Summer Blues: Life is a beach

(First published in Next Newspapers, March 7, 2009)


I miss my wife. She is gone home to Africa to laugh with her sisters until her sides hurt, to eat mangoes until her teeth ache; and to dine on suya and sad stories until her stomach churns with the stress of too much food and information.


The children and I miss our mother and wife. The house is not the same without her. In her absence our spirits lose their nerves and their will. Maybe the ocean will help.


We will go to the ocean to play in the waters. Well, my children will play in the waters and I will stare at the sea until Africa waves back at me. So we are headed to the seaside, to the Atlantic Ocean, to feel Africa.


Dawn on the road in America. We are headed to the beach, the children and I. Well, Fela Anikulapo-Kuti and I. The children are asleep in the truck, but Fela refuses to go to sleep.


He leans out of his vinyl hut and speaks truth to America s deception. They will arrest us today but I don’t care, I am enjoying this god, wearing nothing but his underwear and his saxophone, wailing truth to America’s power.


Suffering and smiling, I listen to the guttural voice of the priest’s, born of privilege giving voice to the dispossessed. The truck rocks with Fela; there is despair and desolation and truth and lies and suffering and smiling everywhere, even in America. The truth escaped Nigeria with me and after all these years, Fela reminds me that the truth stays constant. There are no mysteries, only lies.


America taunts my denial. Even after all these years, Fela’s words haunt and hurt badly. What happened to Nigeria? What happened to Africa? And what am I doing here in America? What is the purpose of all this restlessness? Here in America, I am in my middle passage.


I am like Chinua Achebe’s Okonkwo, seething, gazing forlornly at the Africa that my siblings in Nigeria say exists only in my imagination. They say Africa has moved on for good or for bad. And they say I need to move on. Even our masquerades are now rap artists wearing Dallas Cowboys tee shirts. After all these years, what force pulls us back to the womb of our past?


We are going to the beach to forget our miseries for a little while. The children have their iPods. I have Fela and Sunny Ade and Osita Osadebe. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie is coming with me. I will read her stories on the beach and hope the lifeguards save our children from the ocean’s foaming rage.


I cannot get enough of Adichie’s stories. They remind me that we are making progress. She takes on our old story tellers, leans off the sturdy eaves of her defiant hut to give her own masterful call and response riff. From Achebe to Adichie, there are no dead white writers here. Yes, life is good.


Adichie’s stories are the affirmation of my mother’s stories and the bravery of Africa’s women and children. Ogaga Ifowodo is coming with me. I will read his oriki of suffering on the devastated shores of the delta. I will read aloud the dirges of the children of the delta, to the privileged of America. They must hear Ogaga. They will hear Africa on the beaches of America. Life is good.


I am sitting here on the beach staring at the Atlantic wondering when my wife will come back. I am wondering if I will ever go back home to Africa like I said I would almost 30 years ago.


Maybe I should resign myself to squeezing joy out of the remains of my current dispensation. I understand now why Kunta Kinte was so angry; dislocation aches the bones. We stayed too long in paradise and trapped ourselves in our own private prison. We are at war like no one has ever seen.


America is a strange place and I am in a strange place. In America, doors are always opening. And closing. I miss Africa and grandma coming down the little path. My spirit carries me past wretched bridges to nowhere. We are miserable in the new order called life.


In the new order, there is no order. Systems germinate and thrive out of seeming chaos. Chaos wails foul as we insist on order. There is no order; that is so past tense. Flow with the waves, relax your muscles and you’ll end up on the beach of the life, grinning sheepishly.


The Atlantic Ocean comes roaring, bringing forceful memories of Africa and the joy of my children to my feet. The waves rise, menacing walls, malevolent spirits foaming in the mouth; my voice dives tremulous into the jaws of the masquerade. “Children, be careful!”


