INTERVIEW: Miriam Walker on her debut novel, Overthrown

Some time ago, we had an exclusive interview with Miriam Walker about her upcoming book titled Overthrown. But today, we are proud to announce the book is finally out!

Miriam Walker has a lot to say about Overthrown and has granted many interviews to discuss her inspirations, thought process, and takeaways from the book. By reading this interview, you might be able to get to know Miriam and the book a little more from the interview.

 

We interview Miriam Walker and discuss her debut novel, Overthrown.

On ourprevious interview with you, you promised us Overthrown would be ready this year; and you surely delivered. Now this is your debut novel. How does it feel?

Miriam:  I feel happy and fulfilled; it’s my debut novel after all. After dreaming about it and surmounting all hurdles, it’s finally here!

Some of our readers might not know much about Overthrown. Are you able to tell us a bit about it?

Miriam: Overthrown is a story that delves into the past; it takes readers back in time. It talks about ancient rulers, kingdoms and how people probably lived their lives then. Many events unfold in the book but ultimately, the story revolves round the protagonist, Oroma – who she was and the series of events that played a part in shaping who she became. But I would stop here, it’s up to readers to discover what lies within the book. (*winks and smiles*)

The book is written from the perspective of your narrator, Oroma. Had you always planned to write the novel in this way? 

Miriam: Yes, I had always wanted it to be from her perspective. I did that because I wanted my readers and I to be able to relate with the main character, to see from her perspective, to feel the way she felt. I wanted it to feel like the protagonist was talking to the reader.

Once the decision had been made to use this style, was it a challenge to maintain it, or was it just something you adapted to?

Miriam: Once I decided to write the story from her perspective, it began to flow naturally and easily. So yes, I adapted to it.

Some readers would suggest Wami should have ended up with Oroma after everything. But do you feel he had a bigger role to play as an independent chief than just ending up as Oroma’s husband?

Miriam: Right from the beginning, I always knew Wami and Oroma would not end up together because Oroma had always seen him as a friend and brother, even if he had feelings for her. As some people would say, he had been ‘friend-zoned’. I just knew I wanted him to play a different role aside from marrying her. What I didn’t know initially, was what he would finally be and do in the end.

Let’s not get into the book that much and spoil the fun for future readers. Tell readers what they would expect from Overthrown.

Miriam: Readers should expect some African history and culture, that we may not be too familiar with. And of course, there would be that blend of adventure, action, romance and suspense.

After this, what next? Any plans for another book?

Miriam: Yes, I hope to publish more books after this one but that may be much later. Hopefully one day, Overthrown could be made into a film. For now, I just want people to read it and for as long as possible, ‘reign’.

Final question; do you have any advice for the yet-to-be-published writers on how to get published?

Miriam: First, writers who want to have their works published someday, should write. They should keep on practicing to become better writers without relenting. They should have that passion and desire to write.Secondly, they should always have that dream of having their books published without giving up on it no matter how long it takes. I’ve always wanted to be a writer and publish my book ever since I was a child. Thirdly, they should look out for publishers. The internet has made this easier. In fact, that was how I discovered Black Tower Publishers. After finding publishing companies, they should contact them and send those publishing companies their manuscripts. It doesn’t matter if they are rejected; they should keep on trying until at least one ‘clicks’. Finally, have mentors and role models. Such people are important because they have been on that same road before, so the advice they give could help them in becoming better writers and getting published one day. If they know a published writer personally, it would be a great advantage to them. If not, they could take on a role model that would inspire them. Personally, writers like Elechi Amadi, Chibundu Onuzo and Chimamanda Adichie always inspire me and make me believe that this dream of telling my story and publishing a book really is possible.

That was our interview with young talented Miriam Walker. Her book, Overthrown, was published by Black Tower Publishers, and you can order your copies for schools, libraries, prisons, and other public places. 

We have sacrificed much for Nigerian writers – BM Dzukogi

BM Dzukogi, writer and literary activist, has again thrown his hat in the race to be elected president of the Association of Nigerian Authors at Next weekend’s convention in Makurdi, Benue State. In this interview, he speaks about what derailed his chances in the last elections, his scathing assessment of the present administration and what he intends to bring to the table and lots more.

 
So, I take it that the ANA house is not ready yet for our practical contribution to the Nigerian literary space at that level. You know how Nigeria works, especially when it comes to elective offices. So much retreat to little enclaves. So many considerations for material, and so little for evident results. Otherwise, how could we have been beaten with our enormous contributions to the development of literature in Nigeria?

You are again contesting for president this year. What makes you think the outcome will be different this time?
You are always hopeful that the result will favour you. If you win, you win. If you lose, you lose. What is important is that, there is always a next time. The next time is here. For me, losing or wining is the same from a sportsman perspective. Our loss, last two years, didn’t affect our productivity. We returned to our Art Centre and did great things that even the national ANA didn’t do. The impact of our initiatives, programmes and book development are evident.

You had a comprehensive manifesto last time. Has this manifesto been updated, what changes have there been in your plans for ANA?
Not much has changed. The only addition is that we now have a national festival of teen authors called NIFESTEENA. Seven or so states participated in the maiden edition this year. We hope to stage the next one in Kaduna. We hope the wife of the governor will take up the challenge of hosting it. If I become the president of ANA, like we exported the Nigerian Writers Series and the national Teen Authorship Scheme there, we shall take this one there too. There is also a programme called Naija Book Hunt and Harvest which is a national book collection activity for onward distribution to schools. Our state chapters should be able to adopt these programmes for a holistic national book development plan we hope to launch in conjunction with state governments.

