Esinam Bediako on Her Debut Novel, Blood on the Brain
The question of what it means to be an American is currently under intense debate. While equality and liberty are foundational ideals, they are increasingly viewed through the lens of racial and ethnic experiences. Second-generation children of immigrants often struggle with their diverse identities while finding their place in a country divided by race, immigration, and societal values.
Akosua Agbe, born to Ghanaian parents in Detroit, enters this complex amphitheater of history and belonging in Esinam Bediako’s novel Blood on the Brain. The news of her estranged father’s return to the U.S. from Ghana throws Akosua into a tailspin. A traumatic brain injury serves as a catalyst and metaphor as she grapples with “the weight of how much I don’t add up to anything” and her feelings of abandonment and self-worth.
I connected with Bediako via email to discuss our many shades of otherness, living with physical and generational pain, and writing characters with depth and honesty. The interview has been edited for length.
Tania Malik: Identity is very much an overarching theme in the novel. With the issue of what it means to be American under scrutiny, can you talk about the multi-fold challenges of negotiating identity during this time?
Esinam Bediako: That’s such an important question and one that really shaped Blood on the Brain. Akosua, like many second-generation kids, occupies this in-between space—connected to her Ghanaian heritage while also shaped by her American upbringing. For children of immigrants, this can mean navigating multiple cultural expectations, sometimes feeling like they don’t fully belong in either world. There’s often a push-and-pull between familial roots and the realities of growing up in the U.S.
For example, there’s the idea of the “model immigrant.” People see someone like Akosua—highly educated, the daughter of a professional, a non-threatening, polite young woman—and they think, Okay, she’s one of the good ones. That framing is repulsive to me. It suggests that there’s a right and wrong way to be an immigrant, as if dignity and humanity must be earned through degrees, good behavior, and proximity to whiteness. It’s a lie some immigrants tell themselves too—that if they’re documented, educated, and law-abiding, they’ll be safe. But history and reality show that’s not true.
At its core, Blood on the Brain explores how memory, personal history, and cultural inheritance shape self-understanding. Akosua’s journey isn’t just about balancing identities—it’s about rejecting imposed narratives and claiming her identity fully, even when the world insists on categorization.
TM: A large part of someone’s identity is their name. Akosua is called “Sue,” which she wryly states is an “Americanized, bastardized version” of her name. How does compromising on identity markers like a name affect emotional well-being and undermine inclusivity and assimilation?
ES: Names carry weight—not just in how we identify ourselves, but in how others perceive and interact with us. I relate to this personally—during my MFA program, I started introducing myself as Esi, the nickname my close friends and family always used. It was a small shift but made social interactions easier, removing the stress of trying to get people to say “ES-ih-nahm.” (Even “ES-ih-nahm” isn’t the correct pronunciation of my name; it’s just the way that Americans always seemed to be able to say it, so I adopted it as my default. It’s actually closer to “EHS-ee-nahm.”) At the same time, allowing everyone to use my nickname created a false sense of familiarity—just because people called me Esi didn’t mean we were besties yet. Still, I liked it and I still do. Esi is still a Ghanaian name, and since I’m already socially awkward, Esi makes me feel more comfortable. I feel like I can, on some level, be closer to myself.
For Akosua, though, “Sue” isn’t really hers—it’s a concession to avoid corrections, to fit into a system that doesn’t make space for names like hers. And that’s the bigger issue: Reshaping yourself for others’ comfort isn’t just a small compromise; it’s a quiet, daily reminder of who gets to belong effortlessly and who has to adapt just to be seen.
TM: When we first meet Akosua, she’s adrift—she’s dropped most of her classes, broken up with her boyfriend, and is facing a decision about reconnecting with her estranged father. Then, a fall in the shower leaves her with a brain injury. Was there any particular inspiration behind the story?
ES: The inspiration came from a mix of personal curiosity and research. When I first wrote that Akosua hit her head, I didn’t intend it to be a serious injury. But as I thought about it more, I started worrying about her—wouldn’t this actually be a big deal? That led me to research post-concussion syndrome, and I was surprised to learn how even a seemingly minor bump can cause long-term effects, depending on the angle and location of impact. As a former athlete and generally clumsy person, I found myself invested in understanding the science behind brain injuries.
I’ve never had a traumatic brain injury, but I do have spondyloarthritis, an immune-related disease where physical pain and mental health are deeply intertwined. That mind-body connection has always fascinated me, and it made me think differently about Akosua’s injury. Like many writers, I consider psychology and emotions, but researching the neuroscience behind decision-making showed me how physiology plays just as crucial a role in a character’s motivations. Akosua often wonders where her head injury ends and where she begins, and I wanted to explore how trauma—both physical and emotional—shapes identity and self-perception in ways we don’t always realize.
TM: Her father’s abandonment of Akosua has caused deep trauma. He was, in fact, already married when he married her mother, which delegitimizes Akosua not only in the eyes of the law but also in her sense of self.
ES: Knowing she was never legally recognized as her father’s child makes Akosua feel like she exists in a gray area—unclaimed, unofficial. It’s bad enough that he’s not there for her for most of her life, but to add insult to injury, there’s this issue of so-called illegitimacy. She feels erased, and this seeps into her relationships, particularly with men. She’s afraid to fight for a relationship that feels real—where there’s love, depth, and flaws—yet she’s not afraid to jump headlong into something that doesn’t feel real, because if it’s not real, it can’t hurt. She’s also chasing the idea of a boyfriend, a dad, a career—all these hollow things.
