The promo material for And then He Sang a Lullaby describes the novel as "a searingly honest and resonant debut from a 23-year-old Nigerian writer and queer liberation activist, exploring what love and freedom cost in a society steeped in homophobia." It's a single sentence, but it has all sorts of experiences and issues packed into it, just as this novel does.

The central characters, August and Segun come from very different backgrounds in a very splintered Nigeria. August's mother died giving birth to him (she'd already birthed three daughters, but felt obliged to produce a son). His three sisters raise him. His father owns rental properties which keep the family comfortable financially; however, despite the sisters' urging, no real relationship exists between August and his father. His father continues to mourn his wife's death; August assumes he is responsible for that death. August is also aware he is gay, but tries to avoid embracing the identity. He can "pass" as straight, and it's easier and more comfortable to blend in and to engage in occasional, usually anonymous sexual encounters.

Segun's family is less well-off. He's been bullied throughout his childhood for his less-than-masculine behaviors, but is well-loved by his mother. Having seen his first lover brutally beaten by classmates (far more brutally than any of peer violence Segun is regularly subjected to), Segun has a very different understanding of what it means to be gay than does August. Segun knows he'll never succeed at passing and fights to accept and present himself as exactly who he is. He also knows that he can become a target for truly deadly violence at any time.

The two men meet at university and gradually become friends, then lovers. Both are involved in the very earnest Socialist Students Association, though August is not the committed revolutionary Segun is. Given the privilege August unconsciously accepts as his due, their relationship is volatile—and this worsens when major anti-gay legislation is enacted. August seems almost deliberately obtuse, not acknowledging the homophobia embraced by many of his friends and believing he needn't worry about the legislation, so long as he doesn't draw attention to himself. Segun knows this legislation threatens his very right to exist.

This is a lot of summary—and I try to avoid writing reviews that are overloaded with summary. But I think the summary is essential because, once one comes to know these two young men and the culture they're living in, one can imagine all the many, many complications, misunderstandings, attacks, and crises of identity they face. These complications, misunderstandings, attacks, and crises of identity are the unrelenting action of the novel, which acknowledges that what love might make possible in other circumstances cannot be achieved in their particular time and place.

This is a book to read when you're feeling strong, when you can hang onto hope of the slow, slow moral arc of the universe ultimately bending toward justice. And Then He Sang a Lullaby reminds us that the rising tide of anti-LGBTQI+ legislation and violence we're facing in the U.S. isn't an anomaly, but an attempt to reassert hate and shame as the norm that they've been over time and across the globe.

The ending didn't quite ring true to me, but that didn't lessen the book's value and impact. Having read his debut novel, I'm very much looking forward to reading future works by Ani Kayode Somtochukwu. I received a free electronic review copy of this title from the publisher via NetGalley; the opinions are my own. ( )