"Tomorrow Died Yesterday" by Chimeka Garricks

This month, CLR presents Oyebanji Ayodele’s opinion of Chimeka Garricks’ Tomorrow Died Yesterday. Enjoy and do engage our guest blogger in the comment box. We appreciate your comments.

****

Chimeka Garricks’ Tomorrow Died Yesterday is a recountal of one of those realities that define the entity clad in the nominal fabric, Nigeria. It is worth mentioning that its emissaries in a matter of months would be cutting murdering its centenary celebration cake. They are used to murdering cakes. And funds. And people. They do so in place of the ill-realities that blot the country.

Chimeka Garricks’ novel resonates with Chinua Achebe’s voice. In the proverbial way peculiar to him, he speaks through one of his creatures in Anthills of the Savannah:

“…Age gives to a man some things with the right hand even as it takes away others with the left…”

Age is a dunce in the case of Nigeria. It stares wide-eyed and unmoved, saliva dripping from its tongue as the nation’s grip on the droopy breasts of its shameful history refuses to slacken. I find myself wondering why all that could proceed from my thought about Nigeria’s resilience in holding unto the ugly side of history, is a quotation from Achebe’s work. It goes beyond the fact that we have just lost him. I’m not trying to evoke a memorial. No. What I’m saying finds articulation in the similarity of the plot of his Anthills of the Savannah and that of the novel being considered. Both stories present how the private existence of a group of friends spill into public discourse.

Tomorrow Died Yesterday tells of the reason one needs to blind one’s eyes to a future that has been aborted before its birth.

There are times when realities seem so bland to take in, their closeness to you notwithstanding. Such realities easily earn the ‘overflogged’ tag. Tomorrow Died Yesterday treads the path of stereotypes and I refuse to mark it down for it. It hinges on one of the nondescript realities that characterize Nigeria: the Niger Delta region issue. I have not read much Literature about this region but, having read Garricks’ Tomorrow Died Yesterday and recently, Christie Watson’s Tiny Sunbirds Far Away, I can assertively say it that the Niger Delta is not only a mine for crude oil, it is a mine for narratives too. All that matters is telling your story. And doing it, your own way.

Chimeka Garricks has told his. His is that of angst and pessimism:

“…‘You still get it, Kaniye, do you? There is no future for the children of the Niger Delta.  Their tomorrow is already dead. It died yesterday’…” (Page 236)

Remonstration,

“ ‘Why are you crying, Amaibi? Were they crying for us in ’97? Ehn, Amaibi, answer me. After 1997, weren’t you the one who always wrote, and I quote, ‘violence is now a justified option for dealing with the injustice in the Niger Delta’? This is violence, Amaibi…’ “ (Page 38)

Resuscitation:

“…After more than six nightmarish years, who would have thought that I’d get an erection again, in Port Harcourt Prison of all places; and they say there was no rehabilitation in a Nigerian prison…” (Page 50)

And a whole lot of other motifs. The novel is complex on different grounds. The scope of its plot is wide, but it is palpable enough that it is not a burden for the author to manage. His four-stranded cord of Kaniye Rufus, Doye Koko, Amaibi Akassa and Joseph Tubo are allegories of the different shades of humanity in the Niger Delta.

The novel reverses the convention in a lot of binary relationships. The most evident are in the light of sex and race. In the duo, the conventional ‘other’ finds a voice that either drowns its converse or that which gives it a similar standing as the privileged.

I remember reading Achebe’s essay, AnImage of Africa: Racism in Conrad's 'Heart of Darkness’ where he alludes (though without resentment) to one Albert Schweitzer, an ‘extraordinary missionary’ as he puts it, who says:

"The African is indeed my brother but my junior brother."

It is in such context that one would understand that Garricks, though indirectly, writes back to the west in his work. Imagine these:

“I turned to the white man. His pink face was a blotchy and sweaty mess. Sweat plastered his thin, fair hair to his big head, and highlighted, starkly, how large his eyes were. He wasn’t really fat, but had a stomach that fell odiously over his jeans. His breathing was loud, wheezing and heaving. I interpreted it as fear.” (Page 7)

“ ‘Gentlemen, let’s focus on poor Manning, okay?” Granger said.

We all smiled at the description. Manning was anything but poor. He was an arrogant, obnoxious bully, and a little more than a racist thug…’ “ (Page 17)

What an honourable disrespect to one’s elder brother!

Garricks does not extend his disrespect to his female characters. In a situation where the African society has always rendered the male in the guise of a hegemonic entity, Garricks’ female characters refuse to be relegated to the background. Not even when ‘victim-hood’ looms. Kaniye’s mother and Dise typify this. Deola, even more.

That a male writer presents this is something tangible to note about how contemporary African Literature engineers a novel mode of treating gender issues. For instance, one would wonder what kind of feminist statement Doreen Baingana makes with her characters in Tropical Fish. Hers is a different approach to the issue of gender, in that her female characters take responsibility for their actions and not that they ascribe them to some domineering males. Here are some instances:

Rosa says this:

“…For swaying my hips deliberately, enticingly, as I danced with you, with others. For those jeans I bought that hugged my buttocks so tightly men turned to watch and whistle as I walked by. I am mocked for saying yes. I am guilty…” (Page75)

Christine has this to say too:

“…Why did I always seem to have my legs spread open before kind men poking things into me? I let them.” (Page 98)

Chimeka Garrick’s prose is scrumptious. His ability to invoke images is alluring. Here are my favourites:

“From Juju Island, Asiama River surges on, in elaborating crooks and turns, expanding at every mile. Then, a few hundred miles from the ocean, the curves stop, and the river suddenly opens out – the swollen head of a king cobra. The river can now sense the ocean and flows faster to meet it. The only obstruction, right in the middle of its path, is Asiama Island. The river is divided by the island. Two hydra heads are formed, but the river flows on nonetheless. It glides round the island, and finally, embraces the roaring ocean.” (Page 32)

“I stared at the beautiful body I worshipped for the past months of my life. The body I knew so well. The breasts were full, firm, big nippled, the aureoles the colour of dark honey. The tuft of hair between her legs was shaved in a neat triangle, one of Dise’s quirks. Her legs were long, slightly knock-kneed. My unborn son slept in the small bulge of her tummy.”

