Tending (Consolation Prize Story) by Karen Jennings

The girl’s head is bent in prayer. Under her fingers the pages of the open bible are soft. She can feel the breath, warm, from her nose, slipping over her lips and chin, and down into her neck. All around her she hears the murmurs of others in prayer. Above these rises the voice of the pastor, her father. His words are wise, his speaking gentle. She listens intently, twisting her fingers together as she whispers, “Amen.”

                There is nothing to prepare her for the first gunshot, nor for the series of further shots that follows. Strange cries come from outside the church; whooping and calling and a sound she can put no real name to. Within the church all is silent. Some of the congregation have half raised themselves off their seats, others are standing. Some rush to the windows and look out; Esther is amongst these. Outside, she sees people running in all directions – towards the church, away from the town. There are too many faces. She recognises them, but at the same time does not. She turns inwards again at the sound of her father’s voice. The church is crowded now, loud, but he does not shout. He says simply, “We must prepare ourselves. Some of us are going to die. The Jihadists are coming. We must remain faithful. We have only our faith.”

                The militants enter without show, moving with purpose amongst the crowd. As though a single body, many-armed, they divide men from women, pulling Esther’s three-year old brother from her mother’s arms. Separated from their wives and children by no more than a few steps, the men stand, waiting. Her father is nearby with his eyes closed, his lips moving in prayer. Esther sees a militant walk towards him, raise his arm and slash the throat of her father and the man beside him in a single movement. She hears the short gurgle of his last breath, witnesses the sudden opening of his eyes in death.

Esther is running. Afterwards, when no more men were standing, they had been told to leave. They had been chased and she had fled, losing her mother and her three sisters. For hours now she walks, hiding in bushes, crying at the memory of her brother and father’s slumped forms. At sunset she reaches a village. The inhabitants take her in, feed her. Days later, in different directions, her sisters are found. There is no word of their mother. 

                Esther returns home with her siblings. They have become her children now. It is up to her to clothe and feed them. Where their house had been, there now remains an ashy heap. They sleep in that ash, grow vegetables in it, pray in it. Every day Esther walks to the church where her father and brother were killed. Beyond it lies the mass grave in which they are buried; before it, the burnt out shell of the car her father had driven. It is here, each time, that she recalls her father’s last words, his reminder that faith is what will be left to them.

Sometimes, for Esther, faith feels like too little. But most days she finds it budding out towards her from hidden places, from the smallnesses of everyday life. She finds it in the growth of leaves, the laughter of her sisters, the rush of clouds across the sky.  At these times she knows that faith lives in her, and she walks tall, remembering that what she carries within her is bigger than the world, more precious than a life. 

AUTHOR:

Karen Jennings lives in Cape Town, South Africa.

THIS LIFE (Consolation Prize Story) by Augustine Ogwo

No other vacation had been so eventful in my life. I stayed with my uncle who often told us true stories. He narrated this story to me while Chike was sleeping on the couch. I later decided to do a sketchy documentation with tears in my eyes. I wrote this using the first person narrative so as to bring out the story’s essence. It goes thus:

Though I resided in Nsukka; the town which played a pivotal role during the war, I felt something which was more than a déjà vu. Several events may have come through in 1990 but my wife’s bulging belly interested me the most.

Being successful lecturers had attracted petty gossips that surrounded our existence in the Campus. We would always resign to the will of God and to our fates by taking the rumours we heard about us with a pinch of salt. At Eni-Njoku Street where we lived, women would often gather in small groups to discuss what we always thought to be about us. From our balcony, my wife would often look down at half-a-dozen women standing under a tree and discussing in low tones like chirping birds but with droplets of tears hanging just beneath her eyes. She would run to me while crying with touching words in her mouth, ‘Di, they are talking about us’. I would always let her come into the warmth of my torso while I consoled her. Each time I consoled her, I was also consoling myself. Our childlessness bothered me more but I would always try to wear my cloak; that pride of an African man. I was beginning to explore other options while letting fate resign to itself.

When I got into my office on the first day of the semester, I began to realise that most things women did, men also did. Everyone was in resumption mood as most mathematics lecturers shuffled around offices aimlessly. A large section of the students had not resumed for the new session. Female lecturers exchanged greetings while discussing their exploits at last month’s August meeting. Later that afternoon, while going into the clerical section of my department, I noticed that my secretary and the department’s messenger were in a tête-à-tête. I decided to monitor proceedings from outside by hiding behind the gray wall which preceded the polished door. They chuckled and discussed about my wife’s barrenness and how it had affected my work ethic. I didn’t go into the clerical room anymore rather I went back to my office to produce some documents from my LaserJet printer.  When the duo came into my office at my behest, I gave them letters which were enclosed in khaki envelopes. They had to proceed on ‘compulsory indefinite leaves’. They left my office with bowed heads and looks of dejection.

When I decided to visit a juju man so as to ascertain the unfortunate fate which had befallen our 15-year old marriage, Chinenye had told me to remain calm and steadfast in my faith. She even reminded me of the biblical story of Sarah and her husband Abraham. I knew that I would go ahead with my plans even if a saint or an angel had been sent to preach to me. The day I left to see Agbarume, the powerful juju priest at Igboeze, I had a ghastly motor accident which nearly cost me my life. While I was admitted into the critical unit of the casualty ward at Bishop Shanahan hospital, I waited for family and friends to share in my pains but it was only my mother and my wife, Chinenye that were able to meet me at my point of need. I returned to my house a week later feeling repentant and apologetic to my wife for ignoring her advice.  She said she had forgiven me and planted a kiss on my forehead. We continued to live our lives without children that we soon began to get accustomed to the rumours. Months later when Chinenye began to feel nauseated so often, I took her to Nduka, a doctor friend of mine for typhoid and malaria tests. Being a family-friend, he did the tests I required of him but went ahead to do a pregnancy test out of his ingenuity. Other tests were negative but for the pregnancy test which turned out positive.

Nine months later, she went into the pains of labour but never came out alive though Chike was able to make it to this cruel world.

AUTHOR:

 Augustine Ogwo lives in Ikoyi, Lagos.

MY HERO (Consolation Prize Story) by Annette Najjemba

Maria sat under the large tree in her maternal grandfather’s compound. The other children were happily playing in the big courtyard. She never seemed to care what went on around her. She closed her eyes, and then opened them, a tear dropped down.

It was about 3:00pm. Her elderly great grandmother, about eighty years old came out of the kitchen, with teary eyes reddened by smoke. With the hem of her rugged skirt she wiped her face, and then looked to the tree shade.

“Munyoro,” she called as she fondly referred to Maria.

Maria did not answer.

“Oh you’re unhappy with me, I know. You must be very hungry by now.”

Grandmother reached for a dirty, old polythene bag on the kitchen roof. She had kept some roasted ground nuts for Maria.

“Come on, have this.”

Maria remained motionless. Grandmother moved closer to her. Maria blinked and a stream of tears rolled down her cheeks.

Maria was seven years old. Her mother, Justine Birungi had dropped out of school after conceiving, at the age of seventeen. Her unknown father, a Kenyan heavy vehicle driver had left without leaving any contact information. All Birungi remembers is that he was referred to as Hajji. She had met him a few days earlier, before she slept with him in a lodge in Masindi town.

