With a mother-daughter relationship at its heart, Bitter Honey explores relationships, resilience and what it means to fully wear your skin and carve your own space in this world.
In Lọlá Ákínmádé’s first standalone novel, Tina has had her taste of fame as the nation’s Eurovision pop princess. But beneath her glittery façade, Tina is desperate to discover who she really is. Her mother, Nancy, seems desperate to keep the past under wraps, but will an unexpected figure help open the door? Here is an excerpt.
She wonders how the sizzling-hot iron would feel against her eyes.
Would it first peel off the skin surrounding them? Would her irises melt into something viscous like honey and her pupils into black tar?
Tina absorbs her reflection in the vanity mirror, which is outlined with bulbous spotlights. The sharp shrill of her phone interrupts the macabre thoughts swirling around in her mind.
“Grattis på din födelsedag,” that familiar voice croons over her tiny flip phone. Happy birthday.
“Hej, Mamma,” Tina says, her nerves settling a little. “Tusen tack.” Thousand thanks.
“How does it feel to be twenty?” her mother Nancy asks, her tone more jovial than normal.
“No different.” Tina adjusts the phone as a makeup artist dabs her bottom lip with neon-pink gloss.
“I can’t wait to see you win tonight.”
“I’m so nervous right now,” Tina says. Not like me, she thinks as she banks her head to the left for rouge blush.
“You made it this far. Your nerves will settle, my dear.”
“God, I hope so,” Tina chuckles. “Look, please no Nancy time, okay? Tobias will pick you up at three. Älska dig.” Love you.
Tina hangs up. Picking Nancy up at three means she’ll be ready by five. Even after twenty years of living here, her mother still refuses to bend to time.
“Drottning,” – queen – the makeup artist flatters after applying rose-gold glitter across her eyebrows. Tina assesses herself in the mirror. Dark eyeliner drawn into a cat-eye look framing honey-coloured eyes, making them more piercing. Her reddish-brown tresses have been flat-ironed silky-straight. The artist has touched up her freckles, darkening the larger ones for effect.
Sweden’s sweetheart. Pop sensation. Musical prodigy. ABBA’s legacy rolled up into a single girl. The kind of accolades the national headlines have been sharing the last two years since she was discovered at a singing competition.
Tina sits cross-legged in black fishnets beneath denim shorts so skimpy they often invoke the sign of the cross. She’s wearing a matching denim vest, unbuttoned with nothing else underneath. On the surface she sits a queen atop her stool, but beneath the glitter and nets, Tina’s nerves are raw. The biggest night of her career thus far. A chance to win Sweden’s beloved Melodifestivalen music competition, on her birthday no less, and potentially represent the country at the Eurovision Song Contest in May.
The song that got her here: an original Tina Wikström titled “Honey”.
Two short verses and a sparse melodic refrain sung over and over until tears fall, taking black mascara with them. A part of her performance on stage, yet a glimpse of her pain off-stage inspired by eyes she’d inherited from a man she never knew. A man who never wanted to know her. A man who ran off to Gambia, leaving Tobias, a toddler, and her, a baby, behind.
Honey lies, honey dies, honey cries like the sun…
Honey mine, thine alone, rip this comb from my eyes…
She won a Grammis – the Swedish equivalent of a Grammy – for the song last February.
Tina mouths a few lyrics to calm her nerves. Stage rehearsals in an hour. Her dressing room is already drowning in a sea of birthday flowers. The largest is a statement bouquet from her Sebastian. She pulls a yellow gerbera daisy from his bunch and lifts it to her nose for a sniff. She knows he’ll be there later tonight, cheering alongside a few of his mates from the national football team, signing autographs in between.
She reaches to put the flower back in place when she hears a light rap on her door. Her assistant Lotta pokes her head in with a look of resignation. Tina’s heart skips.
“What’s wrong?” Tina asks. The last thing she needs right now is that look Lotta is giving her.
“I’m sorry,” Lotta begins to draft an apology. “I told him this was your night, but I couldn’t stop him.”
“Stop who?”
Lotta visibly swallows. “He – he says he’s your father. He’s got VIP access backstage. I checked his pass.”
Tina freezes, her nails digging into her armrest. “What?” The words barely leave her.
Lotta falls silent. She lets the door open to reveal the man behind her, and Tina peers into eyes matching hers for the first time in her life.
Her breath catches.
“I told him not to,” Lotta continues in her defence.
The man steps around her assistant and into the room. Tina’s lips tighten as her amber glare blazes past Lotta to fully take him in. She watches emotions play across his face, his lips trembling, his brows arched upward. All that fiery hair. The cause of her pain, the taunts of fire crotch throughout high school. It couldn’t be, could it?
“Tina,” he starts to say, taking a step forward, a bouquet of lavender-coloured lilies in hand.
Tina presses her lips tightly as tears begin to pool. No, her father was dead. Her father is dead. Uncle Leif and her mother had told them so. All these years. He can’t be the man standing in front of her with matching freckles, honey-coloured gaze, copper-hued hair. A middle-aged male version of herself.
Tina slowly rises to her feet, anger swiftly replacing her initial shock, her bedazzled nails sinking deeper into her armrest.
“Who are you?” she asks, her gaze cutting through him. “Who the fuck are you?”
She sees tears well up behind his eyes. He gasps audibly, his mouth hanging open before introducing himself.
Lars.
“Seeing you in person” – his voice shaky – “feels so unreal. How much you look like me.” He starts to sob. “I wanted so much to be there for you, but she made me promise,” he cries on, his hands death-gripping his flowers. “She made me promise never to contact you.”
“Who?”
“Frida,” the man says. He gasps once more and places a hand over his mouth to compose himself before continuing. “Frida made me promise.”
“Who the hell is Frida?” Tina demands.
They lock eyes before he exhales. “My wife.”
The room descends into silence so heavy Tina feels her ears pop.
“All these years,” the man croaks through his tears, “I’ve dreamed of meeting you. I’ve loved you and your brother from…”
“My father is dead,” Tina snaps. “He died in Gambia.” Her voice cracks. “He died in…”
“Nancy had to tell you that,” he says. “To protect you from what I couldn’t give you and Tobias.” He pauses. “H-how is Nancy?”
Her mother and brother’s names sound foul on the stranger’s tongue.
“How dare you?” Tina whispers. “How dare you?”
“Please, Tina,” he cries. “I just want to give these to you,” he holds the bouquet of lilies forward, “to celebrate you. To let you know just how proud I am of you.” His voice catches. “I know that song is about me.” DM
Bitter Honey* is published by Apollo, an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing. It is available at a retail price of about R415. *
Lọlá Ákínmádé will be at the Open Book Festival 2026.
Follow the story
