Matryoshka Matryoshka: A Review of Nikki May’s This Motherless Land
♥ However, with Wahala and This Motherless Land, Nikki May is making all the difference, showing that the “half-caste” is not just a rare artwork to be marveled at but an entire world unto itself—complex, layered, and undeniably whole. ♥
Like people, places are demanding. The land does not move to accommodate persons; it is the migrant, in the crossing of borders, who learns to carve spare personas in order to survive. This is a recurring lesson decipherable in the reading of Nikki May’s second novel, This Motherless Land (2024).
Divided into four parts, centered on four important years of the protagonists’ lives (1978-1998), the novel is a journey itself—from Nigeria to England and from England to Nigeria, it is a journey from home to a place that rejects you and to home again, a journey from love to hate and to love again, from greenness to grayness and to greenness again, from the warmth of a mother to the pallid frigidity of motherlessness. This bildungsroman journey navigates familial trauma, confronts the turmoil of youth and grief, explores oppressive forces of sexism, racism, elitism (many more isms) and love. Here, life is a ravenous whirlpool.
The concept of the Russian Matryoshka doll symbolizes themes like motherhood, continuity, and hidden layers within a person. This is exemplified in the case of Funke Oyenuga, who subsequently becomes Katherine Stone. Like Fanny Price in Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park, Funke’s maternal relatives in Somerset, England, take her in when she is ten. She leaves behind a comfortable life in Lagos, Nigeria, where she lives with her English mother, Misses Lizzie (Elizabeth), her Yorùbá father, Babatunde, and her brother, Femi.
May tells a story that is effortlessly readable, setting a pace that is maintained throughout the narration. The beginning is warm and lively: everlasting Lagos traffic problems, sibling strife, school wahala, tongue-kissing parents, yam and egg sauce, and a terse parrot. Despite the subtle sexism that May tiptoes about, the family is remarkably well-to-do and happy. However, this doesn’t last for long. A catastrophe soon shakes the family, eliminating Lizzie and Femi, and spurring a grief that decimates the love Babatunde has for Funke—the sole survivor of the car crash. Omo aje pupa is sent away to England because she has become an irritant. The survivor who should have died instead of Babatunde’s sprightly spouse and “smart” son. What do you do when, at ten years old, home disposes of you like a wrinkled, piece-of-shit-stained toilet paper?
Funke’s world turns upside down when circumstances force her to leave everything behind and move to The Ring, her maternal family’s ancestral home. Though she feels relieved to escape the accusations of witchcraft, Aunt Margot and cousin Dominic resent her. They condescendingly call her ‘Kate,’ a name they find easier to pronounce. The Ring’s sterile atmosphere, bland food, and racist undertones are a far cry from her vibrant life in Nigeria, where she was once accused of being ‘too white.’ In this new, predominantly white upper-class British environment, Funke struggles to find her footing. Cousin Liv offers her comfort and familiar food, but even that poorly substitute the warmth and love she’s used to.
May’s exploration of childhood innocence through the characters of Funke and Liv is heartwarming, and the first part offers a humorous delicacy—spiced with wonder and keen observation. She presents racism through the lens of a ten-year-old, who meets her strongly prejudiced family for the first time and sees their bias as plain stupidity. At some point, Funke wonders, Are my oyinbo family all mumus?
Enkindled by the love Liv and Jojo show her, by the end of the first part, Funke decides to evacuate the eggshells from underneath her feet and make herself a home: “She’d make this family work, do whatever it took to fit in. She would flourish. Become a Stone they’d be proud of. A Stone they would love.”
This Motherless Land is rendered to us from the perspectives of Funke and Liv. May further foregrounds Funke’s transition into Stonehood by changing her name to “Kate” in the second part of the novel. This multi-perspectivism is a technique that should give the reader a more nuanced and panoramic view. Unfortunately, this is not the case in this novel. Liv’s sections are often just narrations of her tussles with a narcissistic mother—they often add little to nothing to the overall succession of the plot—dragging on until the camera pans, again, to Kate (Funke), whose perspective is fleshier. Perhaps the book would end 100 pages earlier and be more focused if Liv were not spotlighted so.
But, no. This is not the sole encounter with Olivia Stone. Her character is best tasted from the perspective of Funke—she is not just a hospitable young girl; she makes herself responsible for her cousin’s culinary integration. Offering her Sherbet Dip Dabs and being merciful by saving her from bloody steak. She shepherds Kate through the grime and horrors of being an alien so that it is her love that is remembered… Just as Misses Lizzie’s love immortalizes her presence in Lagos.