Birungi was walking to school when the heavy truck stopped by her.

“Come on darling. I will give you a lift to school.”

Similar offers from hajji went on for about a week, until he lured her to boycotting school to spend a day with him. He offered her one thousand shillings and that was the last time she saw him, way back in 1985.

Three months later, Birungi dropped out of school after realising that she was pregnant. She went to live with her grandmother Perusi in Kisabagwa village. She gave birth to Maria and lived with her grand mother until her baby was weaned.

Birungi was determined to give a happy future to her daughter. She went around the village seeking for odd jobs which mainly involved digging. She used the money that she earned to buy milk, snacks and clothes for her daughter.

One evening, as Birungi sat on the fire place with her grandmother, she revealed her plan of going to town to seek for a job. She left the following morning, leaving behind Maria, who was then three years old. She secured a job as a house maid for a school teacher in town.

Birungi worked for teacher Lydia for several years. She made sure that she saved the bigger percentage of the money she earned. She only visited her daughter on festive days but carried several gifts for her daughter and grandmother every time she visited.

In the village there were several other children living with Maria’s grand children. However, Maria was always the miserable girl in the home because she lived on insults from her cousins. Several times they referred to her as a bustard, and called her names because she did not know her father. She however found hope in her mother, her hero whom she always referred to as ‘Mummy of the city.’

After four years of working as a house maid, Birungi had saved enough money to help her rent a room to live in with her daughter and enrol her in a primary school in town. She opened a food vending business at the local market. With the meagre savings she managed to pay her daughters school fees, pay rent and provide for her daughters needs.

Birungi shifted from one petty business to another, to make ends meet. She vowed to work hard to make her daughter happy. She vended fresh food, water, and some times went on to dig on peoples gardens for money.

Maria admired her classmates who talked about their fathers, but she was happy with the love her mother showed her. She was sure her mother could never withhold anything good from her and for this reason; Maria has given her mother a new name, ‘MY HERO.’

Today, Maria holds a bachelors degree in economics and is a Banker. On her graduation day, she introduced her mother to her guests as the most important thing that has happened to her life. She explained that only a mother can deny herself the joys of life just for the sake of a child she mothered at a tender age and for an irresponsible man. 

AUTHOR:

 Annette Najjemba lives in Hoima, Uganda.

A STORY FROM MY CHILDHOOD DIARY (Consolation Prize Story) by Prosper Obum Anuforoh

“So you saw it too?” Ifeoma, my little sister, says to me, grinning.

“What?” I ask.

“That black hen,” she says.

“What black hen?”

“That one…on that grave…under that orange tree…,” she says, this time showing me a rough-looking little book filled with colorful crayon paintings.

She has read my Diary. Now she knows all my secrets: those secrets I thought had died with 1998.

I learnt to keep a diary when I was ten – that was in 1998. Sam, my eldest brother, taught me. He has a big diary into which he records his thoughts, secrets and every single thing that happens to him each day. He’ll write in it only at nights, sitting on our spread mat.

At first it was difficult; writing was a problem. (I didn’t learn to read properly until I was twelve, two years after everything I wrote stopped being a meaningless scrawl on paper.) But Sam told me I didn’t have to be Chinua Achebe to record my thoughts: “Just record the dates, then paint…draw…write a few words to help the events speak for themselves. He is your friend; you can tell him anything, anyhow,” he said.

I loved drawing. So I got myself a makeshift Diary.

I started on June 7, 1998; but that part is torn now.

Ifeoma is looking at me now, somewhat scared I’d scold her for reading the diary. I collect it from her. We settle on the sofa in the parlor and leaf through it together by the pale light shining in through our uncurtained window.

It’s blowing up for a rain.

Monday, June 8, 11:30pm.

We ate the remaining jelof [Jollof] rice of yesterday night food before going to school.

I fighted [fought] Sule at school today.

 We drank garri with kulikuli in the afternoon, when we came back.

[At] 6:30pm today, people beggan [began] to scream and dance and clap. Some young, young pe[o]ple ran the streets with big, big white boards in their hands, drumming on beer bottle[s] and singing “Abacha don die”. Plenty people, man and woman, are drinking and shouting in iya Kudi bar.

Abacha die[d] today. Some people said he was kill[ed] by [a] heart attack; others said he was kill[ed] by sixteen India[n] witch prostitutes from Dubai. But people are happy.

Good night.

Pipiro.

The drawing to this is colorful: matchstick men with smiling faces, wielding placards (big, big white boards); houses painted in various colors. Iya Kudi’s sleaze of a bar at the corner of Bola Street is painted yellow and green. There are so many matchstick men and women; some sitting around tables cluttered with beer bottles, others with their hands raised in jubilation. Ifeoma laughs. “That’s Iya Kudi,” she points at the matchstick woman with bow legs. I nod.

There’s a house painted blue with a tree beside it. That’s our house on Bola Street – that’s in 1998. Under that tree, there’s a grave on which is perched a black hen.

“That black hen,” Ifeoma points at it. I look at it, and then look out the window to see mum beside the house, sweat beaded on her forehead, struggling to boil the rice she had bought for supper. The wind blows the black smoke from the adunga towards her; she waves it away, and coughs. She rearranges the firewood to save the flame.

I tell Ifeoma we’ll read one more page and then go outside to help mum.

Since the kerosene scarcity, we have been using our adunga – the locally-made cooking stove. Goodluck Jonathan, our new president, has promised the problem will be solved soon.

We stare at the drawing. I’m stunned that after thirteen years, I haven’t forgotten a thing about that hen. But how can I forget? Just as the death of Gen. Sani Abacha is an unforgettable milestone on the Nigerian political landscape, whenever I turn to 1998, that hen’s story leaves me with a lesson timeless in its relevance, infinite in its instruction: she reminds me always of mum.

Ifeoma and I turn quickly to July 3 – that’s of 1998.

Friday, July 3, 10: 45pm.

Today that hen die[d] under the rain and thunder and mad, mad light because it didn’t want the rain to touch the small, small chicks. She is a good mother like my mum.

 That tree did not save her. That grave is bad.

I’m not happy.

Good night.

Pipiro.

Prosper Obum Anuforoh lives in Ikotun, Lagos, Nigeria.

MAMA (Third Prize Story) by Yeku Babatunde James

You could hear the rain drizzling in mournful trickles at the Nne graveyard that Friday. All was silent but for the raging voice of the preacher. Not even the umbrellas lifted to the heavens could do much as to stop us from getting wet. The throng, in their dark goggles and dresses, stood by, watching with hands folded on thumping chests, shaking their heads slowly at the loss of their Mother Theresa. I looked around, and I saw friends and colleagues from the office, staring at the lifeless body in the opened casket. They would have thought I had deliberately made up my mind to honour mama with my muffled moaning and tearful smiles. Emeka, my husband noticed my wandering eyes and drew me to himself. I rested my head on his shoulder as my thoughts drifted to that day I first spoke to mama about him…

“I know love when I see one”, mama had said to me.

It had been another special sundown that day. The large orangery ball on the sky’s gentle face was gradually been swallowed up by the clouds; and the evening breeze was caressing my skin as I lay between mama’s feet while she plaited the long shuck on my head.  Mama’s words had painted strokes of sparkles on my tender heart, and so I have never forgotten that day…

Look my daughter, she continued, “When your heart misses it beat at the sight of that special man; when you wish you should worship in the shrine of his spirit; when he himself would do all to see you reach to the sky and pluck off the moon; now that is love.”

