Its a bit of a tradition for me to write reviews for Emezi’s books when I’m raw with the emotions they’ve managed to pull from me. This novel didn’t just pull, it ripped. I swear the words on the last few pages were coated in several sharp needles that jabbed my skin at different intervals and the pain hit me all at once. Now that I’ve finished I’m wondering maybe they weren’t needles at all. They had to have been knives because needles shouldn’t leave scars this big. 

Emezi’s writing almost feels like a set up. They have you thinking you have all the tools you need to withstand those final moments. That they have fully prepped you for the ripping of the band-aid. But nothing could have prepared me for the mourning I would also experience while I read about Vivek’s family mourning him. I thought Emezi’s words were needles, but now I’m certain there were knives. 

I’m mourning the son that Kavita and Chika never knew because they never saw him for who he really was. I’m mourning the Vivek that only existed in the bubble with Osita, Juju, Olunne, Somto, and Elizabeth. I’m not sure what’s heavier: the weight Vivek felt almost his whole life because he knew who he was did not fit who he was supposed to be or the secrets Osita holds close to him like the necklace Vivek never took off. Does it even matter which Vivek I’m mourning? He’s clearly dead, but learning about who he was makes him feel the exact opposite. Truthfully, Vivek died long before he was in his grave; but I’m grateful Nnemdi had a chance to live in the bubble. How do I care for a knife wound?

The Death of Vivek Oji is painfully beautiful with a profound message of not only seeing those we love who for they truly are, but continuing to love them even when it’s not who we thought they should be. Akwaeke Emezi’s words have left a scar, but I will not hide it. I will go into the market like Vivek fully as I am. I do not care who sees.