To the Man who wrote “Things Fall Apart”

A humble tribute to Chinua Achebe

 

To you sir, it was just a book, a novel telling a story of an Africa that once was, an Africa that was populated with dignified people, who had structure, knowledge, medicine, wisdom and who inhabited a land that was of their birth. To you sir, it was an account of what might have been; of a time when our communities were structured by who we were and what we believed, before the great and calamitous invasion. I thank you for this. You told a story, but to me it was more than that. For me it was THE STORY that changed everything.

 



 To me sir, Things Fall Apart was the mirror that was held to my face, a mirror which showed me an image of myself that was far different from the image in my head: the one in which I was a poor dirty black African who stank, who was of lesser intelligence and therefore had to have white people oversee me. The Image that was drummed into my head of a me that was clumsy, ineloquent, inherently stupid and backward. That depiction of me as “lucky” to have been saved, fortunate to be in an all white school instead of a group B school eating weevil- infested beans and sadza everyday. Things fall apart stirred a deep ancient memory in me, and kept stirring the more I read, it rattled at the scales before my eyes until they started to fall off gradually in bits and pieces, so that I could truly see what had happened to me, to us, to the continent of Africa. Where I had been led to believe that Africans were very lucky that white people came, I began to see that tragic effects of colonization. Where I was told there was ugliness and “paganism” in our faces names and traditions, I began to see beauty, wealth depth and true spirituality. Where I had heard the word inept over and over again I began to hear the words, intellectual, scientist, writer, doctor, lawyer….human being.

Things Fall Apart was my Bible. I read it and gently, lovingly tenderly I was born again. Things Fall Apart marked the beginning of my re education, my coming of age, my awakening. I began to dig and to search for other such books. I was thirsty for more images of myself as fully human, fully alive, and therefore full entitled to exist and to live just like other human beings.

Thank you for giving me Okwonkwo, who taught me that to die with dignity is better than to live in shame and humiliation. Thank you for his indomitable spirit, because though I did not know it at 14, I would need this same spirit later on in life. Thank you for Nwoye, who taught me that artistry, a gentle spirit and distaste for blood- letting are not signs of weakness. Thank you for the egwugwu, who reminded me that there is a continuum that begins before birth and carries on after death, and that death is but just another milestone on that continuum. This gave me courage to venture to places and spaces I would not have otherwise dared to even think about. The ancestors were with me, I lived to tell the tale.

Thank you for clothing mother Africa in garments befitting her stature, garments woven from the most beautiful and lyrical words. Thank you for lifting her up along with her children and emboldening all of us to tell our myriad stories and to reclaim ourselves. Thank you for those garments that restored her dignity and enabled her to stand among other mother nations, owning her faults and flaunting her iridescent beauty.

Daalu, Nna, Thank you for it all. RIP.

Minus the morning- Jennifer Armstrong. A Book Review

“My story starts in the womb of innocence- a cozy and comfortable womb, as every womb is, and ought to be.”

Thus begins an intriguing and at times heartbreaking account of a childhood that is in so many ways like any other childhood, but that is in as many ways unique. Jennifer Armstrong’s account of coming into consciousness during the early years after the Unilateral Declaration of Independence by Ian Smith, the then prime minister of Rhodesia in 1965, is a personal tale of living and existing with a status quo which she played no part in shaping and against which she was powerless. The adults were powerless, however what makes this story so compelling is the utter powerlessness of the child. It is the powerlessness of the adults in the story, particularly her father, which she captures with amazing prowess, yet using simple, child-like language. She is then able to demonstrate how this sense of impotence and loss of control and adherence to Christian ideology, which he dared not question, created a war within him, a raging minstrel which spewed its heat over her, the female child who was different because she was curious and dared to question. The young Jennifer turns inward, becoming quiet and as still as possible in order to avoid the unpredictable, explosive outbursts of anger from her father. However, it seems at times as though her very existence is an affront to his authority and a source of great irritation.

