If you pick up Freshwater by Akwaeke Emezi expecting a standard "coming-of-age" story about an immigrant finding herself in America, you’re going to be very confused. Fast. Honestly, it’s not that kind of book. It’s a riot. A literal riot of souls living inside one body.
Most people call it a novel. Emezi, who identifies as non-binary and has been incredibly open about their own journey as an ogbanje, suggests it’s more of a spirit autobiography. The story follows Ada. She’s born in Nigeria with "one foot on the other side." This isn't a metaphor for being quirky. It’s a literal description of being inhabited by many spirits. These spirits, the ogbanje, are traditional Igbo deities/demons who were supposed to die as infants but stuck around to wreak havoc on the human world.
The Reality of the Ogbanje in Freshwater
Western medicine looks at Ada and sees something else. They see a "broken" person. They see someone who needs a diagnosis, maybe Dissociative Identity Disorder or severe depression. But the book basically looks the reader in the eye and says, "You’re wrong." It rejects the Western medical lens entirely. This is where the book gets heavy.
When Ada moves to the United States for college, the "we" inside her—the collective of spirits—starts taking over. There’s Asughara, who is fierce and sexual and protective in a way that’s actually quite terrifying. Then there’s Saint Vincent. It’s messy. The prose reflects that mess. One moment you’re reading a calm description of a dorm room, and the next, the narrative shifts into a plural "we" that sounds like a chorus of ancient, angry gods.
Emezi’s writing doesn't care if you're comfortable. It really doesn't.
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The book is visceral. You feel the skin stretching. You feel the spiritual weight of the "marbles" (the spirits) as they fight for control of the "marble room" (Ada's mind). It’s a world where the metaphysical is more real than the physical. For many readers, especially those from the African diaspora, this was a massive moment in literature. It wasn't just another story about "the struggle." It was a reclamation of indigenous ontology—a way of being that doesn't ask permission from European psychology to exist.
Why the Narrative Voice Changes Everything
Traditional novels usually have a protagonist who learns a lesson. They grow. They change. They find peace. Ada doesn't exactly do that. The spirits are the ones telling the story for a large chunk of the book.
Think about how weird that is. Usually, we want to hear from the human. But Emezi argues that the human, Ada, is just the vessel. The real players are the ones who don't have bodies. This creates a weird, disjointed, and beautiful reading experience. You'll find yourself half-sympathizing with a spirit that is actively ruining Ada's life because their logic—the logic of the "godlings"—is so seductive.
What people get wrong about the ending
Some people finish Freshwater and think it’s a tragedy. They see Ada’s choices—the surgeries, the relationships, the isolation—as a descent into madness. But if you listen to what Emezi has said in interviews (and in their later memoir Dear Senthuran), the perspective is different. It’s about integration. It’s about Ada realizing she isn't "one" person and she never will be.
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- The book treats the spiritual as a hard fact.
- The transition from Nigeria to Virginia acts as a catalyst for the spirits to "awaken."
- Trauma isn't just a psychological wound; it’s a doorway for the ogbanje to take more ground.
It’s a tough read for some because of the graphic nature of Ada’s self-harm and the sexual violence she experiences. But it’s never gratuitous. It’s always tied back to the central conflict: Who owns this body? Is it the girl, or is it the gods?
Real-World Impact and the E-E-A-T Factor
Akwaeke Emezi didn't just write a hit book; they shifted the conversation in the literary world. Before Freshwater, the "immigrant narrative" was a very specific, tired genre. Emezi blew it up. The book was a finalist for the PEN/Hemingway Award and the Center for Fiction First Novel Prize. It even got longlisted for the Women’s Prize for Fiction, which caused its own stir because Emezi is non-binary.
Critics like Taiye Selasi have noted how Emezi’s work challenges the very idea of the "African novel." It’s not interested in explaining Nigeria to the West. It’s interested in explaining the spirit to the human.
The genius of Freshwater lies in its refusal to compromise. It uses Igbo words without italics. It assumes you’ll keep up. It expects you to respect the reality of the ogbanje even if you've never heard of them. This "authority of the narrative" is why it ranks so high in contemporary literature circles. It doesn't beg for your belief; it demands it.
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Digging into the "Marble Room"
The concept of the "marble room" is something you've gotta understand to get the book. It’s the headspace. When Ada is "gone," she’s in the back of the room. When Asughara is "fronting," she’s at the window. This terminology actually mirrors a lot of how the Plurality and DID communities talk about their experiences today, which has made the book a cult classic in those spaces, even if the "cause" in the book is explicitly spiritual.
How to Approach Reading Freshwater
If you're going to dive into this, don't try to "fix" Ada in your head. Don't play therapist. If you try to diagnose her while reading, you’ll miss the poetry.
Focus on the rhythm of the sentences. Emezi uses a lot of short, punchy phrases to signal danger. Then, when the spirits are feeling grand, the sentences stretch out, blooming into these long, purple passages of divine arrogance. It's brilliant.
Actionable Steps for Readers and Students:
- Read the Prologue Twice: The first few pages set the metaphysical rules. If you don't grasp the "we," the rest of the book feels like a fever dream.
- Research the Ogbanje: Look up traditional Igbo beliefs regarding "spirit children." Understanding the "coming and going" cycle of these spirits adds a layer of grief to Ada’s parents that you might miss otherwise.
- Track the Perspectives: Note when the "I" becomes "We." It usually happens after a moment of intense emotional stress.
- Pair with "Dear Senthuran": If you want to know what’s real and what’s fiction, read Emezi’s memoir. It’s a masterclass in how to turn lived experience into high art without losing the raw edge.
This book isn't a light summer read. It’s a storm. It’s a sharp, jagged piece of literature that asks what happens when the gods decide to move into a human house and start throwing the furniture around. You won't come out of it the same person you were when you started. Honestly, that’s the whole point.