The masquerade swallows my boys and spits them out, inedible offerings to greedy deities. The prayers rise in me and stop at my feet, putting jarring brakes on my boys’ death wishes. Out of the ocean, Africa comes crashing at my feet, steamy, hot, sweaty, salty, fertile, taunting me in the sterility of my exile. And a guiding light says to me from across the seas, “WHAT are you doing here, Okonkwo? Come home!”


We are back from the beach. The children had a great time. I was miserable. I missed my wife and Africa. But she is back now. Back with bottles of groundnuts and malaria.


Africa gives her lovers chills and headaches. In-between the delirium of her fevers she raves about Africa. She loved Nigeria and she can’t wait to go back. But the chills and the headaches of her malaria come in waves riding on the toasty heat of a body battling demons. Welcome to America, honey.


On EC Osondu’s This House is Not for Sale, jollof rice and all that jazz

I enjoyed reading E.C. Osondu’s book of fiction, This House is Not for Sale. The book shares many of the same issues that frustrated me in Chigozie Obioma’s The Fishermen (reviewed here) and Jola Naibi’s Terra Cotta Beauty (reviewed here) but still it does a great job of educating and entertaining the reader with humorous tales laced with historical accounts of a bygone era. The reader is regaled  with witty observations from the eyes of a child living in a house (called “Family House”) filled with interesting characters, characters that could only have been conjured up by a mind on steroids. I recommend it to the reader dying for good fiction. The blog Africa is a Country has a good review of it here. Its opening paragraph aptly sums up the book’s portrayal of life in a Nigerian city where:

…everyday life serves as the stage for spectacular dramas and miraculous events, where every neighborhood has its fair share of characters and crazies—the white-garment church pastor, the dodgy police man, the mad man with his thing hanging out, the prostitute, the political thug, the old soldier, the witchdoctor, the quack pharmacist, the old lady who everyone thinks is a witch, the Phd holder without a job, and so on. Life with these archetypes existed in a continuum of the hilarious, the surreal, and the bat-shit crazy.

There are many things to like in the book – from the editing (which sometimes morphs into over-editing), to the meticulous research, to the disciplined, short sentences that showcase Osondu as a writer in charge of his craft. Osondu deploys an unusual but ultimately effective approach to writing this book that draws primarily on his strengths as a writer of short stories. There are eighteen chapters, each of which could stand alone as a short story, because each chapter seems to bear little or no relationship to any other. There are these fascinating characters, people with names like Gramophone, Baby, Cash, etc., each one assigned to a chapter. All through, Osondu maintains a disciplined focus on the character that owns the chapter to the near exclusion of others who remain in the shadows. It makes for easy and pleasurable reading.

Osondu toys with innovation in this book and he is successful at it. The mansion “Family House” that houses all these characters is a living, breathing, brooding character in its own right, ruled by Grandpa, the patriarch, mafia don, fixer and enforcer. It is a rowdy house, the reader gets the impression that it is a house of umpteen rooms. Many people come to this house in this mythical city to try their fortunes, seek solace from terror, flee their demons, and in a few cases, their crimes. “Family House” is a not-so-mute witness to life, dishing out opinions through its many characters that live in her. As an experiment in writing out of the box of orthodoxy, Osondu pulled that off nicely.

With this book, Osondu slyly turns the reader into Obierika, the wise one in Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart, who thinks about things and quietly questions the way things are. The book forces the reader to reflect on cultural norms with respect to relationships, patriarchy, misogyny, sexuality and sexual preferences, pedophilia (as in child brides) child abuse and labor, the new Christianity and its demons, the mentally disabled and their treatment, infertility, infanticide, corruption, etc. Again, these are familiar themes that run through most contemporary African fiction, except that Osondu does not preach at the reader. Indeed, it is the case that some of the characters, especially the children (Ibe and the nameless protagonist who narrates each chapter) try to fashion joy out of a war they found themselves in, and they mostly succeed.