Everything in the former manifesto is alive. Even some of you who are wining prizes up and down, we shall persuade all of you to establish a national endowment fund for publishing teen authors. Win a prize, give the child-writer small. Simple. Annually, we shall select five states to benefit. By the end of two or four years, we should have introduced new little writers to the scene for which ANA can say, this is what we have done. With all sense of humility, I think we have the ideas that can work. We do not shy away from espousing them publicly because we have more, given the necessary resources. Our central focus shall be on young writers. Adults have their ways.

What is your assessment of ANA in the last two years? How do you think the administration has performed?
Because I think I can do better. I have not seen much from them other than trying to maintain the balance they met. We need adventures. Nobody grows in an atmosphere of mediocrity. We are not ANA president yet, but we have introduced NIFESTEENA that is gathering teen artists around the country for a festival. Who are the sponsors? ANA members and the Niger State government. Now, listen. Because of NIFESTEENA, Akpoveta and another girl from Bayelsa who attended the maiden edition and won trophies got a chance to meet Pa Gabriel Okara and the commissioner of education there. Can you quantify how much morale boosts it is for them, for their art? Our adventure led to that result. The same thing for kids from Kebbi State. This ANA leadership is not adventurous. They seem to be contented with the usual.

Development has begun on the ANA land finally. Is this something that has impressed you or do you think there could have been another way of going about it?
If development has started, that’s great. We all started it. I had to leave because of the book agency we got in Niger. I am happy to hear that it is on. All state chapters should seek to have theirs too. Niger has but left undeveloped.

One of the ANA projects you have been heavily involved with from inception was the Nigerian Writers’ Series. From publishing 10 books in the first series, the second has only three books. How do you think the project has fared?
That’s evidently a backward movement. You don’t need any serious mathematics to know that this is not progress. The first set of books came from the purse of Niger State government. There is no Nigerlite on the list because none qualified for it. We have sacrificed much for Nigerian writers. When the current leadership came on board, I thought they would be magnanimous enough to say Dzukogi, let’s go back to the Niger State government for the continuation of the series and teen authorship scheme. They didn’t. In fact, they sought to ban it. Even to visit Talba, who gave them the money, they didn’t. They should have gone to thank him in Abuja, they didn’t. To come to the current governor to say thank you, this is what the previous governor did, please, could you do the same? They didn’t. They just abandoned me because I contested against them. In Nigeria, an opposition is an enemy. Funny people. Now, they didn’t come to our governor and they didn’t get their governors to do the same. What has the president’s governor done for ANA, that Kogi State governor, since Denja became our leader, what has he done for ANA? It’s only Camilus. He is the one. The business of leading ANA is a bag of volunteerism in which any lack will retard the gains others have achieved in the past.

One of the major challenges of ANA has been funding. Do you think this administration has done enough to raise funding for the association or is there a better way of doing it?
Of course not! If they did, where are the tangible results? Where are the books facilitated? We published 11 books in 2016 alone at the art centre. No state chapter has ever done that. For the past two years that we lost the election, there are three unmatchable feats we have achieved with little funding: the 11 books; NIFESTEENA; and establishing branches of our foundation in states of the federation. Little money can do great things, especially if it is about young people.

Is there any plan you have for improving the Nigerian Writers’ Series?
Sure man! I am not only going back to the Niger State government, we shall position the programme at chapter levels. We shall pool money from organisations, individuals, governments and institutions to build capacities of writers and publish their works. Anything short of fifteen titles annually, forget it. That’s how my colleagues in ANA Niger were showing concern that I was carrying too many bags on my head. I told them that my head is not my head; my mind is my head.

What is it that the mind does not carry? We shall do more for teen authors and young writers. Mine shall be a heavy dose of publishing. Sorry, enough of the old guards. These boys and girls must move to the centre stage. You can only achieve that when you are publishing the good ones en masse. They too would have to bear with the little ones that are sprouting behind. This is growth and development. It’s a movement in the offing, man! A movement has sprouted from Niger State. The movement is unstoppable whether with ANA presidency or not.

You have been instrumental in capacity building for writers, especially among young ones in Niger State. You have mentioned how keen you are to take this to the national level. How do you propose to do this?
I just mentioned them. We shall revive all we did before and push them further. We have the credibility, we have the diplomacy, and we have the heart. What you love to do, what you have interest in, is not a burden. It is all about volunteerism. That’s the unmatchable spirit of our operation and existence. This spirit now lives with many children.

You are a key figure in ANA Niger, the state chapter has suffered serious political crisis recently, some of which, it was said, contributed to you losing the elections last time. What caused these divisions in ANA Niger?
Brother, I am tired of that mess. A stranger came and scattered us. They almost killed our peace. Recounting that s**** is not for me again. We are re-positioning the chapter. Only writing writers would be our members, henceforth. We are drawing up a bye-law. We are making progress. Alhaji Dangana is handling the situation. To be ANA president is not compulsory. It is only a means to accelerate your vision for the writers’ community and Nigeria. Otherwise, we are already achieving a lot in many directions.

Do you think that now you can fully count on the support of ANA Niger at the congress?
Yes.

Speaking of Niger and one of your major achievements, the Niger State Book Development Agency has devolved from a great idea to a typical government agency that hasn’t delivered much in the last two years. What went wrong with that idea?
I think those who are there now lack ideas. They can’t even do a thing to get the attention of government. In fact, they are losing ground. Other agencies have come to snatch away the offices because of their idleness. They have no D.G who will probably talk to the governor directly or use other ways of creating impact. They are just there. They allocate funds annually to the agency but the complaints I get is that the ministry of finance doesn’t release the funds. I think it has more to do with uncreative leadership there. Why is the governor listening to the Art Centre?

