Dark Matters

The Truth Behind the Noise

2012-01-19T09:14:00.000-08:00

Welcome to 2012, everyone. First, I must apologise for mylong absence last year. Things have been tough for the girl – but she’s lookingahead to brighter days. It may be a positive self deception, but ithelps me sleep at night.

So as you may or may not know, for the first few weeks ofthe year, Nigeria was rocked by a series of protests sparked by the removal ofgovernment subsidies for petroleum. Overnight, the prices of fuel, food, andtransportation more than doubled and the National Labour Congress called anationwide strike which paralysed the country for nearly two weeks.

Thousands of people took to the streets across the country. Friendsand acquaintances eagerly joined – one person I know camped out in front of theNational Assembly for days screaming herself hoarse. For a week, I was glued tothe news channels, following the many breathless rumours of impending societalcollapse. Yet, something bothered me about all this agitation.

It wasn’t that it was unjustified. The government used aflimsy pretext and very shaky economic arguments to raise the cost of living ona people who mostly live in poverty while doling out millions in luxuries to themselves. It was more than time that people rise up in protest. What bothered mewas not the why, but the how of it.

Maybe it was just me, but the protests smacked of populistmanipulation. I watched half-literate protesters who, when asked why they wereprotesting, were unable to articulate their positions. That’s not surprising. Peopleare angry – tired of a government that keeps making life more difficult forthem – but because most Nigerians are poorly-educated and ill-informed, many hadno idea what, specifically, they were protesting against.

And this is what the leadership of the Nigerian labourmovement used to its advantage. That’s why they called off the strike aftergetting only minimal concessions from the government – the price is now N97 perlitre instead of N65 – and securing cushy government appointments for topmembers.

In the meantime, thegovernment’s official fuel price is not being uniformly enforced and prices ofother commodities have yet to go down. In this country, once prices are raised,expect them to stay that way.

But what really angered me about this strike was how acertain sector of the Nigerian population – those well-heeled children of our politicaland social class – were all too happy to jump on the protest bandwagon. Iwatched in disbelief as young people driving shiny imported cars, dressed inexpensive “protest chic” outfits and spent the day taking pictures ofthemselves with their Blackberry phones at various protest sites.

This wasn’t about anger for these people, for many of them,it was a fun day out. Protest is the “in thing” and they didn’t want to be leftout. At the end of the day it wouldn’t matter if fuel ended up costing as muchas N200 because they can afford it. These people live in a social media echochamber – accessible to a small minority mostly located in the big cities ofLagos and Abuja – where they have been lulled into thinking that they’re makinga difference. They aren’t. Not really.

To me, there is a profound disconnect with reality when a groupof people believes that they are on the forefront of curing the nation while simultaneouslybenefitting from the very disease that caused all this woe in the first place.They protest vigorously against corrupt leaders while at thesame time jockeying for a place at their table and happily accepting any oilmoney that filters down to them. It is a hypocrisy of the highest order – andthey don’t even realise they are doing it.

I am convinced thatthere is a rot eating away at our society, destroying us from the outside in. Thisrot of corruption has seeped deep into our consciousness. I see it in the waywe treat ourselves and each other. I see it in the way we value material wealthover merit or moral character. It’s like we live in a fishbowl that has grown somurky with grime for so long that we can’t remember what it was like when thewater was clean.

And rushing out to express our anger is only one step towardsfixing it. More than ethnicity and religion, Nigeria is divided between thehaves and the have-nots – and these two groups don’t live in the same reality. Corruptionhelps to fuel this divide because it makes us selfish. We want to get as muchas we can as quickly as we can when the opportunity presents itself – and damnthe other guy. This means that those who have the most power to change thesystem have the least incentive to do so, they will happily criticise thesystem they are benefitting from.

That is not to say there aren’t true reformers working toeffect genuine change in the country, but they are few and far between. Somecivil society activists have called for continued protests, but no one hasreally heeded them. Plus, there aresoldiers roaming the streets of Lagos to ensure that no real move towardchange takes place without a fight.

So yeah, the protests are over and we are all going back tobusiness as usual. Tomorrow when the government does something that’s selfish,short-sighted and destructive, you can be sure that the internet activists willbe there to “protest,” but whether this will really change anything is anyone’sguess.

Perhaps living in Nigeria has made me cynical, but me, I’mnot going to hold my breath.

The Second Coming of African Lit

2011-10-02T08:50:00.000-07:00

When I think of the phrase "African literature," I immediately think of Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart, and Wole Soyinka's The Man Died. I think of Mongo Beti, Mariama Ba, Flora Nwapa, Bessie Head and Doris Lessing. They are all amazing writers whose books dealt with themes of identity and the struggle for liberation and helped to define what in academia is known as Post-Colonial literature.

A lot of writers today are still dealing with those themes (I think of Uwem Akpan's short story collection Say You are One of Them or Chimamanda Adichie's Half of a Yellow Sun, both of which deal with the subject of war), I work in the publishing industry and I have been privileged to see the rise of a new kind of African literature. It's exciting, it's innovative and it's completely different from what's come before. On the surface, it seems uninterested in excessive seriousness; it seems to just wanna have fun.

I hear from a lot of people who sell books for a living that Africans don't read. It's more than the dismal literacy rates in many countries, though. Because when Africans do read, they don't read African authors. Instead they prefer to read romances, thrillers and fantasy books from Western authors.

A Pacesetter novel

I don't think this is because Africans disdain their own authors, I think the truth is that Africa doesn't seem to have its own form of popular literature. In the West, there's a divide between high and low culture, between opera and ballet, and country music and wrestling. In literature that divide shows up in the separation between those who read Phillip Roth and those who read Dan Brown. What we know as African literature is dominated by high culture writers published by the West, for the West. We don't have our own romances, thrillers or fantasies anymore.

In the 60s and 70s, when the Nigerian publishing industry was at its height, there were plenty of examples of popular literature. There was the Pacesetter series, short crime thrillers and romances that were immensely popular. In the East there was "Onitsha Market Literature" and the North had a thriving Hausa literature scene. Except for the Hausa literature market, most popular ventures collapsed when the publishing industry died under the strictures of military rule.

I think that's changing. I'm seeing is the emergence of African popular literature, romances, thrillers and sci-fi that cater to the popular imagination without being weighed down by "heavy" themes and what my people like to call "grammar."It's imperfect. A lot of it is still published in the west (like Mukoma Wa Ngugi's crime thriller Nairobi Heat) or self-published (like Ekene Onu's chick-lit romance The Mrs Club) or online only (like Biram Mboob's sci-fi thriller Harabella) and hasn't yet found its way to the masses.

But as economies improve, and the middle-class continues to rise, the demand will only grow. Already, publishers are returning to the continent and they are looking for ways to make money. Just as Nollywood has revived African popular cinema, one of them will come up with a series or will discover an author who will revive popular literature. It is only a matter of time.

Trust me, I'm a professional. I know.

Griots: A Sword and Soul Anthology now available

2011-09-21T18:14:00.000-07:00

I joined Wagadu.com last year and found it to be a genial, welcoming place filled with incredibly talented, passionate people. They gave me a lot by way of support and I wanted to give a little something back, so when I heard that their first anthology was out, I wanted to spread the word.

Griots is the first anthology dedicated to sword and soul. Sword and Soul is a genre of speculative fiction that combines African traditions, history and culture with adventure, heroic fiction and sorcery - think Conan the Barbarian set in Ancient Ghana or the Empire of Mali. The volume is edited by Charles R. Saunders, author of Imaro, widely considered to be the creator of the genre, and author Milton Davis.

It features 28 of some of the most exciting writers and artists in speculative fiction today including Minister Faust, Geoffrey Thorne, Carole McDonnell, Valjeanne Jeffers and Ronald T. Jones. Some of the artists include Natiq Jalil, Luke McDonnell, Winston Blakely, Stan Weaver, Jr., Wanye Parker and Paul Davey.

Griots made its official debut last month at Onyx Con 3, one of the largest conventions of multi-cultural speculative fiction in the US. and is available on Amazon. I can't wait to pick up a copy and I hope you will too!

Also check out the Black Science Fiction Society, great people there too.

Things I know at 30

2011-09-17T20:21:00.000-07:00

Me at 20

I turned 30 nearly a year ago, capping off what had been a tumultuous couple of years. Despite the crying fits and occasional bouts of suicidal depression, I realized that I had learned a lot in my more than a quarter decade of life. In particular, I was inspired by this piece on RealSimple.com.

I don’t pretend to have all the answers and there are still so many things I need to learn and experience, but I wanted to share some of the insights that have come to me the hard way. Hopefully, you’ll get something out of it too.

1. Pay attention to the warning signs and don’t try to talk yourself out of a gut feeling. Trust your judgement because chances are, your spirit is trying to tell you something important.

2. You’re smarter, prettier and far more capable than you give yourself credit for. Yeah, go ahead and wear that little red mini-skirt.

3. Don’t be afraid to ask for what you want; the worst they can say is no.

4. You will mess up and you will fail – sometimes epically – but it’s not your failure that will define you. It’s how you deal with it.

5. Don’t doubt your desires because they seem mundane or impossible, your dreams are always within reach.

6. You can’t change your parents, only how you react to them. Part of growing up is learning how to stop using their standards to judge your life. You’ll never feel true satisfaction until you define what success means for you.

7. Don’t let the fear of being single keep you in a relationship that isn’t working (or isn’t going to work). Heartbreak is painful, but it won’t kill you.

8. Stop comparing yourself to others or to the imagined ideal in your head. The quest for perfection can drive you for a while, but sooner or later you’re going to have to find your motivation within yourself.

9. Happiness isn’t something that will come once you’ve ticked all the boxes. It’s a choice you have to make every day. Like working out, you have to make the effort and commit to it.

10. Karma is one seriously mean bitch. She never forgets and in this life or the next she’ll make you pay. So stay on her good side.

11. You’ll be treated with the respect you command, not the respect you demand. So when appropriate, dress like a grownup, speak articulately, stand up straight and always look at the people you're talking to.

12. For most of us, the struggle to truly know ourselves is lifelong, but rest assured that you know more about your desires, your limits and your motivations than you did 10 years ago.

13. You know when he’s lying. It’s not logical, it’s not rational, but you know. What you choose to do with that knowledge is up to you.

14. Don’t be afraid to feel your emotions fully and deeply. Be aware of them at all times and work to head off bad moods as they begin. You're emotions are far more powerful than you think and feeling good about yourself is the essence of true success.

15. Take every opportunity to travel. It’ll be the one thing that you truly regret when you look back.

16. Anything that wearies your spirit is never right - that goes for jobs or people, and even places. Life is too short to settle for or put up with anything that drains you of your joy.

17. Get it done. Every day you put off doing what you need to do out of fear is another day in your fading youth that you will never get back.

18. Sex can be many things: damaging or liberating, exhilarating or dull, comforting or experimental, but it is never, ever casual.

How about you? What advice would you give your 20-year-old self? What do you wish you had known 20 years ago that you know now? Please don’t hesitate to add your piece of advice.

On Madness and Creativity

2011-08-20T18:42:00.000-07:00

We all know the clichés, that there’s a thin line between love and hate, pain and pleasure, madness and creativity. Well, I suppose they’re all true. In particular, I feel that being a self-proclaimed “creative,” means one walks the line between madness and genius far too closely.

Today, I watched two TED videos that brought home this idea for me. In one, Joshua Walters a performer and stand up comic talked about what it was like to live with manic depression and the effect it had on his creative life. In another, JD Schramm talked about what it was like to have survived a suicide attempt. The two topics were not wholly unrelated.

When Walters was first diagnosed with the condition, he was committed to a psych ward for a time. There, he realized that many of his fellow patients were no different from performers rehearsing for a role. His point was that there was a spectrum between madness and genius and that more space should be made in society for people further along on the madness spectrum.

What he didn’t mention is that the other side of the mania is the crash. The depression that can take over one’s life and colour everything in it a darker shade of blue. While depression can happen to anyone, I would not be surprised if it turned out that more people who are dubbed creative or sensitive have higher rates of suicide and suicidal attempts. And I suppose that’s where the other video comes in.

JD Schramm was advocating that more resources be available to those who have attempted to take their own lives and failed. Himself a suicide survivor, JD noted that the silence that greets most suicide survivors is likely to make them try again. And 37% of those who attempt to kill themselves again will succeed.

Here in Nigeria, creatives must work much harder to stay true to their art. Many of them are already dealing with pressure from families and society to find “real jobs” or give up their “hobbies.” Many make painful financial and emotional sacrifices to do what they do. I’m not saying that creative people in Nigeria are more prone to suicide. What I’m saying is that those who are already fragile must walk the line between life and death after already having to struggle to practice their craft and in the culturally enforced silence that surrounds the subject of suicide.

We often hear that Nigerians don’t commit suicide. Like homosexuality, it doesn’t seem to exist. Well, we all know that isn’t true. What is true is that we don’t talk about it. When we do hear stories of suicide, the victims are portrayed as wicked or selfish, or worse, weak. There are few resources to help those struggling with suicidal impulses and little incentive for those who need it to seek it out.

Now, I’m not sure where I’m going with this, except to advocate for more emotional support for those in the creative arts. I realize I might be pandering to stereotypes, but for someone who lives more in the darkness that is depression than the light of mania, I know it can be tough going. Every time a suicide survivor makes it through a difficult day without giving in to the urge to end it all – no matter how fleeting the urge – is something to celebrate. And whether our society privileges it or not, creative people bring a lot to the table, enriching our culture in ways we may never fully appreciate. So it’s in all our best interest if we can take advantage of the unique energy that comes with the mania while at the same time controlling the dark spiral that comes with the depression.

NPR picks the top 100 sci-fi and fantasy books

2011-08-13T18:30:00.000-07:00

In a welcome nod to speculative fiction, National Public Radio (NPR) had its readers nominate and vote on the top 100 science-fiction and fantasy books of all time. Over 60,000 people voted and it turns out that the Lord of the Rings series came out on top. Though I didn't like the books (I could never get past the first few chapters of the first book), I was glad that some of my other favourites did make the cut.

