Homegoing’s mood is pensive and hopeful. The selectively omniscient third-person narrator is a clearheaded, knowing presence who relays the characters’ thoughts and historical details as they come. The narrator peers into the characters’ psyches and articulates some of their deepest desires. With meditative precision, they name the instincts and inklings that have no words. When Willie finds Rob vomiting in Jazzing’s bathroom one night, her knowledge of betrayal slips in with devastating force:
That Carson’s birth had changed him, but not for the better. It had made him deeply afraid of himself, always questioning his choices, never measuring up to a standard of his own making, a standard that was upheld in his own father's generous love, a love that had made a way for him and his mother, even when the cost had been great.
This sense of knowledge illuminates and pierces the novel’s characters. It also allows the work to describe the larger, global forces that surround them. The narrator approaches historical realities with the same, startling clarity of insight that reveals the depths of entire characters. “There are people who have done wrong because they could not see the result of the wrong,” Akua tells Yaw when he finally reconciles with her. While walking through Harlem, Carson knows “in his body” that “in America the worst thing you could be was a black man. Worse than dead, you were a dead man walking.” Homegoing’s narrator diagnoses social ills and puts the past into perspective.