Such is the best compensation for the time a reader spends on a bulky paperback.

The book is bulky (429 pages in all). So are its editorial issues so innumerable that the reader feels like demanding the head of the editor that does a book like this such disservice.

As much as I acknowledge the author’s cultural background, I won’t spare him and whosoever helps him with his Yoruba translations the rod for allowing this in the book:

“ ‘…It’s the neighbourhood with the best bole and fish in town…’ …

“Bole with dry groundnuts?” I shook my head in disbelief.” (Page 62)

For someone to have written booli as bole is a signal that our indigenous languages are on a fast track into extinction.

Chimeka Garricks is a writer to watch out for. His prose is luminous one cannot but anticipate other offerings of his.

***

Oyebanji Ayodele blogs at www.ayoyebanji.blogspot.com    

Hairdressing and Controversy

Critical Literature Review presents, Nigerian author, Ayodele Olofintuade's review of Tendai Huchu's debut novel ‘The Hairdresser of Harare’. We hope you enjoy reading it.

‘The Hairdresser of Harare’, Tendai Huchu’s debut novel, is about beautiful hair, family and love. It is an easy read which I devoured less than 24hrs after it was handed to me by a friend. I enjoyed it so much that when I got to the end I was faintly surprised.

It is engaging, fun and fast paced. The author manages to convey emotions, thoughts and actions of the characters with as few words as possible, which is an art in itself. It also helps that the chapters are short and to the point. There is no dilly-dallying or the inclusion of long, philosophical passages, which make reading some books a tedious exercise.

The Hairdresser of Harare is a story of deception; a woman’s journey into the inner workings of her mind; of revenge and the havoc that intolerance can wreak on relationships.

Vimbai is a single-parent struggling to pay her bills, and until Dumi barges into her well-ordered world, she is the queen bee at Khumalo Hair and Beauty Treatment Salon in Harare. A village girl, with a village ‘world’ view and a set way of doing things, she does not take kindly to this invasion and dislikes him from the get go.

Not only is he male, in the female dominated world of hairdressing, he also knows his onions. Unlike Vimbai, who believes that any female who walks into the salon wants to leave ‘feeling like a white woman’ (as she puts it ‘white is a state of mind’), Dumi works from the angle that women want to feel beautiful, he has magic fingers that can change a woman from dowdy to sophisticated just by snipping a couple of inches off her hair.

Dumi is good looking, confident (a bit overbearing), well groomed and charming. He is completely unlike most men in Vimbai’s experience and all the clients who, hitherto, would have only Vimbai attend to their hair, now book appointments to see Dumi. To add insult to injury, within the first three months of his employment he is chosen overVimbai (in spite of her long service, loyalty and dedication) as the manager of the salon.

In a twist of fate (truthfully, the twist is of the writer’s keyboard) Dumi and Vimbai become housemates. From there it was a short step away from love, romance and a ticket ‘happily-ever-after’, as Dumi charms his way into the hearts of Vimbai and her young daughter. For a while everything appears to be perfect, for the first time in a long while, everything is lined up in obeisance to Vimbai’s every wish.

This book is a strong debut from the Zimbabwean author. He was able to use simple, everyday language and gentle humour to address a vast array of issues, which in other books might end up sounding repetitive and boring.

His characters are well rounded, with the usual human flaws; nobody was over or underdone. There is the Minister who has a mean streak a mile wide and would not hesitate to sic her thugs on you if she feels you’ve insulted her; but who on the other hand is kind and does not condescend to people. There was Mrs. Khumalo; a hard-headed business woman, who displays a motherly heart.

The story is tight knit and fast paced. Unlike a lot of books written recently about Africa, there are no long chapters where the author uses a character to pontificate on one issue or the other. There are no superfluous chapters or loose ends. Every chapter was a step taken towards the conclusion of the novel.

The story is set in present day Harare, which Huchu manages to paint so realistically with words that the reader can easily follow Vimbai on her daily journey from her home to the salon. An example is the way Vimbai gives directions to the salon in the first chapter, “Go up from Harare Gardens, skip two roads, take a left, skip another road and look for the blue house on your right, not the green one and you’re there. You’d have to be a nincompoop to miss it.”

The author touches on a wide range of problems that has plagued African nations for years; corruption, lack of infrastructures, poverty, etc., but these facts are not used to evoke pity. Rather they are skilfully manipulated to move the story forward. This book is neither a cry for a ‘white saviour’ or an attack on colonialism (neo- or otherwise). The characters walk onto the pages, deal with their problems and move on.

The Hairdresser of Harare is written in the first person narrative, and the author is able to resist the temptation to delve into the thoughts of the other characters. Everything is written through the narrator’s eyes and world view (in this case, a semi-literate opinionated view). Yet, he manages to give the reader an insight into how the minds of the other characters work.

The book is the embodiment of the saying ‘less is more’. It gives its reader a chance to reflect on what has been said without thrusting its opinion down your throat. It manages to present each character in all their flawed glory without passing judgement or compelling the writer to form an opinion one way or another.