Armstrong’s discussion of the war of liberation of Zimbabwe from colonial rule provides the context to the complex emotions and the visceral fear that adults experienced and how these in turn impacted on her psyche. She chronicles events in a circuitous manner much like the memory, which does not always recall events and experiences in a linear fashion. One might call it an emotional geography, in which nature, events and subjects are all contexts for emotional expression. Yet one is truck by the richness of her descriptions of Nature, which she calls the “umbilical cord” to which she was attached.

Amstrong’s family eventually emigrates to Australia after her father resigns his job as a lecturer at one of Harare’s tertiary educational institutions. Life in the new country is described in emotional terms and the teenager Jennifer wrestles with the loss of Nature as her primal source of energy and happiness, paternal unpredictability and issues of sexism and patriarchy, which she meets head on with a defiance and determination that brings her to a point of personal emancipation.

Armstrong’s voice is very consistent but at times petulant; a child’s voice that is focused totally and exclusively on herself, with events and circumstances always being relative to herself. This is the case throughout the entire narrative, which gives it a cohesiveness, which its esoteric style might otherwise have threatened.  The esoteric quality is what makes the story such a delight to delve into. It demands that the reader delve in with an open mind as well with as an open heart. It compels the reader to think deeply, all the while enjoying a gently cruising pace, giving pause for reflection on one’s own inner child and the innocence, which gives the young Jennifer the gift of exacting immense pleasure and joy from the simplest of things like jumping into a cool swimming pool on a hot afternoon.

This is a story told in a unique way. It is solid.   What makes it a gem is the author’s audacity to tell of her experiences in a way that she wanted to, in a voice with which she is completely comfortable. By taking a risk with experimental form, Armstrong has demonstrated what a memoir ought to be - a means of recollection, told in a manner in with which she is at home. This in turn enables her readers to “feel at home” in her narrative.

Excellent read Jennifer! I am hoping that there is more where this came from!

Barbara Mhangami-Ruwende

The secret lives of Baba Segi's Wives- Lola Shoneyin

The secret lives of Baba Segi’s wives- By Lola Shoneyin

This book is about a man, Baba Segi, who has 4 wives. He lives in a huge house in which all 4 of his wives co habit with all their children. The book begins with Baba Segi going to seek the wise counsel of a man they all call Teacher who resides in a seedy part of town . The issue is the barrenness of his 4^th university educated wife.

The story is told in the voices of each of the wives, who speaks of how she came to be Baba Segi’s wife. Each woman has a somewhat sad tale about their past and Baba Sego emerges as the one who saved them from their plight. This book is very well written and the characters are well developed and real. One cannot help but feel for Iya Segi, who is a closet lesbian whose unfulfilled sexuality is channeled into making money. Iya Tope is a colorless, timid individual who, next to Iya Femi is a wilting violet. Iya Femi ‘s story as an ill-treated maid is the saddest of all. One can understand her vengeful nature and her ruthlessness in dealing with her enemies, all done of course in the name of Jesus! Enter Bolanle the university graduate, who married an illiterate man. Baba Segi’s lust for Bolanle’s educated mind turns his peaceful household upside down. Talk about education bringing light into dark places! A colossal secret is exposed, one that has the potential to destroy the well organized household.

Then Baba Segi rises to the occasion and he once again emerges the savior of these women and the children. Left to their own devices, these women scheme, plot and form unholy alliances to confront a common enemy. Despite their secret hatred for each other, they come together when the need arises, to deal with what they perceive as a threat to their very existence as a family. Bolanle is that threat, with her education and her sophistication…and then her barrenness. Their dislike for Bolanle results in a tragic accident which threatens to unravel the whole set up.

The story climaxes with Baba Segi faced with the toughest decision of his life. He is a man who has been made to question everything about his life and to confront the worst news that any man can ever receive from a doctor….One is almost thankful that Baba Segi seems not to have the ability to think deeply about issues or to reflect on the actual meaning of the events that unmask his life to be one big lie. I think it is this simplicity of mind that is his ultimate salvation.

I won’t give too much away. You will have to read this one. If I sound obscure it is intentional. Read the book! You will not regret it. Lola’s writing is startlingly blunt and her descriptions unusual. This, and a captivating story make for a compelling, fast paced read.

