A Spell of Good Things

Two families prepare for a wedding. In one home, the generator hums, a low thrum of assurance against the city’s unreliable power grid. Inside, the air conditioning keeps the heat at bay while the scent of jollof rice and fried plantains fills the meticulously decorated rooms. The bride’s family discusses last-minute details—the caterer, the photographer, the band—a checklist of anxieties common to any celebration, anxieties cushioned by the certainty that the bills will be paid. The biggest worry is whether a cousin’s flight will arrive on time. It’s a familiar scene of middle-class Nigerian life, a world of aspirations, education, and the quiet privilege of stability.

Across town, another family also prepares, but their concerns are different. Here, the generator is a distant dream. The air is thick with the heat of the day and the smoke from a neighbor’s cooking fire. The father, a tailor, hunches over his sewing machine, the whirring sound a desperate prayer against a deadline. His children are hungry, and the money from this garment is already spent on food for tomorrow. There is no checklist for a wedding they can’t afford to attend properly, only the gnawing reality of daily survival. For them, a political rally is a chance for a small handout, a brief reprieve. The two families’ lives run in parallel, separated by a chasm of wealth and opportunity, yet their paths are about to collide in a way that will shatter the fragile spells they’ve cast to protect themselves.

Ayọ̀bámi Adébáyọ̀ witnessed these parallel realities growing up in Nigeria, seeing how wealth and poverty could exist on the same street, separated by high walls but breathing the same air. She was fascinated and troubled by the thin, porous membrane between a life of comfort and one of crushing hardship, and how easily a person could slip from one to the other. A previous winner of the Miles Morland Scholarship for African Writing, Adébáyọ̀ wrote A Spell of Good Things to explore the human cost of a society where the gap between the haves and have-nots becomes an inescapable, gravitational force, pulling everyone into its orbit.

Module 1: The Two Realities of a Failing System

The novel masterfully contrasts two families to illustrate a core theme. Privilege dictates not just opportunity, but the very perception of reality.

We meet Wúràọlá, a young doctor from an affluent family. Her world is one of social engagements, professional ambitions, and familial expectations. Her problems, while real to her, are often relational. She worries about her fiancé Kúnlé's temper. She navigates the complex politics of her elite family. Her mother, Yèyé, plans lavish parties and views gold jewelry as a crucial investment, a hedge against future uncertainty. For them, a failing infrastructure is an annoyance. Power outages mean switching on the generator. Political instability is a topic for dinner conversation. Their safety net is woven from wealth, connections, and social status.

Then, we meet Ẹniọlá. He is a brilliant teenager from a family whose life has been shattered by economic decline. His father, a respected history teacher, was one of thousands sacked by the government. This single event cascades into a series of disasters. The family loses their home, their car, and their dignity. For Ẹniọlá, a failing system is the daily reality of hunger. It's the humiliation of being flogged at school for unpaid fees. It's the darkness of a home without electricity, where his father hides from creditors. Here's a key insight: Systemic failure is experienced as personal failure. Ẹniọlá’s father is broken, a man who hides under the bed when the landlord comes knocking. His shame becomes the air the family breathes.

The novel juxtaposes these worlds with precision. While Yèyé worries about which gold to wear to a party, Ẹniọlá’s mother scavenges refuse heaps for plastic bottles to sell. While Wúràọlá debates wedding timelines, Ẹniọlá’s younger sister Bùsọ́lá is kidnapped as collateral for his involvement with a political thug. Adebayo shows that these are two sides of the same coin, linked by a system that creates both extreme wealth and extreme precarity. This brings us to the next point. In a broken system, survival itself becomes a full-time job for the poor. Every decision is a calculation. Do you use the little money you have for school fees or for food? Do you endure humiliation for a handout or maintain your pride while your children starve? For Ẹniọlá's family, there are no good choices, only less-terrible ones.

Module 2: The Currency of Hope and Humiliation

Now, let's explore how individuals navigate these realities. The book reveals that in a world of scarcity, dignity is the first casualty, and hope becomes a dangerous commodity.

Let's start with Ẹniọlá. His journey is a study in the erosion of self-worth. At school, he is a bright student. But his family's poverty means he cannot pay his fees. The principal, Mr. Bísádé, enacts a cruel ritual. He publicly flogs students who haven't paid, a "breakfast" of six whip strokes each morning. Ẹniọlá learns to pad his shirt with extra layers. He endures the physical pain. But the true wound is the humiliation. He feels the eyes of his classmates on him. This leads to a powerful observation: Public humiliation is a tool of social control that reinforces powerlessness. It teaches the victim to become invisible, to expect nothing, to be grateful for the smallest scraps.

To survive, Ẹniọlá’s family is forced into performative poverty. His mother decides they must go begging. She rubs ash on Ẹniọlá’s skin to make him look more pitiable. He is given a sign that claims he is a deaf and dumb orphan. He finds himself on a street corner, tapping on the windows of luxury cars. In a gut-wrenching scene, he is begging at the car of Yèyé, the mother of his tailoring boss's daughter. He is recognized. The moment is silent, but the shame is deafening. This is a critical insight from Adebayo. Desperation forces individuals to weaponize their own suffering for sympathy. They must perform a version of hardship that is palatable and profitable, turning their life into a transactional tragedy.

But what about hope? For Ẹniọlá's family, hope is a recurring debt. His father clings to the memory of his former life as a teacher. His mother prays her children will inherit her husband's intelligence, not her own struggles with literacy. This hope drives them to make immense sacrifices. But it also makes their failures more painful. This is where the story pivots. When Ẹniọlá's parents choose to pay his sister's school fees but not his, his hope shatters. The betrayal pushes him away from his family and toward a dangerous alternative. He finds acceptance and, more importantly, free meals at the compound of a local politician, Honourable Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé. This is where the two worlds of the novel begin to collide. When formal systems fail, informal and often dangerous patronage networks rise to fill the void. For a hungry boy like Ẹniọlá, a free plate of food is more tangible than a distant dream of education.