The book starts out with the words “I knew that there was something not quite right about Dumi the very first day I ever laid eyes on him.” This sentence draws the reader in, it is a big sign that you’re about to go for a ride full of suspense. You jump in and four chapters later you know exactly what was ‘not right’ about Dumi.

Unfortunately, Vimbai doesn’t get ‘it’; all the signs and clues dropped by Dumi and the members of his family are totally ignored by her (or as the writer would have us believe, she is ignorant of the signs) and against her gut instinct she goes ahead to fall in love with him.

Although the author tries to maintain the suspense of the yarn by peppering the book with other sentences like “If I’d known what I discovered three weeks later...” etc., it falls flat, leaving the reader rather annoyed and with the uneasy feeling that the author is somehow implying that one is almost as blind as the protagonist. If Huchu wanted to stretch out the suspense, he should not have given so much away from the beginning of the book. There are so many of these ‘signposts’ that one is tempted to yell ”We know already!” at him each time one reads another sentence leaning to the fact that the book is supposed to be suspenseful.

The story should have simply been left as what it is; a simple story of love, loss and acceptance, instead of trying to make out that the plot is more complex than it really is.

Aside from making the protagonist almost stupidly blind, the author also bases the crisis and its resolution on almost improbable circumstances which could be torn apart with a few, well-placed observations.

On the whole The Hairdresser of Harare  is an enjoyable read. It is one of the brave new books being written these days by Africans, about Africa and tackles issues that are still considered taboo on the continent.

You can follow Critical Literature review on Twitter using @CriticalLitRev.

Book Title: The Hairdresser of Harare

Author: Tendai Huchu

Publisher: Freight Books

No of pages: 236

About the Reviewer

Ayodele Olofintuade is a Nigerian author of children’s literature. She lives in Ibadan, Nigeria.

African Roar 2012

©Joseph Omotayo

@omotayome For Twitter

Some of the stories in this anthology portray bleak situations but moving all the same. My description of them is not confused, I write with a keen mind having read African Roar’s two previous offerings (Read my reviews of the 2010 and 2011 editions here and here). Africa Roar 2012 is the third anthology since it started out in 2010. And so far, the yearly anthology has not wavered in standard. The quality of its entries always holds its readers spellbound. It is with that experience you know you have come to reading unmixed African writings. To help fellow hitherto unpublished writers and open them to wide readership are some of the reasons StoryTime initiated African Roar. And it has been doing that good in that regard. There is no being superfluous about it; what StoryTime is doing for African writing remains (arguably) to be rivalled. It is in its third year now and the strength behind it still strong. Through African Roar, I have come to know writers whose creativity still dazzles me till present. African Roar story-select has always been near perfect. A proof of that is in the array of its yearly entries.

Let me tell you, in my own little observation, what African Roar has been able to do in these three years; it has told the continent’s stories unreservedly. However gloomy some of them might come; they are still ours, Africa’s. To maintain a positive pretense by sticking only to the unsullied side of Africa is to go maliciously one-sided: our African world is a mix of both the evil and the routine (if you could call ‘the routine’ good). Africa Roar does not cower to portray Africa in a fake present modern-day reality. Aside the little spoilers characterizing individual pieces, this yearly anthology is a good read anytime. Go read its archives, Africa Roar has paid its due. It has taken our stories trans-continentally. And Africa is the better for it.

I wouldn’t know the reason for the biographic annotation that graces the end of each story. It is a good thing in some instances but shallow nonetheless. For one, the biographic snippets spoil the critical mind of the reader to relate with the themes of the stories in the manner he sees fit. That publishing style only intrudes on the reader’s mind. I don’t give a hoot if what inspires Onyenezi’s You Smile is some Fela’s music as the authors goes on reeling about cultism being the main theme of his story. Laughably, he fails even in identifying his story’s main theme, which isn’t cultism. The best thing is to scroll over those disturbing annotations or only read them when curious to know the writer’s mind for a particular story. This attempt almost spoils my reading of the anthology.  I found it particularly watery having to know an individual view of his story in the mid-process of my making sense of his piece. That does not do it for me as a reader to say the least.

The entries for the 2012 edition are few, fewer than past editions. Know now, some of the entries in this 2012 edition lack optimism, their views are quite grim. And this makes you wonder if they are not intentionally forced to be that way. I hold this belief because some of them are so unconvincing in their portrayal of the realities they write on.

Experiencing Africa; Some Lives.

“The Colours of Silence” – Ifesinachi Okoli

For Mum and Dad, 10 million naira changes everything. I find it hard to believe the cause of the domestic trouble in this story. However, the manner Ifesinachi uses colours to represent every turn the domestic abuse takes is splendid. The 10 million naira is the money which Mum wins in a lottery Aunty Melissa introduces to her. What questions belief is the suddenness of the luck in the winning. Ifesinachi does little to make her story believable. That Mum quite believes she will win the money even before she plays the lottery just seems far from reality and quite unoriginal. Lotteries are games of thin luck. Nobody knows when they will win.

“You Smile” – Chika Onyeneze

The “You” pronoun make a story so you-beaut. As common as this style has become, when properly used, it could make a piece good. It is how you relate with it that adds to its exceptionality. In You Smile, nothing is working as the lead character, You, suffers on.  You Smile relates the socio-ills we always smiled off. Even in this piece, You only remains sane as he smiles on. He can’t act otherwise, everything is insane already. The constant smiles are the only thing that humanizes his sufferings. Various contrived reprieves maintain his smiles: religion, the usual banter amongst neighbours and Nduka, the bottles, and Nduka’s teenage pleasure.

