Castles from Cobwebs

by J.A. Mensah

Overview

Longlisted for the Desmond Elliott Prize and named among the 50 most notable new books from Africa, Castles from Cobwebs follows one girl’s transition from youthful innocence to understanding as she navigates questions about family, identity, and race.

"I'd always known that I was Brown. Black was different though; it came announced. Black came with expectations, of rhythm and other things that might trip me up."

Imani is a foundling. Rescued as a baby and raised by nuns on a remote Northumbrian island, she grows up with an ever-increasing feeling of displacement. Full of questions, Imani turns to her shadow, Amarie, and her friend Harold. When Harold can't find the answers, she puts it down to what the nuns call her "greater purpose". At nineteen, Imani answers a phone call that will change her life: she is being called to Ghana after the sudden death of her biological mother. 

Past, present, faith and reality are spun together in this enthralling debut. Following her transition from innocence to understanding, Imani's experience illuminates the stories we all tell to make ourselves whole.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781913393458
Publisher:	Saraband
Publication date:	06/07/2022
Pages:	288
Product dimensions:	5.00(w) x 7.70(h) x 0.90(d)

About the Author

J.A. Mensah is a writer of prose and theatre and a lecturer in Creative Writing at the University of York, England. Her plays have focused on human rights narratives and the testimonies of survivors. Her short stories appear in several collections. Castles from Cobwebs, her first novel, won the inaugural NorthBound Book Award and was nominated for the Desmond Elliott Award.

Read an Excerpt

Chickens cluck and gossip nearby. A car honks in the distance. Someone, somewhere, shouts a greeting. Wheels screech, several of them, successively. I wait for the crash: it doesn’t come. Voices rise in a confused, or angry, chorus. A group of children chant a playground anthem. They clap and stamp in sync. I can’t make out the words. The soft lap of a skipping rope beats the ground repeatedly. Something hits the window. A ball? I don’t move to see. Soupy air rests on my skin and the sun through the blinds crosses my cheek with a lick of dry heat that is surprisingly refreshing; the crisp light soothes against the cloying humidity. I open my eyes and close them. Open, then close. The ball hits the window again. Close eyes. Open. Close. I do that thing where your eyes are open behind closed lids. I watch the light filter through the skin that shields my gaze; the back of my eyelids glow ochre – Brown. I’m Brown again.

I’d always known that I was Brown. I don’t remember it being a discovery: putting my arm against Sister Alma and noticing the difference between us; paddling on the beach with Reverend Mother and realising the contrast in our reflections as they rippled in the stream. There was no one moment when I suddenly knew. Amarie was a blackish-grey and Mother was whiteish-pink. Amarie was spirit and Mother was flesh. I was Brown, somewhere between them, more flesh than Amarie and more spirit than Mother. They were my coordinates and I knew where I was rooted between them. Black was different, though; it came announced. It was the year the parish roof couldn’t be repaired any more. There had been so many patch jobs done, it was like an old quilt, all threadbare and no good at blocking water. That autumn we had a ceilidh to raise money for a new roof and Mrs O’Shea from the village, Penelope-Marie’s mum, she told Sister Alma that I was a good dancer because all black people have rhythm. And there it was: suddenly I was Black. After that, there was a world outside with others who were Black like me and this hunger formed. Perhaps it had always been there, as a cloud maybe, but it hardened, became granite in the pit of me. Every time Harold found another morsel about Black from Yahoo, I savoured it. But Black also made me dizzy, like when you’re little and you spin around, then in the middle of the spinning you realise you can’t stop and stand still, and you’ll fall over if you try. Black came with expectations, of rhythm and other things that might trip me up.

At Heathrow Airport, there were people of all colours and combinations. I saw a woman, Brown like me, with hair the colour of a postbox. A boy, paler than Sister Alma, with black hair down to his knees, silver chains hanging from his wrists, and blue and purple around his eyes. I watched them – ravenously. I wished Amarie was there to see it all. I prayed she’d stop being so stubborn and appear. At Kotoka Airport, the faces were all kinds of Brown: chestnut, mahogany, oak, chocolate, terracotta, hazel, copper, gold, umber, rosewood, ebony, coffee, onyx, dusk.

‘I knew it was you,’ Aunt Grace says, pulling me from the multitude flooding out of the airport.

‘You have your mother’s face exactly.’

Editorial Reviews

Mensah’s prose is gorgeous and lyrical, conjuring crystalline images … Strong women abound … Mensah’s  storytelling skills make for an atmospheric, poignant, and bold novel that explores uncharted territory.” Foreword Reviews, May/June 2022, Starred review

"From start to finish, I was spellbound…. Mensah intricately weaves complex characters, vivid descriptions, universal topics of love, loss, identity, religion, with themes like the search for a place to belong, into a well spun tapestry, a mind-spinning tale, a heart-pounding novel—and I'm hooked. I absolutely love this book." Yvonne Battle-Felton, author of Remembered, nominated for the Women's Prize 2019

"Real beauty and clarity in the prose ... powerful and unique." Chitra Ramaswamy, winner of the debuts prize at Scotland's National Book Awards and columnist at the Guardian

"A compelling exploration of memory, race, mothers and the fractured self, Mensah … interrogates how to put disparate parts of our identities together to become the most true version of ourselves." Jessica Andrews, author of Saltwater, winner of the Portico Prize 2020

"Mensah doesn't shy away from tough subjects ... a well-crafted debut ... an extraordinary literary talent and ... a thoroughly recommended read." Northern Soul magazine

From the Publisher