Out of Africa

This summer, I had the immense honor of meeting Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (who’s article for the Guardian is featured in my last post).  She talked a lot about her journey toward writing and becoming a writer: from writing about people with blonde hair and blue eyes playing in the snow and eating mangos to writing about about Nigerians playing in the sand and eating mangoes. All-in-all, it was a great hour+ spent.

When I first read her book, “Purple Hibiscus,” I fell in love. Here was a story about Nigeria and Nigerians that was cliche, that didn’t proliferate the horrible Western ideals of Africans. It was modern, unlike the books written by Chinua Achebe and Wole Soyinka (both who I also admire) which are rooted more in historical Nigeria. Her other books, “Half of a Yellow Sun,” and the most recent, “The Thing Around Your Neck,” are equally as great.

In the clip below (which is from one of the TED talks), Adichie repeats a lot of the things she mentioned in the talk when I heard her speak. Her point is this: without a variety of stories, with only a single type of story, the world is deprived of the truth. The single story of Africa must be changed — it’s stuck in Africans as poor, backwards; Africa as a place of negatives. Newer African authors, like Chimamanda Adichie, are becoming more prominent in the Western world and are changing this single story.

And I’m thankful for that.

The clip is engaging, funny, and informative. But most especially, for me as an aspiring writing, it’s eye-opening.

It’s about 19 mins long, so if you don’t have time to listen to it all, here’s some “soundbites”:

“Show a people as one thing, as only one thing, over and over again, and that is what they become. … Power is the ability not just to tell the story of another person, but to make it the definitive story of that person. … Start the story with the failure of the African states and not with the colonial creation of the African states, and you have an entirely different story. … The single story creates stereotypes, and the problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story the only story.  … But there are other stories that are not about catastrophe, and it’s very important, it is justas important to talk about them. I’ve always felt that it’s impossible to engage properly with a place or person without engaging with all the stories of that place or that person. The consequence of the single story is this: it robs people of dignity… it emphasizes how we are different, rather than how we are similar. … Stories matter. Many stories matter. Stories have been used to dispossess and to malign, but stories can also be used to empower and to humanize. Stories can break the dignity of people, but stories can also repair that broken dignity. … When we reject the single story, when we realize that there is never a single story about any place, we regain a kind of paradise.”  

– Chimamada Ngozi Adichie, quoted from a TED Talk
(filmed July 2009, posted October 2009)

Right now I’m really interested in the history and culture of Liberia, since I’ve worked on some articles and am hoping to do some other work about Rainbow Town and the Shine Foundation in the future. While doing some random reading/research, I fell across this piece published in the New York Times Magazine. It’s an excerpt from journalist Helene Cooper’s book “The House at Sugar Hill,” which comes out in September.

The piece is compelling, and I’m eager to read the book in its entirety when it comes out. While it’s a memoir, it offers historical information about Liberians – both natives and descendants from former American slaves. I learned so much from the little printed in the NYT magazine.

 It also tells a personal story of choosing to return home after being absent for so long. Regardless of where she lived, Africa remained a part of Helene Cooper and “The House at Sugar Hill” recounts how she found it again.  

On Tuesday, I had the opportunity to meet Somalian author Nuruddin Farah. I had spoken to him Monday with plans to interview him for a possible profile piece I wanted to write. He sounded willing enough, and had promised to call me when he arrived in Evanston. He didn’t. And I forgot it was Tuesday and had to rush from downtown Chicago to Evanston within an hour to make it to the event. Anyway … here’s a recap of my encounter with him:

I felt my face turn red and my eyes begin to sting with unbidden tears. I had just walked up to Nuruddin Farah, book in hand, nervous smile on my face, excited to introduce myself. Only to hear these words come from his mouth: “Don’t you know it’s unethical to film someone without their permission?”Taken aback, I immediately begin to defend myself. “Well, I was the one who spoke to you yesterday on the phone –“

“You didn’t say you’d be filming,” he interrupted, his tone harsh. I imagine this is the same voice he uses to chastise his unruly grandchildren, if he were to have any. I felt like I had just been sent to the corner.