Why is the chief of staff listening to our programmes? Why did the former commissioners of education, madam Madugu, and Ramatu of Investment listen to us? The leadership at the book agency must wake up because government has been supporting our adventurous programmes from the Art Centre. The agency is in the right position to get more support than us. Let the leadership of the agency become pro-active.

You mentioned before that you had plans to replicate the Book Development Agency across the states if you become president. How do you intend to achieve this and crucially, if done, how do you hope to sustain it so it doesn’t go the way of the one in Niger?
Through advocacy visits to the state governments and getting a commitment from governors. Katsina State government is planning one right now. If we get governments to do it, are there no writers in the state to sustain them? If you look at that of Niger, it is not that it is dead, it is only in coma. It means it can be revived. But what are the writers there, who are staff of the agency doing? Why are they allowing it to die? Everyone comes to build on what has been established, that’s how society grow. You say that it becomes my sole responsibility to initiate and give it life forever? All the chapters of ANA will have a duty to sustain what is theirs. Our duty shall be to convince governments to have it.

All things considered, what would you say are your chances at the forthcoming elections?
As always; hopeful! It is in their interest to elect me. They are the ones to benefit because we do the thing we say. I am a sportsman. The spirit is dynamic. There shall always be a next time if there is life. But for this one, the hope is even higher than 2015 for the fact that what we have done at the Art Centre in the past two years is an exemplification of the potency of our fertility to be agents of genuine development.

My poetry is a reflection on the intimacy of evil – Ogaga Ifowodo

Ogaga Ifowodo, (Ph.D) taught poetry at the Texas State University in the US before he took up appointment as the commissioner representing Delta State in the Niger Delta Development Commission, NDDC. The renowned poet and author of several poetry collections is shortlisted for the 2017 NLNG Nigeria Prize for Literature for his collection, A Good Mourning. He speaks about this book, the prize, his detention by the Abacha government and his foray into politics.

What is the sensation like being on the shortlist of the NLNG Nigeria Literature Prize, especially as the announcement of the winner draws nearer?

That I might be the winner - but is that a feeling or sensation? Just that the wait will soon be over, I suppose.

There were criticisms of the longlist for the 2017 NLNG Nigeria Prize for Literature. But the critics have gone silent since the shortlist was announced. Do you think the criticisms were fair to start with?

I never followed the criticisms, which, I understand, were mostly on social media platforms, so I don’t know which might have been valid and which were totally misplaced. At any rate, I’m glad to know that the critics have ceased fire since the shortlist was announced! 

How important is the prize to poets in Nigeria considering how much poetry, as an art, has suffered in the hands of both poets and those who read them?

It is not clear to me how poetry has suffered in the hands of poets themselves, not to mention those who read them, but I’m quite certain that the prize is important to poets as to Nigerian literature in general. Literary prizes are a way of validating writers who, more often than not, labour in obscurity, and sometimes penury. The attention that a prize brings to a writer - and in this instance of the NLNG prize, a poet - becomes by the same token attention to his or her work. And literature, to the extent that it is a socially produced thing and so reflects its society, its world, can be one of the more enduring ways of empowering the poet’s more humane vision of his society. 

Your book, A Good Mourning, plays on an everyday expression but in a wickedly witty manner and the poems in the collection are at once introspective and playful as they tackle serious issues. How hard was it to work this playfulness into the collection?

Considerably hard, because one has to be careful not to let the ludic or playful moments take away from the solemnity of the experiences and thoughts that form the subjects of the poems. In each case, the extent of playfulness was determined by the experience or impulse of the poem in question. I’m afraid this makes it seem very practical, as if one can know, before or even while writing, the precise extent to which humour would be a vehicle of giving fuller expression to the thought or feeling that spawned the poem. I guess the difficulty lies in listening to one’s inner ear and ensuring that any playfulness does not make the poem tone-deaf to its inner or inspiring reality - by which I mean the experience of the poem as grasped and re-presented by the poet. 

What was the inspiration for the collection?

The core poems of the collection are differing instances of my reflections on the intimacy of evil. At the personal level - that is, of the dramatis personae - the title poem, which is about the June 12, 1993 political catastrophe, recalls the tragic drama of betrayal by a friend. I think I more explicitly explore this theme in “A Rwandan Testimony” where a traumatized friend tries to confess to murdering his childhood friend and her two children before an imaginary truth and reconciliation panel but is led to the conclusion that evil or what menaces the world, that which “secretes the slow brooks of bitter blood” resides in an “auxiliary organ hitched to every heart.” This thought began in my mind when I visited the Nazi concentration camp of Auschwitz-Birkenau in 1999, as a guest of the German PEN Centre to that year’s international PEN Congress in Warsaw. One of the poems in an anthology of poems written by inmates which I bought there expressed the view that if Auschwitz had been in England, there would have been willing English men and women to do the biddings of (the English version of) Hitler. And, of course, there have been many books on the phenomenon of ordinary, supposedly innocent, citizens as collaborators in the evil of pogroms, ethnic cleansing and other horrendous persecutions of stigmatised groups and communities. Usually, it is a friend, a neighbor, a colleague, who betrays him or herself first, and then humanity. Having published my reflections on the Auschwitz visit in the poem “Where is the World’s Most Infamous Plot?” about four years after, I knew that I would return to that troubling question.  In the result, the tragedy of June 12, 1993, provided the unhappy inspiration for the collection.  

In that regards, how important do you think poetry is to the preservation of memory especially of a struggle like June 12, which you touched on in your collection?