It is interesting that polygamy described in the book is very different from the polygamous setup I am familiar with. In Zimbabwe the wives each live separately each having their own home or group of huts. This cohabitation in one house is a recipe for total chaos. The rivalries among the wives can get really intense.

BULAWAYO, the city that raised me , and its emerging artists

BULAWAYO


I just finished reading two books, the first one I read is by Chris Mlalazi and it is called “Dancing With Life, Tales from the Township. The second one is by Irene Sabatini and it’s entitled “The boy next door.” I did not intentionally read these books that are rooted in the city of Bulawayo, Zimbabwe where I grew up. It just happened that way so that by the time I was done with the second one, I was homesick, but glad to be away, happy but also very sad.

Chris Mlalazi describes a Bulawayo of which I only recognized tiny remnants. Having left Zimbabwe, Bulawayo in 1990, and only returning for very short periods since then, the Bulawayo he describes was unfamiliar, frightening and in cases quite repulsive. I do not recall ever having such feelings about Bulawayo even on my last visit there in 2002. Clearly, there has been a decay and a degradation which Mlalazi captures in his vivid descriptions. This is not only experienced in the portrayal of the external environment, but it is apparent in the nature of the interactions among people, a sense that “Ubunthu”, “I am well if you are well” does not exist anymore. One gets the sense that one is in the wild and it is survival of the fittest. In the story “dancing with life” a scene which captures both environmental and human debauchery reads thus: “Virginia hates Mxolisi. She also wishes him ill. Two weeks back, he had been intimate with her in the public toilet behind Figa Sports bar, and, afterwards, in the feaces smelling darkness, had given her a roll of money .” Then poor Virginia finds out later that she has been given counterfeit notes and so basically she has not been paid for services rendered. Fine so the trade she is in is not exactly an orthodox and legitimate business, however one would have thought that even in the world of the illicit, there is a sense of “Ubunthu”. The total cold lack of remorse by Mxolisi and the stench of feces bring home to me that the hardships people have experienced and are still experiencing can kill compassion for the other. Throughout his stories Mlalazi depicts a mean spiritedness and a lack of conscience in most of his character so that by the time I was done with the book, I felt a little queasy. I was compelled to read it because if this is the ugly truth about Bulawayo then I would rather know, despite the agony this knowing induces.

Irene Sabatini’s offering is a painfully beautiful work that describes the lives of particular characters in the historical context of a downward spiraling Zimbabwe. The eye opener for me with this book, was her exposure of the life of a group of people that I, as an African girl never had access to. The colored people of Bulawayo. It was interesting how she briefly touches on the fact that even within this group there are subgroups, those colored from Thorngrove and those from the more affluent suburbs. It is interesting how the mother of Lindiwe, a Black Ndebele woman wanted so badly that people know that her daughter was not a pure black, but a colored. This highlights the apartheid system that existed in Zimbabwe during the Smith era, where Whites were the top tier race, followed by the Colored /Indian and then the Africans at the bottom of the racial, and therefore, social and economic ladder.

Bulawayo is evocatively described in its glory as well as in its era of demise. One cannot help but feel robbed of the beauty of the Centenary Park, the famous Bulawayo Christmas lights, and the general warmth and welcoming nature of the city with its curio shops, wide roads and the abundance of goodwill in its people. The love story of Lindiwe and Ian seems to flourish, despite the negative effects of their environment, their complex history and how it has shaped them and their own personal struggles with family dysfunction and demons.

The question that this book had me battling with is: Did the dismantling of a racist, oppressionist and unjust societal structure necessitate the destruction of everything else? Did the ushering in of black majority rule have to mean the ushering in of bribery and corruption and a general top- down lawlessness ? Did giving land back to the people have to result in reduced food production so that the very people supposed to benefit from it end up starving?

Sabatini tackles complex issues with a sensitivity and a clarity that is rare. Her characters are real human beings with faults that sometimes drive you to distraction. Yet it is these weaknesses that endear them to the reader in sympathy and compassion.

For anyone from Zimbabwe, it is an essential read. For those interested in complexity and no simple solutions as well as good, well written literature, these two books make the cut.