Again I tried to explain.

“Well, I had asked her if it were okay,” I said, pointing to the community relations person of the bookstore. I was hoping her authority would save me from his wrath – I could be off punishment. Instead, almost like an older sister evading punishment herself, the lady shifts all blame on me.

She didn’t give me permission. She said it was okay only if he was okay with it. She was under the impression he gave me permission earlier.

She was new to the store, and was unsure of the legal implications of what I had done

But what had I done? It was a public event in a public store. And it was for a news story, not commercial use. And I at least had the courtesy to clear it with a store official first. As far as my meager, but still existent, professional and ethical training had taught me … I had done what I was supposed to do.

I tried to explain again. But both continued interrupting and talking over me. I was at fault. No excuses mattered. Miscommunication led to miscommunication.

“You can use the footage,” he eventually says. “And you can start your story with how I told you off.”

I thanked him and walked away. But I couldn’t help fuming – partially embarrassed, partially upset, partially just plain mad – as I thought about it all.

They had no clue how my day was before this. They didn’t know I had spent over three hours covering closing arguments of a court case. They didn’t know I thought he was speaking tomorrow and not today.

They didn’t know in thinking that, I had given my camera to someone else to use. And while I was able to procure another, they didn’t know the battery was dead, and there was no tape. They didn’t know I caught the first train I could and practically ran to the store under the weight of my laptop bag, huge purse, camera bag and camera stand.

They didn’t know how tired I was, how far I was willing to go to get this opportunity.

An opportunity I had lost. Because he thought I was unethical.

I could hear them still talking about me as I packed up. Farah continued to talk about my “unethical-ness.” The lady continued to throw me under the bus, in order to save herself. I could feel my face getting hotter, the tears getting stronger.

Eventually I made my way back to the pair, who had thankfully moved on to talking about other things.

“I won’t use the footage,” I said. “I wasn’t trying to confuse anyone or cause any misunderstanding. Or look like I was trying to mislead you.”

“No, no. Use it,” he said. “It’s alright. Just know for the future.” His voice was softer now, but still bearing the slight coldness from his voice of steel. He again states why he found it unethical and then drops the bombshell that made me feel even worse:

“I had come thirty minutes early so you could interview me. But you weren’t here.” His tone wasn’t exactly accusatory, but it wasn’t forgiving either.

Thirty minutes early? Thirty minutes early!?!? I could have gotten such a great interview in that amount of time!

I wasn’t sure who to be mad at more. Him, for not calling me back as he promised. Or myself, for not calling him when I hadn’t heard back from him. But again, I thought I had another day … and I had just spent the day at court. I wouldn’t have been there thirty minutes early, even if I had known. I guess it was meant to be.

I nodded, and said my goodbyes. My heart was as heavy as all the bags I carried with me.

The footage was now tainted, as far as I was concerned. Even with his permission, his reaction and the lady’s lack of support drained it of any value it had to me. It wasn’t going to be any good without the personal interview anyway.

While my experience with Farah was less than pleasant, he was a good speaker and a lot of others enjoyed the chance to meet and talk to him. Here’s another attendant’s take on it.  He goes into a lot more detail about what Farah had to say and how the event went.

This year marks the 50th anniversary of Chinua Achebe’s “Things Fall Apart.” The book is hailed as the beginning of modern African literature. Chinua Achebe, hailed as the father of African literature.

There have been a lot of good interviews, articles, conferences and ceremonies, honoring the legacy both Achebe and his book has created for African writers.

The following is an interview with Evan Mwangi, an English professor at Northwestern University, who teaches African literature (and is from Kenya) about the beginnings of modern African literature, its evolution and how Achebe’s “Things Fall Apart” fits into it all.