This House is Not for Sale does not delve deep into any of the myriad issues it confronts, but like a good tweet, fills your mind’s mouth with rich imaginings. The book jogged my memory a lot and I grinned as I read of “sentimental songs” and revisited legends of my time like “Kill-We” Nwachukwu. Google him. Yes, Osondu has a phenomenal memory; his sense of recall is impressive.

For the Western audience, the abuses against women and children might seem savage and distant, of a time and a place where women and children could be expelled from their homes by men, sent packing to make room for a new bride. Except that corporal abuse, humiliation of women under flimsy pretexts (stripping them naked, beating them up and imposing corporal punishment on them) continue to this day in many of these societies, despite the slick and glossy noises of over-funded “empowerment” NGOs. But the book lets you think about those things without making any judgments.

The chapter named Ibe was my favorite chapter.  Here, Osondu comes alive and one enjoys the power of his mind and his muscular writing skills. This chapter alone is worth the price of the book. The chapter took me back to my past and my childhood, to an era long gone, and I remembered a lot of things I had forgotten. Ibe, a cousin of the unnamed protagonist is an entertaining know-it all adventurous and impish boy who regales his audience with fantastic tales of his travels some of it made up in his head. My favorite lines are here:

Ibe paid for the movie with the money we got from the mission. Ibe bought suya. Ibe bought Fanta. Ibe bought Wall’s ice cream. Ibe bought FanYogo, Ibe bought Fan ice orange slush, Ibe bought guguru. Ibe bought epa. Ibe said we should walk into the movie theater like Harrison Ford walking into the Temple of Doom, we should walk in with a swagger and we should be swaying from side to side because no one could stop us. We did. (p 25)

I remembered this especially and I cackled with joy:

Cash had a framed picture in his store that showed two men. In one half of the picture, the man who sold in cash was smiling and looking prosperous in a green jacket and a fine waistcoat with a gold watch dangling from a chain and gold coins all around him. The other man who sold on credit was dressed in rags and looked haggard. All around him were the signs of his poverty; a rat nibbled at a piece of dry cheese in a corner of the store. (p 28)

cashcreditMany of the stories are lovely but Ebi and Fuebi were my favorites. Fuebi was a good story, a bit more passionate and self-confident than the others, intense and filling. The chapter Currency reads eerily like a narrative of the recently concluded Nigerian elections. All through the stories, “Family House” is a constant presence, mute witness to living chaos, and enabler of dysfunctions, with Grandpa as the patriarch. In a sense perhaps, “Family House” is the main protagonist, the one that takes all our stories – and tells them – like the Internet. Welcome, new world.

Many readers might find the disconnectedness among the stories to be disconcerting especially as the book seems to be marketed, not as a book of short stories, but as a novel. I actually liked that the stories were loosely or not connected. Osondu tried to experiment with all these characters in this huge house and create stories that sometimes went nowhere. Just like life. He did not attempt a contrived plot; I think that took supreme literary confidence or chutzpah.  Osondu did try to bring together all the stories in the last two chapters; that, in my opinion, was a messy mistake.

This House is not For Sale is not a perfect book; it reminded me of some of my pet peeves when it comes to African writing. It is written for a broad Western audience in mind; Many times, Nigerian words and idioms are italicized and carefully explained in the same or preceding sentence. African writers should perhaps learn to be more insular, I mean who italicizes akara and explains it as “bean cake” in the 21st century? If the reader is too lazy to use Google, tough luck. But then, to be fair, after all these years of railing at African writers, I now realize that African writers who choose to publish in the West are not negotiating from a position of strength; the editor is Western, the publishing company is Western and the audience is Western. It makes marketing sense. It doesn’t make it any less maddening. Imagine if Tolstoy in War and Peace had taken the time to italicize and explain every word foreign to the African reader. That book would have been way more than 50,000 pages. But then to be fair Nigeria has precious few indigenous publishing houses, what is a writer to do? You want to be published? Take the crap from the Western paymasters.

