book and every one of them is tangentially related to a unique Black experience across history. Lara is based on her family history, The Emperor’s Babe is about a Sudanese immigrant in ancient Rome, Mr Loverman is about an older Anglo-Caribbean gentleman who had to hide a core part of his identity from his family, Blonde Roots is an ahistorical reimagining of the transatlantic slave trade where Black people were the ones who enslaved and tortured white people—probably her most experimental fiction until Girl, Woman, Other. I wanted to know which one she had the most fun and the most difficulty writing. I also wanted to know which one she’d want to bowdlerise if given the chance. A third question I should have asked is if she’d want to venture outside of the confines of literary fiction and more into the fantastical. Blonde Roots showed that she had a nose for speculative fiction, would she consider exploring it more in the vein of N.K. Jemisin? But I didn’t.
3. The final question
Fate realised just how much I wanted to ask Bernardine a meaningful question. After the signing ended, I dithered about approaching her for a conversation. But I do have one major weakness, one which most people can’t believe I have, generalised anxiety. It manifests in the oddest of ways. For instance, I ran out of cooking gas a few days ago. I also happen to be addicted to tea. Upon waking up if I go a few hours without tea I end up with a debilitating headache. I had two options, ask for assistance to buy a gas refill until I could next get money or ask my neighbour for their kettle so I could store hot water. It’s straightforward, easy. But it took me three days to ask for help and at no point did I reach out to my neighbour. I did ask a shopkeeper who’s friendly to me and a neighbour who turned out not to be home but the next-door neighbour who I could see was in the house… nope. Why? I don’t know. It felt like the world would end if I knocked on their door. I eventually asked a friend when my mother told me I’d have to wait a few more days. He helped, wilfully I imagine.
Considering how far my mind can wander when I worry, I couldn’t stop it when I saw Bernardine rise tiredly from her seat after the book signing. I went back and forth, should I corner her? Are we allowed to? Would it be bad form? She must be exhausted. She spoke briefly to the organisers then went to grab a cup of coffee. She took photos of the booths around her and even then, my feet remained glued to my position. I had no conviction that this was a risk worth taking. Approaching her again when she looked like she needed alone time was just wrong. (Something I wish children understood). Eventually, an organiser went and asked her for a photo. When I saw this, a dam broke. Approval. A photo op. I approached her to ask for a photo but a fellow decided to usurp me to grab a pic before me. Probably one of those people who saw skipping lunch lines in high school as a lifelong achievement. I waited patiently for him to get his pictures then approached her. In my mind, I had questions. I promise. I wanted to ask her about her next book. Would it be another nonfiction? Perhaps a more personalised memoir? Would it be about her journey in British literary establishment or her journey since winning the Booker? Would she write another lit fic about a Black British experience? Would it be historical or contemporary? Does she ever plan on retiring from writing?
Of course, I didn’t ask her this. I asked her for a photo. And my friend, also an author who attended her masterclass the day before, took it. He wanted a photo with her but he too was worried about taking up her time. Bernardine asked him if he wanted a picture and essentially called him a silly goose for being so coy. But we’re a reticent people, we’re most afraid of disturbing people we admire.
I don’t know if I will ever get another chance to talk with Bernardine Anne Mobolaji Evaristo OBE FRSL FRSA. When I stood in line for the signing, one attendant wanted to ask her about how she “really” felt about being a joint winner of the Booker Prize. Bernardine has said, multiple times, she was glad to win, even jointly. She grabbed Atwood’s hand when receiving the prize and called it a great moment in women’s history. I bristled when the attendant said she had to have been annoyed. At no point has Bernardine expressed the ire her fans did for being made a co-winner. I told her it was unfair for fans to expect Bernardine to react the way we want her to. We were disappointed that she had to share it with a white woman who was a repeat winner. The only instance I could find of Bernardine expressing disappointment was when the BBC referred to her as Atwood’s joint winner. And this was the kind of erasure most Black fans expected when she was given the prize to share with an established white author. However, Bernardine has made too much progress for people to want her to demonise her prize five years on. I don’t know if Bernardine would bristle at such a question when she’s made her opinion on what happened clear. I can only hope that if (when?) I get the chance to speak with her again, it won’t be a source of ire.
Why am I just now reading this? Lovely.
And now I have to read all your blogs. Or essays, as I'd rather call them.