Silent witness

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

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

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...

"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

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

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

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.