The journey of Bitterblue by Sam Martin to my hands is a story in itself. When the author mailed it to me from Germany, it somehow almost got lost the moment it touched Nigerian soil. Weeks passed, and I kept hearing the same thing: “Your package hasn’t arrived yet.” Until, one day, it magically had arrived but was now floating around, unclaimed, in some mysterious abyss of the post office, or should I say post offices. It took effort; mine, the post office workers’, the universe’s, to finally get it. And when I did, I held it up like some prize I had fought for. “You, this book that stressed my life, hope you’re interesting.”
Bitterblue by Sam Martin_My Review Copy
Turns out, Bitterblue is just as complex as its journey to me.
Bitterblue is a novel that refuses to be read passively. It demands attention, patience, and a willingness to piece together fragmented stories, shifting timelines, and characters who seem to morph right in front of you.
I found the opening pages gripping. A man, Alistair Richardson, is being interrogated by the police and is trying so hard to prove to them that he is, indeed, Alistair Richardson. He convinces them.
The opening was intriguing enough, but the more I read, the more the book felt like a puzzle with some pieces missing and the ones available not quite fitting. I was getting lost in a labyrinth of names and narratives. Adam. Alistair Richardson, Nina (and another Nina, last name Shepherd), and even questions about whether Francie is married to Danny or if the taxi driver (Adam?) is merely an observer or a real character in the book. Somehow, I could see the whole forest but not the individual trees. The constant shift in perspectives made it difficult for me to latch onto one character for too long (my Achilles heel when reading, I’ve talked about this before), which is both intriguing and frustrating. But I kept reading.
About three-quarters into the book (around page 300), a twist hit me: the whole thing is a story within a story, that someone named Liam is writing. Or at least, I think he is. It’s hard to say what’s real and what’s fiction within the fiction. Josie (Gabi from the radio show, “Talk to Gabi”) helps him type parts of it, and their conversations form a crucial part of the book’s structure. But even their interactions feel unstable, as if they’re being rewritten mid-conversation.
A character I liked really well is the taxi driver (Adam). He narrates most parts of the story, and his voice is the one I find most immersive. His perspective is rich with detail, philosophy and introspection, even humour, but there’s an odd, almost omniscient quality to it that doesn’t fully align with a first-person narrator. Plus, I wasn’t too thrilled about him spoon-feeding me the details. Still, he pulls me in, even as I struggle to pin down exactly where he fits into the grander scheme of things.
And then we have Bruno Shepherd. A televangelist. A fraud. A man tangled in his own contradictions. He builds an empire on faith, but his faith is more performance than belief. His “death” on stage is one of the book’s strongest moments. (Sorry, spoiler, but duh!) So theatrical, so fitting for someone who has lived his life as a spectacle. Unlike many of the other characters, Bruno’s arc feels complete. He evolves, self-destructs, and leaves behind something tangible. I haven’t met quite a striking character in any book in a while.
The other characters, however, blur together. Apart from Bruno, Josie/Gabi, Alistair/Liam, and Adam, I struggle to keep track of who’s who. Their identities shift, their significance fluctuates, and just when I think I understand their roles, the book flips them upside down. Maybe that’s the point, though. Maybe Bitterblue isn’t about individual characters as much as it is about memory, perception, and the way our stories as humans tangle themselves into something unrecognizable.
But despite the confusion, despite the occasional frustration, I find Bitterblue a challenging read. It plays with the idea of storytelling itself. I think only a writer who has mastered the art of storytelling can do that and get away with it. By the time I reached the final page, I didn’t feel like I’d “solved” Bitterblue. I felt like I’d experienced it. And maybe that’s enough.
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