“Soldiers of the Stone” – Uko Bendi Udo

Kulaja Giri is constantly rattled by the ghosts of his marshy pasts. He can’t forget them easily; the ghosts breathe hard on him, on his present, even when he relocates to New York. When Marco gangsterism spites Kulaja in New York, he wishes he could wake his past ghosts up, get back his Serra Leone militancy and assume his fearless self, the one he daily runs away from.

“The Revenge of Kamalaza Mayele” – Vukani G. Nyirenda

Kamalaza desires Kampeteu, but first he must battle the custom that bars out his sexual desire. When he fails in his pursuit, he will pick a newer pursuit with the flute as he seeks to even his misfortune with a misplaced revenge.

“We Can See You” – Abdul Adan

This is very much akin to the commonplace immigrant story and its usual after-trauma of home coming. If the foregoing were the only fascinations in this piece, then the reader might not be excited. Conversely, what this piece drives at are more than the limitedness in the usual telling and retelling of immigrant experiences. We Can See You ordinarily, yet remarkably, tells the individual trouble of a life that is liberated but imprisoned in the misfortunes of his kinsmen and friends. When Mahmud Yare comes home from America, he is everyone’s bread and so will suffer their ambush. Nothing will save him. But let’s see what Maghrib prayers will do in his dire difficulty. Beside all this, Abdul cursorily uses this piece as a commentary on the corrupt Kenya Telekom Company;

“Mahmud thought back to the days he before he left for America when he ran a phone centre for himself. He offered cheap calls to far places…but with the emergence of cheap cell phones, his service had become unnecessary and he expanded it to include international calls. He received no bills from Telekom, the government parastatal in charge of landlines. All he had to do was make a deal with one of the directors, and offer him a fixed sum, or something to wet his throat…and he was exempted from paying any bills whatsoever”  (pg. 19)

****

With Ivor Hartmann, the publisher of African Roar, combining this with the publication of AfroSF (a new and also a yearly anthology of science fictions by African writers), I hope African Roar will not be the worst for it. One can only hope African Roar maintains its standard, or even surpasses it, in times to come. We, the readers, can only watch, read and hope Africa Roar won’t soon go under for AfroSF.

“Excuse Me!” by Victor Ehikhamenor

©Joseph Omotayo

@omotayome For Twitter

Of Humour, a Slip-on Shoe and Witches

Excuse Me!, I spend hours reading every day. The more I read, the more embattled I am. The more I am embattled, the more I hate overbeaten themes and plots. When you are a consistent book blogger, you suffer several headaches from reading junks by fame-seeking-and-instant-publishing-upcoming writers. Life is too short for such insignificant wahala. I already have problems of my own. Any breather will just do; a big relief I wouldn’t lose. “Excuse Me!” provided that opportunity.

Humour is a great gift in the face of nippy tribulation. Nigeria is presently a mess and we all are partly too. This book can’t have been timelier than now. We indeed need humour to ford the muddy water Nigerian is in. Honestly, you are missing out on a lot of humour if you have not, by some unlucky fate, read “Excuse Me!”. You really are. That may be a pointer that your life is being threatened by your village witches. And village witches are real, that’s no cheap stereotype. Take that from me. Take that from “Excuse Me!”, but don’t quote this:

“I was born…in a village full of gods” {witches} – (“Forgive Me Father For I Have Sinned” pg. 20)

I had saved on getting a slip-on shoe before parting the money on “Excuse Me!”.  I am still angry though. However, “Excuse Me!” could really be a good substitute. But I will save again and get the shoe. I love books, I love shoes. I am no geek. Simple!

“Excuse Me!” creatively simplifies complex matters and the conscious manner this is done makes the very writing a rousing read. Wars are changing us. The troubles we carry around are ageing us. What makes all those bearable are spices of affective humour. “Excuse Me!” has got an overdose of that. You should read this book. If nothing spurs you to, at least, know you would be walloping your village witches for doing so. By reading this book, you would be triumphing over them; over their plans not to make you to. Remember I said village witches are real? But don’t tell them I said so.

Anger, Resignation and Language

Language is brought to magnificent use in this book. The words are all at once serenading and enthusing. “Excuse Me!” giddy word craft elevates simplicity with grace; the reading is light but the art in them refuses to tediously trundle. Words lively speak in this book, you will feel it. And suddenly, that will almost seem heavenly. Check out Lagos on a rainy day;

“When it rained in Lagos, it doesn’t pour. Broken sewers rise and things long forgotten resurrect in a fetid regatta. Dolls and dung float lazily in tar water. Men and women take turns in increasing the water level by pissing into stagnant waters… The only thing moving in the traffic is the incessant wiper blades clearing the tears off crying windscreens… Conductors’ lips are condensed, gripping tight unlit sodden cigarettes… Okada riders have no holiday as they submerge in broken drainages and emerge seasoned swimmers… Shoprite plastic bags take the place of helmets passengers holding dearly to nothingness. Move. Stop. Move. Stop. Between two to twenty the okada riders form a colony of vultures seeking dead carcasses in wetlands, happy that the hyenas, Nigeria police, don’t dampen their feast” (“When It Rains In Lagos” Pg. 150)

You read some other essays and the humour is lost, giving way to deep-seated anger and resignation. Not everything could be so taken lightly when reality bits, even Victor Ehikhamenor’s flair fails fun in this one. Nothing could be bleaker than this is;

