In this book, the Desmond Elliott Prize winner reimagines his mother’s journey from Ghana to the UK. The narrative structure is elastic and malleable in Owusu’s skilled hands as he navigates and positions himself quite literally on the margins, while giving centre stage to his mother’s story.
The story is written in English, occasionally interspersed with untranslated Twi words which are then followed with footnotes in the margin written from Owusu’s reflections on his mother. In Exquisite Cadavers, Meena Kandasamy employed this technique to add dimension to her dual narrative. Here too, the narrative structure serves to deepen our understanding of the dynamics shared by the mother and son, the margins reading like a commentary on the narrative. Comprising short chapters, the story is divided into three sections — Landing, Disembarking, Customs and Immigration.
Owusu’s prose is fragmentary and lucid. A break in his mum’s voice is described as “a crack snaking through the melody” and family “can become a rumour if the whispers stretch far enough”.
The book provides fleeting glimpses of the highlights of his mother’s journey — her arrival in the UK and struggles with the language, living in a bedsit in Tottenham, working as a cleaner, her two marriages, relationship with church and memories of her childhood in Ghana.
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He also delves into her fractured identity. Owusu finds it ironic how even after 30 years in Britain and having been married twice to English men, his mother does not own her British identity. She remains stubbornly tethered to her Ghanaian roots. She describes leaving Ghana as like half of her culture being “stripped away” and feels like “you’re always remembering your people instead of feeling like they’re in your circle”. This incessant feeling of being displaced, physically and emotionally, is at the centre of this book.
Owusu illustrates his mother’s individual style of mothering with levity. She is never expressive or receptive of love, asking him why when he offhandedly tells her that he loves her. For her, expression of love should serve a purpose. Food often serves as a conduit, as is the case in many collectivist cultures. Owusu would find extra ties in his fufu (soup), a Ghanaian dish, when his mother was feeling extra fond of him. To bond with him, she would acquaint herself with names of celebrities in which he is interested. In a touching moment, she decides “she’ll mother every piece of him, even if parts must be taken away”.
A “fact-less” interview with her serves as the epilogue where Owusu tries, and fails, to get her to share her journey. Losing the Plot is a masterclass in distilled writing and a stirring ode to motherhood.