Very, very important. Those who cannot remember the past, the philosopher George Santayana, famously warned, are doomed to repeat it. And closer home, we are all familiar with the aphorism on the importance of knowing “where the rain began to beat us.” Poetry as the literary form that exalts the most in mnemonic devices - repetition, rhyme, rhythm, imagery, not to mention economy of words - is for that reason a perfect vehicle for the preservation of memory. 

How much of a validation would winning this prize be for you?

I can’t say. It will no doubt be quite considerable, considering the growing interest it has been generating, many thanks to the prize money! In a different context, in Europe and America, for instance, a prize like the NLNG Nigeria literature prize would instantly catapult its winner to global literary fame. But that is due to a long-established culture of respect for writers, writing and books - in short, for intellectual labour - with institutions dedicated to promoting its value. 

In Nigeria, unfortunately, the cultural infrastructure to optimise the validation conferred by a prize was not only weak to start with, but is now in total shambles. It is going to require even more interventions that go beyond prizes - radical interventions, for instance, in the educational sector, the book publishing industry and in the revaluation of cultural work - to be able to speak of the true extent of validation conferred by a literary prize in Nigeria. 

You have been known as an activist for many years and were at some point detained by the Abacha government. Was prison life important to your writing life? Has it inspired any works from you?

It has. The poems I wrote in prison are part of my second collection, Madiba. Moreover, excerpts from my detention memoirs, more than half complete, have been published - in the seminal anthology Gathering Seaweed: African Prison Writing, edited by the poet Jack Mapanje; in the New Writing Anthology NW 14, published by Granta in collaboration with the British Council, and on the online platform african-writing.com. It is one of the works-in-progress that I hope to bring to fruition next year.  

We look forward to reading them. What are your thoughts on the state of poetry in Nigeria at present? Do you think the volume of work being produced has the required quality to define a critical period such as this?

I think that poetry is very much alive and well in Nigeria, as well as in any other epoch. It is, of course, the case that the number of books published anywhere and in any genre is never matched by their quality. It is precisely why prizes, among other means, act as literary gate-keepers or arbiters of taste. I liken this to panning for gold: a horde of “miners” and a great deal of dross, but few and far between the lucky instances of gold nuggets!   

Your foray into politics in 2014, aspiring to be a legislator, proved futile. Could you tell us what happened? And from your experience how different would you say poetry and politics are?

Simply, I lost. Because I had no money. When I solicited donations, as little as N10,000, as is done in more respectable climes (though I doubt I can use this word with what happened in the United States of Trump and with Brexit in mind), I was mocked as being unsuitable for the office I sought: “He doesn’t even have a kobo, and he wants to run for the House of Representatives!” What happened was that my opponent, arrested a few days before the primary election by the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) on suspicions of being a 419 scammer, was released on the very day of the election and escorted by a police convoy into the arena, with him waving triumphantly to the delegates from the back of a pick-up van. 

On the strength of tall promises of personal rewards in cash and kind - and, as I heard, of even flying some delegates to Dubai - he beat me hands down. Only for him to disappear the very next day. Such that the party leaders summoned me back from the United States where I had gone to lick my wounds to return home so I might be substituted for the victorious flagbearer who, curiously, was never seen nor heard from again, until he learnt of efforts to substitute my name for his. Well, that didn’t happen, INEC’s window for substituting candidates having closed by that time. 

As for the difference between poetry and politics? Between night and day, I’d say! Two totally different preoccupations and I don’t think this needs to be explained beyond saying that one is entirely an activity of the mind, practiced most often in the solitude of contemplation, while the other is the most public of human activities, where the mind, or more precisely, mindlessness, of others, determines the outcome. 

Oh, one more thing: you don’t need money to write a poem, while money is just about the only thing you need to have any hope of being taken seriously as a politician. At least, as tends to be the case generally with the brand of electioneering politics we practice in Nigeria. I hope that changes very soon.

Where is Nigerian Literature?

In the autumn of 1986, Nigeria’s Akinwande Oluwole Babatunde Soyinka (aka Wole Soyinka), became the Nobel Laureate for literature. The Nobel prize- a set of annual international awards bestowed in several categories by Swedish and Norwegian institutions in recognition of academic, cultural or scientific advances- is the agreed ultimate in the world of prizes and political as it is perceived to be, it is nevertheless agreed that it is virtually impossible to win it if the contender is not extraordinary in his or her field of endeavour. 

The Nobel Peace prize has been by far the most controversial- its subjective nature makes it possible to manipulate and sometimes, politics rather than achievement takes the upper hand amongst the criteria. Of course the science and social science prize winners are far less visible, and the prizes themselves far less possible to manipulate.

If someone has done groundbreaking work in physics or economics, it is virtually impossible to ignore them. The most glamorous of the Nobel prizes has got to be the literature prize, the one that Soyinka won. Though he was the first African ever to have won the uber prestigious award, the giving of it to him was not without its own controversies. The novelist, biographer, poet and playwright have been said in some quarters to the late father of Nigerian literature Chinua Achebe, whose great first novel Things Fall Apart had catapulted him into permanent greatness and had him rising year after year like a meteor in the space that is the international literary community. Arguments on this went on for years.

Soyinka had opened the door for the rest of Africa including Albert Camus, the journalist and playwright of Algeria; activist Nadine Gordimer of South Africa, her compatriot John Maxwell Coetzee who had also won the prestigious Booker prize; as well as Doris Lessing of Zimbabwe. Out of these, only Nadine Gordimer arguably has boasted as much international clout as Soyinka has, perhaps by virtue of his personality, or perhaps by virtue of his being Nigerian. Soyinka is the one Nigerian who has never sat on the proverbial fence when it comes to national matters. If an African has had such intense influence on the world just for winning a prize, it shows how important the subjects around the prize are to human development. And if science, literature and peace are important subjects to the rest of the world, why are they not to Nigeria? More than two decades after Soyinka won the Nobel prize and Ben Okri’s the Famished Road won the Booker- another very prestigious prize, no other Nigerian has won any major literary prize for their Nigerian writing.

