For people who have lived their lives in abject poverty, money is highly instrumental to familial bonding. This is especially because division – between husband and wife, parents and children, et cetera – may stem from a constant lack of food, clothing, and access to other necessities. But to Diekara, the lead character in On A Day Like This, opulence does not remedy the falling apart of her family.
My first crime thriller in 2024 was Vanessa Walters‘ The Niger Wife. The novel revolves around the mysterious disappearance of the wealthy protagonist, Nicole, and a careful narration of events leading up to and after she vanishes. What makes it thrilling is inherent in the drama around this puzzling disappearance and the endless ties connected to it. The genre of the book presents itself immediately to us and we are somewhat prepared for the ultimate shocker at the end: while reading, we can try to connect the dots–although they most probably lead us to the wrong conclusion. But these dots are nonexistent in Edify Yakusak’s On A Day Like This. The book ambushes unsuspecting readers at the very end and does a slow unboxing to reveal its true genre– a psychological thriller. The impact of this last-minute reveal becomes too shocking for readers to immediately snap out of. You are ensnared by the seeming simplicity of the book that when you realise it’s all a facade, it’s too late to avoid the avalanche.
The novel presents itself firstly like a contemporary fiction fraught with the nuances of family issues–tension, jealousy, siblings’ war, et cetera. It begins with a prologue between the protagonist, Diekara alias Kara, who has just travelled to Paris, and her dad. The latter gives hints about a worrisome situation back in Nigeria which Kara guesses involves her mom. Her suspicion is confirmed some hours later when a text from her boyfriend, Nonso, informs her of her mother’s death. But the storytelling begins two years after the death of Sayo Dosunmu, the late wife of Demola and mother to Kara, Junior, and Deji. it becomes evident that time has not healed the family’s grief. Rather, each character tries to suppress their memories as aptly described in Kara’s perspective:
Anything concerning the circumstances of her mother’s death, no matter how unfounded, would torpedo the shaky peace that was just beginning to settle in her family.
Kara tries to move on, but a text from an anonymous sender claiming to have information about the death, and threatening to expose it to the media unless they meet is all it takes to ruin this. She remembers getting previous texts from this sender but something about the recent one sets her ill at ease. After serious consideration, she decides to see this anon person but nothing prepares her for what is unearthed. First, the stranger insists that her late mother had not died accidentally but was murdered. He also reveals that she was in a relationship with him which her father was aware of. But what Kara finds hard to accept is the possibility of her father having a hand in the death out of sheer jealousy. So she is determined to find out the truth for herself. In retrospect, this meeting becomes an offshoot of a sequence of secrets unearthed in the novel that would make Kara question her knowledge of those she calls family.
The upper echelons of society are often elevated to an almost superhuman status, a phenomenon that occurs subtly, without conscious realisation. They are burdened with expectations to transcend the complexities and idiosyncrasies that define the human condition. This becomes glaringly evident in the severe backlash they face when these lofty expectations are unmet. For instance, celebrities often become the targets of public scrutiny, with their actions inviting widespread condemnation.Yakusak explores this nuanced reality in her novel, where the Dosunmu family embodies the pressure of preserving their reputation and image. They live as if walking on eggshells, their every action scrutinised. Yet, we are reminded that they are just humans with flaws and vulnerabilities. Junior, the middle child, personifies the archetypal black sheep, yet the book refrains from casting judgment. Through his insecurities and struggles, we see not only his shortcomings but also his humanity. Familial tensions also surface as the novel peels back layers of Demola’s strained relationship with his late wife, Sayo, and even the seemingly idyllic marriage between Demola and his new wife, Victoria reveals cracks beneath its polished exterior.
Yakusak beguiles her readers with the apparent simplicity of her novel. The everydayness of the diction, the brevity of each character’s narrative perspective, the sparse structure of the sentences, and the limited cast of characters all lend a deceptive air of ordinariness. But the fog begins to lift during the dinner mandated by Demola’s new wife, Victoria. In fact, it is the day following this dinner that the novel fully reveals itself as a psychological thriller. Victoria, introduced in the opening chapters as a loving and mellow spouse, stands in stark contrast to the version of her we later encounter. Demola, too, is burdened by an ugly past that relentlessly threatens to disrupt his carefully constructed present. Yet, the most staggering revelation comes with Deji, the youngest son in the family. As the supposedly naive and overlooked last born, Deji’s role is relegated to the background—until it isn’t. Nothing prepares the reader for the revelations tied to him.
In the five gripping hours I spent with this novel, my emotions moved from interest, to intrigue, then to shock, and finally to horror. Not even my inner Sherlock Holmes could anticipate the twists that unfolded in the book. It takes narrative mastery to achieve such deliberate concealment, and On A Day Like This deserves high praise for its sheer unpredictability. Yet, I find myself wrestling with questions about the author’s ultimate intentions. The ending left gaps too vast to ignore, and this hopeless reader cannot wait for a sequel to tie up the loose ends.
