14th July 2019,
This summer, I unexpectedly found myself immersed in an abundant supply of books and novels by African authors; something I have lacked access to mostly due to my inability (or more of unwillingness) to invest actual money into seemingly expensive literature rather than procuring them illegally from the internet. Anyways, recently, I came across and finished There Was a Country by Chinua Achebe. I feel this book, in addition to the books prior to it, is prompting me to think and experience certain emotions that have developed an unhealthy sense of restlessness within me. The only way to assuage this…this spirit is to write about it, which I am attempting to do.
I have been writing a lot this summer; in fact, I have been doing many things I forgot I knew how to do. For example, I have been reading a lot. I’ve read, at least, an estimated amount of one book per week since the beginning of June. It has been exhilarating. I haven’t felt so much like myself since I was a child. This is particularly monumental, as for a long time, since I was about fourteen, the pressures of society, weak academics, my limited intellectual prowess, and what have you, have all pushed me towards the edge of self doubt and disconnectedness from who I used to be. Now, beginning from a few months after my graduation from secondary school, I have been growing back into myself or whom I feel should be. This summer in particular, the speed and passion with which I read different stories had me reminiscing of my junior secondary school days when I would dive fearlessly through storybooks borrowed from friends and enemies alike, forfeiting necessary preparation for exams…
However, regardless of this full-blown circle back to myself, there is still something different. First, I now proudly (but quietly) identify as a Nigerian, an African (I will use the term African and Africa loosely here on out, as I am yet to fully reconcile myself with that term, truly speaking). Second, the books I am reading now are by African authors I have barely heard of. You see, I didn’t grow up reading African stories. I had a short (but meaningful) phase in JS3 when I was exposed to the works of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, the most hyped Nigerian author of my generation (so far), but that was about it. I grew up on Enid Blyton, the highly popular American dystopian novel trend, American Christian series… that was my childhood. I wasn’t familiar with the works of Chinua Achebe, NoViolet Bulawayo, Okey Ndibe… Maybe I had heard their names; maybe I was made aware of their contributions to the future of Africa that never was, maybe I had even read clips of their work in low quality English textbooks. But I didn’t know them, not intimately as I knew the books I grew up with. I doubt I will ever know them in that way. However, I am content with that realization. I feel deep down that this was the right time for me to read African works; that my mind at this point is ripe enough to digest the heaviness and futility associated with most books focused upon Africa.
I spent two days (but probably twenty-four hours max) reading There Was a Country by Chinua Achebe. It was a history textbook, to put it simply, about Biafra and Nigeria’s history. It was also one of the most interesting books so far and probably the biggest influence on my writing this summer. It, as well as the complete range of my summer reading, forced me to view myself in the context of African history, present, and future. Prior to reading any of these books, I must say that I was extremely skeptical of the beauty and fantastical nature of Africa’s past or potential for the future. Simply put, I didn’t believe in any of them. I had a vague, formless hope for Africa’s future, probably, maybe, I don’t know. As for the present, well I am schooling in an American university at the point of writing this due to the inadequacy of the tertiary system in Nigeria. I hope that serves as an explanation.
I am intrigued with time. I have been trying to build upon my knowledge of world history this summer, and it is quite beautiful (and sad) to observe the rise and fall of civilizations over time periods so long, I cannot fully comprehend. I have been applying these observations to my limited knowledge of Africa, my continent. It feels weird saying that, claiming Africa as mine. A few years ago, I barely knew what Africa was. Now, here I am proclaiming my identity as an African, yet only in talk, only in people’s assumptions of me based on my race, my accent, my country…
I know nothing of Africa. That is a bit of an exaggeration, I must confess; but when I think of the existence of this continent so far back in time and the little that I know of it, I might as well know nothing. I never cared before about what I didn’t know about Africa. I didn’t think I needed to know. I would see my country through my eyes, see its cracks and fractures, see the stupendous justifications for our failures through culture or religion, and I could not fathom there were any answers to be found in the past. I did not believe that we, as Africans, had ever changed or could ever really change; I just hoped we would.
Now, after reading masterpieces, such as Things Fall Apart, I am constantly asking questions of “is there more; were we more than this?” “What is in our history beyond slavery, before barely remembered pre-colonial traditional governments?” I keep on asking myself, “What was it about our civilizations that held us back from the development of that of the Europeans or the Chinese? Is there a conspiracy hiding something about African history that we are all unaware of?” I know if these questions are answered, Africa will not be magically fixed, and there will be more questions, but at least, at least… I would know. That is what this is all about anyway, this rigorous summer reading, this essay; it’s all about my need to know. It’s all about my need to know where I am coming from, to explain where I am now, so that I can produce tentative solutions for the future.
I must sound like some sort of anti-African fanatic (I guess I kind of am, which in the process makes me self-loathing and insecure), but I am not, really. I don’t think so at least. I like to think I am in love with Africa, or more truthfully, my idea of Africa. Presently, I strongly dislike Africa. I detest our politics, our religion, our music, our culture… I do. And I can give my reasons. The politics: there is no need to explain. The religion: there is our over-reliance on false miracles, the near worship of religious authorities… The music (contemporary music): the lack of depth, the lack of courage to speak up against the faults of our society, and even when there is, its ineffectiveness. The culture: there exists the tribalism, misogyny, the disregard of youths, and its justification for Africa’s faults.
Yet, you will still find my playlist saturated with the latest Nigerian music from the likes of Burna Boy or Teni. I still pore over government notebooks and history textbooks, driven with the thirst for the knowledge about Nigeria’s governmental development or Africa’s general history. I try to learn the latest African dances (and fail woefully). I fantasize about the details of my own traditional wedding. I am desperate to learn every soup recipe I grew up with if only to avoid American food for the rest of my life. However, when I embrace these aspects of Africa, it’s not because I am truly enjoying them as they are now, undiluted and raw. It is because I am experiencing them in the sense of what they could be. I am imagining them as a redefinition of their essence in the future if when Africa improves. That is what really enhances the experience. For example, it is so satisfying to dream of a time when African music creates its own international platform, independent of any American or ‘western’ support; when African artists have fan bases all over the world; when African music is a source of depth, inspiration, and diversity. When I dance to African music in the present, it is really for that dream I am dancing.
Also, maybe as well, I find it hard to dismember myself from these African features I so claim to detest because I can’t. That is, I physically cannot do it. The removal of the stripes from a tiger, I think, serves as a strong comparison. It’s not possible. I grew up with these things, and no matter how much knowledge I accumulate, how much I pompously elevate myself above my perception of Africa as it is, or just simply confuse myself, I cannot truly change who I am as an African (or Nigerian). Regardless, I will not dwell on that viewpoint for the sake of this argument.
I don’t really know what this essay ended up being about or whether that spirit of restlessness is now satisfied, but I feel I said some of the things I hoped to say when I set out to write this. I will end on this disparate (but not really) note, and that is for Africa to be rediscovered. I wish for Africa to have its own renaissance, as I don’t believe it has truly achieved this yet. I hope for Africa to be set free from the chains of stereotypes, the limitations of its past, the failure of the present, and the pressure (or lack thereof) of its future. I want Africa to just be… to find its own middle ground within all these conflicting concepts of what it is and can be. I want Africa to exist as it should have (or it did a long time ago. I don’t know; I don’t want to know). I have some hope and many dreams. They can’t all amount to nothing.
EZERIKHI EMETONJOR