A review by annreadsabook
The Unfortunates by J.K. Chukwu

medium-paced
  • Plot- or character-driven? Character
  • Strong character development? Yes
  • Loveable characters? It's complicated
  • Diverse cast of characters? Yes
  • Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes

5.0

It’s no secret that racism—and, specifically, anti-Blackness—continues to run rampant in academic spaces. The very buildings sitting on the campuses of many U.S. institutions of higher education were built by enslaved people, many of whose descendants still struggle to gain access to those same schools today. Even if not built by enslaved people, many schools maintain monuments and plaques dedicated to historical figures who enslaved human beings or were pivotal in legitimizing and upholding state-sanctioned human bondage. They employ faculty who spew racist and bigoted rhetoric under the guise of “academic freedom.” And, a long-standing criticism of the academy is its unwillingness to heed legitimate and continual demands to protect students and faculty of color. The Ivory Tower, with all of its brochure-ready diversity campaigns, is all too often a conveyor belt that churns out Black graduates who are burnt out, stressed, and depressed.

J.K. Chukwu’s debut novel The Unfortunates stands in this fraught space, contending with the ways in which elite academic institutions traffic in racial violence and attempt to cover up the harm through half-hearted “diversity and inclusion” campaigns. At the beginning of the novel, we’re introduced to Sahara, a queer half-Nigerian, half-African American undergraduate student at an elite university on Chicago’s South Side (sound familiar?). At the start of her sophomore year, Sahara and her friends are faced with the fact that Black students, particularly Black women, are either leaving the college or dying at an alarming rate. Time and again, Sahara and her cohort are forced to pick up the pieces after yet another classmate departs—but where does this leave the remaining students?

This book doesn’t have much of a plot—rather, it’s more of a meandering journal of the inner workings of a young Black woman’s mind. We watch as Sahara struggles to succeed academically while being plagued by her severe depression (or, as Sahara calls it, her “Life Partner” who frequently demands that Sahara take her own life), attempts to view her body as worthy of love, and navigates romantic frustrations. All this, enough in itself, unfolds against the backdrop of a school that simply shrugs at the increasing number of Black students who have “graduated early.” I was truly impressed at how well Chukwu was able to impart a deep and pervasive sense of melancholy throughout the book; Sahara flits from stumbling through parties to frantically staring at the pages of exams, fearful of what a poor grade will say about her, one of the increasingly few Black students on campus. She grapples with questions of desirability, particularly after forming a relationship with a classmate who, like Sahara, is half-Nigerian, but unlike Sahara, is half-white and thin. Sahara bounces between apathy towards her courses (which often feature draining conversations revolving around race without even mentioning race) and stressing about how she will succeed in a suffocating environment.

In a lot of conversations about racism in higher education, writers can often fall into the trap of focusing on overt racism—for example, frat bros calling Black women degrading names, or professors explicitly discouraging students of color from pursuing certain studies. I appreciated the nuance Chukwu used in exploring the slow yet inexorable psychological and emotional spiral into which Black students often descend due to institutional neglect and other-ization.

This book has the incisive, biting commentary that I loved in Elaine Hsieh Chou’s Disorientation, as well as the raw honesty surrounding mental health that I so appreciated in Chantal V. Johnson’s Post-Traumatic. Particularly, as someone who has navigated similar academic spaces while juggling mental health issues, I very much appreciated Chukwu’s willingness to provide an unflinching account of the death-by-a-thousand-cuts that academia inflicts upon Black folks. Chukwu considers the role that family can play in supporting and tearing down Black women, particularly when so much of the American dream that we chase is bound up in achieving a good education. Sahara, like so many Black women, is hesitant to share her struggles with her family because, as the oldest of three siblings and a woman, she is forced to bear the crushing weight of her parents’ expectations. 

This is a book that, for personal reasons, was quite difficult to read, but at the same time, I completely devoured it because I so appreciated the visibility that this book provides for Black women struggling with depression and isolation in white academia. This book is for the Black girls who are suffocated by the cries for Black excellence, the Black girls who strive to push ourselves across the finish line no matter the cost, the Black girls who are tired of living in a world that forces us to bear the unbearable.

Chukwu has definitely gained a new fan—I’ll absolutely be reading whatever she writes next.

As a final note, if you’re able, I would recommend sticking with the print version of this book—Chukwu has incorporated footnotes and interesting visuals throughout the novel and, as such, there are some aspects of the book that might be best enjoyed in print form.
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