The chapter, How the house came to be uses conventional (and helpful) quotation marks to delineate dialogue; the others osondudispense with it, which is confusing sometimes, especially when it is a long dialogue. Also, sometimes I felt like I was being read to as if I was a child. It is as if Osondu started out writing a children’s book, then he changed his mind. The tone of the prose may have been influenced by the fact that the protagonist is a child. The characters are mostly caricatures, many of them behaving like pretend-humans lolling about in an anti-intellectual society, lacking an ideological core and an abiding spirituality. That would be contemporary Nigeria. Perhaps this is the case, but between the 70’s and the 90’s, it boggles the mind that for many African writers like Osondu writing about that era there seems to be a dearth of serious minded people as characters. The African writer’s trademark superciliousness mars the book, somewhat.

In a few chapters, the over-editing by the editor lowered the boom and passion of Osondu’s powerful voice into a near-whimper. The attempt to sell the book to the West was relentless, and readers, young readers especially now used to the raw indigenous attitude of writing on the Internet and social media would look askance at parts of the writing. For Chinua Achebe, it was a simple trick; appropriate the English Language as if it were your own and tell your story. We need bold writing like that. Achebe’s editors amplified his voice, at least in his early works. Osondu needs a powerful editor who gets the power of his narrative and the need for the English Language to bend to the will of the story in a culturally sensitive manner. By the way, Aatish Taseer, writing in the New York Times (March 22, 2015) seems to speak to the frustrations of writing to, for, and through the West:

But around the time of my parents’ generation, a break began to occur. Middle-class parents started sending their children in ever greater numbers to convent and private schools, where they lost the deep bilingualism of their parents, and came away with English alone. The Indian languages never recovered. Growing up in Delhi in the 1980s, I spoke Hindi and Urdu, but had to self-consciously relearn them as an adult. Many of my background didn’t bother.

This meant that it was not really possible for writers like myself to pursue a serious career in an Indian language. We were forced instead to make a roundabout journey back to India. We could write about our country, but we always had to keep an eye out for what worked in the West. It is a shameful experience; it produces feelings of irrelevance and inauthenticity. V. S. Naipaul called it “the riddle of the two civilizations.” He felt it stood in the way of “identity and strength and intellectual growth.”

As a near-aside, just keeping the reader entertained with a book in the age of social media is an amazing feat in itself and Osondu passed that test with me. The reader is also facing personal challenges; social media is the new addiction that comes in short posts and grunts in tweets. Reading long form is now the new distraction. The intensity of feeling, the rush that comes with the instant feedback and contact with the reader and writer and the reader becoming a writer also (reader and writer exchanging roles). I don’t see myself as addicted to social media; many readers now see the book as a mere distraction from reading. Writers must provide leadership in confronting this threat against traditional scholarship and entertainment. Welcome to the 21st century. And oh, Osondu loves jollof rice. A lot. That meal of the gods is a recurring character in this peppy little book of many memories.

Chigozie Obioma’s The Fishermen – and sordid tales

Chigozie Obioma’s debut work of fiction, The Fishermen, is a work of muscular industry and prodigy, and it is also an incredibly frustrating book, more on that later.  Obioma is one powerful storyteller. In this book, things fall apart in the worst possible way, over and over again for a Nigerian family of eight, with the first four sons the chief protagonists in this story from hell. This unusual book documents the family’s free fall into one grim tragedy after the other. This family is a country song, a sad country song.  The Fishermen is a powerful and tragic coming of age book and Obioma writes as if he is looking through hell’s windows. As an aside, Obioma is incredibly well-read, his vocabulary is intimidating; that alone is enough reason to buy the book, your SAT scores will soar.