 “Your child’s mouth is wide open. You wiggle to seek and give comfort. None seems available in the jam-packed metal scrap called molue you transit in. In this blurry journey, you seek food and future but nothing is within reach. The bus windows are broken for they can’t be rolled up, a situation akin to our GDP.”  (“A Blurry Journey” pg. 103)

Slouchy-Fading Generations: Hasty Conclusions

Highly unfitting is Victor’s imbalanced obsessiveness of the past over the present. Victor’s reminiscences are absorbing, you are easily drawn to them. Humour could be that deceptive, you swiftly flung your opinion as if you never really had one. When Victor writes in Love Letters, I was taken in by the memory. Memories of my exploit at the craft quickly flooded me. I am a veteran at love letter writing. Being born in the very early 90’s has its joys and pains. For the joys, you straddle the worlds before and after the internet. But the lines at which these two worlds blur into each other are your pains. There was a level of writing confidence that came with love letter writing then. I wrote many. Some never really made it to the recipients. Others got my palms blistered and kneecaps' skin bruised when nemesis overtook me. This was before mobile phones and its SMSes. I would still not know why I never scored an A in my O’level English paper. I will just take it that the exam marker never had the head for my dictions (as if that is the only thing needed to pass an English paper. Lol) I knew dictionary, friend. I was a walking one. Love Letter writing taught me good.

However, having gone through that world and still experiencing the presently cyber driven, I won’t easily accept Victor’s careless conclusion. His and many others of the fading generations always come out clumsily. Scorning the internet for the present days’ malaises is nothing near genuineness and that incenses me. Victor’s drive to quickly make rubbish of this internet age in Love Letters falls tiredly supine. It is just so lazy to be that hasty in linking what was obtainable then to the woes youths battle with now. The present system may have been corroded, but that is just the singleness of the total good internet has given to this age. Believe it, it really is. Excerpts like these below are rather frivolous:

“Unfortunately we no longer write love letters – this vital learning class  that helped raise future poets has given way to text messages (txt msgs), which is the biggest threat to the English Language as we know it.” (pg. 7)

It sounds ridiculous to think that text messaging singularly wrecked that evil. There is no conclusiveness as regard that.  So, when Victor haphazardly includes it there, I am disgusted. It is time somebody started talking about the creativity of words that came with this innovation too? Who will show how Text Messaging has also helped erase verbosity? Certainly, this will not be with the likes of Victor of the fast fading-slouchy generation.

And this too:

“A contemporary village girl would rather accept a txt msg with rchge crd than a well written love letter that can’t boast of one minute call credit” (pg. 7)

The above is another attempt to commonly bring many under a lazy speculative mirror. The thrill that comes with love SMSing overrides what Victor attached to the recharge card power. Many a lady would admire a guy’s pert SMSes over flimsy exhaustible recharge vouchers. But Victor’s single view wouldn’t accept that.

“When was the last time you wrote a love letter? No, I don’t mean those headless and tailless ones on Blackberry chat, Twitter flirts and other forms of instant messaging; those are like pissing in the wind.”  (pg. 3)

Only in Victor’s world are those (Tweets, BBMs, etc) seen as such. How piteous.

Victor never ceases to amuse me and he does hastily jumps again in Ever Jolly Valentine. It is a great worry when an over-contented memory-drunk elder speaks. In his world, everything is pristine and nothing of yours could stand up to his. He doesn’t want any other memory cleaning his out and so, he faithfully holds on to his, running down your own. Ever Jolly Valentine is very much akin to that attitude. Victor’s reliving and tail-end creative analogy is outstanding though. His messages are not rushed until they hit you at the very last paragraph, but that could come off as a dogma too, with Victor leaving you with little room to disagree. Narcissistic Romanticism so plagues many pieces in this book, so when Victor put it this way again in Ever Jolly Valentine, I wasn’t comfortable:

“Ekpoma still has the Ever Jolly Supermarket but it has lost its glamour (and the monopoly) it enjoyed back then. Ambrose Alli University has also lost its innocence. The place is filled with fakes now. Facebook and text messages have replaced the greeting cards that made Olu great. I shudder to imagine the Valentine Day celebrated there now and in many of our Federal run-down universities today.”  (“Ever Jolly Valentine” pg. 10)

The past may have been heavenly and the present hellish, but please save us that tired mantra. This present is different with its innovations in good ways. In the above excerpt, there is once again a subtle attack on the two mediums of Facebook and text messages. Victor will have to do better than making languid connection between what constitute morals and otherwise with the popular use of the new media. What does one call that attitude if not a blind glorification of the rustic past over this dynamic present?

Well, humour may easily buy Victor a pardon when he misses his points and come to marshy conclusions on many matters, but an observant mind wouldn’t when he goofs. I love this book, “Excuse Me!”.

"Dyed Thoughts" by Nwachukwu Egbunike

©Joseph Omotayo

@omotayome for Twitter

“We are a people with no sense of history. Either that we choose to forget or that we have selective amnesia” - What Happened to Abacha’s Vision 2010? (pg. 81)

Dyed Thoughts is a collection of essays collected into a single book. Nwachukwu delivers memories of our consequent forgone pasts. Forgetfulness is a Nigerian antidote to piled-up decades of sufferings. How piteous! This book attempts so many things in one. Moreover, it endeavours a merger between the real world and the cyberspace. There is always a clear struggle between the upwardly mobile adopter and laggard receiver of the internet. With Dyed Thoughts, these two worlds are married, bringing into a paperback numerous essays of past print and online publications. Again, the internet has another shared victory. Indeed, this book is partly a testament to the internet inspired way of writing: the internet is breeding an army of daring writers.