Helon Habila, former Arts Editor for the Vanguard; as well as Chimamanda Adizie who won the ‘junior Booker prize’ and the Orange prize respectively, have moved on from Nigerian affairs, choosing, like Okri, to be Nigerian writers at large. In the midst of the tragedy of the London’s Grenfell tower fire in June 2017, Okri wrote a wildly critically acclaimed poem- Grenfell Tower- which ironically catapulted him back to global literary reckoning. As a British writer. No home based writer is given any recognition, except in literary circles. Not for them, national awards. There was a ray of hope when the Nigerian Liquefied Natural Gas company, NLNG, installed their mouth watering ‘Nigerian prize’. It was to be expected that others would follow. It did not happen, until Etisalat endowed a less prestigious prize more recently whose scope is not limited to Nigeria.

As the whole world celebrates the new Nobel Literature Laureate and the sale of his books goes through the roof while they have become the topics at top dinner parties in the world’s capitals, Nigeria has joined to celebrate his success through the social media. While Soyinka, Achebe and Ekwensi had spurned the next generation of great writers of literature after them, their progeny has unfortunately failed to deliver in that regard. This state of affairs might have more to do with the dearth of the entire industry than with the literary giants. Nobody is rewarding writers, so nobody wants to write. The level of literature that is available is therefore abysmal in nature. There is no competition, no inspiration, no encouragement. The kind of literature that is available to school children is limited, at best.

In reality most of the books with which Literature in English is being taught in Nigerian schools today are mostly badly written, poorly edited and poorly printed. A pre-teen child who has been taught well how to read and write, can easily pick out the grammatical errors in many of them. This has some obvious implications, chief of which is that writers of influence will be scarce amongst the millennials, who are already bogged down by intrusive technologies with which they have to contend daily. More importantly, who will teach them the practical aspect of grit, the one thing the study and practice of literature teaches? Who will put Nigeria back on the global map? Who will write the book that will unite Nigeria?

In the autumn of 1986, Nigeria’s Akinwande Oluwole Babatunde Soyinka (aka Wole Soyinka), became the Nobel Laureate for literature. The Nobel prize- a set of annual international awards bestowed in several categories by Swedish and Norwegian institutions in recognition of academic, cultural or scientific advances- is the agreed ultimate in the world of prizes and political as it is perceived to be, it is nevertheless agreed that it is virtually impossible to win it if the contender is not extraordinary in his or her field of endeavour. Soyinka The Nobel Peace prize has been by far the most controversial- its subjective nature makes it possible to manipulate and sometimes, politics rather than achievement takes the upper hand amongst the criteria. Of course the science and social science prize winners are far less visible, and the prizes themselves far less possible to manipulate. If someone has done groundbreaking work in physics or economics, it is virtually impossible to ignore them. The most glamorous of the Nobel prizes has got to be the literature prize, the one that Soyinka won. Though he was the first African ever to have won the uber prestigious award, the giving of it to him was not without its own controversies. The novelist, biographer, poet and playwright have been said in some quarters to the late father of Nigerian literature Chinua Achebe, whose great first novel Things Fall Apart had catapulted him into permanent greatness and had him rising year after year like a meteor in the space that is the international literary community. Arguments on this went on for years. Soyinka had opened the door for the rest of Africa including Albert Camus, the journalist and playwright of Algeria; activist Nadine Gordimer of South Africa, her compatriot John Maxwell Coetzee who had also won the prestigious Booker prize; as well as Doris Lessing of Zimbabwe. Out of these, only Nadine Gordimer arguably has boasted as much international clout as Soyinka has, perhaps by virtue of his personality, or perhaps by virtue of his being Nigerian. Soyinka is the one Nigerian who has never sat on the proverbial fence when it comes to national matters. If an African has had such intense influence on the world just for winning a prize, it shows how important the subjects around the prize are to human development. And if science, literature and peace are important subjects to the rest of the world, why are they not to Nigeria? More than two decades after Soyinka won the Nobel prize and Ben Okri’s the Famished Road won the Booker- another very prestigious prize, no other Nigerian has won any major literary prize for their Nigerian writing. Helon Habila, former Arts Editor for the Vanguard; as well as Chimamanda Adizie who won the ‘junior Booker prize’ and the Orange prize respectively, have moved on from Nigerian affairs, choosing, like Okri, to be Nigerian writers at large. In the midst of the tragedy of the London’s Grenfell tower fire in June 2017, Okri wrote a wildly critically acclaimed poem- Grenfell Tower- which ironically catapulted him back to global literary reckoning. As a British writer. No home based writer is given any recognition, except in literary circles. Not for them, national awards. There was a ray of hope when the Nigerian Liquefied Natural Gas company, NLNG, installed their mouth watering ‘Nigerian prize’. It was to be expected that others would follow. It did not happen, until Etisalat endowed a less prestigious prize more recently whose scope is not limited to Nigeria. As the whole world celebrates the new Nobel Literature Laureate and the sale of his books goes through the roof while they have become the topics at top dinner parties in the world’s capitals, Nigeria has joined to celebrate his success through the social media. While Soyinka, Achebe and Ekwensi had spurned the next generation of great writers of literature after them, their progeny has unfortunately failed to deliver in that regard. This state of affairs might have more to do with the dearth of the entire industry than with the literary giants. Nobody is rewarding writers, so nobody wants to write. The level of literature that is available is therefore abysmal in nature. There is no competition, no inspiration, no encouragement. The kind of literature that is available to school children is limited, at best. In reality most of the books with which Literature in English is being taught in Nigerian schools today are mostly badly written, poorly edited and poorly printed. A pre-teen child who has been taught well how to read and write, can easily pick out the grammatical errors in many of them. This has some obvious implications, chief of which is that writers of influence will be scarce amongst the millennials, who are already bogged down by intrusive technologies with which they have to contend daily. More importantly, who will teach them the practical aspect of grit, the one thing the study and practice of literature teaches? Who will put Nigeria back on the global map? Who will write the book that will unite Nigeria?