However, like a similar poll on Tor.com, I noticed there were very few women on the list. And come to think of it, I'm not sure there were any minorities of any gender at all. I realize that what we choose to revere is entire subjective. In a recent article on slate.com several writers, editors and bloggers challenged the legitimacy of even classic works. However, when readers, whom I assume come from all races, ethnicities and genders, seem to privilege the works of white men over all others, I have to start wondering what's going on.

Are we internalizing a certain bias towards the written works of one group of people over all others? Or are there just not enough minorities and women writing speculative fiction? If it's the former, then we all need to examine ourselves and our unconscious preferences. Go out and pick up a book by Samuel Delany, Octavia Butler, Charles Saunders, Nalo Hopkinson or any of the numerous speculative writers of colour and begin opening your minds. But if it's the latter, then I and my fellow fantasy writers of colour need to get to work.

An Encyclopedia of Science Fiction: Most awesome thing ever...

2011-07-11T07:31:00.000-07:00

I apologize for not keeping up with updates for the last few months. A combination of factors (work, lack of internet access at home, etc.) have conspired to keep me from my blogging duties.

However I came across this announcement and I knew I just needed to share:

Encyclopedia Of Science Fiction To Be Published Online, With Text Available Free
The third edition of the Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, the definitive reference work in the field, will be released online later this year by the newly-formed ESF, Ltd, in association with Victor Gollancz, the SF & Fantasy imprint of the Orion Publishing Group, whose support will enable the text to be available free to all users. This initial "beta" version, containing about three-quarters of the total projected content, will be unveiled in conjunction with Gollancz's celebrations of its 50th anniversary as a science fiction publisher.

The first edition of the Encylopedia, whose founder and general editor was Peter Nicholls, appeared in 1979, and contained over 700,000 words. A second edition, edited by John Clute and Peter Nicholls, appeared in 1993 and contained over 1.3 million words. Both editions won the Hugo Award from the World Science Fiction Convention, in addition to numerous other honours.

The beta version of the third edition will contain some 3 million words, including about 12,000 entries and well over 100,000 internal links. The entries cover every area of science fiction, including authors, illustrators, movies, music, games, and fanzines. The text will be completed, through monthly updates, by the end of 2012.

The third edition has been produced by editors John Clute and David Langford, Editor Emeritus Peter Nicholls, and Managing Editor Graham Sleight. Contributing Editors for the third edition include Mike Ashley on magazines, Paul Barnett on artists and illustrators, Jonathan Clements on all aspects of Japanese and Chinese SF, Nick Lowe on movies, Abigail Nussbaum on television, John Platt on comics, and Adam Roberts on music. During the Encyclopedia's development, the project has been supported by Clare Coney as Technical Editor, Roger Robinson as Research Editor, John Lifton-Zoline, and Pamela Lifton-Zoline. Robert Kirby of United Agents, The Bookseller's Literary Agent of the Year 2011, represents the Encyclopedia.

On behalf of Gollancz, Orion Deputy CEO and Group Publisher Malcolm Edwards commented: "We're delighted to have been able to facilitate the online publication of this monumental and definitive work – more than ever the single, reliable reference source which anyone interested in SF needs. As a contributing editor to that long-ago first edition, it's a particular pleasure to me to have been able to play a part in making this happen."

Anyone interested in signing up for the latest news on the project can do so at www.sf-encyclopedia.com. The Encyclopedia is also on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/pages/Sf-Encyclopedia/138995776178949 and on Twitter at @SFEncyclopedia.

For general enquiries, please contact grahamsleight@gmail.com

For rights enquiries, please contact Charlotte Knee at United Agents, cknee@unitedagents.co.uk

For Gollancz enquiries, please contact jonathan.weir@orionbooks.co.uk

First of all, who knew there was an entire encyclopedia on Science Fiction? Is that awesome or what? I'll keep you all posted on how things go with the project.

Building a better person

2011-05-11T09:58:00.000-07:00

Can becoming a better person make you a better writer? I sincerely hope so.

Building character takes patience, discipline, introspection and independence of thought. I believe that these same behaviours and attitudes are also required to move a writer beyond mere talent.

Patience is the ability to wait for results that can only be had after a long difficult period of effort, and it is required if one wants to be a good writer and an effective person. Patience is essential to the craft of writing. It can take a long time for a character to emerge, for plotlines to come together and for a setting to take firm shape in one’s head. It also takes a lot of time to refine and polish a work to its highest quality. And it may take a long time – sometimes a lifetime – to find the right audience for one’s work. If a writer does not acquire the ability to absorb a great deal of trouble without losing self-control, when things cock up – as they inevitably will – they can easily give in to despair. The most successful people understand patience, they don’t lose hope or blow up or cave in, when things didn’t go according to plan.

Discipline is the acquired habit of expending energy, of forgoing lesser pleasures of the now for the greater good of the future. It is required to move forward in any endeavour. Studies show that children who can delay gratification, who can keep from eating the sweet in front of them if they know that by waiting they can get two more, are more successful. They get better grades in school, have more successful careers and healthier relationships. Discipline is also the bedrock of the craft of writing. It’s not easy to sit down in front of a blank screen every day, but if you don’t write, you can’t call yourself a writer. It’s really that simple.

Introspection is the ability to look inside oneself in order to understand one’s purpose and values. This is not easy, that is why most of us avoid it when we can. The risks of finding things we do not like are too great. However, the most well-rounded people are those who understand and accept themselves; those who are comfortable in their own skin. They know who they are and what they stand for, and it makes them stronger. The craft of writing also requires introspection. One has to be able to accurately map out one’s inner terrain so that it can be mined for stories and characters. Introspection taken too far can lead to brooding melancholia, but understanding one’s impulses is essential if one is to write good characters. Because how can you write others when you cannot write yourself?

Independence of thought, letting go of the fear of what others will think, is both the trickiest and the most important part of building character. It is the beginning of freedom. In Nigeria, our culture assigns an inordinate amount of value to material success -- even over ethical integrity. In many ways, it is less important how you made your money, only that you have it. But character requires that you put your values above the vagaries of other’s expectations. That you take the time to do your own thinking and come up with your own standards. There will be no shortage of people who will try to tell you what to do, what is important and who to be. The challenge of a successful character is blocking out those voices to find what is important to you, then marshalling the courage to do what you feel is right. Because the craft of writing is so rarely commercially successful, those who choose it as their primary profession, have to be prepared to walk against the tide of public opinion – especially in a culture as materialistic as our own. But every writer at some point, made the conscious decision to dedicate themselves to their craft. There is no other way.

I haven’t had internet access at home for the last month, and it gave me time to do a lot of thinking, though perhaps not a great deal of sustained thinking. Now, the rains have started and the world has been washed of its layers of dry season dust, and I’ve come to realize that seeking to develop good character will give me the perspective I need to put my craft at the forefront of my life. No more procrastinating on the important things. Understanding my values can come learning from the wisdom of the ancients, which means reading what they have passed down. More reading can only make one a better writer. Finally, freeing myself of the anxiety of other’s perceptions will allow me to submit my stories to journals and readers more often. I will now be able to hear the constructive feedback without the sound of my worrisome inner voice.

But it all begins with the willingness to do the hard work in the here and now. And while I don’t believe I will ever be able to wake up and declare my work is over, I do hope that as I get older, I will have given myself the tools to become a better, more competent person. Because having a good character is more important than anything else and is the ultimate arbiter of one’s success.
When I go, I want to be able to say that I made a difference in the lives of others. It’s really all that matters, in the end.

The problem with patriarchy

2011-04-21T05:51:00.000-07:00

I want to apologize for not posting as much as I should lately. My internet access has been a little limited over the last month. However, I have been doing some reading, some writing and generally expanding my brain. This post is based on a thought that popped into my head a few weeks ago in the course of my readings.
The problem with patriarchy is that it’s like beach sand; it gets in everywhere – particularly in the unexamined crevices of the mind. Even the most dedicated feminists can find themselves dancing to the patriarchal tune without even realizing their feet are moving.

This was brought home to me a few weeks ago when I was going through some materials from the 2010 African Feminist Forum. The forums have been held annually in different countries for at least the last 3 years. They bring feminists from across the continent together to discuss what it means to be a feminist in Africa and how to overcome issues facing the movement. While African feminism faces a lot of issues, one that struck me was the problem of poor leadership.

Like government and other patriarchal structures across the continent, feminist organisations were suffering from rigid, hierarchical power systems, incompetence, poor accountability and corruption. Patriarchal systems thrive on rigid hierarchies where those at the bottom are completely beholden to those above them. These caste systems can be enforced on the basis of class, age, race and of course, gender. Between individuals, that means that there is always a master-servant dynamic. Someone has to be in charge.

The goal of feminism is the goal justice and equality for all, with an emphasis on ending oppression based on gender. Thus “feminist spaces are created to empower and uplift women. At no time should we allow our institutional spaces to degenerate into sites of oppression and undermining of other women.”

Yet a pamphlet from the 2008 Uganda Feminist Forum noted that “some sisters have used their leader ship poditions and authority to undermine and suppress other women. Some have refused to relinquish their positions...The managing of organisations like personal chattels has run them down.”

Because the feminist movement is fighting against some very deeply ingrained prejudices (there are very few societies on earth that do not practice some form of gender discrimination) those who commit themselves to it must always be on their guard. In the 60s and 70s when the movement began to gain traction, there was a saying that “the personal is political.” It meant that feminists – and those who fight injustice of any kind – have to realize that they live within complex social systems that privilege certain ways of acting and thinking.

To fight these often unconscious biases, one has to examine everything one does - right down to the most mundane and the most personal - to make sure that they are in line with one's chosen principles. Those who don’t risk being labelled as hypocrites should they act outside of the boundaries of their professed values.

Thus, when I write I have to be careful that my characters don’t blithely act out gender stereotypes. When I structure my worlds, I have to pay attention to how women are treated without resorting to lazy assumptions of superiority and domination. That is not to say all my characters, settings and plots are feminist (there are wide ranges of thought even within the movement), but it is to say that if they aren’t, I can tell you why.

Feminist Action-Adventure Movies

2011-03-31T09:09:00.000-07:00

So there's a lot of noise about Zack Snyder's "Sucker Punch," an action adventure about a young girl's attempt to escape from a mental hospital. I saw the trailer and it looks amazing: dragons, Nazi's and samurai swords - does it really get better than that? And to top it off, you've got five young women kicking ass and taking names (granted, they're in fishnets and school uniforms, but still). Now, while I'm excited about the movie, I'm not sure I'm going to enjoy it, and here's why:

First of all, I love action adventure movies, but I've long given up on seeing any strong female characters who don't have to be rescued by the hero at some point in the movie, no matter how ass-kicky she is at first. Second, it's directed by Zack Snyder, the man who gave us the ab-tastic, but essentially plotless "300." Third, it's gotten mixed reviews. Those who liked it, really, really liked it. And those who didn't, thought it was the end of the world. Not good.

So, in case you see and find that it offends your feminist sensibilities, here are some action-adventure movies with (truly) strong female leads that will wash its taste out of your mouth.

1. The Quick and the Dead (1995): A mysterious female gunslinger enters an elimination tournament for the best gunslingers in the West in order to get to the town's sadistic mayor, the man who murdered her father. Saw this the other night and it reminded me why I love Sharon Stone. She may be famous for that one scene in that one movie (you know what I'm talking about), but this is her at her best. Also featuring a young Leonardo DiCaprio, Gene Hackman and Russell Crowe.

2. Cutthroat Island (1995): Geena Davis is a crafty female pirate going up against the boys and holding her own in this madcap race to find hidden treasure. At lot more buckle for your swash than "Pirates of the Caribbean," and on a much cheaper budget.

3. Alien (1979): In this sci-fi classic, a mining crew responding to an SOS discovers some of the scariest creatures ever to pop out of Hollywood's imagination. Sigourney Weaver plays Ripley, a woman caught in a situation far bigger than herself who still manages to come out swinging.

4. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000): An impetuous young martial arts prodigy wreaks havoc when she steals a special sword. Two legendary warriors set off in pursuit, but they must also contend with the thief's former lover who also wants her back. The fight scenes are amazing and the Zhang Ziyi, who plays the lead role, is both infuriating and mesmerizing all at once.

Ok, I've spent an inordinate amount of time on this post. There are a bunch of movies that have strong female characters, but because they lacked compassion for other women (these women were just as dismissive and contemptuous of other women as male action leads often are) they were disqualified as "Chicks with Guns." so if anyone has other suggestions for great, feminist action movies, please let me know.

Tu Books Wants you ... well, your work anyay

2011-03-26T14:15:00.000-07:00

There aren't a lot of markets specifically targeting writers of speculative fiction who feature people of color. There are plenty of support spaces where you can get advice, inspiration and just meet cool people who love and produce this stuff. But not a lot of places actively looking for submissions.

So I was pretty chuffed (love that word!) to find this call for submissions on the Writers Afrika site. Here's what they are looking for:

TU BOOKS, an imprint of LEE & LOW BOOKS, publishes speculative fiction for children and young adults featuring diverse characters and settings. Our focus is on well-told, exciting, adventurous fantasy, science fiction, and mystery novels featuring people of color set in worlds inspired by non-Western folklore or culture.

We are looking specifically for stories for both middle grade (ages 8-12) and young adult (ages 12-18) readers. (We are not looking for picture books, chapter books, or short stories at this time. Please do not send submissions in these formats.)

Manuscript Submissions:
* Manuscripts should be typed doubled-spaced.
* Manuscripts should be accompanied by a cover letter that includes a brief biography of the author, including publishing history. The letter should also state if the manuscript is a simultaneous or an exclusive submission.
* Please include a synopsis and first three chapters of the novel. Do not send the complete manuscript.
* We're looking for middle grade (ages 8-12) and young adult (ages 12 and up) books. We are not looking for chapter books (ages 6 to 9) at this time.
* Be sure to include full contact information on the cover letter and first page of the manuscript. Page numbers and your last name/title of the book should appear on subsequent pages.

Only submissions sent through regular post will be considered. We cannot accept submissions through email or fax.

We will respond to a submission only if we are interested in the manuscript. We are not able to return manuscripts or give a personal response to each submission, so please do not include a self-addressed stamped envelope or a delivery confirmation postcard, or call or email about the status of your submission. If you do not hear from us within six months, you may assume that your work does not fit our needs.

