I am not a marketer. I am not a publisher. But I am a consumer, an avid reader, and (I would venture to hope) an intelligent person. As such I can say with no reservations whatsoever that to proclaim that a book is so astonishingly good that they are incapable of giving anything away to a potential reader is a dangerous game to play. And I don't think that they've won this round.

This book is quite good. It's not brilliant. It doesn't deserve the mega hype, nor the publishers' desperate pleas to spread the good word without giving anything away. There's little to give away; there are no major plot twists, nor huge, story-altering revelations which must be kept secret at all costs. If I tell you that the story revolves around a Nigerian refugee and a white woman from Kingston upon Thames who meet on a beach in Nigeria and affect each others' lives in ways that they couldn't possibly fathom, then that gives away precisely nothing. And you're unlikely to feel contempt and resentment if you finish the novel and remain unmoved. Plus, it would probably intrigue a reader far more than a cryptic promise that it's the best book you're ever likely to read but we can't give anything away because it's Just That Good.

The two female protagonists are well-developed, identifiable and likeable whilst remaining flawed enough to maintain the reader's interest. Unfortunately the background characters are cardboard cut-outs. There is a child who, after the first couple of chapters, becomes supremely irritating, his speech patterns unrealistic and his demeanour grating. Certain elements of the both main characters are questionable and serve to make them less believable, not more. I stumbled over sketchy timelines, unfeasible practicalities and unrealistic physical descriptions which seemed implausible and forced, thus jolting me out of the story and making me suspicious of the parts I'd previously had no reason to doubt.

The main point of the book was obviously to make people question the way they feel about asylum seekers, in a time when Britons view them in a negative, uncaring light. In parts it did shock me, and I suspect that I will indeed view refugees differently than I have done in the past. But it left a sour taste in my mouth due to the stereotypes which he not only fails to overturn, but in some cases actually presents without a hint of irony. Some people have accused the author of racism but I don't think it's that simple. He means well, but he is using such a grossly simplified idea to deal with a complicated situation that it smacks of armchair psychology and is guaranteed to offend in both directions. After all, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I don't think that Nigerians would like to be portrayed the way Little Bee is in the novel any more than I am happy comparing myself to Sarah, a white middle-class woman from Kingston upon Thames (which, as it happens, I am myself). But more than that, it's the simplification of the delicate, complicated background to Africa's political situation which is hard to swallow. I felt in some ways the same anger and distaste towards The Other Hand as I did towards My Sister's Keeper; it's admirable to try and tackle such a controversial subject in a commercial novel, but the ineffectual nature of the end result is flimsy enough that it feels like a set-back, not an advance. Some people will be affected for the better, and that's fantastic. If it makes us question our judgements and our actions then the novel has, arguably, already done its job. But if we view this as a masterpiece or panacea for the West's behaviour towards Africa then, much like the marketing ploy, we are on dangerous grounds indeed.