Little Rot is an investigation into how society imposes rigid ideas of right and wrong, constructs we are expected to accept and embody without question.
By Evidence Egwuono
Little Rot by Akwaeke Emezi is the story of Aima, a young Nigerian woman who returns home to New Lagos with her boyfriend, after years in the diaspora. She is reeling from a failing relationship with Kalu, whose reluctance to marry her has created a chasm between them. Their conflict is rooted in a clash of values: Aima, awakening to a renewed Christian faith, sees their unmarried cohabitation as sinful and untenable. Kalu, by contrast, is rooted in a more liberal view of partnership, one that no longer satisfies Aima’s evolving sense of self.
What Emezi does so well here is showcase the psychological unraveling that happens when personal convictions collide with reality. Aima’s decision to leave Kalu is initially a kind of triumph of her faith over sin. She is happy to be freed from fornication and a boyfriend who has no intention of marrying her. However, when the gravity of her decision hits her, she succumbs to emotional grief, confusion, and loneliness.
Unable to deal with the consequences of her journey from New Lagos back to London–a permanent cutting off of Kalu–she reroutes to her best friend’s house instead. This single decision becomes highly significant in the plot as it sets off a chain of events that affect Aima and every other person related to her, directly or indirectly.
In Little Rot, the setting, New Lagos, is not just a city but an organism; it breathes, it intoxicates, it kills, and it saves. Aima’s decision to stay with her best friend, Ijendu, pulls her into the heart of this city’s underbelly. Her first night party acts as a ritual, a threshold into the city’s rot where Aima is finally free to explore her queerness through her sexual encounter with Ijendu. But it is also a place of disillusionment, as Aima comes to see that Ijendu is not the person she imagined. Just like the city itself, Ijendu holds dark secrets.
Aima’s descent into the rot of New Lagos is not romanticised nor moralised. Instead, it is presented as a part of the complexity of being human: the yearning to break free from the constraints of personal convictions, societal expectations, and religious doctrine; the desire to escape the monotony of a prescribed life, to explore, to question: “What makes a fruit forbidden?” “What makes something a sin?” Aima’s intense sexual experience with Ijendu is described not as a transgression, but as a deep, long-suppressed hunger. Even when she later asks God for forgiveness, she cannot articulate what she’s sorry for, because it did not feel like sin.
Kalu’s storyline, on the other hand, explores the rot at the heart of masculinity, wealth, and power. After Aima leaves him, he attends one of his best friend Ahmed’s infamous masked parties, an orgiastic gatherings that cater to the elite’s every indulgence, mostly sexual, all hidden from the judgment of society. Here, Emezi juxtaposes the public image of New Lagos sophistication with the depraved secret lives of its powerful men.
Kalu’s unease at the party, especially when he gets a hint of the presence of underage girls, shatters his illusions of control and moral neutrality. His horror is palpable, but also complicated. He is, after all, there. He becomes a mirror for many well-meaning men who, despite their self-perception as ‘not like the others’, remain complicit in the very systems they claim to disdain.
Kalu is not an innocent observer. His outrage, while seemingly noble, is interrogated. Ahmed, the orchestrator of the party, defends himself by claiming that he is providing underage sex workers like Machi with safer, better-paying work. It’s a disturbing justification, but one that Akwaeke Emezi does not resolve. Instead, readers are left to judge.
Even as Kalu wrestles with his revulsion and sense of betrayal, he is no stranger to rot himself. His messiah complex is undercut by his own desires and secrets. He loves Aima, but that love does not stop him from sleeping with other women. More importantly, he too harbours a queerness he cannot fully name, let alone accept. His attraction to Ahmed is a hidden truth he tries to bury under masculinity and responsibility, but which nonetheless simmers beneath the surface.
Little Rot is an investigation into how society imposes rigid ideas of right and wrong, constructs we are expected to accept and embody without question. To resist these expectations is seen as rebellion, even betrayal. Aima cannot fully embrace her sexual desire for Ijendu because she believes it is sinful, despite knowing other lesbians who are practicing Christians. Kalu, likewise, denies his love for Ahmed out of fear—of judgment, of societal norms, of deviating from what is expected of him as a man.
Queerness in this novel is presented not just as sexual orientation but as something spiritual, intimate, connective, and even transcendent. Kalu and Ahmed’s bond is portrayed as a form of completion. They are tethered to one another in a way that suggests neither can be fully whole without the other. A similar dynamic is revealed in the relationship between Aima and Ijendu. It is therefore no coincidence that they are best friends.
The author’s refusal to frame any character as wholly good or evil is one of the novel’s greatest strengths. Aima is not simply a victim, and Kalu is far from a villain. They are two people trying—and failing—to love each other in a world that makes that love conditional on performance, conformity, and timing. There is a palpable tragedy in how close they come to understanding each other, and how far apart they end up anyway.
Still, Little Rot goes beyond personal desires. It is also a biting critique of Nigeria’s systemic decay. This theme finds a sharp embodiment in Pastor O, a figure who is both a religious leader and a godfather of New Lagos’ shadow world. He manages his church with ease while simultaneously controlling the city’s dark side. What sets him apart, however, is his lack of denial. Unlike the others, Pastor O has embraced his contradictions: his gender nonconformity and his dual identity. Ironically, he seems to be the most liberated character in the story.
Little Rot does not wait until its conclusion to reveal its central message (if such a thing exists). And it is that rot exists in every society. It is a constant in the human condition. And in the end, no one is truly better than another—only more practiced at living with their rot, their truth, their reality. By the end of the novel, one thing stands out: the explicit rawness of Little Rot is something that reminds one of the nature of humans– imperfect, dark, and full of rot.
Evidence Egwuono Adjarho is passionate about African literature and dedicates her time to amplifying it through book reviews and video contents. She is currently undergoing training as a photographer. Connect with her on Instagram, X, Facebook, and LinkedIn: @evidence_egwuono.