There are stories the living cannot tell, not because they forget, but because they are not equipped to do so. In Fine Dreams, Linda N. Masi’s debut novel, the dead speak not only to remember, but to warn, to mourn, and to watch.
When we first meet Kubra in the prologue of this slim debut novel, she is alive, living in a community near the now world-famous Chibok. But by the opening chapter, Kubra has been dead for several months.
Her spirit, restless and unwilling to move on, lingers in her town. In her own voice, she recounts the haunting story of how she died. We watch her silently observe her grieving mother, who struggles to accept the cruel finality of her daughter’s fate.
Before her death, one of Kubra’s dreams is to see her athletic team, made up of three other girls, win a major tournament. Now, as a ghost, she monitors the team from beyond, curious to see who will take her place and whether her dream will survive her.
She returns to the spot where death claimed her, hoping to discover what will allow her spirit to finally rest. But instead of closure, she finds signs that life in the town has moved on. Houses once damaged have been rebuilt. Shops that burned have been restocked. The mosque has reopened its doors to worshippers.
It is during one of these visits that Kubra comes to a chilling realisation that there may be truth in the saying: one’s neighbour’s footprints should never be ruled out in one’s misfortune. She sees Mama Lakhmi, a supposedly close family friend, speaking with a young man. Soon after, the woman visits Kubra’s mother, who is currently suspended from her post as a school’s administrative vice principal, and gives her a product, which she gets paid for. They talk about the step she intends to take towards her reinstatement.
Kubra watches, disturbed. Her mother welcomes the woman warmly, unaware of the betrayal unfolding before her. Kubra realises that Mama Lakhmi is not the trusted friend she claims to be. Devastated and furious, she screams at the woman, calls her a traitor, and pleads with her to leave her mother, brother, and friends alone. But her voice, bound by death, carries no weight and vanishes into thin air.
Sensing trouble ahead because of the ominous cloud, Kubra begins to fear for the people she left behind: her friends Aquamarine, Grace, Gaddo, and Safiya, the girl who has taken her place on the team.
It is at this moment that we get to properly meet Aquamarine and the others and the narration changes from first person to third person.
Before the narration segues back to Kubra, terrorists have abducted Aquamarine, Grace, Gaddo, Safiya and other girls from their dormitories.
The book lays bare the manifold evils of terrorism, exposing its brutal disregard for humanity. We see terrorists masquerading as soldiers, perverting the honour of military service into a mask for brutality. We witness suicide bombers, mostly young women turned into weapons, their lives reduced to political statements. We see the abduction and impregnation of underage girls, their bodies seen not as sacred but as spoils of war, used to breed the next generation of fighters or to humiliate entire communities. Amina’s story paints a grisly picture of how life after captivity loses meaning and each daybreak brings humongous pain.
We see that to these extremists, anyone who resists their twisted ideology is branded an infidel, marked for death, exile, or subjugation. The violence they unleash, the book shows, is not just physical but psychological and cultural, rupturing communities and sowing generational trauma. The author aptly captures the fact that their war is not only against people but against reason, freedom and memory. And against sense and sensibilities. Even against fairness and justice.
The novel raises some thought-provoking poser: What does it say about a nation when bomb blasts and massacres become routine news? Why do we focus on labels instead of solutions? Is naming an act of avoidance or political maneuvering? What has become of military intelligence if soldiers can’t even be safe in their own barracks? Are institutions crumbling from within? What happens when grief becomes part of the household décor?
Masi’s debut is not an easy read, not because the language isn’t smooth enough or too difficult to understand, but because of the subject of terrorism and the need to sometimes close the book, try to make sense of the horrors on one chapter or page before going further into the dark world of men who feel that God has assigned them to police our morals.
Significantly, an aspect of the editing of this amazing novel suggests a tilt towards an American readership. This is evident in the representation of the school system. In Nigeria, secondary education is structured into Junior Secondary School and Senior Secondary School, each comprising three distinct levels. The book, however, adopts the American ‘Grade’ system, which may cause confusion or dilute the contextual authenticity for Nigerian readers. Such editorial choices, though perhaps made for accessibility, risk erasing vital cultural distinctions, especially in a story rooted in deeply Nigerian tragedies.
Masi has delivered an extraordinary literary work!
***Olukorede S. Yishau is the author of In The Name of Our Father, Vaults of Secrets, United Countries of America and Other Travel Tales and After The End. He is concluding work on his third novel. He lives in Houston-Texas.