PLEASE SEND ALL SUBMISSIONS TO:
Submissions Editor, Tu Books, 95 Madison Avenue, Suite 1205, New York, NY 10016. If you require confirmation of delivery, please send the submission with a U.S. Postal Service Return Receipt.

Resources for Writers:
For examples of the kinds of novels we're looking for, check out this list of multicultural science fiction and fantasy novels. Note that there is a gamut of historical, contemporary, futuristic, alternate-world, and other kinds of speculative fiction.

For guidance on word counts and other requirements for middle grade and young adult novels, check out the Society of Children's Writers and Illustrators, which should lead you to more information. Also keep an eye on the LEE & LOW blog and Tu Editorial Director Stacy Whitman's blog, because these experts have great advice for writers.

The Fear (and Loathing) of Writing

2011-03-17T15:45:00.000-07:00

For a long time, I’ve been struggling with an inability to write. Not because I don’t have anything to say, but because I don’t know how to say it and I was afraid I would say it wrong.

At the beginning of this month I resolved to block off three hours (from 9pm to midnight) every night to write without distraction. At first I promised myself those hours would be dedicated to my novel, but then I expanded it to my personal writing – any fiction, short stories, articles, blog entries, whatever. But what most often happens is that I sit down at my system and stare blankly at an empty screen for a few minutes, getting worked up to a panic, then I wander off to “think,” get something to eat, then I come back end up surfing the net. My favourite sites seem to be: Facebook, Slate.com, Tor.com, io9.com and its feminist sister site Jezebel.com.

Not too long ago, I broke out in a cold sweat at the thought of having to write an article for work. I had been given more than enough time and resources to research it, but I still found myself paralyzed in front of a blank screen wishing I could be struck by lightning – anything to get me out of putting words to paper.

I realized that what I have is a real, legitimate fear of writing. Writing isn’t just typing words to paper (though it ultimately comes down to that). It’s having new experiences, it’s reading, researching, revising, submitting, and marketing yourself.

It sucks. And it’s starting to cost me.

I’ve been struggling with this for years. I’ve let down quite a few people because of it and it has really taken a toll on my sense of self. I know part of it is my need for perfection. I am not satisfied with just throwing words together; I want every sentence to sing. I’m also impatient. I don’t want to go through the gruelling tempering period it takes to make a great writer. I don’t want to have scads of manuscripts lying around, I want my first one to be gold and I’ll endlessly write and rewrite it – setting the goal posts ever farther away, to get that.

It would be easy to say that I’m lazy and that I lack discipline, though I’m sure that’s a big part of it. Without a deadline, I’ll dick around forever on a task. It would also be easy to say that that I don’t want it enough. I want to live the writer’s life – chuck it all and just become a freelancer, moving from country to country soaking up life and living by the products of my pen - but my writing has never felt truly legitimate. A part of me feels that being a writer is for chic bohemian types who wear dashikis and live in New York or Paris – it’s a lifestyle, not a job. All these would be true, but that wouldn’t be the whole story.

The heart of the matter is, I’m scared that I’m actually one of those self-deluded writers who think they are the next William Shakespeare, when in truth they couldn’t string a coherent sentence together. I’m scared that I’m a fraud and the minute anyone sees my writing I will be exposed. I’m scared that I won’t ever be able to make a living on my writing. I’m scared of going out of my comfort zone and exposing myself to the world – which is what separates the great writers from the hacks. I’m scared that I’m a hack.

I know many writers who say they don’t feel quite as alive as when they are writing. Others say that while they find the process difficult, they do it because they feel compelled to it. I don’t. In fact, there is so much anxiety for me around writing that I try to avoid it as much as possible.

Unfortunately, writing is just about the only thing I do well, so when I don’t do it, I feel guilty that I’m wasting my talent. At the same time, when I do try to write I feel guilty that I’m indulging in a frivolous pastime and that I would be better off doing something useful – like cleaning the bathroom.

So writing isn’t fun for me. It’s nerve-wracking, dispiriting and has driven me to the edge of suicide on more than one occasion. I tried giving my writing an aura of legitimacy by doing it under the cover of journalism, but it turns out that reporters are not necessarily writers. They both write, but they have completely different motivations. I’m now trying publishing with an eye toward academia down the line.

I don’t hold out much hope, though. I should probably learn a new trade (dressmaking has always fascinated me) but, with my lack of common sense and people skills, I doubt I’d be any good at that either.

All about Superman

2011-02-25T01:58:00.000-08:00

Superman is probably my favourite superhero. I know, I know, not very imaginative, but there is something about his all-round super-ness mixed with his empathy and yearning to be fully human, that really appeals to me. This is a guy who could be anything he wants - a god among men - and yet, all he really wants is to date the popular girl and keep everyone happy and safe. You gotta love that.

In the comics, Superman can come off as a bit of a boy scout, a little flat and unrelentingly - unappealingly - good. But in the hands of a good writer, this character takes on more nuance.

For instance, I just read a really funny story by Nathan Pensky called "Lois Lane’s New Boyfriend Rubs It In After Beating Superman At Ping Pong At a Family Barbecue." It's title really says it all. Then there is "Man not Superman," a story by Jonathan Goldstien. Also told from the point of view of Lois's new, human boyfriend, it explores the dichotomy between Superman's hero persona and his alter ego Clark Kent.

My absolute favorite literary retelling of the Superman story has to be "It's Superman," by Tom De Haven. The book is set in the 1920s and 30s and explores Clark Kent's early life as he navigates family, friends, growing up and his place in society. It reimagines him as plodding farmboy of average intelligence and a deep ambivalence about his powers. For the first time, readers start to understand the man behind the cape - reminding us why his story appeals to us over and over again.

Sci-fi on the cheap

2011-02-16T02:40:00.000-08:00

If you're like me, you probably don't have a whole lot of cash to spend on books. They are a great addiction, but if you have to choose getting to work for the week and buying Orson Scott Card's latest offering, you'd have to choose work, right? Right?

So, it thrilled me to find this link on Publisher's Weekly Genreville blog. It's got a pretty thorough run-down of places where you can read great sci-fi, fantasy and other speculative fiction for free. And it's all legal!

Score!

BTW, if you know of any other places, especially to find Speculative fiction by and about Africans, please let me know.

A round-up of some cool web finds

2011-02-12T12:00:00.000-08:00

In my limited wandering around the web, I stumble across interesting finds, which make me go "hmm... I should write about that." But because I'm the lazy sod that I am, I'm just going to share the links with you.

In honour of the upcoming Valentine's Day weekend, I want to point you to this great article by film critic Daniel M. Kimmel. He looks at romance in Sci-fi movies and shows that the inspiration that love provides in great storytelling doesn't end with rom-coms or literary fiction.

Speaking of literary fiction, there is a spirited debate in the UK about whether speculative fiction will be left out of the Man Booker Prize - again. The genre is reaching a new golden age, and its British writers like Neil Gaiman and China Mieville are at the forefront of the trend. It might be that the argument is a moot point. Despite the debate, writers like Kazuo Ishiguro in his latest work, "Never Let Me Go," are blurring the lines between genres and still writing good stories, whether the Booker Prize committee is taking notice or not.

And if you want to read some of the coolest speculative fiction that aren't quite making it past the publishers inboxes? Check out Slushpilereader.com. Admittedly, some of these stories could use a little professional editing, but they are enthusiastic, fresh and vibrant voices that, for some reason, are flying under the radar.

Finally, I want to say thank you to some Facebook commenters who pointed me to Maurice Broaddus, during a spirited debate about race and fantasy fiction. Mr. Broaddus is an African-American speculative fiction writer who's doing some cool stuff with the genre. I haven't read his series "Knights of Breton Court" yet, but dude, I really want to.

Nnedi Okorafor gets it on with Tor.com

2011-02-11T04:49:00.000-08:00

Nnedi Okorafor, author of "Zahara the Windseeker," "Who Fears Death" and "Akata Witch," has just had one of her short stories published on Tor.com.

Nnedi is an amazing writer of speculative fiction that uses African themes and is frequently set in Nigeria. The story is preceeded by an informative round-up of sci-fi and fantasy set in Africa. It includes the works of H. Rider Haggard, which I would not personally recommend because of his often questionable depictions of Africans, and it doesn't seem to include works by any actual Africans, but it's still a pretty useful list.

Two of my favorite things just got together and here is what they produced: http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/02/the-go-slow

Enjoy!

Mirror, mirror

2011-02-09T12:35:00.000-08:00

The wizard stared at the mirror’s warped surface in disbelief. What had happened was not possible. He had planned everything so carefully, overseen every step of the process. What had gone wrong?

The mirror’s edges were still glowing with that awful bluish light – a light so... so wrong that it made him ill to see it. Faint wisps of smoke were still curling languidly from the surface. If he looked closely enough, his practised eyes could just make out the girl trapped inside, like a life-like paper doll encased in a thick block of ice. And when the light hit the mirror at just the right angle, he could see that she was still screaming.

*****

At first glance, there was nothing special about the room. Four walls, two windows opposite each other and a small built-in closet. It was one of those boy’s quarter affairs where the shared bathroom was located at one end of the building with the kitchen at the other, both connected by a broad verandah that ran past two rooms.

Nothing special, but it was everything I wanted: ridiculously cheap, roomy, clean, and most importantly, quiet. Well, there was that mirror on the outside of the door, but I resolved to change that as soon as I could.

It was my need for quiet that had drove me from my parent’s house in Lagos. I had returned to Nigeria to work on my book, but it had been two months and I had made little progress. If it wasn’t my mother shouting at the maid at 6 a.m. every morning, it was the screams of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer five times a day, the cries of the hawkers, the near constant hum of traffic, or the diesel-soaked gargle of the generator at night.

I had been to Abuja as a kid, and I still remember how quiet it had seemed to me. How green and peaceful. My father’s friend, an old general whom he had served under during the war, had built a lovely house on the outskirts of the city when he retired. I persuaded them to let me stay in there for the rest of my yearlong sabbatical.

I had covered the floor with a lovely wine-colored carpet. I had a bookshelf that held my research volumes, some knick knacks and picture frames, and a small radio/CD player. A white two-seater couch that folded out to a bed sat under one window. Next to the closet, I had a set of two plastic chairs, a table and a small fridge.

I never did get around to changing that mirror, though. Every time I walked up to my door, I felt a frisson of irritation. Catching sight of my reflection as I approached always made me think there was someone standing at my door waiting for me. But as soon as I entered the room and closed the door, it was as if I had entered my own little world.

I had never thought to ask why this room, with all its advantages, had remained empty for so long. My neighbor, an up-and-coming young marketing executive named Oniye, told me no one had lived in there in the nearly seven months since she had moved into the compound, but she was reluctant to say more. The other neighbors, those who lived in the main house, would not even speak about the room.

Only David, the guard, ever asked me about the room. About a week after I moved in, I was returning home with a load of groceries. He came out to meet me at the compound’s gate and helped me carry the heaviest bags inside.

“Auntie, abeg, make you tell your visitor not to dey shout so,” he said after loading the bags on the verandah in front of my door. “Madam say she no fit sleep for house.”

“I don’t have any visitors,” I said. He looked at me strangely, as if he had just remembered something terribly important. For a moment, he seemed frightened.

“Maybe I left the radio on.”

“Ok, yes. Na so, na so,” he nodded quickly. He was suddenly eager to be away, not even waiting for his customary 20 naira tip. I watched him hurry back to the front gate, bemused. My people are a superstitious lot, given to exaggeration. It was not the first time I had been warned away by tales of witchcraft and sorcery, men turning into goats, women who could fly. I was a professor of African religions and philosophy, believe me, I had heard them all.

One evening, about a month later, I returned home late. The conference had gone on too long. The chairman had insisted on giving one long rambling speech after another before every event on the itinerary. What was slated to be a dinner engagement produced no food. By the time I arrived home, I was hungry, tired and very irritated.

So, I dismissed what I saw as a product of my overactive imagination. Only after I had eaten and was drifting off to sleep, did I remember. Coming up to my room, I had seen a woman reflected in the mirror on my door. And it wasn’t me.

*****

Some time that night I awoke. The power had gone out and the room was stifling. The digital alarm clock on the bookshelf was blinking at 12:00, as if the outage had shorted it out – though it was battery operated. A strange blue light was leaking from under the front door. It seemed as if someone had lit a hundred florescent lamps in the shared hallway.

But I knew there was nothing out there except a single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. The cold hand of fear gripped my throat. My skin erupted in goosebumps. I burrowed under my blankets, hoping perversely that if I ignored it, the strange light would go away.

BANG, BANG, BANG! A knock on my door. I bit my lip to suppress a scream. I didn’t believe in the diabolical. I was too rational for that. There were no such things as witches, spirits or ghosts. But there was someone or something knocking on my door in the middle of the night, amid a light that should not be, and I was afraid.

I suddenly realized that I was all alone out here. I could call the police, but this was Nigeria. There was a good chance they wouldn’t come on time – if they came at all. My neighbors were all single women like me, and not likely to try to take on intruders on their own.

Suddenly, it was quiet. I waited for the knocks to continue, but nothing came. Cautiously, I peeked out from under the covers. The light was gone. I closed my eyes as waves of relief washed over me.

The next morning, I got up as usual. I fished my bathing bucket from out of the closet and headed out to fetch the water I would heat for my bath. I opened the door and stepped out.

******

My name is Marcel. It is April, 1925, in Paris. I live in a shabby flat above a bakery in the Student’s Quarter on the Siene. People see me as a well-dressed man about town, slim, dark-haired, pencil-thin moustache. But they do not know the dark desires that drive me. The things I have done in the heart of the night. They do not know of the sighs, the screams, the pleas. They do not know…

******

Ma name’s Ella Mae Brown. It is 1944, August in Savannah, Georgia. The heat is almost alive, a thing onto itself. ‘Been singin’ at a spot in the negro part of town. It don’t bring in much, but I make it up in other ways. Pekoe been askin’ me why am still in this dump. Says with ma voice I could be playin’ the Cotton Club in New York or sumpin’, but I knowed I ain’t that good. Don’t know how to tell him, but bein’ up on that stage’s the only time I feel alive. Don’t get to feelin’ like that noplace else. Not even with him…

******

You can call me Lel. My true name doesn’t matter. I have been running for so long, I don’t remember what it was like before. I don’t even remember my crime. I have escaped them in every way, but still they come. I have stabbed them with knives, burned them with brands, drowned them, ripped them limb from limb and still they come. I am beginning to think that they will never give up, that it does not matter whether I run or stay and fight. But I will escape. I must. They will not drag me down with them. They will not win…

******

A wordless, keening scream filled with more agony than any human can endure. As if all the grief of every age and time were contained in it. It continues without respite, without end.