The book is a tightly woven six-pack abs of stories. The chapters sport titles that represent characters, just like the inscriptions on the mammy wagons of my childhood. Obioma is no Chinua Achebe, he is his own man, but then the book offers parallels with Achebe’s epic Things Fall Apart. Father is Okonkwo, afraid of his being, a moody, emotionally absent father, tethered Mother doing the best she can, as if a single mother. The reader comes face to face with corporal punishment so brutal it terrifies and scars children and the reader. The children endure life under a physically and emotionally abusive and absent father and a doting, albeit overwhelmed mother. Here, there are haunting reminders of Okonkwo and his relationship with his sensitive son, Nwoye (good analysis of the relationship here).

the-fishermen-chigozie-obiomaReading The Fishermen can be a grisly exercise: There is mayhem and madness everywhere, blood and gore in excruciating detail. Read as a mad man sexually defiles a female corpse in full view of onlookers. Nigeria. Fear, rage, hate, revenge are persistent characters. Yes, hatred is a leech. There is jungle justice –extra-judicial killings of suspects – in the most grisly way:

I particularly liked how she recounted an incident about a robber who was lynched in our district, how the mob knocked down the fleeing thief with a hail of stones, and how they got a car tyre and placed it around his neck. She’d emphasized the mystery behind how the mob got petrol within that fleeting moment, and how, within coughing minutes, the thief had been set ablaze. I as well as Father had listened intently as she described how the fire had engulfed the thief, the blaze prospering at the hairiest parts of the thief’s body— especially his pubic area— as it slowly consumed him. Mother described the kaleidoscope of the fire as it enveloped the thief in an aureole of flame and his jolting cry with so much vivid detail that the image of a man on fire stayed in my memory. (pp. 27-28)

There are characters jumping out of the darkness and startling the reader, living and inanimate characters, The river Omi Ala is a powerful character. Even fear is a recurring, terrifying character in the book. History lives here and it is sobering, so much of it a sad reminder of Nigeria straining at the center and at the edges with social, political and cultural anxieties.  But then, the book is thematic, with a yawning absence of any vision, nothing soars here but words. That is perhaps its brilliance, nothing soars in today’s Nigeria but words, no vision, nothing. Chief MKO Abiola shows up in a chapter that is well worth the price of the book, amusing and touching. Biafra shows up, in brief, taunting, haunting cameo appearances:

I’d heard of a war that had happened long before— a war Father often mentioned in passing. When he said the phrase “before the war,” a sentence unconnected to the events of the war would often follow, and then sometimes end with “but all these were cut short by the war.” There were times when, while chiding us for an act that smacked of laziness or weakness, he’d tell the story of his escapade as a ten-year-old boy during the war when he was left to cater for, hunt for, feed and protect his mother and younger sisters after they all took to the big Ogbuti forest to escape the invasion of our village by the Nigerian army. This was the only time he ever actually said anything that happened “during the war.” Alternatively, the phrase would be “after the war.” Then, a fresh sentence would take form, without any link to the war mentioned. (pp. 116-117).

As I read the book, the beauty of some of the prose reminded me of the soaring prose and haunting sadness of Alan Paton’s Cry the Beloved Country (read some beautiful quotes here). Powerful passages like this lie in wait for the happy reader and ambush the senses and one is forced to think about these things:

This dream fetched him much ridicule in the biting economy of 1990s Nigeria, but he swatted off the insults as if they were mere mosquitoes. He sketched a pattern for our future— a map of dreams. Ikenna was to be a doctor, although later, after Ikenna showed much fascination with planes at an early age, and encouraged by the fact that there were aviation schools in Enugu, Makurdi and Onitsha where Ikenna could learn to fly, Father changed it to pilot. Boja was to be a lawyer, and Obembe the family’s medical doctor. Although I had opted to be a veterinarian, to work in a forest or to tend animals at a zoo, anything that involved animals, Father decided I would be a professor. David, our younger brother, who was barely three in the year Father moved to Yola, was to be an engineer. A career was not readily chosen for Nkem, our one-year-old sister. Father said there was no need to decide such things for women. (pp. 25-26)

