In his striking new collection of short stories, I Cry at the Feet of My Other Body and Other Stories, Mustapha Enesi paints the lives of mothers, daughters, wives, and aspiring mothers of Nigeria’s womenfolk, whose private battles are set against the relentless pressures of culture, religion, and societal expectation. From the shadowy corners of a Lagos hospital to the leafy compounds of coastal villages and the solemn walls of St. Philomena’s Church of God in Kuve, Enesi captures the dust-choked streets of Yaba and Ikoyi alongside hushed interiors and St. Philomena’s, masterfully weaving together vibrant prose that dances between the lyrical and the wry through twelve stories.
In these stories, one overarching theme captivates: the perspective of a woman’s physicality in relation to the societal expectation of nurturing life and bearing children. “One Good Thing” depicts the character of Mrs. Silifa, a 62-year-old ex-lecturer who suffers from the shock of a false pregnancy. This episode simultaneously sparks a renewal of her identity in her late-life affair while navigating the disconnection with her grown daughters. On the other hand, “Safety Pins Are Good Omens” centres on a young Muslim wife who performs agonised prayers coupled with ritualistic cleansing in hopes of becoming pregnant, only to experience stillbirth and face the emotionally devastating decision that follows.
Indeed, there is anger here—sharp, often bitter and righteous. In “Doctors from Lagos”, Simbi publicly rages at a translator who refuses to grant her free healthcare after receiving a cancer diagnosis. Her anger is justified and stems from the accumulated injustice of neglect, systemic denial, and a lack of compassion. “I Cry at the Feet of My Other Body” is also the title story and brings us back to a village custom of palmistry: a daughter’s reminiscence of her mother’s women-folk “reading” their hands.
The magic strikes forth in equal measures of merciful and merciless. Obiageli, the desperate young mother, encounters more than she hopes for. Enesi’s style has a pliant quality to it, with sentences that swing between the vivid, lilting prose and staccato instructions laden with a melodic rhythm. “Head to Okey’s shop…, but please, don’t go in your blue shoes.” He brings to life the clash of the old and young, chronicled by sombre traditions deriding exultation, shifts in the feminine ideal personified by a daughter who refuses to braid her hair or be deemed a proper woman. The co-wife power dynamics, as well as the aunt-grandmother alliances with the girls they strive to protect.
Almost like a cycle of life and loss, the collection’s twelve pieces are arranged in this way. It begins with “Shoes,” which is a tender albeit admonitory address from mother to daughter, and finishes with “The Parties at Marigold Hospital.” This latter piece depicts an eerie and surreal sequence where patients appear to be dancing through hospital corridors as though celebrating some conclusion, perhaps life itself. In between, stories such as “Mrs Coker and the Headless Masquerade” (a haunting vignette of grief and spectacle), “Safety Pins Are Good Omens” and “What Has Happened Has Happened” (a blistering account of repeated miscarriage and the doctor’s clinic as a confessional) explore the concept of female agency facing adversity.
Through the collection, Enesi’s strongest moments are those in which the everyday shatters into the otherworldly; the castrated Senge on Sister Felicia’s doorstep is an abandoned infant whose renaming inaugurates the Ministry of Happiness, a place of refuge and indentured labour; and the scented memory of a mother’s wrapper “with loss,” orphanhood’s sustenance. Even the most grounded narrative acquires an almost mythic charge from these quietly surreal inflexions.
If there is a criticism to make, it is that some figures—especially male ones—are underdeveloped and serve more as props to the women’s drama instead of fully formed characters who participate meaningfully. But perhaps this is equally intentional: Enesi remains steadfastly fixated on his heroines’ psyches.
