Preeti Y

A ghost story hums beneath the surface of Oyinkan Braithwaite’s second book. Not the kind with chains or moans, but one built on silence passed through generations. Her first novel snapped with tension and irony, crime sharpened by wit. This time, the air feels heavier, thickened by what goes unsaid in a Lagos household where daughters inherit more than names. Superstition isn’t whispered here - it leans against doorframes, sits at dinner. The past doesn’t fade; it watches. Women carry loads handed down without explanation. There is no escape hatch, only rooms that remember too much.

A shadow hangs over the women of the Falodun line - men never stay. Since long ago, each generation has known loss, loneliness, pain. It begins with Monife, found lifeless on sand at Elegushi Beach. Her death pulls us into lives shaped by absence. Then there is Ebun, her cousin, wrestling with choices made in silence. Following her comes Eniiyi, daughter of Ebun, stepping through a world already marked by sorrow.
Fate slips her into the world the moment they bury Monife - same eyes, same hands, almost like a trick of time. Family doesn’t see Eniiyi; they gaze through her at a ghost dressed in fresh skin. Their belief hums louder each year, thickening the air around her name. Things crack open once she pulls a boy from the river’s grip - he gasps awake, sunlit hair stuck to his forehead, too familiar. He carries the walk, the grin, even the tilt of the chin that once shattered her aunt. History does not repeat quietly.

What grabs you about this story lies in how Braithwaite mixes old Yoruba tales with strange, dreamlike moments that feel real. Black birds keep appearing, wounds repeat themselves across family lines, Mami Wata lingers like a shadow just out of sight - these things build up slow unease. Instead of giving answers, the tale pushes questions forward. Could the so-called curse be magic - or might grief and pain passed down through years make people believe in it more than they should?
What stands out most are the people in the story, especially Eniiyi, trying to claim her own path inside a house humming with old signs and family echoes - something anyone might recognize. Jumping between times could have felt messy, yet each shift lands smoothly, edited so precisely that not one mistake shows up along the way. Because everything runs so cleanly, you never get pulled out of the thick, tight air hanging over the Falodun household.

A few shadows linger where the light shines brightest. Though the mood holds strong, now and then the story trips on its habit of repeating itself. When Monife's path mirrors Eniiyi's too closely, the road ahead shows up too soon. Halfway through, you can almost guess what waits around the bend. Some men in the tale stand near the edges, not quite solid like the women who fill the rooms with breath and bone. They arrive, they act, they vanish - less seen for who they are, more for what they set loose.

Even with its small hiccups in rhythm, Cursed Daughters mixes today’s world with old beliefs in a sharp, striking way. Quiet rebellion runs deep here - facing down inherited wounds feels less like shouting and more like standing firm.