My best quote:

Mother was a falconer: The one who stood on the hills and watched, trying to stave off whatever ill she perceived was coming to her children. She owned copies of our minds in the pockets of her own mind and so could easily sniff troubles early in their forming, the same way sailors discern the forming foetus of a coming storm. (pp. 97)

I read of cattle egrets and I remembered my childhood as we would break out into happy song… Leke leke, gbami leke! You can feel, hear and taste Nigeria with a feverish noisy intensity:

The roads had widened so that the sellers got pushed back many metres from the jumbled roadways, which often filled with cars and trucks. An overhead bridge had been constructed over the road on two sides. Everywhere, the cacophony of vendors crying their wares roused the silent creatures that had crept into my soul. A man dressed in a faded Manchester United jersey ran along as we stopped in the middle of the clogged traffic, banging on the car, as he attempted to shove a loaf of bread through the window near Mother’s side. She wound up the glass. In the distance beyond the nearly thousand cars that were honking and raving with impatience was a mighty semi making a slow U-turn under the overhead pedestrian bridge.  It was this vehicular dinosaur that had brought the entire traffic to a halt. (pp. 286-287).

Obioma is intense; his portrait of Abulu the mad man who lives in a truck is etched indelibly in my mind. It is beautiful language – and a searing commentary on how Nigeria treats mental illness:

Now up close and certain he would soon die, I let my eyes take an inventory of the madman. He appeared like a mighty man of old when men shredded everything they grasped with bare hands. His face was fecund with a beard that stretched from the side of his face down to his jaw. His moustache stood over his mouth as though it had been applied there by fine brush strokes of charcoal paint. His hair was dirty, long, and tangled. Thick foliations of hair also covered a large part of his chest, his wrinkled and swarthy face, the centre of his pelvis, and encircled his penis. The matrixes of his fingernails were long and taut, and in the bed beneath each plate were masses of grime and dirt. I observed that he carried on his body a variety of odours, the most noticeable of which was a faecal smell that wafted at me like a drone of flies when I drew closer to him. This smell, I thought, might have been a result of his going for long without cleaning his anus after excretion (pp. 223-224)

From cover to cover, The Fishermen unveils multiple tragedies within just one family. Still, it is a tender story in parts, shyly tucked among gripping blood-curdling chapters, a true reflcection of the juxtaposition that is life in Nigeria. Obioma loves gore and catalogues it with near-gleeful graphic unsparing detail. There is child abuse in perverse abundance; for the child in Obioma’s world, the world is a vast classroom of unrelenting terror and abuse. And there is the terrifying descent into depression and lunacy by a distraught mother. Sad, almost beautiful, is the sadness that drapes this powerful book. Obioma tackles the familiar positions on the new Christianity – the desecration of customs, institutions, and religious totems in the name of Christianity.

And this made me remember of trips to my village from the city where we lived:

Like a miracle, a host of people, almost all of whom were relatives, Nde Iku na’ ibe, some of whom I’d seen before and others whose faces merely peopled the many daguerreotypes and fading photographs tucked away in our family albums, arrived at the house within two days. They had all come from the village, Amano, a place I barely knew. We’d visited it only once, during the burial ceremony of Yee Keneolisa, an old immobile man, who was Father’s uncle. We’d travelled through a seemingly interminable road sewn between two vast stretches of thick forests until we reached a place where the great jungle shrunk into a few trees and cultivated heaps and a distributed army of scarecrows. Soon, as Father’s Peugeot negotiated the sand-filled tracks, jerking furiously, we began to meet people who knew him. These people greeted our parents and us with a boisterous effulgence of geniality. Later, dressed in black clothes with a host of others, we’d marched down in a procession to the funeral, no one speaking, but merely crying as if we had been transformed from creatures capable of making speech to ones that could only wail; this had amazed me beyond words. (p. 146)

From my perspective, The Fishermen is not a perfect book; it is bipolar, confounding the reader with its beauty – ugliness. It showcases powerful writing that is often cruelly ambushed by the whims of a clueless editor trained to wean stories of their passion and meat. Western editors should collaborate with African editors. Obioma can be quite bombastic; he likes the word “declivities” and a few other big words. I will be blunt, the dialogue was awkward and contrived; a result of clumsy attempts to explain Africans to Western readers. That grated on my nerves.