“That is love my child”, Mama repeated again, as if I had not heard the first time.

That was during my high days at Aba Government College. It was the season girls around my age, flaunting budding buttocks, and mango-sized breasts started to ask about why boys from the neighboring schools would not stop staring at them. It was a time some of us also had begun to desire some of the scented roses of male affections we saw in Hollywood films. It was a time to seek the priceless purple of innocent lavenders. It was the season of questions. And more questions we asked. Some of my friends had not been too lucky to have parents who listened to the curious but softened clattering of hearts at that verge of personal discovery. I remember Moyo especially. The boys said she looked astonishing; and they all craved her presence. Poor Moyo! She was rusticated from school when the school matron discovered she had been pregnant.

To thank God that Mama was there for me would mean reminding him of all her outpour of sweetened memories. She seemed to have an answer for every matter raised. Maybe it was because she had been trained as a counselor at the big Ibadan University every girl in my school always talked excitedly about. Mama was also a good listener. She nodded her head when she was not saying anything, and being with her was like entering her womb again to be carried in that round and wet calabash behind her dress. I still recall, sometimes with moistened eyes, how she would tell me stories that lured me to sleep.

There was one topic mama however did not like talking about. My father. Not that I delighted in reminding her of a topic that brought tears to her eyes, but I had been curious about why I did not have, like other girls, someone to hold me in those muscular arms my friends talk about. Nkem, the one everyone called daddy’s girl, would even bring pictures of her heavily bearded father to school. I always withdrew at such points, fighting hard not to burst out crying. When Mama finally told me how my father had died in the Biafran war, I understood for the first time why she decided not to allow another man on the bed he had shared with only her precious Ebuka.

It was the Catholic Father’s voice, presiding at the burial mass that called my attention back to mama’s graveside.

“Dust for Dust”.  I heard the preacher say. This time, I could not hold back the tears.

“It is time to go”, Emeka whispered into my ears.

AUTHOR:

YEKU BABATUNDE JAMES

lives in Ibadan, Nigeria.

A YEAR IN PARADISE (Second Prize Story in the Cecilia Unaegbu Competition 2011)

As we drove past the Orphanage, I smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile, neither sad, simply nostalgic. I could never pass an Orphanage without remembering. The bus driver slowed down for a speed bump and I got a clearer look. Through the metal bars of the gate, I could see children playing. A few boys were playing ‘three-aside soccer’ with a tattered ball; some girls had gathered together, by the look of things they were listening with rapt attention to a girl of about eight, as she gesticulated, no doubt telling them an incredulous story. The others were preoccupied with climbing the mango tree or riding the shiny red bicycle; most probably a recent donation. I shuddered as my heart filled with emotion I didn’t realise I still carried. That feeling of depending on strangers for sustenance was not one I’d wish on anybody. Deep down, I still felt the same fear I’d felt that fateful morning. Tears welled up in my eyes and I feigned tiredness. A quick yawn should dispel anyone’s suspicions. As the bus moved along leaving the orphanage behind it seemed as though the hurt, pain and fear were also being left behind. I took a deep breath as I settled in my seat more comfortably, with the resolve to enjoy the bus ride, as much as anyone can possibly enjoy a commercial one; and for the first time in decades, I cast my mind back to that dreadful morning.

*******

“David, David, wake up!”

I heard my brother’s half-frantic whisper. In my half-sleepy state I was still deciding on whether to give him a knock on the head or a slap when the next words cleared any vestige of sleep from my eyes.

“There are strange men in the house!”

I jerked up immediately, shoving him aside. Part of me was mortified. I was the “man” of the house yet it took my younger brother to let me know we had not just strangers but male strangers in the house. Since I had no Father the onus of defending our family fell on me. Whether my Mother was a divorcee, a widower or an ‘outside wife’ I had no idea. The kind of environment I was born in did not leave room for being inquisitive, most especially about ‘such issues’. I walked to the sitting room of our room-and-parlour apartment and there I saw a sight I would never forget. My mother still in her wrapper and faded t-shirt, on her knees, crying silently as she rubbed her palms together in a manner not unlike African women, begging  the two ‘thugs’ in the room. Transfixed by fear and embarrassment I watched as one by one, the thugs threw our meagre belongings out of our house.

My Mother’s pleading didn’t help, even the tear-stained faces of Ayo and I did nothing to move the thugs. The Landlord’s orders were clear. Our rent was six months overdue and he was tired of hearing ‘tomorrow….tomorrow’. By afternoon Ayo and I had stacked our property in a corner of a sympathetic neighbour’s compound.

“I’ll find a way” Mother said as she got ready to leave in a quest to find a solution. We waited for her for hours, feeling the hostile glares of the gardener and the house-help as they went around their errands. Didn’t they know we weren’t interested in usurping them? They could keep their filthy jobs! By evening, Mother returned looking five years older. Tears filled my eyes. She waved to us and went straight to the main house to see “Oga”. A few minutes later she came out with a weary smile, the best she could muster I was certain. Holding each our hands she said confidently:

“You’re going to Paradise.” She gave us a look that said ‘no questions allowed’ and we followed her obediently, like lambs to the slaughter. Soon enough we were at ‘Paradise’, literally. It was a recently opened orphanage with air-conditioning, toys and even a bus to take the children to school. There was also the option for parents who couldn’t take care of their children to leave them and visit once a week. This, Mother did for a year. It was only years later, when I was graduating from University that she decided to open up as to what she did during that year. She had taken the job I had despised and offered her services to all as a “House help”.
Author:

Desiree Eniola Craig, 
Lagos, Nigeria.

SEARCH FOR MY FATHER (First Prize Story in the Cecilia Unaegbu Competition 2011)

Uzonna, my fiancé, has set me on a mission to search for my father.

My bride price has to be paid to my father and to no one else. Uzonna, a surgeon at the university teaching hospital, was a man who loved to abide by tradition. When we first met at a medical conference, it was his neat, starched and ironed clothes that drew me to him. His clean shaven chin smelt like overripe pineapples. The first time we kissed, he’d held my thin waist gently as though it would break like a twig if he didn’t. We had agreed not to go beyond mild petting. No premarital sex. We wanted to have a special experience to anticipate in marriage. We were anxious to be married.

Chinenye made her face like someone who was chewing on stale bread when I asked about my father. I sat on the rug and watched her frail hands quivering on the old red cushion she had inherited from her deceased Mother. Chinenye, though thirty-eight, had a face that was lined with wrinkles and scars: they had always been prominent features on her face from the moment I had been alert enough to distinguish details. Sometimes when I traced the scars with my fingers, she would say that it was my father who had etched them. I didn’t care about my father then because, like my Chinenye, I had learned to be contented with the things that I had. It was useless to miss the things I never had.

Sounds of Chinenye’s noisy breath and the whirring fan filled the quiet room. I waited; my weary eyes watched her as she lifted herself from her seat. I rushed to help her up but she raised her hand. I halted, said a silent prayer for her, as she shuffled to the kitchen. She returned with a mug of water. Her quivering hands spilled water on the rug as she slumped into her chair.

