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Last Day in Lagos avoids nostalgia while successfully communicating the glorious high experienced by attendees of the Second World Black and African Festival of Art and Culture, also known as FESTAC ‘77. We are lucky to have Marilyn Nance’s free spirited b&w photo documentation of this special event that was to have no sequel (although maybe one is still possible.)

Photos of Miriam Makeba, Sun Ra, Stevie Wonder, Fela, as well as random event attendees from all over the globe, are interspersed with interviews and articles that give us greater context for this mind-blowing event, including criticism. As a Nigerian American, it’s important for me to learn more about Nigeria’s position as a global cultural leader in the 1960s and 1970s. Since the 80s, all we hear about is government mismanagement and economic collapse. It’s also important to understand the exchange of inspiration between African Americans and Africans during the Civil Rights and Black Power Movements.

This book is worth the read for any fan of Gossip, punk rock, riot grrrl, for anyone queer who came up in a small, Southern town, for abuse survivors, for feminists and those who believe art can play a part in creating a more just world.

The writing itself is so-so but in the spirit of punk rock, skill and technique aren’t the most important thing here. My honest opinion is she should have waited until she was older to write a memoir. She was in her early 30s when this book came out and her life has unfolded immensely since then, most notably with her career in acting.

For me, as someone who knew Beth, lived in Portland during the early to mid-2000s and eventually became her label mate, I was fascinated to learn details that I was unaware of. It’s a short, easy read which makes it perfect for alienated teens searching for a glimmer of hope outside of their current reality.

“If you can breathe, you can get through anything.”

I lived in Louisiana for seven years. I knew people who would go to Angola for the prison rodeo and craft fair and I could never bring myself to go. After reading Solitary, I now understand the facts to support what I’d always felt in my gut. The land where Angola Prison sits is saturated with the poison of generational curses earned through centuries of violence, torture and exploitation.

It feels cliche to say that this book is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, but it is indeed about just that. The most important parts of this book to me describe the self-discipline and will power involved in maintaining one’s sanity and dignity under the most trying, inhumane circumstances.

The first quarter of the book goes quickly. It was actually fun to hear about what New Orleans life was like for Woodfox in the 1960s. The book slows down immensely during the course of his 44 year sentence to solitary, not so much because of the mundanity of that experience but because of the detailed description of trials and other legal manners. Much of the length of this book is filled with this type of content. It was a bit of a slog to get through, but all I could imagine is that if I was wrongly convicted of murder and sentenced to life in solitary, I’d be replaying the details of my court case over and over in my head, obsessing over every contradiction, too.