Here is a strange passage:

Locusts were forerunners: They swarmed Akure and most parts of Southern Nigeria at the beginning of rainy seasons. The winged insects, as small as the brown brush flies, would leap out of porous holes in the earth in a sudden invasion and converge wherever they saw light— it drew them magnetically. The people of Akure often rejoiced at the arrival of the locusts. For, rain healed the land after the dry seasons during which the inclement sun, aided by the Harmattan wind, tormented the land. The children would switch on bulbs or lanterns and hold bowls of water close so they could knock the insects into them or cause them to shed their wings and drown in the water. The people would gather and feast on the roasted remains of the locusts, rejoicing at the oncoming rain. (p. 128).

They are not locusts, they are termites, what does it matter, we do not eat bugs in my village, we eat irikhun! Google that! And in Nigeria, we don’t call lorries “trucks.” But then, Obioma is the sum of his experiences, he is free to use porpoises in his fiction. What he did to the Pidgin English was unnecessary and poorly done. It was contrived and rejiggered for the benefit of the Western (paying) audience. We don’t talk like this. It made for awful dialogue, an insult to Pidgin English. Here is a sample that made me reach for my cognac:

“Her pikin, Onyiladun, dey sick. As her husband come inside, she tell am make im give medicine money, but im start to beat-beat am and im pikin.” (p. 107)

Bee ni— it is so,” Iya Iyabo said. “Aderonke vex say im dey beat the sick pikin, and fear say because of im alcohol, say im go kill am, so she hit im husband with a chair.” “Eh, eh,” Mother stammered. “The man die,” Iya Iyabo said. “Im die just like that.” (p. 107)

We don’t talk like this. It goes on and on with the characters mumbling in the sort of contrived Conradian language that made Achebe call Conrad a thorough going racist and that incurred my wrath in the essay The Balance of our Stories. Thanks to the contrived language, the book gives the wrong and unintended impression that the characters speaking Pidgin English are unthinking dolts invested only in mimicry. But then, Nigeria’s rulers work hard every day to give the impression that we are not serious human beings.

The attempt at translating the language to the other in this book is relentless, we are the other faithfully italicized and explained to the other. Everything is italicized down to wrappa. And this: I almost stopped reading the book at this point upon reading Obioma’s attempt to explain beans to the West:

“I recall one Sunday afternoon when Iya Iyabo came in while we were eating black-eyed peas marinated in palm-oil sauce.” (p. 106)

So much was lost in the translation of Nigerian Standard English to a format favored by Western readers, it was not funny. Obioma badly wanted to use Nigerian voices: “What if we follow them from a distance, through corner-corner?” (p. 67) Apparently, his editors could not stomach much of that insular stuff. So they went rogue with their red pens and tried to butcher a good book. The result is a crippling loss of language and indigenous context. “Dodo” is helpfully explained in parenthesis! Fried plantains! Who does that? The language problem haunts Obioma. From my perspective, The Fishermen is a failed experiment with language. From another perspective it would be a brilliant attempt at bridging both worlds with contrived language. I understand the other’s perspective. The other is paying.

There is a God. Half-way into the book, Obioma stopped the annoying experiments with dialogue and language and things got better. Over time, the characters formed and matured as identities become distinct and unique. The Fishermen is a beautiful book, – once you survive the penury of the first few chapters and the ignorance and cultural incompetence of the editor. I learnt several new words though! A skink is a lizard, LOL!