All modern literature is, in a sense, postcolonial. I will explain. But Hisham Matar’s My Friends is a fine piece of postcolonial literature in the most literal sense, and we should start there.
A triangle of friendship has broken. Khaled has just seen Hosam off at the train station. Having departed some time ago, Mustafa is already in Libya, the trio’s native country—which often, in this novel, seems to represent hell. Hosam is headed to California—still heaven in this telling. Khaled remains trapped in London—the crossroads, limbo—where he has lived for more than three decades. As he walks home, Khaled reflects on his relationship with these men. The book is tinged with elements of magical realism: we’re following the thoughts of someone on a 394-page walk back to his apartment.
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