The Wanderers by Mphuthumi Ntabeni is political fiction that straddles the line between novel and essay collection, weaving together themes of exile, faith, and identity through a deeply layered narrative structure. Told through a mix of second-person expositions, journal entries, and letters, the story reflects the fractured legacy of South Africa’s political past while highlighting the generational search for belonging.

The novel is divided into three sections: the childhood stories about Phakamile Maseti, the main character’s father; Phak’s journal entries; and his daughter Fikiswa’s letters to her deceased mother. At the heart of the story is Fikiswa, affectionately called Ruru, who acts as a bridge between her parents’ unfinished stories. Once orphaned, Ruru documents the details of her life events to her late mother, Nosipho, while interpreting her father Phak’s writings, passed down through his second wife, Efuoa. These interwoven narratives display the time, grief, and memories of this story and underscore the lasting impact of political exile.

Ntabeni’s characters are entrancing. Ruru’s voice is intimate and searching. As a young doctor working with Doctors Without Borders in Tanzania, she wrestles with personal losses alongside the bureaucratic failures of a strained medical system. One of the most striking examples is when she is unjustly blamed for the death of an infant due to hospital negligence—an early lesson in how institutions protect themselves over truth. At the same time, she wrestles with her shifting faith, unsure how to confess her agnosticism to her devout mother through the letters she writes as a way of staying connected.

Her father, Phak, looms large as both a figure of absence and myth. Once a political activist, he is exiled early in his marriage. The details of his story unfold through childhood tales and journal entries that reveal both the weight of political struggle and his desire to control how he is remembered. Phak is part of the Organization, a liberation group resisting apartheid. But even within its ranks, paranoia ran deep—comrades accused one another of collaborating with the enemy, creating terror, mistrust, and disharmony. Phak’s boyhood was defined by his concern for perception, turning ridicule and police run-ins into Shakespearean stories of triumph. His tribe’s self-identification as one of The Wanderers becomes both a literal and figurative thread throughout the book, capturing the displacement that defined his life.

Nosipho (“Nozi”), Ruru’s mother, emerges as Phak’s safe place. She shielded him from the threat of police homicide tied to his political activism and became a refuge whose love quite literally protected him from danger. In one of their early moments as a couple, she tells Phak, “I judge people not by the smoothness of their tongues, but by the grace and sobriety of their living.” This command for moral clarity becomes a defining echo in Phak’s story. Through his journals, readers finally learn the reason for staying away, even after liberation was won for his country. Yet as more time passed, that decision weighed heavier on him.

The supporting cast adds further depth to the story. Efuoa, Ruru’s stepmother, is a Rwandan genocide survivor whose own history of loss adds a deeper level of perspective through Phak’s journals. Ruru feels gratitude for Efuoa, finding beauty in the bond they form through their shared love of Phak. Sandi, Ruru’s colleague and trusted confidante, is a source of love and light who helps ground her reflections, while Hlumelo and Lisha give texture to how Ruru views love and her personal relationships.

At its strongest, The Wanderers is an exploration of memory, identity, and how our stories are defined by those who came before us. Ruru travels to her mother’s childhood neighborhood and her father’s last home, experiencing closeness to her parents by inhabiting the spaces they once cherished. These moments stand in contrast to her larger struggle: reconciling abandonment and faith while learning to write her own story.

While the opening chapter leaves you eager to keep reading, the narrative style is unconventional and not always seamless. Shifts between first-, second-, and third-person narration can feel disjointed. At times, the novel reads more like a series of extended personal essays or ideological reflections than a forward-moving narrative. Long passages on faith, Christianity, and the South African political climate, while insightful, sometimes feel like more dialogue and action are needed to keep the story engaging. Amid the heavy reflections are moments of humor and lightness, such as Ruru’s reference to American rapper Tupac as “old school,” a quip that made me laugh and, admittedly, feel a little old.

The Wanderers is not an easy read, however, it is a rewarding one. Its layered structure mirrors the complexity of post-apartheid identity, exile, and intergenerational trauma. While its density and shifting perspectives may frustrate readers looking for a more straightforward narrative, those willing to engage with its reflective, essay-like style will find a thought-provoking meditation on faith, politics, and the ties that bind us to our families, even in absence.

For me, the novel’s lasting impact lies in its themes of found family, the complicated journeys we take in pursuit of companionship, and the way unfulfillment shapes our daily choices. Ntabeni reminds us that circumstances carry lifelong weight—but also that sometimes we must come full circle to truly recognize the gifts that were always there, waiting for us to see them.