“Chinenye, why won’t you let me get you a maid?” I asked.

Everyone found it a bit strange, that I called her by her first name. But Chinenye and I were almost inseparable. Perhaps, this was because she’d had me when she was thirteen; she’d raised me by herself.

“Is that why you’re here?” she retorted. Then, she gulped draughts of water as if her throat was parched.

“No.” I muttered.

Chinenye didn’t trust anyone. She had lived like this, had made me live like this. And because I lived in Lagos, far from the village, and my work as news reporter wouldn’t give me the time to be there as much as I would have loved to, I worried about her.

That moment, I was worried about my future.

“Why do you hate him so much?” I asked.

 “Because he’s a dog!”

I went to the bedroom to clear my head, and ended up taking a nap. Chinenye’s long burnt fingers tapped my shoulder. Nonsense sleep-talk escaped from my lips. I sat up, rubbed my eyes. Her story flowed from her heart.

He was fourteen and adventurous. She was thirteen and infatuated. They were neighbours. Both lived with relatives as housemaids. He was her first. It had felt like the right thing to do –to give herself unconditionally; no, for a bottle of coke.

Chinenye’s vein-flecked eyes met mine, lowered onto the bed. Her hand smoothened the bed sheets. She wept.

“He denied me, you, and everything. Oh I wanted a miracle, a miscarriage. I prayed that you’d melt in me and disappear. My heart broke the moment he said, ‘Don’t know what you’re saying, Chinenye, how? Don’t mind her. Whore! Was I the only one?’ in front of everyone.”

I embraced her, inhaled the scent of Lux soap mingled with sweat behind her ears.

“Chinenye,” I whispered. “Forgive him and move on. This grief, this bitterness… it’ll kill you. You’re dying already.”

She pushed me away and shook her head slowly, then fast like a cock shaking off flies from its comb.

“Can I forgive him? It’s hard.”

“You can. You decide.”

Silence reigned.

“Give me his address Ma. I want to live but not like this.” I looked around.

She sniffed, blew her nose into the edge of her Ankara wrapper, shuffled out to her bed.

At dawn, I found a brown envelop by my pillow. There was a photograph of a smiling teenage boy, in school uniform, wearing an afro. I read out the name and address squiggled behind the photograph, dated 1976.

I exhaled. 

AUTHOR:

Chioma Iwunze

Enugu, Nigeria.

RESULTS OF THE CECILIA UNAEGBU PRIZE FOR TRUE FLASH STORY (192 USD)

We are grateful for all the entrants to this competition. Entries were received from three countries, Nigeria, South Africa and Ghana in this inaugural edition of the prize. Entries were judged blind, with the final selection of the short-list made by Unoma Azuah, the competition judge, whose letter follows the list of winners. Winning entries will feature each for a week in the next thirteen weeks in this blog and elsewhere. We look forward to the next competition!

LIST OF WINNERS:

First Prize (15, 000 Naira or 96 USD): Chioma Iwunze (Enugu, Nigeria) for Search for my Father.  

Second Prize (10, 000 Naira or 64 USD): Desiree Eniola Craig (Lagos, Nigeria) for A Year in Paradise.

Third Prize (5, 000 Naira or 32 USD): Yeku Babatude James (Ibadan, Nigeria) for Mama.

The winners will also receive a copy of the book (WOMAN OF VIRTUE BOOK OF FAME, Containing FAR ABOVE RUBIES: The Biography of Mrs. Cecilia Unaegbu, biographies of extraordinary women, five stories from guest authors and a collection of all submitted Cecilia Unaegbu Prize stories) due out by December.

The consolation Prizes (Which is the published book) due out by December go to:

Essien, Enobong Queen (Lagos, Nigeria)

Prosper Obum Anuforoh (Lagos, Nigeria)

Nnaji  Chukwudi (Edo, Nigeria)

Karen Jennings (Cape Town, South Africa)

Augustine Ogwo (Lagos, Nigeria)

Annette Najjemba (Hoima, Uganda)

Akinde Hafiz Akinyemi (Kwara, Nigeria)

Muhammed Abdullahi Tosin (Lagos, Nigeria)

Oluwakemi  Osoko (Lagos, Nigeria)

Attah Damian Uzochukwu Victor (Nsukka, Nigeria)

 

A comment from the competition judge, Unoma Azuah, 

 "A good number of the stories lack the basic structure and content that a Flash story should have. It would have been helpful for the entrants to have researched the basic forms/features of Flash stories. Beyond the fact that the number of words are limited, there is also a need in this type of genre to apply a sense of urgency. For example,
the first person point of view, which is "I" gives a better sense of urgency compared to the use of a third person point of view, which is "She/He or They." Additionally, some entries are essays rather than stories. There are as well issues of grammar and poor sentence structure. Further, some of the stories drift towards "moralizing." Instead of letting the story tell itself, some writers use this as a tool of propaganda or as a judgmental weapon. In my opinion, when one writes a flash fiction, it is best to avoid employing the "intrusive voice," because the idea is for one to present the story the way it is witnessed. In all, the good stories are very good and the poorly written ones do not entirely lack merit. They either have good themes or good openings. The wide disparity between the very good stories and the poorly written ones is, perhaps, a reflection of the wide pool of entrants this contest attracted, which is perfect. The other thing the Cecilia Unegbu Prize may consider is to conduct workshops on Flash stories, or even Fiction to enable aspiring writers arm themselves with the basic mechanism of writing any of these genres. Some of the submitted stories indicate that a good number of entrants have no clue as to what is required in a Flash story. This process/event in itself is a wonderful development in Nigerian Literature because it will nudge the amateur writer to the right place, while guiding and encouraging raw talent to be horned.

Well done!
Unoma
www.unomaazuah.com"

As an undergraduate at Nsukka, Unoma edited the English department literary journal —The Muse and received the awards of the best Creative Writing student for two consecutive years: 1992 and 1993. Her other awards include the Hellman/Hammett Human Rights grant for her writings on women’s issues (1998), and the Leonard Trawick Creative Writing Award (2000), the Urban Spectrum award, the Leonard Trawick award and the Association of Nigerian Authors/NDDC Flora Nwapa award for her debut novel Sky-high Flames. She also has a collection of short stories, The Length of Light and a book of poetry, Night Songs. Prof. Unoma Azuah also holds an MFA in Poetry and Fiction from the Virginia Commonwealth University. She currently teaches Composition and Creative Writing at Lane College, Jackson, Tennessee, USA.

As this year's judge, she has automatically won the WOMAN OF VIRTUE 2011 award from the Cecilia Unaegbu Prize Project powered by Revolutionary Images and Biographical Link.

The stories will be posted each every week for the next 13 weeks in this blog.

"WE CAN BE THE GREATEST COUNTRY"_ Odili Ujubuoñu says in this interview

 

ABOUT THE INTERVIEWEE:

Odili Ujubuoñu was born in Ukpor, Anambra State Nigeria. He has a degree in Political Science and an M.A in History from the University of Nigeria, Nsukka and University of Lagos. Odili has been referred to in several quarters as one of the few heirs of the Achebean tradition. He is the author of Pregnancy of the Gods, (2006) ANA/Jacaranda Prize Winner for 2006 and Treasure in the Winds (2008) ANA/Chevron Prize Winner for 2008. The book was also a nominee of the Nigerian Prize for Literature same year . Odili has worked in the business of Advertising as a copy writer for over twenty years.  He lives in Lagos with his wife, Chinelo and Children.