TM: She’s also pressured by the Ghanaian community to reconnect with her father upon his return to the U.S., with the refrain that she must be “a good Ghanaian girl.” This makes Akosua feel like she’s falling short of expectations and question her self-worth.
ES: There’s a tension between how Akosua is expected to act as a good Ghanaian girl and how she actually feels about reconnecting with her father. There’s a cultural expectation that she should forgive him, respect him, and reestablish their relationship, even though he abandoned her. But for Akosua, that pressure feels unfair—why is the responsibility on her to make things right? She’s constantly measuring herself against these external expectations and feeling like she falls short—like she’s failing at being a good daughter, a good Ghanaian, or even just a good person. That kind of self-doubt makes her question whether she’s being true to herself or just trying to meet impossible standards set by others.
TM: The Ghanaian community, like other transnational communities, is built on shared backgrounds, with members “drawn to the familiarity of each others’ otherness.” How do transnational activities and cultural practices in the U.S. support identity formation and create a sense of belonging or otherness?
ES: I’ve lived this experience too—growing up in the Ghanaian community in the U.S., I saw how these transnational ties shape identity. For Akosua, her aunties and uncles stand in for distant relatives, helping her fill in cultural and familial gaps.
But these ties also create tension, reinforcing expectations of what it means to be a good Ghanaian girl. Instead of feeling connected, she’s reminded of what she doesn’t know—her frustration at not speaking Ewe, her insecurity about not cooking authentic Ghanaian food, her lack of understanding about her mother’s past. Worse, she’s constantly compared to so-called cousins—children of immigrants who have become doctors, lawyers, professors—while she’s floundering. What should feel like a refuge instead magnifies her sense of not belonging.
TM: Not only that, but Akosua is accused of trying to be too American and not being Ghanaian enough. It is quite a dilemma. Her accident and subsequent injury end up being a way to reconcile with her dualities and get to her essential truth.
ES: Before the accident, Akosua moves through life feeling like she’s constantly falling short. The concussion disrupts her ability to perform the version of herself she’s used to presenting. It’s like the physical trauma speeds up the decompensation that was already happening—the gradual unraveling of the careful balancing act she’s been maintaining. Without the energy or cognitive clarity to keep up appearances, the fractures in her sense of self become impossible to ignore. In this vulnerable state, she starts seeing that her identity isn’t something she has to choose between or prove—it’s something she can claim fully, on her own terms. The injury, in stripping away her usual defenses, ultimately brings her closer to understanding who she is.
TM: Akosua’s relationships are in flux. Her mother, her best friend, and her ex-boyfriend are all finely drawn. Can you tell us more about how these characters contributed to your story's narrative and themes?
ES: Because the story is told entirely from Akosua’s perspective—and she’s, let’s just say, pretty self-focused—I had to put a lot of effort into ensuring the people around her still felt layered and dynamic. Akosua may view them as satellites orbiting her life, but I wanted the reader to see who they are beyond her limited view. For instance, while Akosua views her best friend, Ella, as having a perfect life, the reader (hopefully) picks up on Ella’s own worries—her increased responsibilities at work, the weight of supporting her parents in Jamaica. Despite their struggles, Akosua’s loved ones show up for her, though whether they’ll continue to is uncertain. Your twenties, especially post-undergrad, can feel like the first great friendship purge, a time when relationships shift as everyone grows in different directions at different paces.
TM: You won the Anne Petry Prize for this novel. Can you tell us what writing this novel and winning the prize has meant to you?
ES: It’s so special that the prize is named after Ann Petry. I first discovered her work in high school and was struck by her legacy as the first African American woman to sell over a million book copies. Though I appreciated The Street academically in college, The Narrows resonated more on a personal level, especially its exploration of an interracial relationship, which resonated with me as I was—and still am—in one with my now-husband. Winning a prize in Ann Petry’s name has been humbling and completely unexpected. The novel began as my MFA thesis and sat untouched for over a decade while I focused on teaching. During the pandemic, I rediscovered writing and used novel competitions as deadlines and motivation to finish a new project. My husband encouraged me to submit Blood on the Brain for the prize. I spent a few intense weeks revising and, months later, was stunned to learn I had won. I’m not impulsive or particularly spontaneous, and neither is my husband, so the fact that he pushed me to take that leap—and that it led to Blood on the Brain being published—still feels like one of those small, pivotal moments that changed everything.
Esinam Bediako (@esi_the_lurker) is a Ghanaian American writer from Detroit. She is the author of the Ann Petry Award-winning novel, Blood on the Brain (Red Hen Press, 2024), as well as the essay/poetry chapbook, Self-Talk (Porkbelly Press, 2025). You can find some of her recent work in Porter House Review, Cathexis Northwest Press, Great River Review, North American Review, and Southern Humanities Review. Esi lives in Claremont, CA, with her family.
Tania Malik (@taniamalik) is the author of the novel Hope You Are Satisfied (Unnamed Press/Verve Books UK), which was recommended by NPR and named one of the best espionage novels of 2023 by CrimeReads. Her previous novel, Three Bargains (W.W. Norton), received a Publishers Weekly Starred review and a Booklist Starred review. Her work has appeared in Electric Literature, Lit Hub, The Brooklyn Rail, Off-Assignment, Write or Die Magazine, Full Stop Magazine, Salon, Calyx Journal, Baltimore Review, and other publications. She lives in San Francisco’s Bay Area. Find more at www.taniamalik.com.