When you say “Man Booker,” you usually say “almost un-understandably literary.” When I think of Man Booker nominees or winners I enjoyed, I think, undoubtedly, of Lincoln in the Bardo, which I have checked out of the library and read in pieces, always enjoying it, but never finishing it before I had to return it. I think of The Bone People, whose unfamiliar prose threaded its way into my thoughts, changing my own internal narration. I think about books that demand your attention, that demand to be read in a quiet room safe from distraction.
My Sister the Serial Killer was something else entirely.
This début novel has been hyped a lot recently for a number of reasons. First, it’s an #ownvoices story about a pair of Nigerian sisters. Second, it has a gorgeous voice that comes right off the page as the more matter-of-fact of the two sisters cleans up the messes made by the tropey “pretty” one: the repetitive slaughter of her boyfriends.
While this slasher/satire romp is certainly well-written, it’s also a lot more formulaic than I would have expected. Clues are scattered throughout that point towards the inevitable ending; the short chapters and addictive voice make it a page-turner I zoomed through in an afternoon at the beach. This isn’t a criticism: rather, it’s a nod of appreciation to a well-written beach read, an amalgam of a smart voice, a smart premise, and a seamless execution.