Read more at: https://www.vanguardngr.com/2017/10/where-is-nigerian-literature/

SHORT STORY: The Boxer

You’ve long dreamed about the shores where fish are washed ashore just for you to pick them up. He promised you everything, including a safe passage, and a paper upon your arrival. He said you will make decent money to send home to your family. You dreamed it; you lived it. You were ready for it.

You walked into the coffee shop at 10 rue de la Navigation in Geneva and ordered a cup of cappuccino from the beautiful Ethiopian lady who you couldn’t stop imagining naked on your bed. Each time you imagined this, you reminded yourself there was no bed. You sighed. You had slept under the bridge during the summer and found your way to the asylum house in the winter. There you are now, where the mental patients scream and moan in the dead of the night. Strings and white magic powder lay on the toilet floor each morning while you make your way to clean yourself up. You knew you did not have to do that. The most important thing to you was your sanity. You needed it. You needed it more than anything and as you have passed through the rough road of life, you’ve braved it all and still kept your sanity. You can’t waste it now.

You sipped your coffee and lit a cigarette; let it go out through your nostrils while you watched the Ethiopian lady clean the desk, her curves all in your face as she bent to get to the edge of the table. You coughed. You think that it is just a matter of time before she falls in love with you, just like home, just like Njedeka, your last girlfriend. You understood the psychology well enough, but maybe the geography eluded you. You let the thought go down with another sip of coffee.

The pain, it comes occasionally, like the light train at the back of the asylum centre in Geneva, it hits and waits for another five minutes before coming back again. You have had so many bad experiences that they are beginning to hurt in silent moments. You don’t want to think about them. You have avoided them. But today you couldn’t. It sticks, it does.

You could see yourself making it through the sandy deserts of Niger and into Libya. Once again you recount the numbers of men lost in the heat while your guides rode on camel back- John, Kufo, Obialita, and Njemanze. You met them during your travel, which was arranged by a payment of a solid two thousand dollars to get you to Europe. You are still hunted by the fact that no word has gotten to their family back home and probably their families still think they made it to the shores of the Mediterranean.

The sea experience wasn’t the worst of it. It was the most soothing. At that point you had given up in your soul after months of breaking rocks in Tripoli just to make extra money for the next path of the journey.  Two months after you left, heavy artilleries fell on Tripoli. You still think you are lucky to have made it out of Tripoli alive. Libya was no place for a black man you thought, the racism, the pain, the mindless quarry masters who made you toil just for a paltry sum. You struggled with the thought of it.

You could feel the waves pounding the boat as it lies in the bay in the open sea. The Somailan Captain struggled to subdue the waves or probably trick the masters of fate. You knew your fate on that moonless night with the roaring sea. It was sealed, and even the devil knew it. Death was your fate. You had cheated him many times in your life. You still wonder if he will ever catch up with you.

In your head you could hear many people shouting in different languages and pleading with whatever ancestor or god they believed in. You just prayed. You just bowed your head, ‘chineke ka onwu a di nfe’. That was it. You prayed for an easy death.

Beyond the rising and beating storm, the voice of a thousand monsters rose from the pit of the ocean. You heard it all. They called with familiar voices, that of your mum, your brothers and sisters. Your late father was the last to shout your name. The boat splintered into a thousand pieces and bowed to the roaring lion of the sea.

You found yourself lying on the shore, after passing out for several hours. At the other end of the shore, you could hear sirens blaring and the Italian police speaking on a loud phone. You managed to stand. Fell. Stood again and fell. Water came out of your nostrils as you hit the beach with your stomach. You knew you had to move. You knew it was a miracle that you had made it out alive. You knew. You knelt on the white beach and thanked God. Quickly you made your way to the street. That night you knew bullets had been fired too, but you didn’t have the luxury of finding out who got shot, maybe it was the immigrants? You wondered still, and that’s one puzzle you can’t still solve.

The pain came to you; thinking about it was another trauma that makes participation in its lighter. You don’t want to think about it. It’s too heavy, heavier than anything you could ever think of. You wished you could brush it all out of your head, just like bleach on a stained floor, but memories cannot be scrubbed, they stick, and you understood that.

Soon you realized that the Sicilian Island was no place for you. Njoku told you. The kind hearted Nigerian man who you met on the street while looking for shelter dressed in the winter jacket you collected from some hippies who were meditating and told you they were trekking to Bethlehem, the birthplace of Jesus. That was your first real encounter with the society. You imagined what they were looking for in life, and then you remind yourself it was the same way you left him to be on their shores. The road might be different, but the aim is the same.

Salvation, you thought, you understand the word well enough, and you know what salvation means. Salvation is just like you are seated in the chapel and praying to the infant Jesus to grant your journey mercies. If infant Jesus had brought you to the shores of Sicily, there will be no problem with him taking them to his birthplace. Njoku took you in and helped you more than anyone would have. He told you how to get to Geneva without papers, just hit the train and pray there was no search party out in the night. You knew what fate had left you with, you are surviving, and that’s all you can do each day of your life, survive.