******

The door slammed shut and I was standing in front of the mirror. I had dropped my bucket, but I don’t remember doing that. I am shaking. The voices are still echoing in my head. I can still feel the detritus of their lives, the smells, the tastes. I look at my reflection and it as if I have aged decades. My hair has turned completely white; there is something haunted about my eyes. My hands are still my own, though.

“Anne!” Oniye calls out my name. I turn, startled. She is shocked by my appearance. “Ah! What happened? Anne?”

I try to tell her what happened, but my voice is gone. Stolen by the lives inside me. I walk up to her, she shrinks away. They tell me that I started running and that they found me half-naked in Garki three days later. But I don’t remember that and I’m not sure I believe them.

I’m back in the States now. In a nice room here. Very quiet. They say I’m not allowed to go outside and I laugh. Because I can go out anytime I want. Paris, Georgia, New York, even places that have no name yet. Because in my room, anywhere is possible.

Books that have influenced me

2011-02-02T09:00:00.000-08:00

I was inspired by a Facebook meme which asks users to list 20 authors and poets who have had the most influence on them. The catch was that it had to be the first 20 writers they could recall in no more than fifteen minutes.

Here's my list. Those authors without titles are people whose work I admire as a whole:

1. Stephen King
2. Chinua Achebe – Things Fall Apart
3. Robert Jordan
4. George R.R. Martin
5. Anne LaMott – Bird By Bird
6. William Shakespeare
7. Oscar Wilde
8. Charles Dickens
9. Mark Twain – A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court
10. Edgar Allen Poe
11. Ben Okri – The Famished Road
12. Anne Rice – Interview with a Vampire, Vampire Lestat, Queen of the Damned
13. Margret Atwood – The Handmaid’s Tale
14. Mariama Ba – So long a letter
15. Ray Bradbury
16. Arthur C. Clarke – Childhood’s End
17. Marion Zimmer Bradley – The Mists of Avalon
18. Ursula K. LeGuin – Left Hand of Darkness
19. Victor Hugo – Hunchback of Notre Dame
20. Stephen R. Donaldson – The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever, The Mirror of Her Dreams, A man rides through

New finds: Webcomics

2011-01-30T13:00:00.000-08:00

I want to thank my good friend Bob Voros for introducing me to two great webcomics.

Comiccritics.com is follows a group of comic geeks who work in a bookstore. It also takes a funny look at the business and insider news of the comic book world. It's pretty cool.

The Hero Business is my personal favourite. It's about the people who work in a marketing firm for superheroes. It combines office humour with standard superhero tropes. It's very smart and very funny. Check it out.

It takes me back to one of the first webcomics I discovered in 2009. Snafu comics used an anime-inspired style to combine characters and from some of my favourite Cartoon Network cartoons such as Dexter's Laboratory, Powerpuff Girls and Samurai Jack and create what I still think are some of the coolest art on the web. Sadly, the site hasn't been updated in nearly a year. You can still see them here.

The feminist critique

2011-01-27T14:46:00.000-08:00

I recently discovered that there was an arm of academia dedicated to the study of feminisms in science fiction. Now, how cool is that? I have always critiqued what genre fiction I come across along feminist lines – I am always interested in how female characters are portrayed and treated - but I had never thought to make it a formal line of study. To find that it is not only a line of study, but that several scholars have done dedicated research into it, warms my nerdy heart. Because last year, I read a few stories that got me thinking about how female friendships are portrayed in the media.

Friendships have always been fraught. However, in patriarchal societies they come with extra strain. One of the tools of a patriarchy is to pit women against each other. It’s the classic divide-and-conquer strategy. If women are constantly vying against each other for the attention of men, they can never come together to truly challenge the status quo. Another tool of patriarchy is to tie a man's sense of self to very narrow sets of actions. Thus, men must walk a fine line to constantly prove their masculinity.

Thus, in many patriarchal societies, there is a constant fear among men that expressing too much vulnerability in their friendships with other men will make them seem weak or worse, gay. Among women, there is an underlying fear that your friend will steal your man. In popular culture, the anxiety among men is often treated with humour, but that same anxiety in women is often portrayed as more sinister.

We carry our real-world preconceptions and prejudices into our fantasies and three speculative fiction examples, Jennifer’s Body (movie directed by Diablo Cody), Ponies (short story by Kij Johnson), and We Heart Vampires!!!!! (short story by Meghan McCarron), show that the underlying assumptions about friendships among women can remain in place even when all the other rules go out the door.

In the movie "Jennifer’s Body," the friendship between two teens is tested when one of them turns into a succubus and has to devour men to live. In "We Heart Vampires!!!!," a similar teen friendship is strained when one of the girls starts dating a 70-year-old vampire who may not be the mysterious angst-ridden lover he seems to be. In "Ponies," a little girl must decide whether to sacrifice her beloved pet to join a clique of popular girls.

In each of these stories, there is an element of competition. One teen is more attractive than the other. In "Jennifer’s Body," Jennifer is a devastatingly attractive teen who can – and often does – get any man she wants, but all she wants are the men in her friend’s life. Needy is content to lose out to her more popular friend, but things get sticky when the insatiable Jennifer goes after her boyfriend. In "We Heart Vampires!!!!," Bob is far more popular than George. George is resigned to the fact that when Bob has a new man, she takes second place. But an ill-fated trip to the mall with Sven, Bob’s new vampire boyfriend, exposes the fault lines beneath their relationship and brings some startling conclusions to the forefront. In "Ponies," the question of status – being in the popular crowd – becomes a matter of life or death.

There is no denying that there is an element of competition in friendships among women. Lucinda Rosenfeld’s “I’m So Happy for You,” is a funny, intelligent examination of this issue. Yet, I can’t help but wonder if all these stories are missing something. Yes, being friends is tough, but isn’t the trope of the bitchy alpha female and her clueless/naive subordinate a little limiting?

There is a vast amount of scientific evidence that shows that women have more fulfilling and sustainable friendships than men. Because of the way they are socialized, women are often more comfortable sharing their feelings with each other. They tend to be less hierarchical, relying on horizontal networks rather than a single leader. Friendships between women can be the bedrock of a lifelong journey of mutual support and understanding. A vein of reassurance that can enrich any life.

So while these stories may make for exciting entertainment, I can’t help but feel they may have missed the point.

10 things I know about Nigeria

2011-01-23T11:27:00.000-08:00

In many ways, my life in Nigeria has been more vibrant and challenging than life in the United States ever was. A friend of mine once described living in Nigeria as “life in Technicolor,” and I have to agree.

Life in the US, has its share of difficulties, but every day, my country surprises me with some nugget of insight into human behaviour and the wild variety of motivations that shape it. It has certainly improved my writing and fired my imagination. And so, with the New Year high still in place, I thought I would share some of the lessons I learned in 2010:

1. Never leave your house without looking your very best. You will be judged entirely on your looks.

2. Cell phone credit is far too expensive to waste on small talk. Get to the point and don’t bother with goodbyes.

3. Traffic lanes and speed limits are only suggestions. And the biggest car always has right of way.

4. Stand up straight. No matter how broke you are, great posture is free.

5. Patience is not a virtue, it’s a necessity. But if you have money, it’s for suckers.

6. Everything is negotiable, so don’t hesitate to bargain.

7. Be nice to everyone; you never know when they’ll pop up again.

8. There is no such thing as personal space.

9. A little yelling goes a long way. We call it “halla.”

10. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but the wallet is mightier still.

Ursula K. Le Guin and the art of building worlds

2011-01-18T13:17:00.000-08:00

The first book of the New Year that I read was "City of Illusions," by Ursula K. Le Guin. It's a slim volume - not quite 200 pages, but man, does it pack a punch.

Le Guin is one of the icons of classic Sci-fi. To my mind she was the Ginger Rogers of her era, doing everything that the boys were doing, but backwards - and in heels. Her book, "The Left Hand of Darkness," is one of the most engrossing explorations of gender and power I've ever read.

But I think that where Le Guin and others of her generation truly earn my respect is in their ability to create fully-realized worlds within a few sentences. They are like the masters of Japanese ukiyo-e, using small strokes of the pen to create scenes that fire the imagination.

And let's make no mistake, world-building is hard. It requires a massive amount of thought and research. You have to think through everything from weather, to food, clothing, housing and even the cultural attitudes of the people. Those who live in harsher climates may tend more towards aggression than those who do not.

Author Jon Sprunk lists some of the best worlds of science fiction - in his Tor.com blog. He includes two of my favourites: Robert Jordan's "Wheel of Time" world and George R. R. Martin's "Song of Ice and Fire" world. I would add Jaqueline Carey's Terre D'Ange, and Orson Scott Card's re-imagined America of the "Alvin Maker" series.

The masters make it look easy. They dispense with long-winded explanations or tortured comparisons and they tell it. And the very best of them keep us coming back for more. That's why someone had the good sense to invent sequels - and trilogies.

A new year review

2011-01-17T04:46:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year everyone!

I know I'm a little late to the game, but I wanted to open up the first blog entry of 2011 by drawing your attention to a poll currently going on at Tor.com.

They're tallying the best science fiction and fantasy books of the last decade - according to readers. It's still open so check it out and place your votes here.

My choices (in no particular order) were:

All the books in the Song of Fire and Ice series by George R.R. Martin
American Gods by Neil Gaiman
Kushiel's Dart by Jaqueline Carey
Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norell by Susanna Clarke
The Stolen Child by Keith Donohue
Dusk by Tim Lebbon
Midnight Robber by Nalo Hopkinson

My week in Jos

2010-12-26T16:29:00.000-08:00

I wrote this article for NEXT newspaper last year after a rattling trip to Jos. I’ve republished it here following the recent reports of several bomb blasts in the city a few days ago.

My parents and I arrived in Jos on a Sunday evening in January. Just as we entered the city limits, we were stopped at a police checkpoint.

“Oga, go softly,” the officer said. “Jos is hot o.”

“What happened?” my father asked.

“Na crisis,” was the man’s reply as he waved us on.

We were silent at that. This is not the first violent upheaval the city has known. The plateau is cool and peaceful; a lush landscape dotted with breathtaking rock formations. But since the early 2000’s it has been ripped apart by violence. Relations between the indigenous people, who are mainly Christian, and the mostly Muslim Hausa have never been very good and in 2001, those tensions erupted into a violent outbreak that left hundreds dead and even more homeless. Since then, the situation has only grown worse, with crises breaking out every few years.

Our first night was uneventful. My parents rose early Monday morning so that my father could take a taxi back to Abuja. When my mother returned, we went to the orthopaedic hospital, which was her main reason for coming to town. After the hospital, we headed to Bukuru market to pick up some groceries. We had not been to our home in the suburbs of the city in months, and beyond a few tubers of yam and some non-perishables, we did not have much food.

However, we noticed that the market was unusually empty for a Monday morning. None of the traders we usually shopped from had opened their stalls. Just as we found a parking spot, we saw a cloud of dust in the distance. Suddenly, the streets were choked with people running in all directions. Young men on motorcycles, taxis and commercial buses were vying with each other on the narrow road.

“They’re coming!” someone shouted. “They’re coming!”

My mother and I did not wait to find out who “they” were. We got back into the car and manoeuvred through the throng back to the house. We did stop at a nearby grocery store to pick up a few provisions. We were sure it was just people panicking; we would go back for our main goods tomorrow.

That night, Bukuru market burned. We did not know this when we awoke. My mother had another appointment at the hospital and we went straight there first thing that morning. While my mother was in the theatre room preparing for her treatment, I noticed the crowd in the waiting room was growing restless. Many were gathered in clusters talking excitedly. That was when I learned of the damage to the market. A group of young men – no one knew for certain if they were Christians or Muslims – had rampaged through. They would break into locked stores, loot them then set them ablaze.

As we talked, tall man in an impeccable suit swooped in. He was the hospital’s director. A 24-hour curfew had just been imposed, he informed us, and all his non-essential staff were to return home immediately. Patients were to leave as soon as their procedures were completed. The hospital was going on lockdown. Someone switched on a radio and we huddled around it hoping for some useful news. But, it seemed as if every radio station had been transported to the Soviet Union circa 1960. All they could offer were bland statements from the governor’s office “exhorting citizens to diligently follow the curfew to ensure the safety of lives and property.” No word as to what was happening, who was responsible, nor what was being done to fix the situation.

My mother came out of the theatre room. Her doctor had told her of the curfew, so we returned home. Our intention to visit the market was now a lost cause. At home we surveyed our stores. Three tubers of yam, four packets of instant noodles, a bag of cous-cous, some tomatoes and peppers we had bought on our way into town, some acha – a local grain, a packet of spaghetti, two loaves of bread, a box of tea and a jar of coffee. If we ate sparingly: a light breakfast, a small lunch and dinner, our haul would last us four or five days. But of course, it would not come to that. Jos had had crises before, we were sure this would all blow over in a day or so. All we had to do was sit tight and wait it out.

That afternoon, I watched in silent horror as the sky blackened with smoke and the sounds of gunfire filled the air. When the wind blew just so, we could hear shouting and screaming from Bukuru town just beyond our walls. Every now and then, we heard helicopters thunder past, headed for town. My mother was glued to her phone, calling friends and family to hear the latest news. And the worst part was, the man my father hired to be our security guard in the house turned out an utter failure.

L______ is a small man with a mouth full of rotting teeth. He cannot be more than 25 years, but poor hygiene and a persistent drinking habit has left him looking decades older. When we first arrived Sunday evening, we found our front gate hanging open and no sign of the security guard. My father tried to call the man and failed to reach him. So, he locked the gate and went to bed. Sometime towards nightfall, we heard a knock on the back door. It was L_______. He had scaled the back wall to enter the compound – something our tenants had reported he did often, but he had vehemently denied. When my father confronted him, he could only smile vapidly and offer vague excuses. His brother was sick, he told us, all the while reeking of alcohol.

