The Parlour Wife is a coming-of-age story about Kehinde, a timid, people-pleasing “golden girl.” It feels like a well-worn trope: a young woman in colonial Nigeria grappling with duty and desire, but by the second chapter, the story finds a certain rhythm.
It’s clear African literature needs to stretch beyond these familiar narratives, but this novel still manages to sit among the better executions of the genre.
Kehinde’s temperament is painted with care: gentle and eager to please, but also burdened by resentment, which makes her niceness appear pretentious rather than kind.
The first part ends with her tentative steps toward independence, with the author using colonial Nigeria’s backdrop to cleverly mirror her personal struggle; the stirrings of dissent in the nation echoing her own bid for freedom.
Still, this literary technique, though effective, has been recycled so often in Nigerian fiction that it has lost much of its appeal. Books like Aiwanose Odafen’s Tomorrow I Become a Woman and Akwaeke Emezi’s The Death of Vivek Oji have also leaned on this approach, using political or cultural upheaval as a mirror for personal transformation. It works, but it is becoming a hallmark of contemporary Nigerian literature and, at this point, it feels more overused than innovative.
One of the greatest missed opportunities in The Parlour Wife is the relationship between Kehinde and her twin, Taiwo. We only get glimpses of Taiwo’s war experiences through letters, but imagine if the author had actually given us Taiwo’s perspective on the battlefield.
It would have added a counterbalance to Kehinde’s sheltered narrative, grounding the story in the stark reality of war rather than leaving us with yet another retelling of a young woman’s “awakening.”
That shift would have been the boost this book so desperately needed. By keeping Taiwo at a distance, the novel closed off what could have been a fresh and compelling direction.
Similarly, secondary characters like Baba Tope are underdeveloped. We see him brutalizing a man on the lawn, but we’re given no real background about his business dealings or motives. Instead of being textured, he becomes another caricature of “man with power = man with violence.”
If his personal history or the corruption in his trade had been explored, the novel might have gained a stronger layer of social commentary on class and exploitation. From a reader’s perspective, he was laughable rather than feared, and it made little sense that his household trembled before a man who, to us, had no depth or menace. The weaknesses, however, are difficult to ignore.
Character development is rushed, especially for Kehinde and her family, leaving the reader with a protagonist you can pity but not fully root for. She feels like someone you might know from afar, not close enough to defend, not endearing enough to love.
Even the narration sometimes betrays the story, tending to ramble in places. Entire passages can be skimmed without missing anything significant, which dilutes her voice and disconnects the reader from her journey.
The cultural details, particularly around food, are also jarring. Where in Nigeria is akara made with okra and prawns? Or beetroot salad served in a fisherman’s home? And saving akara batter for lunch would surely end in sourness.
These inaccuracies break the flow and reveal a shaky grasp of Nigerian cuisine. Authors need to understand that these books are as much for pleasure as for information. To a foreign reader, details like this aren’t just quirks; they shape how Nigerian culture is imagined. And if someone comes away thinking we mix okra into akara batter, then the novel has failed its local and global audiences.
In the end, The Parlour Wife is not without merit. It is readable and occasionally engaging, and Kehinde’s early steps toward independence hold promise. However, the flaws, thin character arcs, missed opportunities with Taiwo, caricatured side characters, rambling narration, and cultural inaccuracies ultimately weigh it down.
What could have been a layered, memorable story ends up feeling like a retread of overused tropes. It’s a novel you may like in passing, but not one you’ll return to.
Kehinde herself often drifts from sheltered to outright frustrating. Some choices, like using Emeka as her courier between her and the LMWA or parading stepchildren with her lover, read less as youthful naivety and more as reckless foolishness. The author seems bent on portraying her as wise, but her actions betray otherwise. It’s difficult to forgive this as innocence when it feels more like a lack of sense.
The secondary characters fall flat. They are too polarized between good and evil and lack the balance and human complexity that make them compelling. You like them, but never deeply.
In the end, Parlour Wife is not without merit. It’s readable, even engaging at points, but its flaws—cultural missteps, thin character arcs, rambling point of view, and tired tropes—hold it back from being truly memorable.