“It really started as a joke: Patrick Enahalo proposed the idea that I start a blog. I really did and not take it initially, thinking that it will only serve as an avenue to massage my ego. However….he made me see it as a good opportunity of expressing my thoughts…and since then it has been writing nonstop.”  -  E Se Baba! (pg. 55)

In an effortful medley of several articles (past blogposts, print essays, previously unpublished write-ups), history is shoved to your face. And you suddenly wonder if what you have been tagging change has not been the effect of your traumatized delusional memories. Frankly, nothing is changing much, if not at all. All we have are hypocritical vagary of shoddy actions mocking us. Nigeria is a typical instance at that, Dyed Thoughts’ abundant pieces aptly informs us so.

“In Nigeria each household is its own municipal council. The success of this council depends on its ability to provide and maintain basic utilities. My municipality has been very efficient; we supply power (with a generator), water (through a borehole), security (with vigilante groups), and refuse disposal (with a waste contractor)” - Power Play (pg. 43)

For anyone who yearns for closure on our current sordid state, Dyed Thoughts is a comprehensive archive. Schools should have this book added to their libraries, it is a grounded material for further research. Dyed Thoughts prepares itself as much with well cited sources and a rich index. In reading this collection of essays, memories will come rushing over and the furies will be much. You will anew lament over long-decayed destines and your emotional strength will be quickly spent. Nwachukwu's nonfiction cleverly arranges our past woes to portray where we presently stand.

History is copiously packed in this book. There are loads of issues in it. You simply get the feel of the confusions this writer suffers as a Nigerian. He does not spare out an issue. In just a book of over three-hundred leaves, it would seem you have walked through this nebulous jumbled up country bound by seeming unity. But this is Nigeria, it easily can overwhelm even the best storyteller; the creative archaeologist; the astute historian. Nigeria is a massive rottenness, in telling her stories, brevity is game.

In this book, however, brevity fails Nwachukwu and the book is gravely affected. See why Nigeria may be overwhelming? Even in the words to describe her, you are manacled to your own retelling, convulsing from numerous reliving. Nwachukwu should have primed this book up some bits and spare us the boredom of going through the usual in a tediously stacked way. Everybody knows the usual: Nigeria is a failed state; there is no constant power; maladministration is rife; resources are being purloined. So what? We need a breather. The usual can only be appreciated when it is told in new wittier ways. These, just a few from a host of them, are not enough,  they are rather clichéd and trite:

“The N628 million scam cries for justice. It is also a matter of public opinion because the people involved are public officials who had sworn to uphold the collective trust and not bring their office to disrepute.”  - Justice First and Later Mercy! (pg. 9)

“Nothing seems to work here. The government whose primary responsibility should have been to provide the enabling environment for the blossoming of talents is unfortunately engulfed in corruption” - Hope for a Troubled Land (pg. 16)

“Anambra elections have generated so much tension and trepidation… Elections in Nigeria have never been easy. Things have so degenerated that with each passing poll, the violence and godfatherism had risen to an idolatry pitch.” -  And the Winner is: Peter Obi (pg. 85)

Considering that some of the articles compiled in this book were written formerly for blogs and the print media, it would suffice if more creative editing had been done to fine tune the writings for current reading. Without that, what one has are only stacks of monotonous articles for the flexible media and the rigid writings associated with the print journalism. In that regard, the book bores. Dyed Thoughts regrettably lacks the literary strength for interesting reading. This book should never have been published this way; this is the opinion I hold after numerous readings of Nwachukwu’s book. Or maybe, what that opinion alternatively means is that the book was rushed over, with so many undesirable issues throttling it. Issues like lumpy mix of pieces, clichéd essays and dull language use. Many pieces in this book should be taken back to the press, stripped off its jagged wordiness and polished for more literary grace. The rich materials in this book are worth the rework. Nwachukwu’s book critically shows, in the space of some far and near recent years, the country’s ills, her nemesis and struggles. It shouldn’t be killed by textual ineptness.

Believe this: this book is hotly brimming with matters. With nine sections and over one hundred pieces, conversations are never lacking on any issue that may have spurred news within the period the pieces were written. From mundane chitchats, political discourses, intelligible rants, to foreign concerns subtly affecting the country; words are not miserly. Dyed Thoughts is a priced researcher’s tool. This book is deep and its thoughts many too. Nothing is spared.

“Nothing Comes Close” by Tolulope Popoola

©Joseph Omotayo

@omotayome for Twitter

In romance books, you already know what will happen: a guy meets a lady, the lady is swept off the ground, they both surmount obstacles and the ring comes, they wed. But we keep reading them anyway. We even binge on them. Something, however, is true; romance is a revolving genre. It spins around every pain we pass through; the intrapersonal and interpersonal woes that we daily confront. In that regard, romance is a psychological genre, it deeply relates with our minds.

Tolulope’s Nothing Comes Close is nothing short of the aforementioned. While the plot may be so typical of the romance genre, it delves into the psyche of the reader and his emotion is left unbidden. I love this book for that. Alternatively, I may say the genre is good at communicating more with the inner-human person and I may still be right. Every day we fall in love, in sustaining the love, we battle confrontations and in facing them, we become who we presently are. Now, never say a Romance novel is stereotypical, even the stereotypical is life. Every day, it is a fact, you eat. Call that usual, hate it, starve yourself and die altogether.