The beautiful Ethiopian lady served you breakfast with a smile on her face that quickly faded away as she placed it in front of you. You have seen that smile a thousand times; you are no stranger to such smiles. You know the meaning, simply I don’t like you, but I have to serve you. You finished your meal, and dipped your hand in your pocket. You had only five euro left, as the money promised by the government for the asylum seekers had not been paid for the past three months. You nodded your head, knowing that it is not your right, it is just a privilege, an expensive one that comes out of mercy and keeps you going. But that’s not how you make a living.

‘Merci beaucoup,’ you thanked the beautiful lady.

‘Merci,’ she replied with a smile that soon faded away and she started rumbling with the glasses in her back. You knew she was in no mood for a conversation so you left.

You joined the light city rail on the street before the Tanzanite East African Bar. You could see your friends, well not your friends, you knew it. Right from your days in Lagos, you have had the impression that there is no brother in the jungle. The street is your jungle. You have mastered it well enough to realize that no brother exists on it.

Those that tried have been kidnapped by the police or have gone missing. You knew it. The rule was to keep to yourself, that’s a survival instinct you have never ignored. You walked down the empty alley, dipped your hand into the inner pocket of your jacket. You counted the wrapped kilos you had with you. They were all in order and as supplied. You know the severity of missing one of them or messing with their money, some have paid for it with their life.

‘How is it going today?’ you asked the tall Senegalese who could speak a little English. He looked at you and smiled.

‘My territory you know, right? But fine,’ he answered and bounced in his mac Jordan air canvas and walked to the street wall and leaned on it. You understood him well enough. You knew what he meant, and you do. The business was about territory, that’s how you make sales. Each peddler marks his territory, just like animals in the jungle.

You headed north, beside the red window rooms with girls flashing their goodies. You’ve been in there a number of times; when you had extra money to spend. You don’t mind doing it there, eighty euros for a good time is nothing to you on a good day. The Madame was walking out when she saw you, and she waved at you. You knew her. She liked you, but you didn’t like her. You thought she was too large and had big breasts. Yes you made love to her twice, and just like licking a bitter lemon, you swallowed it. You knew the taste of it.

‘Bonjour Sam,’ she greeted.

‘Bonjour, comment êtes-vous corps?’ you added the beauty to make her feel good about herself. You felt she was too cheap and a whore, but if everything is on the street, why not take it? Even a bitter lemon, you said to yourself.

She walked into your arms and embraced you; you knew she was going to do that. You kissed her cheek, just where she wanted you to kiss it. She smiled as you walked away.

You took the end of the street in the alley. A white man with long hair and a greying mustache walked towards you. You knew him, it was  the old guy Kent, the American who never left and was always in constant need of your white powder. You removed some grams from your pocket, pushed it into his hand, and used your left hand to collect the money and put it into your pocket. You trusted him, he doesn’t miss a dime, and he doesn’t cheat your business. He was a regular. You looked the other way as he made his way into the street.

The snow was getting heavier. You rolled the jacket back flap over your head. Morning hustle pays better. You don’t understand the urge they have, but you knew they would always want it at that time of the day. So you hustle early in the morning and late at night. You could hear the sound of the police siren beyond the dead end street where you stood by. You hurried back to the red window brothels, peered into the street from the end of the walls.  The siren had stopped but the police car was getting closer. You weren’t a stranger to hustle in Geneva; you have been here long enough. You had seen men get caught and sent back to Africa. You hurried back on the main street. At least you made some sales.

You stood at the light rail stop. Your hands in your pocket, you were muttering tunes to yourself, as you watched the young lad skate cross you. You didn’t grow with such toys. You couldn’t imagine going to school with a skateboard in the community high school you went to in Nigeria. The few times you took a football to school, the headmaster seized all of them and you never got them back. Their life is easier and freer, you thought.  You whistled lightly as the light rail approached.

You made a stop at the gym; you always practice just to keep fit. You walked in, submitted your identity to the lady at the front desk. You walked into the dressing room, changed into your boxing gear. The sand bag starred at you. You have been doing this all your life. Aim and punch. You danced around it, held your posture, and swung your fist against the earth bag, it stood still.

You adjusted your poster once more, took another aim at it. Severally you punched your fist into the earth bag. Slowly it moved. That’s how your life has been, you always try, you’ve never given up, through the desert, in the sea, you always keep your posture, and you always punch into it. Life always gives in.

You knew you were a true boxer, one that never gives up, one that the earth refused to swallow and the sea spit out. You have defeated many things; your greatest was against death itself. Each pore on your skin opened, sweat poured out. You gave it another punch, you are not a quitter. You muster the strength in your body, you gave it all. It swung; it respected your wish, just like life, just like any other affair that required hard work.

The snow had melted away, and you could see that through the windows, so you rolled your bed away and locked up your belongings. The room was filled men and smelled like tobacco and gin. You still wondered how you survived each day with a room full of men. Men from all over the world, men like you. You knew that some has lost their way and that no redemption was on the way. You understood it all; and your sanity was the most important if you must return home.

You dreamt of home and how far it has become, across several oceans and lands, a journey that took two years of your life. You walked into the park, and you could feel the sun rays in the cold afternoon, it shone brightly. It was like a blessing. So peaceful in your face, as you dragged the cigarette and felt at peace within yourself.  Down in the alley, the pretty girls played basketball in their heavy winter clothes. You just stared at them, and for a second though, you walked towards them.

