Book covers: The safekeep by Yael van der Wouden, Good girl by Aria Aber, Fundamentally by Nussaibah Younis, and All fours by Miranda July
Mphuthumi Ntabeni writes a regular book column for LitNet.
Each year, I make it a point to follow at least one major literary prize. This year, I turned my attention to the 2025 Women’s Prize for Fiction. With the winner announced on 12 June, I’ve since been reflecting on the strengths and shortcomings of these literary lists. Despite moments of promise, I cannot shake the sense that something essential is missing.
I have discovered from other book bloggers that I’m not alone in this. For instance, nearly everyone I’ve spoken to agrees that the Women’s Prize for Nonfiction offered a far more robust, compelling selection this year than the Fiction one. As a writer, I have discovered that, post the lockdown, it seems easier to write nonfiction than fiction. So, the strength of nonfiction might naturally be coming from this phenomenon. But there is another imbalance that feels symptomatic of a deeper malaise, which is the growing unreliability of overhyped fiction. Personally, I am disappointed 80% of the time when I pick up fiction titles that come with excessive acclaim.
Take, for example, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Dream count, whose absence from the shortlist was lamented by many. While I understand the emotional gravitational pull of her name due to all that she represents beyond being a writer, I believe the judges made the right decision in this instance. Dream count, in my view, is not among her finest achievements. It lacks the structural coherence and imaginative discipline of a novel. The work reads more like a series of reworked journal entries than a unified narrative. If anything, it would be more at home as a piece of creative nonfiction. In saying so, I realise that my opinion borders on heresy among her most devoted readers, but it is a view I hold nonetheless and which, like most reading experiences, is subjective.
Book covers: Nesting by Roisín O’Donnell, The Persians by Sanam Mahloudji and Crooked seeds by Karen Jennings
I have not read every title on the Women’s Prize shortlist, and so my critique focuses primarily on those I have engaged with. Still, certain omissions struck me as truly baffling. Nesting by Roisín O’Donnell, for instance, deserved a place on the shortlist, in my opinion, for its inventiveness and sharp emotional clarity. Equally perplexing was the inclusion of The Persians by Sanam Mahloudji over Karen Jennings’s Crooked seeds. The latter novel shows a distinctive voice and a refined literary craft; its prose is beautifully restrained, subtle and densely layered with meaning. Perhaps I am biased – Jennings is South African, after all – but I stand by my assessment nonetheless. By contrast, The Persians failed to resonate with me. Despite multiple attempts to connect with it, the writing style didn’t work for me. It quickly became a DNF, despite my best intentions.
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[The safekeep by Yael van der Wouden] is quite simply, a revelation. The historical elements are handled with elegance, and the writing itself glows with quiet luminosity. ... By all accounts, it has garnered admiration from many readers, and I would not be surprised to see it become a lasting favourite. So, I guess, not all lauded fiction is disappointing.
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At present, I am midway through the winner of the Women’s Prize 2025, The safekeep by Yael van der Wouden, which I knew of via the Walter Scott Prize for Historical Fiction shortlist. It is, quite simply, a revelation. The historical elements are handled with elegance, and the writing itself glows with quiet luminosity. I have intentionally avoided all reviews to preserve the impact of the much-discussed twist at the end. By all accounts, it has garnered admiration from many readers, and I would not be surprised to see it become a lasting favourite. So, I guess, not all lauded fiction is disappointing. Before the Women’s Prize announcement of it as a winner, public opinion seemed divided between it and All fours by Miranda July. I, however, abandoned All fours last year. Its tale of a woman in midlife crisis, exploring sexuality and identity, felt more recycled than revitalising. I felt Erica Jong’s Fear of flying accomplished that sort of thing decades ago, with more wit and daring. A friend promised a postmodern reinvention of the theme in All fours; what I found instead was a reheated version, dressed up in millennial gloss.
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Perhaps I’m simply growing older, but these portraits of disaffected, self-destructive youth now strike me less as profound and more as tedious. The immigrant-in-crisis arc has become a staple of urban contemporary fiction, and not always to its benefit. This was also my other issue with Dream count.