Nothing Comes Close flexibly narrates love with the complex mishmashes of life as its characters battle different torments. It is in the battling that the reader is hooked to the book. He suddenly sees his life in scattered shards in the characters’. In Lola; you will be the lady thrashing around to be loved, hurting with every move. When you are Maureen; your life will be free, you will set your own rules, abide by them, damn cautions but will eternally succumb all the same. Becoming Titi might be desperate as you will many times condition yourself to emotional upheavals, believing only what you will and forsaking others’ because you just must love. Be Temmy if you can, however, finding love might be hard but your last story will pay off. About seeing yourself as Funmi, conjugal bliss might smile on you, but what of your Wole’s crush? When you become Wole, you are the book and the readers must follow you; your pasts, evils and love alike.

In Nothing Comes Close, love twirls everything, leaving in its wake disgusts, pains, hurts and fulfillments as the chapters in the books are skillfully divided between Lola’s and Wole’s point-of-views.

“Nothing Comes Close” Slips

No single book, certainly, can be the total representation of a thing. This is why everybody must write, we must always write. From the incessant facebook statuses, the micro and long blogposts to the twitter short words, technology is fast filling the gap, breaking single opinions and offering various and equally important sub-thoughts. There is a snag to the depiction of what attracts women to men in this book and that does not sit well with me. Admittedly, I do not hold the right to say this is how things should be written about, that could only be prejudicial. But most importantly, I must demand originality when things are cobbled together to maintain fake pristineness or continue a tradition of lazy make-belief. And this is my case:

“I turned and looked properly. A tingle travelled up and down my spine. Indeed the taller of the two guys were handsome. Not only his face or his very athletic body but the way he carried himself when he walked. I wanted to stand and stare at him. It had been ages since somebody had that effect on me… ” (pg. 10)

Now, that is a cheap description. That alone stands for the manner we have always had to pander to stilted portrayal. You really want to question the inventiveness of that excerpt, the first crushing encounter Lola had with Wole. And the more you do that, the deeper your frustration goes: Must Wole have to be tall to be handsome? If he hadn’t been tall, will Lola have been thrilled by his looks? Does the height advantage Wole has over the other single him out and make him more preferable of the two? What if both of them were tall, would Lola be emotionally confused as to whom to fall for? If they were both short in height, would they have failed her attention? It is these questions that call to certainty the fakeness of that excerpt. That place in the book and other few instances are only a prolonged tradition of the perfect person being the object of love; an overbeaten continuation of Loretta Chase’s, Jude Deveraux’s, LaVyrle Spencer’s material.

In months’ time, I will get a-three-pack fitness, nearing the minimum required four packs a prospective lover once demanded. And maybe then, I will be successful at love. But really, nobody should become an exact Wole for another Lola. One day too, I will catch my 5ft height. I am in my early twenties now but who says I cannot be taller. I really must become Wole to be loved. Nothing Come Close subtly advises me so, however ridiculous that is.

Not Too Good

“ ‘You know who Dimka was?’ {Wole}

‘No’ {Lola}

Oh, little children of nowadays. You know nothing about the history of Nigeria… We had a Head-of-State called Murtala Mohammed… He was killed mafia style… Dimka was one of the guys responsible. They were all caught and executed, but Dimka stayed longer than the others because he sang like a canary, giving the names of co-conspirators….” {Wole} (pg. 102-103)

That conversation between Wole and Lola is a weak attempt at revisiting that part of Nigeria’s history. It is a nice highlight of the Dimaka’s evils anyway. However, when Tolulope debases her Lola-character as not knowing who Dimka was, the attempt becomes, aside from being weak, misleading. Moreover, I am of the opinion that patriotism rarely reflect in our education curriculum as we go hugging everything Western and foreign, favouring them over what are ours. What especially comes out flat in that excerpt is the way the author chooses to do it. For goodness sake, Lola finishes her degree in Nigeria before migrating to London. So, how come during her University days, she never comes across the history relating to Dimka? True as that portrayal of Lola may fairly seem, it still comes across as a careless inclusion of Dimka’s history in the novel. It does not align with the character background of Lola.

Tolulope again fails in showing the parlance that goes between men playing basketball. She is not familiar with the sport, the reader can clearly see that. But a little research would have done the job. The following conversation is dull. I love basketball and I play it with friends, so I know Tolulope’s attempt at creating that environment in the book is simply a fobbing-off effort. Any basketball lover will know that.

“ ‘Slam Dunk!’

‘Great shots’ …

‘Someone is on fire today’. Mark grinned as he retrieved the ball. He was playing for the opposing team.

‘For sure!’ I called back” (pg. 11)

****

Get Nothing Comes Close, curl up in a chair and enjoy the beautiful fast-paced read. Tolulope’s simple yet elegant writing allures.

“Edible Bones” by Unoma N. Azuah

©Joseph Omotayo

@omotayome For Twitter

The plot of an immigrant story is easily predictable. One must just accept that as a constant and, perhaps, resolve to find other thrilling qualities from it aside its plotting strength. That will greatly pay off. An immigrant story often suffers from its reflections as it as well gain from it. There is the strong urge to recline the newly discovered on the discarded past. Such writing is always a comparison of two opposites. In shunting between what is and what was, over-ambitiousness becomes inevitable. Most at times, there is a quick comparison between the grim and the attractive. Also, in this kind of writing, there are two monsters that must be satisfied; the foreign and the used to. That makes a writer unfortunate in narrating from two unalike worlds. And speaking of both, a writer is soon torn between what to balance and what should stir the reader’s imagination. "Edible Bones" falls fault to these. Or, maybe, I should say it shares the feature of its kind.

However, it is the simple prose Unoma brings to use that rescues the clichéd plot of this book. Every other thing, apart from a few, tailors after the crappy movies Nollywood has come to be known for. "Edible Bones" rides on the strength of a simple yet riveting prose. In the book, Unoma is indeed not on a task to over-impress with her diction, she writes simply with the mind just to tell a story. There is elegance in simplicity, Unoma Azuah shows that much in this book.