As far as modern Nigerian literature goes, I Cry at the Feet of My Other Body is undoubtedly one of the finest. It does not shy away from examining gendered violence and vulnerability, but at the same time, it appreciates the mercies of resilience, ritual, and solidarity. In his striking new collection, I Cry at the Feet of My Other Body and Other Stories, Mustapha Enesi turns his sharp eye to the lives of Nigerian women—mothers, daughters, wives, would‑be mothers—whose private struggles play out against the weight of tradition, faith and social expectation. Across twelve tales, Enesi’s prose moves effortlessly between the lyrical and the wry, conjuring vivid interiors and townscapes alike: from the dust‑choked streets of Yaba and Ikoyi to the hushed rooms of a Lagos hospital, from the leafy compound of a coastal village to the austere walls of St Philomena’s Church of God in Kuve.
At the heart of these stories lies a single, compelling preoccupation: what it means to be a woman’s body in a world that measures her worth by her capacity to bear and nurture life. In “One Good Thing,” a sixty‑two‑year‑old former lecturer, Mrs Silifa, awakes to the shock of a false pregnancy—an event that opens fissures in her identity as she navigates a late‑life affair and the fracturing ties with her grown daughters . Meanwhile, “Safety Pins Are Good Omens” follows a young Muslim wife’s agonised prayers and ritual ablutions in the hope of conceiving, only to face the horror of stillbirth and the wrenching decision that follows .
There is anger here, too—sharp, righteous and often bitter. In “Doctors from Lagos,” Simbi, newly diagnosed with cancer, lashes out in public frustration at a translator who denies her free medical care, her rage rooted in the grinding injustice of systemic neglect . And “I Cry at the Feet of My Other Body,” the title‑story, returns us to the village tradition of palm‑reading: a daughter’s recollection of her mother’s uncanny gift to “read” women’s fortunes in their palms. When a desperate young mother, Obiageli, begs for the ritual that might save her dying baby, the reader glimpses a magic both maternal and merciless, handed down through generations .
Enesi’s style is supple: sentences that dance between staccato instruction (“Head to Okey’s shop … but please, don’t go in your blue shoes”) and rich, elegiac passages that resonate long after the page is turned . He is especially adept at capturing intergenerational tension: the old guard’s solemn warnings against youthful exuberance; the daughter’s refusal to braid her hair or accept the “proper woman” mould; the uneasy alliances between co‑wives, between aunties and grandmothers and the girls they strive to protect.
Structurally, the collection’s twelve pieces are arranged almost like a cycle of life and loss. It opens with “Shoes,” a tender, if admonitory, mother‑daughter address, and concludes with “The Parties at Marigold Hospital,” an eerie, surreal sequence that finds patients dancing through hospital corridors as though celebrating the end of something—perhaps of life itself. In between, stories such as “Mrs Coker and the Headless Masquerade” (a haunting vignette of grief and spectacle), “Safety Pins Are Good Omens” and “What Has Happened Has Happened” (a blistering account of repeated miscarriage and the doctor’s clinic as confessional) probe the terrain of female agency under duress.
The strongest moments in the collection come when Enesi allows the quotidian to fracture into the uncanny: the abandoned infant on Sister Felicia’s doorstep whose naming inaugurates the Ministry of Happiness, a place of both refuge and indentured labour ; the memory of a mother’s wrapper, scented with loss, that sustains a child through orphanhood . These quietly surreal inflections invest even the most earthy narrative with an almost mythic charge.
If one fault might be found, it is that certain characters—particularly the male figures—remain sketches rather than fully realised presences, serving more as catalysts for women’s drama than as actors in their own right. Yet this, too, may be deliberate: Enesi is resolutely centred on his heroines’ interior lives.
Ultimately, I Cry at the Feet of My Other Body is a modern Nigerian book in the best sense: unflinching in its examination of gendered violence and vulnerability, yet alive to the small mercies of resilience, ritual and solidarity. Like a griot weaving story and song, Enesi shows us that, for many women, the body is both battlefield and sanctuary—and that whatever other stories they must tell, the one they return to again and again is the story of their own survival.
I Cry at the Feet of My Other Body comes out from Witsprouts Books in September 2025. You can preorder here.
