WHEN MEN PLAY GOD: a review of Faith Ose Ebhodaghe’s Impunity
Impunity is a fast-paced story of power and corruption—a depiction of the generational impact of violence and the chronic nature of abuse. The story, set in Nigeria, is emotionally charged and socially insightful, exploring a legacy of crime, the frailty of truth and the ethical cost of survival. Divided into two parts, the novel takes us through the life of Aza Kio Briggs, his rise from the vulnerable teenager, a victim of bullies, to an underworld kingpin, and the adventures of Adonis, his numerous run-ins with the Nigerian Police in his hunt for truth and justice.
The dual structure of the novel is both narrative and thematic. The first part shows the effect of the exposure of the youth to the dynamics of influence and control through violence—how easily a victim can morph, in the quest for protection, into an abuser. The reader is taken on a trip into the early 1990s boarding school experience. From his first day in school, fourteen-year-old Aza is pitted against the school’s most powerful senior student, who also doubles as the hostel prefect. Jude is a cult leader with strong backing of forces in the larger society outside of school. A privilege that makes him untouchable.
Faith’s prose is raw and immersive—visceral and brutally honest, employing the third person omniscient narrative style, leveraging internal monologues and flashbacks to create tension and sustain intensity. The dialogue reflects real speech patterns across the age and class of the characters, and the environment in which they exist.
There’s a narrative shift in the second part, which follows Adonis, an architecture enthusiast, a student preparing to write the JAMB exams and his friends. Faith Ose Ebhodaghe peels the scab of time and retells the END SARS protest stories. Her tale of police complicity in high crimes is both horrific and rattling. The profiling of young people based on their fashion choices and vibrant lifestyles is shallow and unintelligent. Adonis consistently challenged these stereotypes at the risk of his own wellbeing, constantly needing to decide what to do with sensitive information—expose or embrace the silence of the older generation?
Reana, Aza’s second daughter, is a key character, the plot glue. Her romantic relationship with Adonis introduces a subtle mystery, one that would become crucial to tying the decades-spanning events of the book. Reana who has managed to distance herself from her father’s criminal empire is presented with an opportunity to tap into the privileges when her activist boyfriend finds himself in the police net for the third time. She’s on the cusp of an explosive revelation, a truth that would shake her sanity to the foundations, and probably bring her world, her longing for identity and closure, crumbling.
There’s a switch in tone in the second half of the book. The prose veers from its dramatic, emotional core to expository storytelling, sacrificing the richness of language for thematic urgency. When crime goes unpunished repeatedly, it becomes a culture—it becomes a heritage. And this is the thematic foundation. Power is the recurring subject here—both ends of it—viewed through the scope of cultism and corruption as offshoots of politics and from the perspective of silent frustration, or in some cases, apathy from a people perpetually exposed to injustice, who have learned to internalise it. Impunity touches on trauma, gender issues, dysfunctional families, poverty, and betrayal.
One thing Faith does well is suck the reader onto the page and make them experience every emotion. However, character development takes a back seat in her account. Besides Aza, no other person was identified by their full names—not even Adonis, a major character. Beyond the names, which could be argued as a stylistic device rather than an oversight, physical attributes are hard to imagine, as the only references to them are ambiguous adjectives—fat, short, small, pretty—as against known and relatable metrics. Event timelines are also difficult to establish. The story structure left a gnawing gap, for instance, in Aza’s story. Hours rapidly grow into days, into years, leaving a feeling of disorientation. The inscription, Rivers (State) in the senator’s building documents and the references to Mile 12 and Obinigba Police station are the few times the author gives us hints to a physical setting (and of course, Liverpool). Aside from the actions and dialogues, the sights, sounds, and the people that are not directly involved in the story stay unseen and unheard.
Storytelling is a craft of detail. Good fiction rides on the back of realism and thrives on extensive research—culture, process, science…Impunity falters with specifics at times. Adonis’ architectural practice is a big part of the plot, but the design and construction knowledge displayed on the pages are unconvincing. Technical words are used out of context. Task execution and timelines are not representative. Perhaps I noticed this because of my engineering training and practice—but isn’t that the idea, practicality?
At certain points while reading this book, I longed for the rich visuals of the first fight scene—each punch, each lash of the belt, every single piercing of gravel into flesh, raw and haunting.
At some point, Aza lost track of time. His body felt numb. By the time the first round of whipping was over, he had grown accustomed to the sting, his skin raw but his spirit unbroken.
The hate and violence on the pages are harrowing, explicit. Scenes of beatings, cult initiation, and rape are delivered in blunt, often uncomfortable detail, prioritising poignancy over literary aesthetics. The rare joy moments and love scenes aren’t as accomplished.
His legs gave out, and he dropped to his knees… The pounding in his skull grew unbearable, swelling like a drumbeat inside his head. He shut his eyes, hoping to regain his strength. When he opened them again—nothing. Just a flood of blackness…
He noticed flames flickering in the distance… There, near the fire, was a group of boys… A tall, masked man loomed over him. ‘You are now Yhesus,’ the man declared. ‘Your life belongs to us
Impunity is ambitious. It attempts to weave politics, romance, and mystery into a high-tempo plot. In the end, it doesn’t provide catharsis—because that’s the point; the only ones who suffer consequences for their actions (or indifference) are the people, victims of oppression. The system wins. Ebhodaghe hits the reader with one big twist at the end—one that you may not recover from several minutes after putting the book down.
Jide Badmus
Author, Obaluaye