Audio

Interview Transcription

Bunmi Ishola: We can kind of start out sort of with the history of African literature; where it all started out.

Evan Mwangi: The major books in African literature started in the 1950s. They started writing in the 1950s, and they did not make as much impact as “Things Fall Apart,” which was published in 1958. And so it ["Things Fall Apart"] became like the benchmark of African literature. And mainly, all these novels, were mainly a response to what the writers felt were distortions and misrepresentations of Africa by Western writers. [Achebe has said that he wrote "Things Fall Apart" to Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness," and to books written by colonial masters like Mr. Johnson].

BI: Do you think, in a sense, that the book deserved to be the benchmark?

EM: Yes, the book is very well written. Achebe also has a very balanced view of both the Europeans and Africa. Those [older novels written by the West] would idealize colonial Africa as a perfect, romantic place. But Achebe views Africa from a much more objective position. So that he’s criticizing the pre-colonial culture, as much as he’s criticizing colonialism for some of the bad things that happened in Africa.

BI: And after this book was published, what was the development of Africa literature?

EM: Almost all the major authors in Africa wrote their versions of “Things Fall Apart.” So that, almost every country had a “Things Fall Apart;” again, talking about the contact between Europeans and African cultures, and the controversies that arose out of that. The writers persisted in talking about the pre-colonial past way into the 1960s. But later, in the late 1960s, they started talking about the disillusionment with post-independence condition. And mainly what I think they are doing by going back to pre-colonial past is trying to let African know that they have beautiful culture, that they need to preserve their culture. They should have confidence in themselves as a society.

BI: More recently there have been a lot of writers of African descent just coming up lately. I’ve noticed many of the ones that are getting the most remarks [Chris Abani, Chimamanda Adichie, Sefi Atta, Helon Habila] are from Nigerian. I don’t know if you have any theories as to why?

EM: Most likely it’s because of the exile. [In] Nigeria, military dictatorship has been really bad. So writers have been able to go to exile. It happened in the apartheid era too. There were a lot of writers operating in exile. And that’s why there’s a very strong Nigerian diasporic writing, I guess. I think, the reason that Nigeria is so prominent in African Diasporic writing could be because of the economic and political circumstances. If you remember, people like Chris Abani have been jailed. Yeah, he was jailed by Sani Abacha.

BI: I know, for both, at least, Abani and Adichie, they mentioned that Achebe had a lot of influence on the reasons why they write now, and even they way they choose to write. What do you see some of these influences being, and why do you think he is such a strong influence? 

EM: I think it is mainly the emphasis on the thematic relevance of the texts. Like when you read Adichie, she’s very sensitive to the politics of Nigeria. Even if she’s writing, like in [Half of a Yellow Sun], she’s writing about Nigeria of the 1960s, she’s commenting about the present. Just the way Achebe, still, when he’s talking about pre-colonial past — he’s not so much interested in romanticizing that past, he’s commenting about the present-day Nigeria. So, to say, the level of themes, and making sure they [newer African/Nigerian writers] are relevant to their communities, they have followed in the footsteps of Achebe. But they are also changing, they are not just imitating Achebe slavishly. Like Adichie forgrots gender a lot, in a way you may not find in Achebe. Even Chris Abani; issues of gender and sexuality are very prominent in his writing. So they use Achebe, just the way Achebe used the past — in a critical way.   

BI: Where do you see African literature going in the future?

EM: That’s a tough question. But, I think it’s growing. There are people who seem to see African literature as maybe off. Mainly because the kind of writers they see published in the West, they seem to be addressing Western audience as opposed to the African readers. So that this literature becomes part of the West, and the literature in Africa dies off. But I think there are very strong literary traditions in almost all regions of Africa. I think the literature is very good, and it’s going to be talking about issues to do with the Diaspora, issues to do with gender and sexuality. Literature that maybe the Achebe generation may not have been very much interested in.