The Evidence of Things Unseen

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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.