Written by: Pascale Joachim
I rarely enjoy reading required texts for classes. I try to approach them with my professors in mind; I respect the intention behind each selected novel and often recognize the thematic connections between what’s written and what’s happening around us. Yet, the simple fact of being in the thick of a semester means I read to finish, not to enjoy.
When I cracked open The Prophets, I expected a similar experience. I listened to the audiobook at 2x speed as I flipped through the first few pages and was immediately confronted with a mastery of language that felt reminiscent of James Baldwin or Toni Morrison. The perfectly crafted sentences forced me to slow down and absorb the images put before me. I met Samuel and Isaiah (Sam and Zay, The Two of Them) within the first ten pages and knew instantly that this story was going to be unlike anything I’ve ever read. I adjusted the speed to 1.5x.
The Prophets is a lot of things, and I fear any attempt to summarize it will shy in comparison to the immense triumph this novel is. It’s historical and romantic fiction, a work of rebellion, hope, fear, anger, strength, courage. It’s centered on the love between Sam and Zay, two young enslaved men, whose personalities so wonderfully contrast, they complete each other.
Sam is defiant, stubborn, rightfully angered by the quality of his life and the lives of the enslaved people around him. He strengthens Zay. “My name. Please,” said Isaiah, the last word stretched, making his bottom lip quiver. Samuel reached over and nudged Isaiah’s hand, then shook his head. “Don’t beg like that.”
Isaiah is gentle, thoughtful, and warm, consistently committed to doing his work well. He grounds Sam. “Folks listen to Amos. Maybe we should,” Sam said. His grip on the pitchfork was loose and unsure. “No,” Isaiah said quickly. “I young. Young as you. But this I know ‘cause it don’t take long to learn it: anybody with a whip gone use it. And people without one gone feel it.”
Apart from the alluring romance between The Two of Them, I thoroughly enjoyed the subtle ways Jones Jr. manipulated white, colonialist Christianity throughout his debut novel. He positions the portion of The Prophets where the enslaved community begins to disgrace Sam and Zay for their ‘unholiness’ next to a chapter where two young men wed in a traditional African ceremony before colonizers pillage and destroy their land. Amos, an enslaved man who decides to preach the word of God to the rest of the plantation, dreams of killing the same master he needs to please, grinding his bones into dust for a paste and smearing it on his face “for a dance, shaking his staff, and calling out forgotten words to ancestors who he wasn’t exactly sure could hear.” The capitalization of The Two of Them, the use of divine numbers, the titles of his chapters (Leviticus, Nebuchandezzar, Revelation of Judas), I could go on and on. His distortion of these Christian themes and figures is smart and effective: it asks his readers to think about the narrative power these symbols hold and the very easy way they could be used to serve other purposes.
But back to Sam and Zay. Each time I began a new chapter, I found myself quickly scanning the next few pages just to see if I’d get more of their relationship. Put simply, I fell in love with them. Jones Jr. did a criminally exceptional job of making these boys feel real, almost timeless. The way they spoke to each other, touched each other, argued, laughed. Their love felt right and I wanted so badly for the sense of precarity that crept over me as I neared the end of this text to be a figment of my imagination.
I often pride myself on being able to predict the ending of a novel. Call it what you will, but I believe if an author does their job of creating sturdy characters and situating them in a time and place, there can only be a couple ways a story ends. With The Prophets, I fought what I knew to be inevitable. I had so much hope for The Two of Them; their plans for freedom felt feasible and rightfully theirs. They deserved peace, it would’ve suited them. But I knew when and where these boys were. I reached page 330 with tears in my eyes; there were only thirty pages left, not enough space to give these boys the lives they were entitled to.
The Prophets left me speechless. Very few other novels so easily sucked me in and I doubt I’ll encounter anything like it in the near future. Robert Jones Jr. has made himself undeniable as an author worthy of inclusion in the Black Literary Canon and, in the process, gained a devoted admirer.