Tuesday afternoon as the world shook with the sounds of small explosions, L_______ came to us asking for permission to go to the junction at the end of the road “to get something.” My father had confiscated his set of keys so that he could not leave without our knowledge. My mother turned him down. He spent the rest of the evening quivering with fear with every shot that rang out and pacing like a caged animal.

On Wednesday we woke to reports that death squads of men dressed as soldiers were going from house to house in Bukuru, killing anyone who opened their doors to them. A friend of my mother’s reported seeing one of these men caught at an army checkpoint. He was found out only because his uniform was out of date and he was wearing sneakers – which soldiers never do. Throughout that day, every time someone knocked on our gate, my heart leapt to my throat. Knowing L______, he would probably open the door, then scale the wall and leave us to our fate. That night, as we heard reports of widespread looting of abandoned homes. The guards from all the houses in our neighbourhood formed a security detail to patrol our street. They lit a bonfire at the junction and took turns keeping vigil all through the night.

Thursday morning, we could still hear staccato bursts of gunfire – this time we were told it was the soldiers. The government had sent out the army in full force to quell the violence, and I did not doubt they were doing just as much damage as the rampaging youths. Many of my mother’s friends – including our next door neighbor had sought refuge at a nearby police barracks. There, they endured cold nights with little food or water.

By now, Jos city had lost its allure and we wanted nothing better than to start up the geriatric Benz and have this trip be a memory fading behind us. My uncle, my father’s younger brother, had offered to drive us back to Abuja, but he cautioned us to wait one more day. We still had no reliable reports as to where the worst violence was. No use running out only to be caught in the crossfire.

Friday morning, with the curfew scaled back to an eight-hour window, we set out. This was the first time we had left the compound in nearly a week. The town was unrecognizable. People clutching their meagre possessions lined the road desperately seeking any form of transportation they could find. The burned-out hulks of cars and trucks littered the roads. We passed shops and houses gutted by fire. At every corner, stone-faced soldiers wielding Kalashnikov rifles had set up makeshift checkpoints and were searching every vehicle on the road. At one checkpoint, an irate soldier had us empty the contents of every item we carried onto the roadside. Police officers rode about on motorcycles looking a little out of their element. The only fuel station in town had been set ablaze when someone drove a truck into its main building. The smell of ash hung thick in the air.

In the days since our return, I have learned that nearly 200 people were killed in the conflict. A prominent Igbo businessman was cut down along with his two sons when he tried to keep looters from invading his home. Many of my mother’s friends have decided to leave the town. Several of them lost their homes and businesses. Meanwhile, the government has made the usual noises about looking into the causes of the conflict and bringing all the perpetrators to book. I doubt it is more than just talk. When an uneasy peace returns once again to the plateau, everyone will go about their business as if nothing happened. As if such clashes are a plague of locusts – appearing without cause and disappearing into the ether. Until next time.

The Superhero Next Door

2010-12-22T04:31:00.000-08:00

Rangesi, Real Life Superhero Project

All of us have dreamed of being superheroes at some point. And if you're like me, you've also decided your superhero name, designed your outfit, and figured out your lair (don't judge).

That's why I let out a little squeal of excitement when I stumbled across the Real Life Superhero Project. However, I was supremely disappointed that they had only one woman and no persons of colour (though one can't necessarily tell behind some of those masks).

Also, if I'm going to be roaming the streets of Abuja fighting crime in my sensible combat boots (I told you I've thought this through), I'll probably need to know some of the laws I'll be subject to. That's where the Law and the Multiverse blog comes in.

Now I have to start thinking about my poster.

The trap of "supposed to be"

2010-12-21T02:56:00.000-08:00

Most people spend their lives trying to be who they think they should be, instead of who they are.

– Dan Gottlieb, quadriplegic.

We go through much of our lives being told what to do. Our parents, our teachers, our bosses all give us instructions on what is expected of us in any given situation. A lot of these instructions teach us self-control and empathy, and are vital for us to function successfully in society. But a lot of times, these instructions go beyond teaching us how to be to try to tell us who to be as well. It gets to the point where the definition of success is so narrow that only very few can actually achieve it without sacrificing something of their genuine selves.

I think the problem is particularly acute in Nigerian society, where children are discouraged from even asking questions to satisfy their curiosity let alone questioning the larger direction of their lives. Much more than in other places where I have lived, there is a very clear definition in Nigeria of who one is supposed to be. The hierarchies are clearly established, one’s place is boldly marked out and the sign of adulthood is defined by putting away childish enthusiasms and settling down into the persona that has been created for you.

But I think the true mark of adulthood is in resisting expectations and stripping oneself of the layers of who you are supposed to be until you find who you are. I believe that only until you discover that thing which moves your heart, will your true life begin. Everything else is just rehearsal.

That is why fantasy is so important for me. The act of wild creation that allows an artist or a writer to create new worlds and dream up rich, vibrant characters is something that can only come when you tap into your most authentic self. It comes from a place of pure, unalloyed passion. The fire that everyone is born with but which is too often buried under layers of parental, societal and even personal expectations.

We all know someone in our lives who has chosen to break free of their expectations to live as they are. We all know that feeling of quiet envy we get when we see these people living as we wish we could – if only we weren’t so frightened. They aren’t all wild and crazy rebels living by the seat of their pants. Most times, it is in the quiet assurance of their stance and the openness of their smiles.

Don’t be under any illusions that this is easy. Finding yourself is a difficult and painful process. You will feel the pull of who you are supposed to be tugging at you with every step. There will be no shortage of people on hand to discourage you and make you feel as if you are a failure. There will even be penalties. You may not make much money and you might not be able to live in luxury. You will always be tempted to compare your life to others and lament what you think you lack. But once you begin, there’s no going back. Someone once said that the mind, once opened, can never return to its original shape. I believe it is the same for the spirit.

Tor.com: It rhymes with awesome (sort of)

2010-12-03T15:58:00.000-08:00

I recently discovered that my all-time favourite publishing company has created a blog. Except it is more than a blog, it is the nexus where fantasy collided with fiction and burst into mind-numbing reality, transporting all that we know and all that we can know into some heady space beyond time .... in short, it is really, really cool.

Check it out

Silent witness

2010-11-20T11:04:00.000-08:00

I wrote this following an excursion into the streets of Abuja on the day after former military dictator Ibrahim Badamosi Babangida declared he would run for the presidency.

He could not have been more than twelve. He moved from car to car hawking chewing gum and breath mints. He would scan the faces inside looking for that telltale linger that signalled interest in his wares. Then he would wait by the window or call out to his wares, his gaze already looking for the next potential sale. If the wait proved too long or if he was dismissed by a subtle shake of the head, he would move on.

It seemed he was the one selling bottled groundnuts at the junction by the filling station, or hawking cheap chocolates at the park. He was among the wheelbarrow boys in the market zigzagging through the throngs. He was the conductor hanging out of the commercial bus, whose eyes were too old for his face, shouting himself hoarse. The mechanic’s apprentice rolling a spare car tire across the road and the plumber’s boy who held the tool bag while his master unclogged those pipes.

He was also the sun-darkened schoolboy in a tattered uniform, dirty grey socks and battered Cortina shoes so often repaired, they were falling apart as he walked. He was the goalkeeper in a stained singlet and oversize shorts playing football in the field opposite the police station. He was one of the eternal young men gathered under the mango tree in front of the gate of an elaborate house.

He has been the silent witness to our history and the victim of our every opportunity lost to greed and corruption. Dressed in the castoffs of the West, he was among the crowd of boys who chased after the first white man who came into the village on a bicycle. He came out to admire the town’s first car. He gathered in the village square when the big man brought out that television and allowed everyone to watch under the tree. During the war, he fought in our armies, wearing a uniform too big for his frame and carrying a weapon too heavy for him to bear.

As he wanders among the detritus left behind by the latest political rally, hawking his goods, cleaning car windows, leading you briefly wonder what the future will hold for him.

In a thousand incarnations he enters our lives and after each brief encounter he returns to that blank space in our minds. When he goes, he takes with him his name and his story. He is someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s cousin. And tomorrow, he will be someone’s father.

The power and glory of the word

2010-11-16T12:21:00.000-08:00

For as long as I can remember I’ve been fascinated by words. I would go through the dictionary and find interesting words and repeat them to myself. That’s where I learned the words fervid, turgid and fulgent. When I am tired, my words are the first to go, and when I want to wound, my words cut deeper than any blade.

The problem is that words are a contradiction. On the one hand, they are so powerful, they can change destinies, destroy civilizations even – according to the Bible – wrest creation out of nothingness. On the other, in the mouths of men and women of easy virtue, they are worse than meaningless.

In my world, words are more dangerous than grenades because the shrapnel does more than wound the body. They lodge deep in the psyche, forming never-healing scabs. A barb thrown out in a moment of anger can lodge in a child’s brain like a grain of sand in an oyster and grow until it is the glistening pearl of self-loathing that picks up the razor blade he uses to end his life. The empty promises of today are the seeds of disillusionment that will blossom into the bloody revolution of tomorrow.

Perhaps that is why I am a writer. I love the way a well-crafted sentence can play on the tongue. And when a master like Stephen King can write: “Her voice, warped and distoted, cut through the babble like a dull ax through a calf's brain,” I can only shake my head in bemused wonder. That is why I love fantasy-fiction in particular. I have just finished reading the first two books in the Dark Tower series: “The Gunslinger,” and “The Drawing of the Three.” I had read “The Gunslinger” years ago in middle school and was hooked, but reading it again was breathtaking. It is difficult enough to write the human condition with depth and feeling, but to write it in a world that does not – could not – exist, well that is something else again.

And it is words that make it all possible. Right now, the leaders who run my country use words to underlie their misdeeds like the shredded newspaper used to line a filthy cage. They mouth empty promises about roads, power, education and clean water, throwing words into the air to cloud our minds, while their hands are busy raking in the wealth of the nation. But I believe that such is the power of words that they cannot be used with abandon. If thoughts can create our destiny, how much more powerful are the words that thoughts birth?

I believe that for those for whom words are merely the grease to smooth their sins, there will be a reckoning – if not in this life, certainly in the next. For words, once spoken, cannot be swallowed again. And that which we name will name us in turn.

Six African Authors nominated for 2011 IPAC

2010-11-15T04:08:00.001-08:00

On Black Sisters Street by Nigerian author Chika Unigwe and five other books by African writers have been nominated by libraries around the world for the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award. According to the website it is the largest and most international prize of its kind and is open to books written in any language.

The other authors are:

In the United States of Africa by Abdourahman Waberi

Broken Glass by Alain Mabanckou

Black Diamond by Zakes Mda

A Man Who is Not a Man by Thando Mgqolozana

Sunset Oasis by Bahaa Taher

A little rant...

2010-11-03T08:49:00.000-07:00

"Argh" Drawing by Zuzanna Lapies

Something has been bothering me lately. During my time at the BBC’s guest house, I started reading Martin Meredith’s The State of Africa, a fascinating book that traces the history of countries on the continent since independence from colonial rule. Reading the book, one is struck by the immense damage that colonial powers inflicted on their African territories.

European nations wiped out cultures, looted natural resources and in many ways reduced vast numbers of people to little more than orphans and beggars. During their rule, few of the colonial powers made any effort to equip their colonies with knowledgable labour pools. The most educated Africans were often only fit to be clerks and petty staff. Bridges, roads and other infrastructure were only built either to facilitate the movement of goods out of the countries or for the pleasure of the colonial masters. Few of the colonial powers wanted to leave.

Colonialism created a ruling elite that was no better than house boys and maids desperately trying aping their masters. They were lost souls who having been severed of their connection with their own people, only wanted access to their nations’ wealth to give themselves the same benefits that their Western maters enjoyed.

Thus, we ended up with leaders who immediately after independence abandoned their populist promises and proceeded to entrench themselves in power using vast systems of patronage and nepotism that are fundamentally at odds with true democracy.

Western support propped up psychotic dictators who inflicted untold horrors on their people then looked away when rose up to fight for their dignity and survival. In some cases, misguided Western aid exacerbated regional conflicts. And the Western media continues to look down on my continent with a shake of the head – declaring it ungovernable, decrying a “culture of corruption,” pretending that things just magically appeared as they are now, overnight.

What has bothered me so much is the tone so many take when talking about Africa. As if war and disease and bad governance are something uniquely to us. As if the West is not prey to strange diseases, as if no one ever takes to the street to protest injustice, as if no politician ever takes money or has affairs.

Colonialism – like rape, like abuse, like war – had consequences. Just as you can’t expect a battered child to shrug off its destructive upbringing without struggle, one cannot expect battered countries, cultures and people to do the same. It will take time, a long time perhaps, for Africa to break out of the abusive cycle it was forced into. We are still too dependent on our abusers; we are still going back to them for more punishment.

Right now, we have a situation in which it seems that history keeps repeating itself. Fifty years on and, in many ways, we are no better than we were under Western rule. We are still being ruled by small, rapacious elite with no connection to the people. It is easier to travel to England than it is to go to Senegal because all our infrastructure is focused on getting goods out of the continent. Nigeria alone imports up to 75% of everything is uses, from rice to shoe polish. And that suits the West just fine.

But there is hope. It only takes one generation to break the cycle of abuse or poverty and decide that there is another way. I doubt that I am part of that generation, but perhaps my children will be.

The devil in the details

2010-10-26T04:56:00.000-07:00

Please forgive my long absence. For the last three weeks I have been participating in a writing residency with the BBC working on their “Story Story” radio drama series. It was a deeply rewarding experience. I learned some invaluable lessons about the creative process and the creative people behind it. However, I think what I am most grateful for, is what I learned about context.

Every story has a setting. We spend our lives immersed in histories, cultures and backgrounds which we are only barely aware of. When writing fiction that is set in the real world, we don’t have to stretch too far to find the culture or the history of our world. There are larger economic and socio-political issues that we can easily draw upon to fill our narrative and influence our character. But those of us who dabble in the speculative must build these contexts from scratch.

