This Is Not The Life I Ordered (TINTLIO): A Book Review

I read This Is Not The Life I Ordered (TINTLIO) at a point of particular discontent in my life－stuck soomewhere I no longer wanted to be, barely accessing basic amenities and hit with some sort of creative bankruptcy. The latter bothered me most because I desperately needed to make sense of how I was feeling at the time.

Artists usually have a pressure (mostly self imposed) on them to morph their discomfort into something beautiful or palatable.

‘but I am not Lana Del Rey

I am not Sylvia Plath.’

So I believe there is a certain admiration or envy that crawls its way out of us when we see other artists do just that.

In TINTLIO, you’d find two brilliant writers express what I’d describe as the general discomfort of being a Nigerian (or even human) in very interesting ways.

Prior to reading this book, I had spent a lot of time with Sussane’s work, so I expected little to no problem distinguishing her writing from Sherif’s. However, with their writing styles so distinct, it would have been easy to tell them apart if I came to the book with unacquinted eyes.

Sherif’s writing is more eager, seasoned at the right places with sharp metaphors and clever puns.

Sussane’s writing is more gentle and simple.

Somehow, they managed to complement and even decorate each other －Sussane’s writing offering a soft hand to hold, where Sherif’s pushes you to what he wants you to see, and Sherif’s writing pouring colour on the places Sussane’s leaves grey.

The poems themselves are clever and clear in what they have to say;

In their commentary or criticism,

‘we rub everything

for their milk.

We rob everyone

For their milk.’

In their take on holding on to hope,

‘Hope is as fleeting

as the seasons…’

You find grief waiting in some of these poems, and a bold acceptance of death. This book reminds you, more than once, that death is just simply a destination we are all headed to －some faster than others －but it is a dead end we all hit, no matter what we do on the journey there.

‘Little exercises to prepare ourselves for death.’

So what do we do when people we care about arrive there before do?

Collect the painful memories, take note of the grief, let it pass through us,

‘I have to say, come in, be a friend,

be a muse.’

We do not run from the emptiness,

‘Be prepared,

this is going to hurt.

But sit with it.’

We have to accept that loss is a part of life, and it is ironically what gives living its worth.

‘A life that lacks loss is lackluster.’

You can also see palm prints of the infamous year 2020 scattered all over this book. 2020 was a year most of us wrestled with the depths of our own loneliness, came to terms with the inevitability of our mortality, and even considered the speedy depravity of this aging planet. It was a difficult year for most Nigerians, one I believe her young adult population will want to forget but find it difficult to.

Poems like 20–10–20, a night full of sars, George Floyd, among others, document the feeling of helplessness, and dread that year brought with it in a way no one else could have.

In the end, TINTLIO sits with you like a friend, offering humour, and an I understand to whatever discontent you may be nursing.

It is a book loaded with brilliance, with poems birthed with care and precision. It is a look at what two artists can accomplish when they bring their experiences and abilities on a collision course.