A River, A Madman, and A Wicked Prophecy… “The Fishermen” Has Me Weary of All of This!
The Fishermen by Chigozie Obioma — A Book Review
I made it to my second book of the year! By February 7th, to my surprise, I had already finished The Fishermen by Chigozie Obioma — a book I initially thought would take me the entire month to get through. I’m already on to my next read (stick around till the end to find out my pick). Does this mean The Fishermen was so gripping I couldn’t stop until I turned the last page? Absolutely. I won’t even deny it. There’s a reason it was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize in 2015, the year it was published, and I’m proud to say I now understand why.
As I read, I kept jotting down fhingz upon fhingz until my notepad begged me to take it easy. But the real challenge came when it was time to gather my thoughts into this coherent review. I had to decide which moments I wanted to hold closer to my heart and which ones deserved an honorable fore-mention in this intro: like how Obioma masterfully maintains the voice of an adult narrator recalling childhood events, or how the novel seamlessly weaves in real-life Nigerian happenings of the 1990s, the period it’s set in.
Now, having stepped away from the book and let its impact settle, I can say this: The Fishermen is a novel that lingers. It is in one breath a coming-of-age story, a tale of brotherhood, fate, and what the overbearing weight of belief can look like. Through Benjamin’s eyes, Obioma takes us into the heart of 1990s Akure, where a single prophecy sets off a devastating chain of events.
Let’s dive in.
This review contains minute spoilers.
Chigozie Obioma’s The Fishermen is a hauntingly poetic tale of brotherhood and fate, told through the recollection of our narrator, Benjamin Agwu, the fourth of six children born to Eme and Adaku Agwu. As the youngest of the four older, tightly knit brothers, Benjamin recalls their shared adventures, the bonds they shared, and the unraveling tragedy that tore them apart in 1990s Akure, Ondo State.
Benjamin tells of a childhood that began with relative ease before the clouds began to gather. Their father’s well-paying job at the Central Bank of Nigeria provided financial stability, while their mother’s trading allowed for a more hands-on approach to their upbringing. But when their father is transferred to Yola, the newfound freedom leads them to fish at the forbidden Omi-Ala river for six weeks before they are discovered— a seemingly harmless pastime that unknowingly sows the seeds of their destruction.
It is during one of these secret trips to Omi-Ala that they encounter Abulu, the madman with the gift of prophecy. Abulu’s visions are feared not just for their content but for a track record of always coming to pass. When Ikenna, the firstborn, hears that he is fated to die at the hands of one of his brothers, “a fisherman,” his slow and tragic unraveling begins. The once dependable and protective figure his younger siblings — Boja, Obembe, Ben, David, and Nkem — looked up to, is consumed by paranoia. He becomes erratic, his moods volatile, and his love for his family replaced with suspicion and hostility.
It is difficult not to pity Ikenna during his metamorphosis, as Obioma calls it. He is not merely a troubled teen but the victim of what he believes to be an inescapable prophecy, one that never should have been placed on the shoulders of a 15-year-old. To live under the weight of such a dark, blistering thought — to suspect that your own beloved brothers could be your undoing — is a torment few could endure unscathed. Ikenna, so young and ill-equipped to fight off this creeping dread, does what most might: he withdraws, erecting walls where once there was warmth. The longer I read, the more I wanted to reach through the pages, to shake him free from his growing isolation, to tell him that his acts of reproach toward his brothers were only widening the rift, feeding the very prophecy he feared. But like his mother, like his brothers, I, too, was helpless. This is the genius of Obioma’s storytelling — his prose is so immersive, his characters’ experiences so vividly drawn, that their despair becomes the reader’s own. The novel does not simply narrate the tragedy of this family as it began with Abulu’s prophecy; it makes you feel its heaviness, its inevitability, and the aching helplessness of all affected. It is dark and brooding but also rich in captivating elements, weaving folklore, fate, and the fragile bonds of brotherhood into a tale that lingers long after the final page.
Obioma’s narrative is richly evocative, transporting readers into the quiet yet ominous setting of 1990s Akure, a town he himself grew up in around the same time. The idea for The Fishermen stemmed from a dark curiosity — what was the worst that could have happened if his two eldest brothers, who as children maintained a strong rivalry, had let that enmity consume them? In this novel, he lets that unsettling thought unfold within the confines of his pages, exploring how a seemingly harmless childhood pastime can spiral into catastrophe.