The world of “Story Story” is simple in its concept: A marketplace in a lower middle-class community bordered by a motor park. In it, people struggle to make ends meet, find love, hatch schemes and even commit crimes. In this world, a wide variety of characters from different backgrounds come together to form a vibrant community. The setting is so familiar and the characters so interesting, that any writer that stumbles upon this world, will find themselves transported.

“Story Story” benefits from immediately recognisable contexts of ethnicity, gender, religion and even nationality. It is a sketch of a simple outline and the reader fills in the rest. It made me realize that writing a world isn’t so much about filling it with detail, but about filling it with the right details so that the reader can see what you want them to see. Characters should be complex, but their world doesn’t have to be.

A thin line between art and pain

2010-09-08T06:50:00.000-07:00

Every writer’s personal life influences their art; some of the greatest writers were tortured, damaged souls who turned their pain into masterpieces of literature. But while the common perception is that one’s private turmoil inevitably leads to beautiful art, I think there are times when it can impede creativity – leaving one stifled and frustrated.
I tread a fine balance between allowing my experiences to illuminate my work and letting them destroy it. Some days I am more successful than others. For me, my art has always been a relief valve; there’s nothing more liberating that writing page after page of angry rants in my diary. But now that I’m beginning to write for public consumption, I have to temper my art with craft. Creative writing requires discipline and focus – and that requires space.

Some might disagree, but I believe every writer needs a creative space where one can do one’s best work. It can be a quiet place in a library, or a dark corner of a coffee shop. The American short story writer, O. Henry, had a bar across the street from his hotel where he would work.

Unfortunately, what a turbulent personal life can do is rob one of creative space. The space does not need to be a physical location, either. Not having a desk in my room is difficult, but what is harder is wresting the freedom to think my own thoughts, free of intrusion and manipulation.

It has been a struggle to discipline myself and allow myself the luxury of space. I find it hard to give myself permission to spend time doing something that is difficult, but which I love. I struggle with feelings of guilt (that I’m wasting my time on something frivolous), inadequacy (that I’m no good at this, so why bother?) and a nameless, rootless fear that I will never live up to the expectations of my friends and mentors, which leads to constant procrastination.

I have come to realize that many of these demons have roots in childhood experiences and the incredibly complex family dynamics that have made me who I am today. Moving back with my parents has forced me to try and do creative work in the midst of generational, cultural and personal conflicts –making an already complicated situation even more complex.

But the alternative – to not be able to write at all – is far, far worse.

The Evidence of Things Unseen

2010-08-22T10:52:00.000-07:00

I have no intention of publishing this. Just toying around with an idea I had one day. Enjoy!

“Groundnuts!” she called. “Buy your groundnuts!”

The black hijab that covered her head and shoulders was stained with dust and sweat. What could be seen of her simple blouse and wrapper were faded and threadbare. She easily balanced a tray heaped full of nuts on her head as she wove through the market crowd. She looked to be ten or twelve years old, though her kohl-lined eyes and rouged lips gave her and oddly adult look. She appeared no different from the vast numbers of children who choked the dirty roadways between market stalls hawking everything from batteries to vegetables.

She spotted him just as she was about to call out again. He looked like a tourist: tall, with a backpack and white Panama hat. He was standing in front of a stall that sold bright cloth making clumsy attempts to negotiate for a bolt. The stall’s owner was smiling through the friendly banter. It was the smile of a wolf licking its chops before the kill.

She marked him as she passed him. She had to make sure she was right before alerting her sisters. They could not afford another mistake.

Once out of sight, she put down the tray, sliding it under a nearby stall. There would be no more sales today. The man concluded his purchase and moved off into the crowd. She adjusted her wrapper and followed him, making sure to keep hidden. At first, he seemed no different from the other foreigners who flocked to the square to get a little taste of “authentic Africa.” He bought the usual wood carvings and stone gewgaws for twice their value, smiled insipidly at the traders and threw pitying looks at the barefoot children who gaped at him. For a moment she thought she might be wrong. Then she saw it.

No more than a flash. A momentary expression that flickered over his face. A casual bystander would have called it an odd anger or a strange melancholy. But she knew. She let him fade into the crowd and called silently to her sisters. Her mark would let them find him again.

All over the marketplace, barefoot girls clad in black hijabs, colorful wrappers or the discarded clothing of a more affluent society, could be seen gathered in small clusters talking. As she passed these groups, one or two of them would put down their trays and fall in behind her. If anyone had been paying attention, they might have noticed a certain purposefulness in their gait. A discipline unusual for little girls. But no one ever paid them any mind.

The sun had begun to set, lengthening the shadows. Vendors were beginning to pack up their wares, wheelbarrow boys were darting about soliciting customers or trying move those they already had. When the girls found him again he was making his way out of the marketplace. He moved awkwardly, unused to the natural rhythm of the crowd. He had not yet learned how to ignore the calls; he declined all offers with a polite smile or a gentle shake of his head. The girls were silent as ghosts behind him.

The market entrance was choked with traffic. The roads leading out were clogged with vehicles honking furiously – each driver trying to edge out the other. Shoppers and sellers alike massed about as they all tried to make their way home. He passed by the banks of taxis, buses and the young men on motorcycles doing a dangerous dance around each other as they vied for passengers. He navigated the throng and continued out into the outskirts of the city. The light was rapidly leeching out of the world. The girls would have to work fast, for the coming of the night would give him power.

They spotted their opportunity when he started to cross the old football field. They fanned out around him, keeping to the shadows, shedding their headgear as they moved. Then, from the folds of their wrappers, they brought out their swords.

At first, he tried to pretend surprise, but he could not maintain the façade. The twelve warriors of light ringed him in a wide circle and waited for him to show his true face.

As they watched, his flesh began to ripple as if a great heat were being applied to it from the inside. His skin began to run like melted candlewax distorting his features into a hideous caricature. His fingernails lengthened into daggered points. When he laughed, it was like the scream of a thousand tortured children.

The battle was quick. He parried, lunged, spun and kicked, but he was no match for them. They cut him to pieces and watched as the body melted into a blackened pool and sizzled to nothing.

Every age had its own name for him. Some called him the Lord of Chaos, others called him Unmaker, but most knew him as The Destroyer. She did not know why he had chosen this body, this flesh, to clothe himself. Whatever damage he had intended might already be done, but that was beyond her mandate. She gave a silent prayer of thanks as she wiped the blood from her sword. She slipped it back into its hiding place and went to find her things.

The Old Gods Are Yet With Us

2010-08-13T09:54:00.000-07:00

“Storm at Sea,” by Radcliffe Bailey.

About a week ago protesters rallied at the Ogun State House of Assembly and pelted the building with eggs. They then placed clay pots containing traditional charms and fetishes around the premises vowing terrible curses on the honourable representatives if they did not approve a key piece of legislation. The group of esteemed men and women - all avowed Muslims and Christians - immediately packed up and closed for the day. None of them returned to the House until the items were removed.

To me, this just goes to show that despite the veneer of imported religions like Christianity and Islam, our hearts still belong to the old gods. A perfect example of this is in oath taking. Many Nigerians can and do lie without issue on a Bible or a Koran, but very, very few will even take an oath on a traditional fetish - let alone lie on it. They will claim that such items are devilish and diabolical, and that to associate with them is against the religion they currently practice, but I am convinced that it is because the ancient fears are still with very much with them.

I am convinced that the lawlessness and insecurity we currently experience in Nigeria comes from the fact that we have built our institutions on sand. We have lost our sense of community and responsibility because we lost the indigenous systems that undergirded these institutions in the past. In Nigeria today, it is every man for himself. Those who occupy our positions of authority from the university lecturer to the bank president, do not seem to understand that they work for the masses. They preach service with their mouths, but the evidence is in the work of their hands. And we condone it, because we know we would all do the same if we were in their place.

The situation is accurately reflected in Ngugi Wa’Thiongo’s “Wizard of the Crow,” which I am currently reading. I’m about a third of the way in and I am entralled by the author’s incisive observation on the place of religion in African society. In it, a man who people believe to be a powerful wizard becomes more powerful than the illegitimate government in power or the corrupt institutions that prop it up.

We are rightly considered to be one of the most religious societies in the world, but I wonder if this is only because we protest too much. We loudly proclaim our faith as if volume could compensate for the secret place in our hearts that the new God has not touched.

I know for a fact that if we returned to invoking the old gods in our public spaces, we would have a far more functional society than we do now. A perfect example of this theory in action can be found here. In a community in Edo State, elders who were fed up with rampant kidnapping got together and placed a powerful curse on anyone who practices the act within the community. Almost overnight, it is reported that incidents of kidnapping ceased. Nobody wants to mess with that kind of power, no matter how devout they might seem on Sunday morning or Friday afternoon.

Imagine if our leaders, judges and lawmakers had to swear on the altar of the deity of their hometown when they came to office that they would not steal, lie or engage in any other form of malfeasance. That is not to say there won’t be oath breakers, but at least we would weed out the grossly criminal and ensure that those who enter our scared spaces understand that they work for us, for the gods, and not for themselves.

My Literary Life

2010-08-08T11:08:00.000-07:00

Last November, I joined the Abuja Writers Forum in my home city and began attending their readings. In the past eight months, I have been priviledged to meet some of the best literay minds in the country.One of the first authors I met was Teju Cole whose book "Every Day for the Thief," caputured my imagination. He was warm, funny and incredibly generous with this fangirl.

In May, I was priviledged to attend a one-day workshop led by Chimamanda Adichie, the award-winning author of "Purple Hibiscus," "Half of a Yellow Sun," and "The Thing Around Your Neck." Though the workshop was far too short, her reading was compelling.

In June, I met Uwem Akpan, the author of the short story collection "Tell Them You're One of Them," when he came for a reading at the Sheraton Hotel. Oprah chose the book for her Book Club last summer. I also got to hang out with the lovely Adaobi Trisha Nwaubani, a colleague of mine whose debut novel "I Do Not Come to You By Chance," won last year's Commonwealth Prize.

And two weekends ago, I got to meet with one of my favorite authors, Helon Habila, when he came to town to read at the Abuja Writer's Forum. Mr. Habila was one of the hosts of a week-long workshop along with Tsitsi Dangaremba, author of "Nervous Conditions" and Canadian writer, Madeleine Thien. I wasn't picked for the workshop - which just about broke my heart - but I was able to have a brief conversation with him about characterisation and setting.

Some of the others I've met include the amazing Lola Shoneyin, poet and author of the novel "The Secret Lives of Baba Seyi's Wives," poet Victoria Kankara, whose collection "Hymns and Hymens" was nominated for the 2004 NLNG prize and upcoming writers Lami Molluma Yakubu, who writes the most deliciously twisted horror stories, and poet Hajjo Isa whose lush imagery is something you have to read to believe.

It has been an absolutely humbling experience meeting and hearing from these authors. It's made me realize just how far I have to go as a writer, but it also gave me hope. So here are a few pictures from my literary life. Hope you enjoy it!

Helon Habila (left) and me at the Abuja Writer's Forum Reading in July.

Poet Lola Shoneyin at Infusion in June.

Adaobi Trisha Nwaubani at her reading in Infusion in June.

UwemAkpan reads at the Sheraton in Abuja.

Chimamanda Adichie at her one-day Abuja workshop in April.

Me and Teju Cole after his reading in Abuja.

Writing the poor into our stories

2010-08-03T06:32:00.000-07:00

I live in Abuja, the capital city of Nigeria, a place with big beautiful buildings, traffic lights and long stretches of unbroken highway. It is a rich man’s town. To illustrate that, there are few sidewalks or pedestrian crossings, and decent housing in the city centre starts at a quarter of a million Naira a year - in two-year leases. An anecdote has it that one minister of the Federal Capital Territory said “Abuja is not for everyone.”

Whether he said it or not, it is certainly been taken to heart. The new minister has committed himself to restoring the city’s master plan. However, he has done this, not by going after the corrupt yet wealthy men and women who have carved out vast plots of land around the city for their personal use, but by destroying shanty towns on the outskirts of the city and beating up and jailing street hawkers.

There is no justification for this. If we look at sheer numbers alone, the majority of the world’s population are poor. This has been true throughout history and across continents. Most of the people who have and will live have little or no access to clean water, good nourishment, decent housing and decent education. The poor outnumber all of us. They always will.

Yet like Abuja’s government, speculative fiction tends to focus on the middle and upper class. Our earliest stories from Gligamesh to Beouwulf to the Ramayana are about the deeds of gods and kings. Those stories that do feature the poor are either cautionary tales - warnings about the lessons of moderation – or they end in acquisition of riches.

Perhaps it was because literacy was so often the domain of the wealthy. Even in oral traditions, only those with the leisure of time could afford to commit prodigious long-form stories and songs to memory. The griot and the minstrel were supported by the coffers of the rich and powerful.

In the imaginary worlds we create today, we don’t inhabit too many worlds dominated by grinding poverty. Most characters born poor get to move up the income ladder. Still, poverty has inspired some of our greatest literature. Charles Dickens and Mark Twain were both born into penury. Their childhood experiences gave them empathy and insight that allowed their writing to soar. It also gave both men a prodigious work ethic. Both Ben Okri’s The Famished Road and Ngugi Wa Thiong’o’s Wizard of the Crow, display the resilience and beauty that is the human spirit, even in the midst of want.

It is easy to write about luxury; to build cities without sidewalks. I think the challenge for me as a writer is to find the stories underneath. The tales told by the underprivileged. Coming from a middle-class background, this will be difficult. However, I think my work, like my city will be a much richer place if I do.

Adagio

2010-07-29T07:28:00.000-07:00

This story was published in the 6th edition of Saraba Magazine, which came out this month. However, due to technical issues, they have yet to put the issue on their website. So, I've put it here. It's not speculative fiction, but tell me what you think:

When you look at me and quickly look away, I notice. My mind immediately goes down that well-worn path of self-loathing. I think: “You can’t stand to look at me – this ugly creature like a great squat toad hulking beside you.” I can’t help it. In a quicksilver burst, think it before I even realize it.

It is worse when you smile, because all I can see is canned politeness, as if you bumped into a bag lady on the subway and you’re sorry for the inconvenience.

And when I speak, your eyes wander off. Your speech falters and I am left talking to myself as if at a sad puppet theatre where all the guests have left, but I have to finish the show.