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Indeed, the spectral presence of Jong’s politics seemed to haunt much of this year’s shortlist, from what I hear of Fundamentally by Nussaibah Younis, which I have not yet read. Good girl by Aria Aber is a debut I initially approached with high expectations. Its premise of a young Afghan-born woman in Berlin navigating the cultural chasm between her traditional family and her entanglement with a predatory older writer felt rich with possibility. The novel’s psychological insight and attention to contemporary urban detail is impressive. The voice, particularly for a debut novel, is strong and arresting. Yet, around the halfway mark, the narrative becomes ensnared in its own introspection. I kept wishing she’d just move to London for something to occur to break her out of her destructive mode. What began as a keenly observed character study devolved into a repetitive spiral of overly flaunted shock therapy. Perhaps I’m simply growing older, but these portraits of disaffected, self-destructive youth now strike me less as profound and more as tedious. The immigrant-in-crisis arc has become a staple of urban contemporary fiction, and not always to its benefit. This was also my other issue with Dream count.
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One structural problem is the requirement that books be published in the UK or Ireland, an ostensibly neutral standard but one that, in practice, excludes the majority of African writers who are published locally or regionally.
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Perhaps the most troubling aspect of this year’s prize is a glaring issue of representation: if I am not wrong, only two African writers appeared on the longlist, and none made it to the final shortlist. For a prize that claims to honour global women’s writing in English, this oversight is more than disappointing as a failure of inclusion. The African literary landscape is anything but barren. It is teeming with innovation, complexity and stylistic brilliance. That these voices remain unheard on such a prominent platform raises serious questions about the criteria being employed and the gatekeeping mechanisms at play. One structural problem is the requirement that books be published in the UK or Ireland, an ostensibly neutral standard but one that, in practice, excludes the majority of African writers who are published locally or regionally.
If the Women’s Prize truly wishes to live up to its stated mission, it must do more to embrace a broader spectrum of global voices. One solution, for scope, might be an extension to include Commonwealth representation. Such a move would honour both the historical entanglements and the linguistic continuities that tie many of these regions to the English language, while also expanding the imaginative and cultural range of the Prize. Commonwealth fiction – from Africa, South Asia, the Caribbean and the Pacific – continues to generate some of the most vibrant and adventurous English-language literature today. Its exclusion, whether intentional, structural or systemic, diminishes the Prize’s claim to global relevance and excellence. If the Women’s Prize wants to avoid slipping into parochialism, it might take a cue from the success of the Booker Prize, which has arguably become more exciting after it expanded into the International Prize. Most literary people will now tell you for free that the Booker International Prize is more exciting for its diversity. I religiously await it for the deep pleasure of being introduced to books that might have passed my notice had it not been for the prize. It has become a valuable trove of introducing me to under-the-radar-quality literature.
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What we ask of literary prizes is not infallibility, but integrity, imagination and boldness. The awarding of a prize should strive to be as fearless and far-reaching as the fiction it celebrates. One can only hope that future juries will cast a wider net, not just geographically, but also aesthetically and politically.
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Portrait of Lysbeth by Rama Santa Mansa, Bright red fruit by Safia Elhillo and Like water like sea by Olumide Popoola.
What we ask of literary prizes is not infallibility, but integrity, imagination and boldness. The awarding of a prize should strive to be as fearless and far-reaching as the fiction it celebrates. One can only hope that future juries will cast a wider net, not just geographically, but also aesthetically and politically. Imagine the energy and excitement the Women’s Prize list could have generated had it included books like Rama Santa Mansa’s Portrait of Lysbeth, Safia Elhillo’s Bright red fruit or Olumide Popoola’s Like water like sea. These works offer precisely the kind of formal experimentation and cultural specificity that such a prize should seek, to elevate its mandate.
To celebrate the best in global women’s fiction, one must first ensure that “global” is not merely a token adjective. The future of the Women’s Prize, and indeed of literary prizes in general, depends on their willingness to evolve, to challenge the limits of their own vision and to reflect the true diversity of voices – in this case, writing in English – today.
Also read:
PenAfrican: In search of Nongqawuse by Treive Nicholas – a book review
PenAfrican: The equality of shadows by Charl-Pierre Naudé – a book review
Talking cultural diversities: considerations of cultural exchange and multilingual literature
Nobelpryswenner Wole Soyinka bring aktualiteit en letterkunde in kaart op Africa in the World
Antjie Krog notitie #3: Over de witte canon van de Nederlandstalige literatuur in Zuid-Afrika