 

JEFF UNAEGBU

You are very welcome, Sir Odili Ujubuoñu. I feel that I am face to face with another Achebe. Yes, the novel, Pride of the Spider Clan, posseses a very rich and pulsating African culture. This is a very important and admirable feat as the novel is likely to be a beacon for present and future research into Igbo culture. In this respect, the following fulcra stand out: The detailing of local politics [ pg 17, line 4, 5], the descriptive aura of an Mmonwu initiation ceremony [pg 177], the narrative power in an isi-ani funeral rites [pg. 364], the inheritance of the ancestral obi nad ofo [pg 16], the use of utilitarian Igbo proverbs [pg 107, line 26], Circumcision [pg. 54, line 23]etc. All these leave one to wonder if the author (a modern writer by any standard) had any direct African indigenous experiences in this ultra-modern times, especially because his times contrast sharply with the period he was writing about [just after the arrival of the albinos in a houseboat as predicted by the long Juju, Ibinukpabi, pg 305, line 1-4)? For though, I am aware you researched the Aro and Okirika culture and the Nsibidi ancient writings of the Ekpe cult as is fairly indicated in your acknowledgements, I intuitively feel that there is something deeper and emotional coming from your direct personal experiences other than from a scholarly research for a novel in the Pride of the Spider Clan. I hope I am not being overly sensitive?

ODILI UJUBUOÑU

Without trying to sound mysterious, I am a conscript of the Muse. I had some encounters which I mentioned in my acknowledgements in ‘Treasure in the Winds.’ I had a dream where an old woman appeared to me at the bank of Niger River introducing herself as Nzammili the goddess of stories. I also encountered two scarified midgets who prepared me for some inner workings in the Ozo initiations. All happened in my dreams and at different stages of writing the books ‘Pregnancy of the Gods,’ ‘Treasure in the Winds’ and ‘Pride of the Spider Clan.’ Who knows maybe I am a reincarnate of my family’s old souls. Having said that I must confess that I come from an old family in Igboland where the obi tradition is very strong. We kept so much of our family history in lore that is handed over from generation to generation. We still name our children by the market days they were born. Mine is Nwokafor and my children all have theirs and can tell you without any hesitance, should you ask. My great grandfather had a bitter encounter with the Colonial government which made them resist Christianity for a very long time. We became Christians much later than 60 years ago so there were a lot of the vestiges of the old order until late eighties when the old traditional men began to give way. I think some of these stories and more informed the writing.

JU

I am right! Now, in the past, as I am told, Igbo children are not allowed to observe a funeral ceremony. They are huddled indoors until after the moment of internment. Now, while at Umuele, an eight year old Isikamdi participated in a mock funeral ceremony during play with other children and it was “so befitting… that it drew the attention of adults in the family [pg 128, line 17, 19], how did they become aware of the proceedings?

OU

In my family they observed. What was shielded from them was the inner ceremonies that took place before a burial is done. It is usually passworded and never allowed women and children. You will see just a bit of it in the burial of the Isi-ani. That is a standard burial ceremony of the old traditional men in my family and I witnessed them on two or three occasions in the early eighties. The full ceremony cannot be written in a novel. It would look too anthropological that it  may weaken the pace and texture of the story.

JU

Why was there no protective encounter between Agubata of Mbaozo, the old former head of the Spider group, and Odidika, the future Flute bearer? Was Agubata, the mystic, not powerful enough to foresee that the boy, Odidika, in his son’s custody would have a lot to do with the all-important sacred flute in future, seeing also that a daredevil Ikebuasi was living next door, and more so when his close friend and successor, Fiberesima, knew too much [Fiberesima had searched Odidika’s possessions for a flute while the young was asleep pg. 147, he learnt that … through (Obidi) the flute bearer will appear pg. 190]? If he foresaw this, why was he the way he is: a secretive and mysterious person who asked his own son, Mbandu, to go see a diviner, Udeagbala, in order to fortify his compound [Pg 41, line 22] instead of just protecting his son with his far more superior powers?

OU

Agubata’s family migrated to Mbaozo and later to Mbaosu for a particular purpose – to restore the pride. Agubata is a man of immense powers but he is a human who worships a god that can keep secrets from him, if it is not meant for him. Agubata  has some powers but not all powers. He needs a diviner to tell him some things because he is equally not all knowing. Remember, he is possessed by task of finding the flute and all his life in ‘Treasure in the Winds’ and ‘Pride of the Spider Clan’ is geared towards that. A careful reading would reveal to you that it is not focused on finding the future bearer of the flute or builder of the dream Clan. This is in better details in ‘Treasure in the Winds. ’ Agubata towards the end of his life reveals his suspicions regarding Odidika’s involvement to Mbandu. It was also when he reveal their own well kept family secret to Mbandu. That was when he did what all the sages did when recruiting their sons into the Spider Clan. About Fiberesima and Agubata; there is nothing Fiberesima knows that Agubata does not know because they are very close both on physical and spiritual planes. Above all, their roles are well structured and their territories marked clearly in the Spider Clan.

JU

You sure know your onions well. Ok, with the amazing detective and secretive spider network of the Aro men and a handy literary Nsibidi and a very powerful centripetal force, the Ibinukpabi and its far-reaching Chief Priest and Eze Aro, necessary historical ingredients for an empire, it is a wonder that an Igbo empire, as great, famous and literate as the Mali or Ghana, never arose from these ready factors. Was the failure to build an empire the result of a lost historical treasure as symbolized by the flute in your novel? And aha—is the sacred ofo flute in your novel trying to fill the gap of why there was no great historical Igbo empire, greater than Idu N’Oba? What is your take on this?

OU

Don’t be deceived, Jeff. When you tell your stories well the world would agree that you had an empire. Go and look at the Ife Bronze and look at the Ichi on any Igbo man’s face and you will see the resemblance. Yet there is no Yoruba man who has that kind of scarification. My father was scarified. All the first sons of my family use to bear those marks until Christianity stopped it. There is so much to show about the kind of civilization the Olu N’Igbo had but that would be for another day.

Civilizations that were not monarchical have always looked at the grandeur of monarchy with admiration. That was the case of the relationship between the Eastern city states and the Idu N’Oba kingdom. Eze Aro was not a monarch but a priest and king. So was Eze Nri. They influenced series of city-states not with arms or force but persuasion about the need to serve two gods. The one who is the greatest of all terrestrial gods - Ani, and the greatest of all gods chi-ukwu a.k.a Ibinukpabi (ebu na ukpa abia) carried in a long basket. The later god has no name but a description because his name could not be uttered by any man. The cousins of the Aro, Efik call it Udang Usang (carried in a basin). The discussion on the relationship between Eze Nri and Eze Aro is not the subject of your question but would be the one to lead you into understanding the kind of Civilization which controlled trade, industry and mining in the whole of South-Eastern Nigeria of old.  