His writing is methodical, gently leading us into the eerie unraveling of the Agwu brothers’ world. The tension builds slowly, but the weight of impending doom lingers from the very first chapter, as we are made aware that this is a tale of loss and devastation. Each moment of foreshadowing lands like a quiet ache, making the book increasingly difficult to put down. The novel excels in how well it uses the element of suspense. The gradual revelation of Boja’s fate, for instance, is executed with precision, leaving readers holding their breath. It’s one of my favorite passages because of its simplicity and how expertly Obioma uses language to not only build anticipation but also pull the rug out from under us, all while painting the most vivid images in the mind of the reader. Obioma does not shy away from the darkest corners of human experience, and the novel’s unflinching commitment to its themes is one of its strongest points. The inevitability of fate in The Fishermen is reminiscent of Greek tragedy: the more Ikenna resists, the closer he draws to his doomed end.
One of The Fishermen’s most striking lessons, which I think might not have gotten a lot of public notice, is the challenge of parenthood. I suppose I picked up on this thread because of how dear the subject is to me. Adaku is left to raise six children while Eme relocates to Yola for work, and she does her best to keep things together. However, the absence of a father figure takes a profound toll on the children almost immediately, a connection even the narrator draws. Though Eme initially made efforts to visit every weekend, the mounting pressures at work prevented him from returning for some time, which, tragically, coincided with Ikenna’s hastened deterioration.
The tragedy here, however, is not just in Ikenna’s fate but in the slow unraveling of a family once held together by love and routine. When Eme finally resigns and returns for good after hearing of his son’s death, it is a little too late. The damage has already been done, and his presence does little to undo what has already transpired or set in motion.
Eme, though motivated by a desire to provide for his family and keep them safe, could never have foreseen such a drastic outcome. His absence, driven by work commitments, leads him to a place of regret. While our narrator never explicitly tells us this, there is a palpable sense that Eme will never be able to fully forgive himself for the decision to delay his return home. The consequences he met upon his return lingered far beyond anything he could have ever imagined.
It might appear muddled, but there is a lesson here for parents.
The Fishermen offers more than one lesson, and which one resonates most will depend on the reader. Some will see it as a story about the weight of prophecy and the dangers of superstition. Others will focus on the fragility of sibling bonds, and how easily love can curdle into distrust. It is also a meditation on fate versus free will — how much control do we truly have over our destinies?
For me, it is the haunting nature of fate that lingers the most: the unshakable pull of destiny, the burden of knowledge, and the way a single statement or action can alter the course of a life forever. Ikenna’s story is a reminder of how much weight words can carry, how a whisper can become a sentence, and how belief can shape reality.
Could Ikenna have escaped his fate? Could anything have been done to sever Abulu’s prophecy’s grip on him? Was his tragedy a matter of the consequences of his actions, or was he merely walking the path already laid out for him by destiny? The novel lingers in providing answers to these questions, leaving room for interpretation. What do you think?
The Fishermen by Chigozie Obioma is a stunning meditation on destiny, brotherhood, and the unseen forces that shape our lives. It is both tragic and compelling, a novel that lingers in the mind long after the final page is turned. It comes highly recommended.
For my next book, I wanted to spring up An Orchestra of Minorities because I longed to spend more time in Chigozie Obioma’s head. An indication of how much I enjoyed reading The Fishermen. But with total submission to the will of the Almighty God, I regret to announce that as hard as I tried, I couldn’t get into the groove of the first few pages even though I liked the idea of the book and its choice of narrator. The more time passed, the more I feared I wouldn’t be able to make it through the book in time for my month’s end recap, so I swapped it out for a surprise Valentine's Day gift I received: A Broken People’s Playlist by Chimeka Garricks. Short story collections are some of my favourite pieces of fiction, so I’m looking forward to getting through every story within its bounds. The first story’s ending already left me wide-eyed and stunned, but that’s a gist for my next review piece.
Now that you’re all caught up on the current status of my TBR, I’ll see you on the other side once I’m done reading.
List of books I currently have under consideration for the rest of 2025
- An Orchestra of Minorities
- And Then He Sang A Lullaby
- Gaslight
- Purple Hibiscus
- Nearly All The Men in Lagos Are Mad
- Only Big Bumbum Matters Tomorrow
- Half of a Yellow Sun (reading again)
- Children of Blood and Bone (reading again)
- Be(com)ing Nigerian (reading again)
- The Thing Around Your Neck (reading again)