*

Perhaps you think I deceived you. When we met that summer at your parent’s anniversary party in Michigan, I must have seemed like something liquid and exotic. Perhaps seeing me with your brother, the family rebel, with my tattoos, piercings and fondness for heavy eyeliner you thought me dangerous somehow. What you could not know is that he liberated me.

I was an art student at a privileged school I am too ashamed to name; he was the pizza guy who always had a smile for me. He was so different from all the soft milk-fed boys I’d grown up with. He expected nothing from me and I bloomed under his care. But it was brief summer romance and by the time we took that summer trip to meet your family, it was already a cool bank of dying embers, quickly turning to ash.

You’ve told me that you were drawn to the way I spent all my time with the old folks. That you loved the way I charmed your grandmother and made your dour aunts smile. But I think you were just restless. You had the spectre of layoffs looming over you and needed something to distract you. You saw me as some kind of heady drug promising adventure and life.

I should have known by your touch. You never reach for my hand in the company of others. You don’t brush the hair from my face or reach out to wipe away a stray bit of food or lint. You never touch me when you’re sober.

*

I am not dangerous or exotic or liberating. I am fragile. A weak, empty thing too easily broken to suit the men I love. I require more care than they are willing – or able – to give.

Now, I have become a burden to you. I am one more responsibility you must fulfil among the endless chores in your life. And I don’t know where to go from here. I know you will not give me what I need; I am a phase whose time has passed. Yet, I cannot stop hoping. Every time I cook a meal for you or clean your apartment, even when I give myself to you, I hope. Perhaps this is the act that will turn your gaze towards me.

Because a part of me lives and dies for your regard. When you whisper to me in the darkness it is prayer, your touch is benediction and when you are inside me it is salvation. This isn’t what you wanted, I know. You wanted someone to idolize, a goddess far above you at whose feet you could worship and when you discovered the truth, you lacked the courage to turn me away.

*

So here we are: a frozen tableau of unhappiness in a small breakfast place; our meals half-eaten. I stare at you through the dark curtain of my hair, my hands clasped nervously under the table and you look away. Idly playing with your coffee cup, you wonder where the check is.

Repeating our Mistakes

2010-07-25T11:38:00.000-07:00

I am, by nature, an introspective person. I constantly analyse my decisions and actions, turning them over in the compost heap of my mind until I turn up something that makes sense. Then I write about it. While I understand that we may not all be the writing kind, what always baffles me is when people and nations can’t seem to look into themselves for understanding before moving forward.

For instance, it makes no sense to me that so many white people in the United States of America seem wholly at a loss when confronted with racism. Each act of racial injustice is treated as if it were a thing without precedence or history or context. An anomaly that exists outside of a larger institutional framework. They seem incapable of looking into history or examining their society’s shortcomings to understand where these acts come from and how to truly balance the scales.

NEXT newspaper ran a powerful editorial about this phenomenon in Nigerian politics. I agree. If there ever was a country that needed to examine itself and its path, it is my own. Yet, Nigerians, on the whole are not a self-reflective people. Those who are prone to caution and deliberation are seen as slow and naive "mugus." Fools who will be left behind as everyone rushes for their slice of the pie.

There is a good reason for this. To survive in Nigeria, you must be the master of the hustle. You must be willing to pound pavement, shake hands and smile broadly. But if we are to stop the downward spiral into chaos, Nigerians must do more than survive. We must sit down and examine ourselves as a nation.

No nation can look inward on its own; it relies on its intellectuals and artists. We have thinkers - people who question and probe and want to know why - but too often, they are drowned out by the voices of fear. They are too busy trying to think of ways to pay the rent. And when it gets too much, they flee to greener shores, leaving behind the venal, the corrupt and the lazy.

Unfortunately, this incapacity for reflection shows up in our art. Nigeria has the fourth largest movie industry in the world – and the largest in Africa. Yet our films are very often like bad stage plays with over-wrought plots and one-dimensional characters. And very often paintings and sculptures are derivative tourist shlock – masks, village scenes, and mothers with babies on their back. Where is the innovation? Where is the imagination?

Our literature suffers in the same way. Far too many of our books and plays read like bad Nollywood dramas and our poems are no better than mish-mashes of impenetrable words cut up into stanzas. Last year, we were unable to award one of our highest literature awards to any home-based writer because the quality of the work submitted was so poor.

Right now, it requires a monumental struggle to be able to resist corruption and craft quality art, but it must be done. It will require having to carve out time that might be better served chasing down the next meal and the work might not have any monetary value. But it must be done.

Those who benefit from injustice rely on our inability to put the pieces together. They know that as long as we keep our heads down, scrabbling from one crisis to another, we cannot muster enough time or energy to fight back. Without taking the time for reflection, we will never realize the full depth of our oppression and rise up against it.

Painting the Big Picture

2010-07-22T08:10:00.000-07:00

Looking over some of my notes the other day, I realized that I have been “working” on my novel for almost 5 years now. Of course, it didn’t help that I lost good chunk of the second draft three years ago because of a corrupted flash drive, but a big part of the reason it has taken me so long to write this (besides laziness) is because I want to get the details right.

I aspire to write books like “A Game of Thrones” by George R. R. Martin or “Zahrah the Windseeker” by Nnedi Okarafor, which are filled with exquisite details about clothing, food, flora and fauna. However, what eludes me is how to balance the details with the overall plot. How do you write an epic story without getting bogged down by or glossing over the details?

My story is set in two worlds: The jungles of the Forest Omin and the rocky plains of the kingdom of Argand. However, partway through this current draft, I realized that I had no real, concrete idea what either of these places looked like.

First I had to decide what details were appropriate even to use. Because I had already committed myself to certain things, such as the general setting, the level of technology and the climate, I had to go through real-world examples to figure out how to put them all together. It turned out that 12th-century Spain, when the Muslims ruled much of the peninsula and built beautiful castles among the hills, fit Argand precisely. And the indigenous communities of the Amazon jungle seemed to be the perfect base for the people of the Forest.

While writing, I found myself swinging from one extreme to the other. Sometimes, I spent so much time researching (though every time I moved to somewhere new, much of that research would be misplaced) that I neglected the actual task of writing. Other times I would write these dull stretches that had characters “touching things” and “seeing landscapes.”

I have read plenty of books and stories where a lack of research was clear and I know that frisson of annoyance when the author just doesn’t get it right. I’ve even been on the other side of the aisle; a reader once chastised me because my description of a horse was wildly inaccurate. It did not matter that the last time I had been near one was when I was three years old, I should have done the research. Writer Unboxed has a great article about this here. But I would love to hear what other authors have to say.

An Upcoming Publication

2010-07-19T12:44:00.000-07:00

This is a story that will be published next month in Dugwe, the Abuja Writer's Forum annual anthology. Let me know what you think.

Sanctuary

When they came, silent on the water, they looked like any of the countless couples I had welcomed. My sight was failing even then and it was not until they reached my shores that I saw that beneath her swollen belly, her hands were bound.

The Goddess would never have allowed them to find this island had they not sought it in the spirit of true love. They would have wandered upon the waters of the lake, their path shrouded in mist and shadow until they gave up and turned back to shore. So, I welcomed them.

He was a warrior from the plains, lithe as a cat with copper-toned skin, thick, black hair and almond-shaped eyes. His hawkish nose curved over a thin mouth. She was a slave from the Western Islands, fair-skinned and slender as snow weed. Her flaxen hair was bleached white, her face creased by years of labor in the sun. But her eyes were as blue as the heart of the lake.

He clutched at her like a hard-won prize, but I pried her from his sweaty grip. In my hut, I removed her bindings and washed her bleeding wrists with water and witch-hazel. I bound the wounds with clean cloth. I fed them some thick spinach stew, which they ate greedily, and I bade her to sleep in my bed.

Outside, the other residents of the island gathered in the courtyard of my compound to welcome the new arrivals. They brought gifts of palm wine, bananas and roasted yam, for they too had sought its sanctuary after fleeing the capricious strictures of their societies. Though they pressed him, he would not say what brought the two of them to our shores. Only later as she slept and we nursed warm bowls of tea beside the dying embers of the hearth fire, did he tell his story.

Her name was Zahra, which meant ‘fierce.’ It was not her true name. She had been given a tribal name when they bought her as a child. His name was Allul, a desert bird of prey. He had loved her since he first saw her as a child fighting off those who tried to break her spirit, he told me. But Allul was a warrior of a respected family in his tribe. He could not marry her and she had vowed to kill herself rather than become any one’s bed slave.

So one night, buoyed by drink, he lured her out into the scrubs and took her. Against the laws of his tribe, against her will, he took her. Then, fearing the harsh justice of his people, which would have condemned them both to death, he bound her and fled.

For a time, they lived off the custom of hospitality that exists among the tribes of the plains. Among them, any visitor is welcomed without questions or complaint for a given time. A day, for some, a week – even a full moon among others. However, as the evidence of his crime blossomed within her, he sought a more permanent refuge.

Now, I cannot tell you where this island is. It sits in the middle of a great lake, but everyone who has found the lake has come by different means. Some climbed mountains, others crossed deserts, one couple fell into the lake after they jumped from a cliff. Allul and Zahra crested a hill one day and saw the lake nestled in the center of a valley filled with snow weeds – the island winking at them through the haze of mist.

As he finished his tale, my mind was wild with questions. I could not understand it. I had been tending this island for time out of mind and I had welcomed people from all over the Land. They were men and women who had loved the wrong family, the wrong class, the wrong nation – even the wrong sex. But this, this was not love. This was base and selfish - a cruel parody of every story I had ever heard. Why would the Goddess bring this man to my shores?

Just then, I heard a cry from the corner of the hut where Zahara was sleeping. She had awoken in the throes of labor. Now, I have birthed more babies than I can remember, but none so fraught as this. Their time as nomads among the plainspeople had taken their toll on her. She was in poor health and I could not hear the child’s heartbeat. I called up help from the other residents and even drafted Allul. When the child was finally born, his face was covered in a thin caul. I ripped it away and kept it to fashion a protection charm for him later. He was a tiny thing, but he drew a great lungful of breath and cried with a volume that belied his size.

It was when Zahra held her son that I understood. It was not Allul’s love for Zahra that had brought them here. It was her love for her child, though he was the fruit of his father’s crime. In all the time they wandered, she could have fled into the harsh landscape. But she knew no tribesman would have extended the custom of hospitality to a lowly slave who had fled her master, so she had remained at her rapist’s side.

Now, she could be held prisoner no longer. She bid me care for her son and by morning, she was dead. Allul went mad from grief, though I am inclined to say it was rage. The anger of a spoiled child denied its favorite plaything. He walked into the lake and began to swim for the far shore, but he never got there. His body washed ashore a few days later.

Even as I write this, I can hear Behn rooting about among my herbs and potions on the other side of the hut. He looks like his father, dark haired and hawk-nosed. He even has a touch of the man’s melancholy nature. But his spirit, like his blue-blue eyes, are his mother’s. I know when he leaves here – as he surely will, for my world is too small for his ranging mind – he will be the flame that sets the world afire.

Talking with Tylor

2010-07-09T09:56:00.000-07:00

After reading a review of his book online, I became intrigued by debut author Temitayo 'Tylor' Ilori. He has just published a fantasy-fiction novel called “Doom’s Wing: The Legend of Tellam.” While I have yet to read the book myself, I conducted an email interview with him to find out just what makes this young man tick.

Here’s what he had to say:

1. What inspired you to write this novel?

-The inspiration to write Doom’s Wing came after I finished a long manuscript of another book entirely. It came with the phrase that started it all, “If you dare ride on Doom’s Wing to achieve a means, you will definitely get to an end called destruction.” I wanted to write the story of fun, love, justice, liberation and adventure and it turned out to be just that though not as planned initially. I would therefore say Doom’s Wing was a prophetic statement for this generation and those to come. A revelation of some sorts.

2. Who would you say are your literary biggest influences?

I fell in love with Rene Brabazon Raymond’s books (James Hadely Chase’s Series) as a teenager but before then I had loved the writings of King Solomon in some of his works like Sirach, Proverbs and Songs of Solomon. Growing up, I became entranced with the works of Greek philosopher like Homer and Roman poet, Publius Ovidius Naso, known as a Ovid, especially his work Metamorphosis. I had an encounter with The Burning Grass of Cyprian Ekwensi and it changed my perspective of storytelling. But in all these, the biggest influence is God, the way he designs and writes the stories of our lives is amazing. It amazes me how stars shine and moon glitters and beggars become kings and kings fall into misery.

3. What were your biggest challenges in writing this novel?

-The major challenge I had was unstable power supply as I don’t write my manuscript with pen and paper, I type directly into the computer. Also, in the quest of writing, after I wrote Doom’s Wing to chapter 3, about 60 pages, I wanted to upgrade the operating system on my computer and the person that did the upgrade for me thought he had my files copied into a flash drive, but it was a false backup; empty folder. I almost lost my sanity. For two weeks, I asked myself what was more important, is it to start over again or to give up. But I said to myself, I can always start all over again and I can only write better. And it amazed me how the book later came out, better than the first attempt. The bottom line is if you can’t start again if you lose something, you are not worth starting it at all.

4. How can readers get a hold of your work?

We are still working at a major marketing plan that will make it available on everybody’s shelf. But for now, you can get it in Silverbird Galleria, V.I., Lagos, Media Hub, Palms shopping Mall, Lekki or Ebeano Store, Ikota VGC or call 08033501037 or 07041314110

5. What do you think is the future of Fantasy-fiction in Nigerian literature?

-The ground has been broken already. Story-telling is getting boring in the African continent already, we need a new flavor and it has come to stay. I have been challenged for using the of names I used and asked why I didn’t use common Nigerian names but my answer has been "I wrote a fantasy and I have the liberty to create a world that does not particularly exist and also create the people". Africans must break off from this pattern of “as an African you must be write about Africa or something related”. Writing is more than that. We must be able to express ourselves beyond what is familiar and common. Even the foreign writers like J.J.R Tolkien, J.K Rowling and (filmmaker) James Cameron used characters, names and even languages that are not indigenous to their nationality, tribe or race. Example is the Avatar movie, the latest work of James Cameron where he created used names like Neytiri, eywa, and Eytucan and created the people and language Na’vi. It added beauty to storytelling and that is quite therapeutic when you can be drawn into a world you are not familiar with. Fantasy has come to stay, it has been with us in Africa, especially in our tales by moonlight.