JU

We are sure listening! Right on point. Ok, Okafọ Ekwe told Isikamdi that if he did not find the ofo flute after combing Olu N’Igbo, he should head straight to Kirike where Fiberesima, their Spider leader and an Izon of Aro ancestry, was [and that “if this very man fails to help you, then Ibinukpabi has, for the very first time, lied,” “That can’t be possible.” Pg 307, line 21]. Naturally, a man smarter than Isikamdi would have avoided the rigmarole of combing his country and just headed straight to Kirike, if to save time and return home to his already tensile family with a flute that would remove the old curse of loss of male children, especially then that Ijenna his wife and Odidika’s daughter was pregnant. Is it to reveal other very important bits of information to fill out the main and sub plots that Isikamdi’s peregrination was essential or your admirable wizardry in creating suspense that was at work?

OU

You did read Pride of the Spider Clan and have an understanding of it. No. The author was more interested in the spiritual part of Isikamdi’s journey. Isikamdi needed to walk the paths the flute had walked in order to purge himself of the old order. It is a kind of ritual which he needed to perform in order to qualify himself for the role of finding the flute. If you read beyond the lines, you will notice that he discovered some things in those seemingly useless trips to Obosi. Remember, the marks on the door and the headdress for the Kalabari masquerade called Otobo. These were not just fill-ins but pointers to help the reader deconstruct the book.

JU

This is very revealing. Thank you. Now, how did Eze Kambite know Odidika was in danger and then came along and how did he kill the man at death hill, saving Odidika?  

OU

We only inferred that he saved him. We did not tell you so, you rather concluded that he did.

JU

Hahaha! Oh yeah, the net was spread for my mind to be trapped. Ok…. How did the real flute in the ceiling of “an ignorant man’s kitchen” as revealed “in one of their (spider) meetings” in page 191 turned out to be a fake towards the end of the novel after Isikamdi went to Adiabuabili’s old kitchen, retrieved it from where Adiabuabili had kept it inside the ceiling [pg 396] and brought it home (another fake flute, possibly the one Ekediukwu snatched during the night raid, also appeared at Piriye’s doorstep)?

OU

This is the problem of Pride of the Spider Clan. It cannot as a single book tell the story of the three books. In ‘Treasure in the winds,’ two duplicates of the flute were made by Ukwuoma the Obosi carver’s servant before he died. He gave the original flute and a duplicate bearing the Nsibidi mark to show that it was not the original (this was the house rule of all carvers that were in the Spider Clan) to Ozodimma the flutist. Ozodi swapped the original with the fake and gave it to Adamma. She took the fake home. It ended in her family kitchen ceiling. The original was lost by Ozodimma at the Battle of the Great river to Odidika and his men. There was a third flute (There was no Nsibidi sign on this) which is the second duplicate. Ukwuoma had kept it for himself. It was this flute that Ubadimbudi  found and took to Eze Aro. It was later transferred to Fiberesima to use in identifying the original flute whenever it entered Kirike (Okirika). Fiberesima had that flute all the while. He still kept it even when he found the original. It was this unmarked duplicate that Piriye found at her doorstep.  Ekediukwu’s flute was not a copy of the original. It was a different flute altogether.

JU

Hmmm. That clears my head. Now, why is it that the head of the Aro Spider group, Fiberesima, kept the secret of his possession of the real flute from other Aro spider members (especially Ekediukwu and Ekwe), [Ezediukwu said this: the day Odidika was leaving Kirike, an eerie sound of a flute filled the air pg. 348, line 31 meaning that Fiberesima blew the real magical flute to guide Odidika out of Kirike. Also, Ekwe said this: There is also Ezediukwu…. He is as deep in the cause of finding the lost sacred flute as I am and as you are pg. 306/307]. Why this extreme secrecy on the part of Fiberesima which made the Nwa Aro’s quest an adventure and made Ekwe and other members of the arcane group not able to touch the flute before they died?

OU

Fiberesima kept the flute because the Priest at the Ibinukpabi shrine, as part of his injunctions, said that Fiberesima must not leave Okirika (Kirike) the moment he finds the flute. He said that he must wait for Nwa Aro who would discover him and the flute. Using and touching the flute was not what ‘the legs of the spider clan’ were interested in. They want the Pride to be built. There primary role is to find the flute so that when Nwa Aro comes they would be the ones to hand over the flute to him. Everyone had a station and territory which he guarded so that the flute would not fall into the wrong hands. Nwa Aro must come and discover it. Like I said earlier, Nwa Aro has to perform his own role. So Fiberesima was doing all he could to get the flute across to the one who mattered the most – Nwa Aro and not to his colleagues.

JU

Very insightful…. Now, Odidika knows that if he hands over the flute to Isikamdi, he as the current isi-ani of the Osondu isi-ani lineage would have handed over power to the rightful royal family of Mbaozo, Ezechukwu’s family, and the family will now build an even greater kingdom after the albino ritual is completed (another novel?). Yet Odidika will do so in consonance with the oracle’s prediction because Ibinukpabi never lies and because he loves Ijenna his daughter and wouldn’t want the curse on Ezechukwu’s family to continue. This is a lesson for African rulers who cling to power at all costs, the Ochendos of this world. In Nigeria, the situation is different and what you said in my facebook wall is admirable: “For over 50 years we have been groping in the dark searching for - the light - the secret code to realizing the seemingly elusive 'Pride of the Spider Clan.”

Now what do you recommend for us to do to find the sacred flute of progress in Nigeria and also to instill in us the spirit of the Odidika  altruism?

OU

The solution to our national tragedy is not found in Odidika but in Isikamdi. He was the one who knew he had a problem. His family was born great but missed it somewhere. He needs to forget his selfish interest, his mother’s (ethnic group) stories about his uncle and turn towards solving the problem. His sacrifice should not be just for him and his immediate family but to shed the self in the interest of the whole. Eze Kambite’s words of wisdom should continue to help us as a nation to build a strong forte for greatness. He alluded to a wisdom that is like the wings of mother hen. Wings not fitted for flying to farther lands for gathering its brood together. On another occasion he reminded Isikamdi that that the cord that bound them together could not be severed. Yet when reconciling with his mother Kambite also told Isikamdi that in the forge of family unity we need an inexhaustible fuel of tolerance. We can be the greatest country, better than the developed worlds of today (Idu N’Oba) if we could shed the need to acquire for self rather than for all and commit our lives to building a country which generations unborn would be proud of. The flute is the breath, the energy and the spirit to conquer the elemental weight of our selfish desires. That is my understanding of Pride of the Spider Clan but I am sure some people could have better reading of the book.

JU

Pardon my ignorance, what is the meaning of planting an ogirisi tree over a grave [she begged me to find her grave and plant an ogirisi tree on it, but I was even too late to do her that justice pg 60, line 11]?

OU

The Ogirisi is an evergreen tree. You use the ogirisi to mark a grave. Most times it is to know where people were buried. Remember the Nze, who has spiritual title, and some kinds of Igbo priests would not cross a grave or they get despoiled.  Ogirisi is therefore necessary for them to know where to cross or not.

 On a much lighter, if funny, note:

JU: Who is the protagonist of this novel, Odidika or Isikamdi? Must a novel even have a protagonist?

OU: I would say it is Isikamdi because he is the one who does all the important things and takes all the important risks and makes all the mistakes. Odidika’s life was truly a selfish one and the book is all about group survival.