Read: How to Balance Showing and Telling
As Wardah Abbas commended in her 2024 review, in this novel, This Motherless Land proffers a remarkably balanced survey of Nigeria and England, without succumbing to romanticization and stereotypes. It is a candid presentation—Ewedu is just Ewedu, and yam is just yam. The highs and lows of both countries are dished without any sugarcoating.
May brings one world to visit another world. England tastes of Nigeria, and vice versa. Through the lives of the characters, she explores the labyrinths of consequences spurred by these visitations. How does it feel to be a liminal body? How do you form an identity without relinquishing the other? How do you handle belonging? How do you make a place for yourself when the places you belong coil like a snake on encountering your scent?
Omo aje pupa goes to England. The black horse returns to the slum. Oyinbo pepe has come to market. All of these are the questions Funke/Kate faces; all of these turn her into a Matryoshka doll—carrying different versions of herself within her. The Kate that drinks leaf water tea and the Funke of Milo and Carnation milk. The Kate that believes Liv will speak up for her and the Funke that is afraid of flights and does not trust anyone to love her.
Aside from Funke and Liv, many of the other characters in this novel feel underdeveloped, lacking the depth that would make them truly memorable.
Babatunde, for instance, could have been more than just a slightly sexist man who cooks yam and egg sauce for his family. The novel could have explored what shaped his worldview—whether his attitudes stem from upbringing, personal experiences, or deeper insecurities. The story could have given his grief more weight, showing how it shapes his relationships and daily life instead of leaving it in the background. Did he truly mean it when he implied that Funke should have died instead of his wife and son, Femi, or did he just say it in a vortex of emotions? The only explanation comes when Funke returns from England, and he reveals that her aunts, Chloe and Ndidi, played the major role in her exile. Iya Nla, Babatunde’s mother, who fueled his agitation against Funke, is no longer mentioned.
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While Margot serves as the story’s major antagonist, the narrative flattens her into a mere symbol of narcissism, making her defeat feel predictable rather than compelling. She is the archetypal devil, whose downfall is always imminent and inevitable. Dominic, though present throughout, remains largely one-note—his repetitive “Oink” reduces him to little more than a running joke. His character feels almost interchangeable with Billy, the terse parrot, which diminishes the impact of his presence in the story.
Similarly, Kunle and the grandparents seem to exist more as placeholders than as fully realized individuals. The result is a novel that, while well-structured and engaging in parts, could have crafted more memorable characters that truly stay with the reader. Without a figure to root for, mourn, or even despise in a meaningful way, the emotional stakes are somewhat diluted. A better and deeper exploration of these characters’ motivations, contradictions, emotional landscapes, and the building of their relationships could have made the narrative more nuanced, allowing readers to feel more invested in their journeys. For example, despite being a lovely soul, Kunle’s character only served as Liv’s ticket to Lagos. And, although this is an important plot twist, it leaves the reader hungry for more about Kunle—so what more about his late wife, his relationship with Toks, the Bensons, and his insufferable mother?
This same slight occurs with the character of Ishir, whom Funke suddenly remembers during her second exile. Ishir disappears from the narrative, despite his being an important witness. It is arguable that some of these characters’ mentioned are minor characters and don’t deserve the recommended attention. However, one must note that many little stories come together to make a novel, and that the quality of the novel is a result of the successful culmination of these stories.
Read: How to create striking characters
These concerns aside, May’s craft is simple and impeccable. Her narration sails smoothly and steadily, never becoming too fast or slow. She presents us with life—chaotic, yet beautiful.
Like places, the body is demanding. A Wikipedia article, about Nigerian singer, songwriter, and actress Nneka Lucia Egbuna, who was born to a German mother and Nigerian father, tells of her early life. Nneka’s story and discography resonate so much with Funke’s character—she suffered maltreatment from a Nigerian stepmother, and a good majority of her songs have her asserting her Nigerianness and speaking on the malaises of the nation. This calls for a pause, a scratching-of-chin consideration of the presence of the biracial community in our literature, which is quite sparse. However, with Wahala and This Motherless Land, Nikki May is making all the difference, showing that the “half-caste” is not just a rare artwork to be marveled at but an entire world unto itself—complex, layered, and undeniably whole. ♣
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