6. What do you hope to contribute to the literary landscape in Nigeria?

Like you have seen, I have come to revolutionize the African literary world and to challenge this “racist thing” that African writers hold on to. I have come to lead a new generation of writers who can and will write in virtually any genre they wish without the fear of criticism. A generation that will break away from the chains of limitations that African writers have wound around themselves. Creativity knows no bound, it knows no culture and it knows no race, when it wants to express itself, it takes the form that best suits it. We can and must choose to write in a relatively uncommon genre.

The Trouble with Fantasyland

2010-07-05T06:55:00.000-07:00

Being a black woman I have always been drawn to worlds that I could see myself in. I adored Robert Jordan’s “Wheel of Time” series, but I could never finish any of J.R.R. Tolkien’s “Lord of the Rings” books. Jordan’s world was rich with a diversity of human races - whites, blacks, Asians and Hispanics - while the only non-whites in Tolkein’s world weren’t even human.

Few fictional worlds have histories of racial segregation and oppression such as slavery, colonialism, Jim Crow or Apartheid, yet often their characters and situations play out as if they did. The trouble with fantasyland for me is that there are just some places that I, as a black woman, cannot go – not even in my imagination.

One can argue, and many will, that conceptions of race in speculative fiction have come a long way. But I would argue that the more things have changed, the more they have stubbornly stayed the same.

Let us take the fantasy show “True Blood” on HBO. I discovered it this spring and I loved it. It was an intelligent twist on the standard vampire-falls-for-human story with complicated characters and a rocking good storyline. At least it was at first. By the second season, much of the subtlety of the show is lost amid the sturm-und-drang of witchcraft, sorcery, Gods and monsters that enters the storyline. And all pretence to racial complexity is abandoned as characters become more stereotypical: angry black girl Tara becomes even angrier and more spiteful; her alcoholic mother is no more than an ignorant bible-thumper. And the most vibrant character in the show, the flamboyant Lafayette, is brutally tortured for several episodes for a minor infraction. Throughout, I could not help feeling as if he were being punished for the crime of being an expressive black man. By the way, the white character who commits an even greater crime is never punished.

I suppose it is only to be expected that we bring our prejudices into the worlds we create. After all, many writers of speculative fiction write because we want to bring the inner worlds of our dreams and nightmares to life. However, I think more writers need to think critically about their creations.

I think we need to have more conversations about how we deal with issues of race in fantasyland. For instance, there is an implicit assumption in too many books that unless the color of a character’s skin is directly referenced, the character is white. Another example is having characters of African descent with straightened hair in a world where relaxers and weaves do not exist. Whiteness is the blank paper upon which other races are written.

Because this is a genre in which non-white writers are not well-represented, challenging these issues will be difficult. And it will be even more so for African writers of speculative fiction who are already dealing with issues of “authenticity” from audiences who feel we are inappropriately mimicking Western culture. Yet this is a conversation we need to join. As African writing moves onto the international arena, we must understand the field on which we will be playing. And we must be prepared to wade into the battle.

Imagining the End of Patriarchy

2010-06-30T06:35:00.000-07:00

Since the global recession began in late 2008, I’ve heard a lot of reports about how much harder it is on men than on women. According to Foreign Policy magazine, more than 80 percent of the job losses in the United States and Europe have disproportionately fallen on men, adding up to about 7 million more unemployed men than before the recession. The losses have mostly come from traditionally macho industries such as construction and high finance.

Many have taken this to sound the death knell for patriarchy. One article said it was the death of Macho – a certain kind of masculinity that prized dominance, reckless risk-taking, and aggressiveness. Hannah Rosin’s article in the Atlantic last month went a step further and proclaimed the beginning of a new era of woman. However, writing in the midst of what is undoubtedly a very male-dominated society, I fear that reports of patriarchy’s death may be greatly exaggerated.

I do agree that as the world becomes more globalized, more and more societies are going to have to shift to accommodate the contributions of women in the public sphere. The agrarian societies that required a gender-based division of labour and in which physical prowess was a main arbiter of power are disappearing – and they are not coming back. However, the societal shifts that are helping to liberate women are not happening everywhere.

In the West, which was far more affected by the global recession, the rise of female power is only accelerating an ongoing trend. Women have been steadily moving into the public sphere in American and European societies for the last 30 years. In Nigeria, feminism has only barely started to take hold – and only among certain classes in certain parts of the country. We are still outraged by the story of an aging senator whose fourth wife was a 13-year-old girl and the revered traditional monarch who brought armed thugs with him when he went to beat his wife in her own home. And many Nigerian women still expect to marry men who will “take care” of them financially.

But whether we like it or not, the world is changing and in the new global system, patriarchy simply does not work. The idea of a single powerful male single-handedly providing for a passive and dependant spouse is impossible when few men earn enough even to care for themselves. Our clinging to a system which even our ancestors did not practice in a bid to maintain a false sense of tradition, is doing us a disservice. It is placing men under an increasingly unrealistic burden of responsibility while keeping women out of a system that increasingly needs their input.

Western feminism may not mesh with aspects of African culture. A tradition which holds that a person’s most important legacy is leaving behind children who will remember them, cannot agree with Simone De Beauvoir’s view of marriage as a soul-crushing prison. So, we have to find a version of feminism that works for us.

Before colonialism, many Nigerian societies had their own avenues for female power. Among the Igbo, for instance, there were ways for women to become chiefs and own land in their own right. But the richness and complexity of these traditions were stripped away and we have been left with concepts that are poor, denuded versions of what they were.

And this is where imagination comes in. I think too often we writers fail to adequately tackle the issue of female empowerment. And when we do, it tends to come across as moralistic and trite. Plus, the burden is left solely to women, as if they are the only ones who have a stake in changing the system. For instance, Richard Ali’s review of Ahmed Maiwada’s new novel “Musdoki,” celebrated it as a tribute to traditional masculinity. Mr. Ali speaks so glowingly about the novel’s themes of male dominance and the fear of female emasculation that one would have almost thought the book was set in the 16th century, not modern times. People, we can do better.

As patriarchy becomes increasingly untenable, our society will need to find a new system. No one is advocating all-out female domination. I am of the opinion that matriarchy could ultimately be as destructive to men as patriarchy is to women. Instead, I think our future lies in devising a true equitable partnership between men and women.

What is needed is a society in which men and women are free to choose their paths without preconceptions of gender to box them in. A world in which men can be caring and nurturing without being a called weak and women can be assertive and powerful without being called domineering.

Writers, especially writers of speculative fiction, have an important role to play in this discovery. It is up to us to imagine the new order that we want to see. We can inspire the world to change, but before it can be, someone has to dream it.

Stranger than fiction

2010-06-22T10:05:00.000-07:00

Recently, the Nigerian National Assembly began agitating for a raise in their allowances, the money allocated to them - quite apart from their salaries – for cars, housing, and other expenses. The raise they want will amount to nearly 100 percent of their current allotment.

On Monday, Business Day newspaper ran as its front page story an analysis of the lawmakers’ current salaries – comparing what they earn to their counterparts in the United States and the United Kingdom. It turns out that Nigerian senators and representatives are some of the best paid lawmakers in the world, even though they do the least amount of work. In three years, the Nigerian National Assembly has only managed to pass 16 bills.

These men and women feel perfectly entitled to make such outrageous demands in a country where most of the population (70 percent) lives on less than $1 a day. Where malnutrition and preventable diseases still kill off the weak and most vulnerable. It boggles the mind.

I live in a country where a greedy, corrupt and incompetent ruling class with access to futuristic technologies lives like gods amid a deprived populace crammed into squalid cities or isolated in villages no better off than they were in the middle ages. Magic is everywhere. Here, healers have the power to cure, old women can turn into animals, young girls can trap a man’s soul by feeding him succulent dishes and a child’s curse can kill. It sounds like something out of a dystopian science-fiction plotline.

Yet, it is the reality of much of the African experience. So the question is: How do you craft fantasy, science fiction and horror stories when the truth can be so much richer than the most fantastic tale?

Perhaps this is why conventional science fiction does not appeal to many Africans. In a world where running water and constant electricity is a luxury, it is hard to frighten people with tales of out-of-control robots. Nnedi Okarafor’s essay about African science fiction talks about this. I agree with her conclusion that there is a need to redefine speculative fiction as a genre in order to make room for our unique worldview.

It isn’t enough to have a brown-skinned Conan the Barbarian, or a spaceship captained by Nwachukwu instead of Picard; or falling back on positive reimaginings of a country where streetlights work and government functions. I think there is a richer, deeper world out there for our speculative fiction.

I’m re-reading Ben Okri’s 1991 novel, “The Famished Road.” In it, he takes on a child’s wondering voice, describing the activities of spirit beings with the same matter-of-fact calm as he does the poverty of the main characters.

Though Okri’s work is considered literary fiction, I think such magical realism is a step towards the innovative, genre work I would like to see. I am eager to find and read more such examples.

The wound that will not heal

2010-06-21T05:47:00.000-07:00

Months ago, I read a fascinating article by Ngugi Wa Thion’go on slavery and its effects on the African psyche. Wa Thion’go says that Africans and the West have buried the trauma of slavery in a collective “psychic tomb, acting as if it never happened.” The result is a sense that African lives, ideas and experiences don’t matter – or at least they don’t matter as much.

For instance, the genocide committed against European Jews under Nazi Germany is rightly invoked as a reminder of man’s monstrous inhumanity. Yet, slavery, which Wa Thion’go calls “genocide, holocaust [and] displacement of unprecedented historical and geographic magnitude,” is often dismissed as something we should get over. To invoke it as a possible reason for the economic dominance of the West and the dismal state of the continent and communities in Diaspora is considered in bad taste.

Mr. Wa Thion’go puts it best:

"The economic consequences are obvious: the most developed countries in the West are largely those whose modernity is rooted in the Transatlantic slave trade and plantation slavery. The African body was a commodity; and manpower, a cheap resource. Note that this was continued in the colonial era where, once again, African human and natural resources were cheap for the colonialist European buyer who determined the price and worth of that which he was buying. Don't we see echoes of that today in the unequal trade practices where the West still determines the price and worth of what it gets from Africa while also determining the price and worth of what it sells to Africa?

"It is not a strange coincidence that the victims of slave trade and slavery on the African continent and abroad are collectively the ones experiencing underdevelopment."

We refuse to see what lies before us. We much prefer the story line that Africa’s leaders are primarily responsible for the continent’s problems with the benevolent West looking helplessly on. While it is true to a great extent, it is not the whole story.

Through slavery and its little sister colonialism, we were stripped of our memories – our history, our religion and our identities. The indigenous solutions that we built for ourselves over millennia of living were destroyed. Many African nations are constantly holding themselves in comparison against an illusionary ideal. Wondering why they cannot seem to enjoy the peace and prosperity of Western nations while forgetting that every aspect of their lives is dominated by an unequal relationship with those nations.

I believe one way to rebuild our identities is through imagination. We are surrounded by thoughtful, intelligent minds dreaming up new ways to be African and new solutions to African problems. Granted, many of them are stifled or driven into exile by corrupt systems built from rusty colonialist models, but those minds do exist. What we need to do is to stop limiting ourselves by drawing arbitrary lines in the sand about what it “Authentically African.”

I find such conversations distracting. They seem to come from a narrow, often Western, interpretation of what it means to be African. Sometimes, I fear that we are spending so much time worrying about whether a work is “African” enough, that we have ceased to write truly innovative fiction. It is not in our best interest to ape the West, scrabbling to create poor copies of technologies we do not understand and cannot effectively use. It is not in our best interest to tell stories circumscribed to fit some narrow definition of what is African – stories designed for the consumption of Western minds. Africa is a very big continent and I believe there is more than enough space in it for all kinds of stories.

We have to gain respect for our own voices, for our own solutions, for the power of our own imaginations. And we must start by acknowledging our past. If we can admit that we were wronged - and that it affects us still - we can see the exploitative web in which we are enmeshed and find ways of untangling ourselves.

The Twist in the Tale

2010-06-18T10:46:00.000-07:00

At this time last year, I was working as an editor in a prestigious newspaper in the United States. I lived in a nice apartment, I had a car and I enjoyed the company of a warm circle of friends. Then, I lost my job, I lost my work permit and I moved back home to live with my parents.

How had it come to this? I mean it had all seemed so much clearer when I was young.

My father was a diplomat with the Nigerian Foreign Service. Growing up, we lived in seven different countries. Books were my anchor in a sea of constant goodbyes. From my mother’s African Writers series to my father’s Great Books of Western Literature collection, I devoured them all.

Though the decision to study English language and literature in college seemed as natural as breathing, the hard part was figuring out what I wanted to do afterwards.

I had always tinkered with stories — I began working on my first novel when I was thirteen — but my writing never felt entirely legitimate. My parents worked their way from poverty to the middle class and they wanted to assurances that their dreamy daughter would not starve. When I entered college as an English major, it was with the implicit understanding that I would become a college professor. But I was not yet ready for academia.

I knew I wanted to be a writer and I figured the best way to make a living as a one was to become a journalist. I got an M.A. in journalism and I fell into the newspaper business in the U.S. working as a Web editor. It was a good living, but all the while I was plagued by a quiet feeling of stagnation.

Oddly enough, losing my job has returned me my clarity of vision. I realize now that while I enjoyed meeting people and telling their stories, I had been neglecting my own. I have a new job (still a newspaper editor), a new circle of wonderful friends, and most importantly, I recently rediscovered my interest in speculative fiction - science fiction, fantasy and horror - from Africa and the African Diaspora.

I think that many African writers are moving beyond the activist literature that chronicled our struggle for independence. Modern writers like Nnedi Okorafor, Helen Oyeyemi and Nalo Hopkinson are using issues of gender, migration, culture and religion to expand the perspectives of the genre.

So I’ve started this blog to explore these issues and how African and Diaspora writers of speculative fiction are doing some of the amazing things they’re doing. I’ll take some detours, but I know it’s going to be a fascinating journey and I’m finally ready to take it. I’d be glad if you joined me; I wouldn’t mind the company.