Over-ambitiousness

As it is with most immigrant stories, this book riles me with its over-excitement to side with the stereotype; that everything abroad is different from things here. That alone pulls down the main effort of the novel to de-stereotype the fixed reason for seeking greener opportunities. I could not just get my head around why an author would, maybe unconsciously done in this case, get along with the general skewed conception that only points to a shoddy research. But really, does Unoma need an in-depth research to know what level of exposure an average Nigerian is opened to? For goodness sake, an average Nigerian is almost, if not more, informed as his American counterpart. If nothing has prepared him for such, the media has done a great deal in that regard. He has movies, technology and books to get him such enlightenment on a silver platter. Everywhere is now One World, Third World must soon be scrapped from our mentality and word use.

Some parts of Unoma’s rendering of Kaitochukwu’s ignorance of the America culture are unimpressive. An instance of such is this;

 “’Can I have something to drink, please?”

’Soda?’

Soda?’ Kaito was confused. In Nigeria, Soda was a type of soap. The lady saw the confusion on his face and tossed a can of Coca-Cola to him.” (pg 14)

That kind of portrayal is just cheaply misleading, especially in a book that seems to narrate the experience of our present day realities. Soda drink is as much popular here as it is any(exposed)where, so why the hype?

These Floppy Lots

I have been searching for the word “prostrate” and I hope I stumble on a different meaning from its known meaning and usage, just to make sense of the way Unoma has employed the word. Also, there is no place it is known in Nigerian cultures that women prostrate when greeting. The best the traditions demand from them is that they curtsy. Unoma may have to take me on a special tutorial on the word “prostrate” someday. This is one of the numerous examples that smack of the careless editing in this book.

“‘Welcome my dear’ Kaito’s father greeted her. She prostrated before him, and he patted her back and asked her to stand up” (pg. 234)

Moreover, I do not understand the swift-age development Mukhtar, Amin’s son, goes through in this book between few pages. On page 48, he is 3 years old, how he becomes 4 years old on page 62 is what only the careless proofreading that goes into the book could explain. One can only rationalize this mistake if only one infers from the space of time between page 42 and page 68, which record Kaito’s second appointment at Amin’s store and the time his relationship with Sabrina suffers. A little more character development there could have done the job. So simple.

On page 48;

“It was his three year old son Mukhtar that was quite talkative. He would be the first to say ‘how are you doing today?’ to customers that patronized his father’s store”

And then on page 62;

“‘Is that your girlfriend?’ Mukhtar asked tugging at Kaito’s knee… ‘If she’s mad at you, get a basket of flowers. Ladies like that. My Dad gives my Mum flowers when she gets mad.’

As soon as Kaito closed for the day at Amin’s, he headed to a florist. He couldn’t believe that he paid attention to the suggestion of a four year old child.”

The Book

Kaito’s life is a path gone crooked. Overcoming the evils life throws his way will be a difficult circle to square. His joys and victories are not for long. Even his delusions quickly taper down as reality spits in his face. “Edible Bones” narrates the suffering of Nigerians whose successes are moored to the America dream. In a matter of granted visas, bought tickets and direct experiences, all that shimmer will turn into glossed rots. And when the stink of everything comes out, there will be the utmost need to justify and invalidate numerous actions. To some, the bones may be strong and others may pretend it is edible, but when it slashes the throat, the discomfort will not be bearable. When Kaito goes to America, all his pains will seem to have ceased. But on his immediate arrival in America, the bitterness that once was will reemerge with new taints.

Though the book almost assumes a didactic tone, the traces are barely noticeable. The characters are almost fully fleshed out. In this book, every character is a symbol representing a story. We have Kamalu, a perfect copy of a Nigerian student in America living on crumbs to hold up. There is Abuda, the exact depiction of a futile clutch to life. And Kaito, a life which all forces, traditional and foreign, are up against. Of all the things I came across reading “Edible Bones”, I realized that Pentecostalism as an opium is not only in Africa, Americans use it to relieve their boredom too:

“Today, the good news is from the book of John. God wants you to be fishers of men… not wants us to be fishers of money, not fishers of sex”… Each word that came with ‘not fisher of’ was punctuated with a piercing “Amen!” from the crowd. Some added ‘Preach Sis!’ Yet others responded with “Yes Lawd!”… (pg. 54)

The Rescue

“Edible Bones” is an easing-off read. The narrative is natural with an effect. The characters are fallible and quite relatable. The novel expresses its tales with an absorbing telling skill. It somewhat extends the ambit of trite immigrant stories. However unusually, “Edible Bones” combines the usual with the rarely-told in some instances. There are the immigrant issues, the gay syndrome, the psyche of the American culture, the hypocrisy of the American system, the beauty and ugliness of African communality and the coldness of modern life; all which add a refreshing twist to the narrative. Kaito’s encounters become the folder of other stories, stories that come to define the value of an immigrant life. Subtly, though more brilliantly, the tales of two different worlds are bared. Nigeria may be a home of wants; America is neither a land of easy coins.

With its simplicity of plot, naturalness of characterization and smoothness of descriptiveness, “Edible Bones” worked my reading appetite, but I hoped it had done better. 

****

CLR will resume for the year 2013 in February. We so much appreciate your committed readership all through the year 2012. You, our readers, are the reason that has kept us going. We heartily wish you a fruitful and book-filled 2013. If you have any book you would love us to review in 2013, drop a comment or send us a mail (jomotayo01@gmail.com). Keep reading.