Reincarnation and Impossible Love in "When We Were Fireflies": A Guide to Spiritual Wahala
Let’s face it: Nigerians believe a lot. From spiritual husbands to village people, from dream warnings to the mysterious way meat disappears from pots, we are a deeply spiritual bunch. So, when Abubakar Adam Ibrahim drops a novel like "When We Were Fireflies", exploring the concepts of reincarnation and impossible love, you just know it’s going to hit us differently. This isn’t just a story—it’s the literary version of “my chest!” as we navigate heartbreak, memory, and that mystical thing called second chances.
The novel follows Jamal, a perfumer who returns to his hometown in Northern Nigeria after a car accident jolts him into remembering things he had long buried. What begins as a physical journey home becomes a deeper spiritual and emotional one. Through memory, Jamal starts to relive a past that refuses to stay buried especially when it involves Hajara, the girl who once lit up his world like a sudden NEPA restoration. Jamal’s return becomes a reckoning, and through his fragmented past, the reader begins to sense that this story is more than just about loss—it’s about transformation, the kind that smells like old wounds and blooming perfumes at once.
In the world of this novel, reincarnation isn’t just about souls returning in new bodies like in Indian films or Yoruba myths. It becomes a metaphor for how our past selves never quite die. They linger, waiting to be remembered. Jamal may not be literally reborn, but emotionally, he is going through multiple resurrections. Every step into memory, every scent he creates, feels like a spiritual homecoming. For many Nigerians, this is relatable in the most painful ways. We are a people who often go through emotional recycling---ending and starting over again in love, business, relationships, careers, and hairstyles. Reincarnation for us is not far-fetched; it's just another way of saying, “E don happen again.”
Then there’s Hajara. Ah, Hajara. The love that could have been, should have been, but never quite happened. Their story is the very definition of impossible love; one that is so emotionally loaded it could power a small town if converted to electricity. Hajara and Jamal’s love is pure in memory but tangled in reality. Social expectations, trauma, and silence build a wall between them. Sounds familiar? That’s because every Nigerian has that one love that still lives in their WhatsApp archive and their dreams. The one that sends wedding invites with “#ForeverUs2026” while your chest caves in silently. Lol. Jamal and Hajara are us. We’ve all been there. We’ve all loved someone who feel a thing for us, who couldn't stay, or whom society said we shouldn’t love.
What makes this novel hit even harder is the Nigerian context. It’s not just about feelings. It’s about the culture of silence around trauma and the entanglement of "holy people" in such. It’s about what it means to carry spiritual and emotional baggage through life because therapy is too expensive, and “just pray about it” is the national prescription. The novel cleverly weaves these themes in without shouting. It doesn’t need to. The fireflies do the talking. They are symbols of memory and light—brief but powerful. They remind us that some emotions, no matter how long ago they sparked, still glow in the dark corners of our hearts.
If Jamal were on Twitter, he’d probably tweet something like “Healing isn’t linear, abeg,” or “You ever smell a scent and remember your trauma?” Hajara would be the queen of cryptic Instagram quotes like “I was a firefly once, now I burn in silence.” And us? We’re out here trying to keep our hearts from breaking again while paying ₦500 for pure water and dodging emotional triggers like potholes. Is it even possible? Kini kan to gbon sha sha ni, ebiti pada se kini yen fun. Lol. That’s why this book speaks to us. It’s not about grand theories. It’s about how we, as Nigerians, live in circles—starting over and over, loving and losing, laughing through the pain, and believing maybe, just maybe, this life isn’t the final version of our story.
In "When We Were Fireflies", Abubakar Adam Ibrahim gives us a story that feels like a spiritual mirror. It shows us how the past refuses to die, how love is often not enough, and how healing is messy and slow. But it also gives us beauty, warmth, and those tiny moments of light we all need to keep going. Whether or not you believe in reincarnation, you will recognize the feeling of trying to start again. Because we’ve all been fireflies—once bright, now flickering, still searching.
Post a Comment