Here comes the sun by nicole dennis-benn review – the sinister side of jamaica's tourist trade

This_ _book has exactly the sort of cover that might entice you to grab it in the airport for a beach holiday. And it ticks all the boxes of great summer fiction: it's engrossing, the

writing is urgent, and the characters' lives are deeply moving. But it's no passport to escapism. As you read it on your sun lounger, you might become uncomfortably aware of how

your presence in your chosen destination is disrupting the lives of local people. The novel charts the creeping colonialism of the hotel industry in Jamaica, and the sheer dominance it holds

in poor areas, rendering it the most attractive of the limited employment options for people living there. It's about the effect of displacement this has on the locals, and the

egregious wealth and entitlement of short-term visitors. But it would be simplistic to suggest that Nicole Dennis-Benn's debut explores just one topic. It is also an expertly timed

examination of race, class, gender and sexuality, weaved seamlessly into an engaging narrative. The story is played out through the eyes of three black women at three different stages of

life. Sheltered teenager Thandi is entering adulthood with uncertainty. Her older sister Margot is twice Thandi's age, in love with another woman, and using sex work with the

island's tourists to put Thandi through school. Their mother, Delores, charms tourists with the souvenirs she sells, but is hard and angry towards her daughters, especially Margot. All

three have been subject to immeasurable pain due to poverty and desperation. They live near Montego Bay, in a village under threat of being swallowed up by the tourism industry. Margot is

perceived by her peers to have ideas above her station because of her job at the front desk of one of the resorts. She's been promised a top job by the hotel's white manager – the

same man who has insisted on sexual favours since she was hired. It's a punch to the gut when you learn that it was her own mother, Delores, who first sold her for sex to a tourist for

$600 when she was a child. Thandi is protected from all of this, sent to a private school away from the village she lives in and the children she grew up with. The whole family are banking

on her potential for class mobility, pouring their resources into her education. Some might call this love, others would call it a sound investment. Both her mother and sister make no bones

about the fact that this is an attempt to expand her otherwise limited opportunities. Thandi has been carefully crafted by her family to be a "good" girl, chaste, different from

the rest. But the rigid plans for her future, and the sacrifices she's been shielded from, are a recipe for disaster. They can't hide her from the domineering presence of racism

and colourism. After all, some of its biggest impact takes place firmly in the mind. When Delores tells Thandi that "nobody love a black girl. Not even herself", the sentiment is

shared by every woman in the novel. It is no surprise that Thandi is secretly using skin lightening creams because she believes they will increase her marriage value. Dennis-Benn

doesn't shy away from exploring the aggressive policing of women's sexual autonomy. The explicit sexualisation of young girls by much older men sits alongside the rampant

homophobia that forces Margot to treat her lesbian relationship with outcast Verdene as a dirty secret. Women are complicit in this system. It would be easy to paint Delores as bitter, angry

and hard, Margot as scheming, Thandi as naive. But Dennis-Benn's characters are too complex for that kind of categorisation. They are far from amoral. They feel very human, very real.

That's a sign of brilliantly written fiction.