JU: Where did the word “tata” [for a baby] come from, is it an Igbo word?

OU: Tata is universal baby one. It is the first thing most babies say. You don’t need the teeth to say tata so babies are easily associated with the sounds they make.

JU: Wow, this is a first for me: Okpokodudu is the name for beans! Now, is Agwa a later or concurrent version?

OU: I actually forgot to credit the author of that story in the acknowledgements but  I will correct it in the next issue. It was actually translated from ‘Mbe di Ogu’ written by  F.C. Ogbalu.  Okpokodudu is a species of beans. It is a large species of beans. I think its proper name is cowpea. It is not the regular Agwa you are used to.

JU: Nyu tu! That is caricatured English for “You too”! Did Mbandu’s household know any English? Or is this only a mirror of the caricatured Igbo version?

OU: It is just a mirror of the caricature.

JU: Thank you Sir for this scintillating and invigorating interview with you. And aha, the eagle will be ahead of you and the eagle will be behind you….

OU: May you be provided with what to eat and be protected from what will eat you…

JU: Amen!

“TRY TO UNDERSTAND THE NEEDS OF CHILDREN” _ UCHE PETER UMEZ TELLS JEFF UNAEGBU IN THIS INTERVIEW

ABOUT UCHE PETER UMEZ:

Uchechukwu Peter Umezurike (or Uche Peter Umez) is a Nigerian author. Umez's first published work of poetry, Dark through the Delta, deals with the recurring despoliation of Nigeria using the Niger Delta as its motif. The poems in the collection earned Umez a highly commended review as a "poet distinguished not only by the easily demonstrable honesty of the compassion and social commitment he expresses, but also by the highly evocative powers of his language, his inventiveness and the compelling lyricism of his poetry. A graduate of Government & Public Administration from Abia State University, Umez is also the author of Tears in her Eyes (short stories) and Aridity of Feelings (poems). His children's novella, Sam and the Wallet, was the winner of the ANA/Funtime Prize for Children's Literature and the runner-up for the 2007 Nigeria LNG Prize for Literature. His unpublished children's novel, The Christmas Gift, won the 2008 ANA/Funtime Prize for Children's Literature. His collection of children’s short stories, Tim the Monkey and Other Stories, has been accepted for publication by African First Publishers. He is currently working on his first full-length novel.

For excerpts from his book, The Runaway Hero, click here:

http://www.outofnigeria.com/2011/04/23/out-of-nigeria-exclusive-runaway-hero-by-uche-umezurike/

JEFF UNAEGBU: Sir, you are a veteran of children’s literature, and the strings of awards, especially from the Association of Nigerian Authors, the Nigeria LNG Prize for Literature and the Spanish Embassy in Nigeria attest to this. More power to your elbows. How does it feel to write while assuming a child’s eye view? 

UCHE PETER UMEZ: It feels both exhilarating and demanding, demanding because you have to be very, very conscious about your diction. Exhilarating because it is fun in a way, and you are not too conscious about aesthetics and metaphor.  

JU: Very apt! Ok, in the book, The Runaway Hero, one senses instructive hidden messages that are distilled from the tough and resilient Nigerian adult world. These messages are passed to children in subtle forms. Messages such as harsh economy (“Big Mummy is broke”), ritual killings (“…the men had driven the children to a native doctor in some far-away village where they would be used to make wealth”), are passed down. These make the book unique and very real, unlike a fantasy-tale children’s fiction. Were they done on purpose (social-realism) or no? 

UP: No, I don’t think I really did those things on purpose. The truth is this: any time I set out to write I try as much as possible to sneak “political statements” into my writing, because I feel that politically Nigeria is in a deep mess and people should be re-awakened to this sad yet avoidable reality.

JU: Kachi runs away from the Nkem Orphanage for fear of Big Mummy’s punishments—which he was no stranger to— because of the unwitting cut he made on a bully’s knee with a penknife, does Big Mummy’s punishments reflect the tendencies in some parents to dish out punishments too quickly and naively without searching for the roots of a child’s seemingly evil action?

UP: Yes, it does reflect the tendencies in some parents. Take for instance the issue of child-witches that was all the rage in a part of our country at one time. Many adults who were involved in persecuting and branding the children as witches did not reason that some of those children’s errant behaviour might actually have stemmed from an unstable upbringing or home, or from an emotional craving or fear which translates into mischief or misbehavior. Most times when a child’s need is not met or satisfied, such a child may involve in anti-social activities. This is even so, because every child needs gratification.

 JU: At first, Kachi is not the thrash-all regular kind of hero (he “was used to being laughed at, put down, so [he] did not get much put out”). At the end of the book, he was in the spotlight. Does it follow then that there is always hope for molested children who dare to push beyond their immediate torture environment to escape into the real and equally dangerous world?  

UP: You know there’s a part in The Shawshank Redemption in which Tim Robbins tells Morgan Freeman that hope is a beautiful thing, and I think The Runaway Hero tries to offer hope to every child who feels “put down” either by their peers or society, that being bold and daring pays off in the long run.   

 JU: Ok. The Runaway Hero is an exciting and suspenseful tale, fit to be adapted into a movie or one-hour TV drama, are there plans underway for this, seeing that children also love to watch movies? 

UP: It would be great to adapt it to a movie. Perhaps, since you are the professional in that area, we could work on something in the not-too-distant tomorrow.  

 JU: That will be lovely! I look forward to that day. Now, Nnedi said to Kachi, “You don’t know how to speak to a lady”, does this mean that even children at age nine and ten already have a keen sense of the battle of the sexes, especially in this case where Nnedi talks too much and when she is made aware of this, she ignores the fact of her loquaciousness and expertly turns the guilt to the boy with the retort above?  

UP: I have a daughter who’s almost 4 and nephews and nieces between ages 7 and 12 and I am often stunned when I am in their midst, their words, their alertness and eloquence can quite bamboozle me pleasantly.  

JU: Children are sure growing faster in their brains these days! Now, Sir, what advice do you have for writers who hope to also write children’s literature? 

UP: Read as many children’s books as you can find, books from different continents, and of course observe children whenever you find yourself around them. Try and understand the needs of children, particularly the psychological needs such as need for affection, belonging, to achieve and be recognized, and need for independence.

 JU: Thank you Sir, for this exhilarating interview. I hope to chat with you again someday! 

UP: It’s my pleasure, and really, I look forward to reading more of your writing.

"Learn to Be Open to Criticisms" _ Jude Dibia advises in this interview with Jeff Unaegbu

ABOUT JUDE DIBIA:

Jude Dibia is the author of two well received novels; Walking with Shadows (2005) and Unbridled (2007). Dibia’s novels have been described as daring and controversial by readers and critics in and out of Africa. Walking with Shadows is said to be the first Nigerian novel that has a gay man as its central character and that treats his experience with great insight, inviting a positive response to his situation. Unbridled, too, stirred some controversy on its publication; a story that tackled the emancipation of its female protagonist who had suffered from incest and abuse from men. Unbridled was awarded the 2007 Ken Saro-Wiwa Prize for Prose (sponsored by NDDC/ANA) and was a finalist in the 2008 Nigeria Prize for Literature (sponsored by NLNG). Dibia’s short stories have been featured in the Caine Prize Anthology, One World: A global anthology of short stories and various online literary journals. Dibia was a recipient of a Commonwealth Highly Commended Award for his short story ‘Somewhere’ in 2010.

