Adeyemi 2/3

In this second part of the reading, several things caught my attention. Adeyemi explores several difficult themes in her work, such as trauma, oppression, and violence. She structures a world in which one part of the population suffers because of their god(s)-given gifts. I find it interesting how this becomes more complicated with Inan’s realization and growing powers. Although it might not indicate anything, I wonder what the magic of the divîners might symbolize. After doing a little cursory research, Adeyemi seems to have been inspired by her views on police brutality and the lack of Black fantasy/Black heroes in novels and pop culture in general. I think there’s a lot to explore with the complicated dynamics of the different peoples of the world and the use of magic, but I think that might be best served for the end of the novel.

In addition to the complication of Inan’s power (and his acceptance of it), I find it interesting how Adeyemi utilizes language. I know I’ve mentioned it in previous posts, but I find how science fiction and fantasy authors construct or bend language to further build their worlds and stories to be fascinating. Adeyemi uses Yoruba, a language from West Africa, to communicate the differentiation between the maji and the kosidan. Yoruba, a language which is spoken by millions, is one of the official languages of Nigeria—a country where many Yoruba people live and speak the language. However, due to colonialism, English has been and remains the language of formality and the educated in Nigeria. Although it isn’t banned and many still freely speak the language, the colonial language of English still retains much of its power. I find this an interesting parallel to the use of Yoruba in The Children of Blood and Bone. In this work, the use of Yoruba symbolizes power; although it’s suppressed, it brings joy, life, and strength to those who speak it. Additionally, it helps further construct the world which Adeyemi builds with her narrative—this is not a familiar place for many of her readers. Personally, I know very little about Nigeria—and I definitely don’t know Yoruba. But the use of the language certainly draws my attention. I recognize the difference the Yoruba words hold as I read—they communicate the power the divîners wield—both linguistically and literally.

In other works, authors draw upon more familiar foreign languages. These languages, such as Latin, bring the reader into a mediated space with the magic; it is both familiar and foreign at the same time. There’s a comfort when someone attempts to say it. In other works, authors completely create an entirely new language. Some utilize language systems familiar to their audience to create this new linguistic reality, while others abandon any recognizable language and seek to create something entirely alien. With Yoruba in Children of Blood and Bone, Adeyemi communicates the magic of a real language that many deem inaccessible. But perhaps this is just a myth—cultures, languages, and people different than our own are not a threat or something to ignore, but opportunities to find connection and common ground. I would argue that Adeyemi’s use of Yoruba further supports her themes of equality, understanding, and power for those who are “othered.” And I’m curious to see how this theme develops in the final third of the book.