You can get excerpts from Blackbird here:

http://www.outofnigeria.com/2011/05/06/blackbird-by-jude-dibia-out-of-nigeria-exclusive/

JEFF UNAEGBU: The great writer, I am pleased to have you in this interview! A book that begins with a prologue which is full of suspenseful action can possibly not be ignored. Oh yes, your book, Blackbird takes a straight flight into the minds of readers through its first few sentences (Get into the house. she will be alone. Finish her!) and then, it builds a cage in there for itself and other books flying in from your pen! Little wonder that its predecessor, Unbridled, was a finalist in the 2008 NLNG Prize for literature. Congratulations. Now, your characters are very deep and well-formed and you are able to develop a psychological database of human behavioral patterns. Omoniyi, the chief protagonist, managed to retain a nice disposition (“his humility and good nature threw most who met him”), despite the gutter of poverty and evil he swam around in and even got dirtied with. Were his trials, then, a form of circumstantial punishment for being somewhat effeminate and even possessing “a dangerous beauty” in physical form? And why would he remain so strong in having a conscientious mindset, yet so weak in the face of lustful temptations? Does this reveal that a gentle and good natured person can actually do something very bad when circumstances propel him?

JUDE DIBIA: Many thanks, Jeff for your kind words regarding my writing. The opening lines of Blackbird were inspired by the opening lines of Toni Morrison’s Paradise, which started with these lines: ‘They shoot the white girl first. With the rest they take their time. No need to hurry out here.’ Three simple, yet well intended statements. It was my, intention to set the pace of the story with something akin to tension and at the same time slowly reveal the complexity of the moment, the visible differences between the wealthy and the desperate in our society and the fragile glass wall that separates the two sides. I am great admirer of Toni Morrison; ever since I read her Song of Solomon I have been in awe of her writing prowess. So in a way, I have learnt that a character’s psychological make-up and those unseen factors that trigger him or her into action are equally as important as the visible conflicts within a story. I am very interested in this aspect of human nature. Like Paradise, there are four main characters in Blackbird; this was why it was also important to begin the story with a prologue which had nothing and everything to do with all the chief characters, and not just Omoniyi. Omoniyi’s trials, as you put it, were unconnected to his ‘dangerous beauty’; he was just a man without money or influence like so many others and what he went through are things a lot of people go through every day. At the heart of everything, we are all faced with choices and sometimes, circumstances dictate how we react.

JU: Chimaya, or Maya for short, comes across as a good, wise and yet unassuming personality. Would we say that she manipulated the rich white Edward using her feminine powers, including a rich singing talent, even without trying, or should we take it that any wise woman in the same economically harsh circumstances would do the same or should do the same? Aha, I am aware that Maya had “never truly considered herself poor because, for her, wealth [is] measured by how much… love existed in one’s home”, so, was it her struggle to retain love in her family that made her allow Edward to help her, when he could? Can a woman’s love for her poor husband make her open to the risk of allowing other men to take advantage of her in order to save the stress in the family? Please, don’t mind my weird questions and sub-questions style….

JD: Oh dear (smile), your first observation is certainly interesting, but not what I had in mind when I was writing the story. Like her husband, Omoniyi, Maya was desperate. She had a sick son, they were facing homelessness and she certainly was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She did what any mother would do, which is think of her child and family first. I wouldn’t say she knowingly manipulated Edward, but she was indeed aware that he was attracted to her. Did this help her in gaining certain favours? Maybe! Did she open herself to certain risks? Definitely. But like I said earlier, she was thinking of the best thing for her child and family at the time. Risks are things we forget when our families are threatened, don’t you think?

JU: Nduesoh suffered inferiority complex because of her ugly looks and was incredibly jealous whenever Edward leered at other women, especially the singer, Maya. She had a feeling of fulfillment (“felt born anew”) after she played the male role and made love to Omoniyi. Does this mean that some evil actions of people may be fueled from a desire to take a revenge vaguely connected with their victims or to cure themselves of their demons and not from the actual natural disposition of the predators to despoil the targeted victims?

JD: Nduesoh did not make love to Omoniyi. She took advantage of him, knowing she wielded more power (not physical, but social power). In essence, she raped him. Rape is not about sexual fulfillment or pleasure; it is simply about power – who wields more power! To her, in a twisted way, it was indeed a form of revenge. And yes, from research, it has been recorded that some people do turn into the very thing and do things that they abhor the most or feel threatened by. Nduesoh’s raping of Omoniyi was a manifestation of her fears, her anger, her regrets and so much more.

JU: Like Omoniyi, who felt a “growing disquiet” inside of him after being dirtied by Ade (scorpion) as a kid and by Nduesoh as an adult and then later “demolished” with a false belief that Maya was dead (as is evident in his abstract letters towards the end), the buildup of mass protest against government actions in the slums is evidently in the background of the your plots until its culmination in the demolition of Edward’s Oasis Hotel. Is this coincidentally built in when you were plotting this novel? If yes, do you want to subtly inject into us the awareness that like Omoniyi, Nigeria is good natured, however ravished by poverty (like Nduesoh who “was very much like this country…p.282”). And like Omoniyi, the country explodes quite often only to come back again to normalcy and commence the circle again, as may happen with Omoniyi beyond this novel? Or are these indices of the inner workings of your unconscious wish to deliver a nation through an explosive revolution rather than a gradual one?  Pardon me….

JD: From the beginning, I always knew that there would be an explosion at the hotel. While I was doing my research for Blackbird, reading up newspaper accounts of the 90’s and early 2000 as well as reading up on groups like the OPC, I came across an article of a hotel in Ikeja that was raided by the police and explosives were discovered there. It was believed that the militant arm of the OPC were responsible for them. That account gave me the idea of the explosion at the hotel, which in a way was indeed the climax of the novel. And yes, I was consciously aware of the symbolisms I used in capturing feelings and sentiments with regards our nation. In a way, I guess I was trying to illustrate that things are wrong in our country and the government are not paying attention to the majority of the people. If you continue to ignore the needs of the masses, the common man, as if they don’t exist, one day there surely will be an uprising. Look at what is happening today with kidnappings and bombings! People are beginning to react to an insensitive ruling class.

JU: Blackbird as a novel is representative of the resilience of the black bird (“you can cut down their trees, clear entire forests even, and yet they will still fly; they keep singing [like Maya]”). Therefore, are black birds, as taken from this novel, symbolic of the resilience of Nigeria?

JD: You can say so. Nigerians are renowned for taking just about anything you dish at them. If you don’t provide them with light, they will find a way of getting light. If you don’t give them pipe borne water, they will dig boreholes for themselves in their homes. If you give them bad roads, they find a way of buying big cars to maneuver the potholes etc.

JU: Now, what advice do you have for upcoming writers?

JD: This will sound cliché, but it is true – read as voraciously and as widely as possible. Read books by authors writing in the genre and style you are interested in and learn to be open to criticism, it helps you become better. Also, there is no essence in being called a writer if you do not write.

JU: Thank you very much for this exhilarating interview, Sir Jude Dibia!