‘Hei wanna join?’ one of them asked you in a clear English accent and threw the ball at you; you held it in your palm, bounced it once, stamped and aimed at the basket. You made a three point on first throw. They were really impressed by your skills. You felt like a champion.

‘Nice shot,’ the blond girl said. You smiled.

‘Where are you from?’ the first girl asked you. They threw the ball back at you.

‘Nigeria,’ you said smiling, bouncing the ball around and going for your second aim. The Spanish girl sitting down on the bench finished tying her shoe lace and ran to block you. You ducked like a pro and made another shot.

‘Aha, Nigeria, yea I have a colleague from Nigeria, you might want to meet him… I work with UNICEF here in Geneva, my name Gina,’ the first girl said to you with a smile on her face.

‘Sam,’ you said smiling back at her.

‘And these are my friends…’ she pointed at the Spanish girl first.

‘Shina,’ the Spanish said smiling at you.

‘And…’ Gina said pointing at the blond girl.

‘Natasha’ she said and shook your hands.

You know what Geneva, it’s the international city, you know the whole world lives here and is easy to communicate and get along with anyone. You enjoyed that, you are happy you came here after all, but then you remembered your condition and that happiness melted like ice. You wished it wasn’t that bad. You wanted everything to work out on its own, but you are the boxer, you the master of patience. You believe it.

You know that one day you will be able to park your pathfinder by the basketball court, play and probably drop the girls off. You imagined it. You wanted that life, you think you have come a long way and giving up wasn’t part of your plan now. Like the priest used to say back home, ‘the goodness of God comes slowly.’ You believed that more than any other person.

You are tall enough to slam the ball in the basket, so to impress the girls you made a rush for it, your heavy biceps and strength helped grip the basket rim, you slammed the ball into it. They clapped for you; they were really impressed by your skills.

‘Hei, is really nice to meet you, may I ask what you are doing in Geneva?’ Gina asked.

That’s one question you don’t answer proudly, you drag your foot with it, you don’t easily respond. But of what use is keeping it to yourself?  You thought, why hold back, after all, to you they strangers and you might never see them again after this, you convinced yourself. So you opened up. You have learned to accept your fate; you have learned to answer that one name you dreaded watching it being used on the televisions when you were back home in Nigeria, that name that should not be called or spoken of ‘refugee.’ To you it spells nothing but poverty, homelessness and someone in need of help. You don’t like asking for help, you like to do it all by yourself. You prepared to take your chances on the street rather than wait for a paltry sum from the government. You are a hard worker and a fighter. You want to be seen as such and not as a refugee.

‘You know, my colleague is from Nigeria, maybe he will be able to help you with a shelter or something or something… wait,’ she said. You felt speechless, and you wanted to stop her from making the call, but something in you didn’t want to, something that doesn’t want to make you look ungrateful or proud. You have been brought up to appreciate each act of kindness, so you just said ‘thank you.’

She put the phone on loud speaker and you could hear the beep as it rings on the end of the phone. A voice answered, ‘Hi, Gina, today you have remembered to call me, are we having dinner tonight?’

Gina smiled, you knew that smile. It was the type that says I am not calling you to hang out with you, but just for a favour.

‘Hei John, I have a guy from Nigeria here, probably he is from your tribe too, he is a great guy and just in a situation that needs your help…’

The next voice that came from the other end of the receiver wasn’t that of flirtatious lover, it sounded a lot steamier and agitated.

‘No, no Gina, you won’t understand this country, I will explain to you later…’

‘Can you at least speak with him?’

‘Where is he from? Is he Igbo?’

She looked at expecting an answer, you nodded right.

‘Yes he is…’

A pause followed.

‘No, no, no, no, no, I don’t want to speak with him, let’s meet in the office and discuss this first Gina.’

You knew how the country works; you have met good men and bad men from your country. Most of your countrymen are not willing to carry anyone’s burden. Just like in a jungle, every man for himself, nobody cares how you survive or make it or pull yourself through and no one wants to be dragged down with you even with their influence. You knew it. You smiled at her, but she wasn’t smiling. Her facial appearance was more of disbelief than understanding. She nodded her head strangely. The voice at the other end of phone had died out. You wiped the sweat off of your forehead.

‘I am really sorry, I wish I could have done more for you,’ Gina said. From the lines on her face, you could see the sincerity in her words. Pity lined up as well on her forehead. You wanted to see more, compassion, maybe that kind of compassion that you are used to, that kind of compassion that would make a man do anything for the survival of another. But none of them appeared on those lines. These are the same lines have seen in many of them that came to Africa as missionaries working at the Village.

It is a line that defines special care for the poor African man rather than equality or dignity. To you, it was like having a pet you care about and yet willing to let him die when the time comes. You have seen movies about wars in Africa and how some of them get on the plane to leave with the same care and pity on their faces. You are used to it, so you watched her get into her car and drive away. Maybe you are wrong, maybe you are right. But you are still waiting for someone to prove you wrong, and up till now, you haven’t seen that person yet.

The sun has gone down bright like an orange in the distant cloud. You walked a few meters into the open park, sweaty and cold; you removed another cigarette from your pack and lit it. You dragged it and felt at peace as if each drag came with a consolation.

It’s all in my head you thought.

Making your way back and close to the asylum house gate, a young man approached you, tipped his hat at you and adjusted his jacket. You knew he wasn’t from around here. You have seen many like him since you came to stay in this place. You knew what he wanted, just statistics and facts, that’s what you are worth to them and you knew it. In his eyes you know you have no dignity, you are just another number stealing from the government. You are no stranger to that feeling. Somehow you still managed to smile.

‘Sprechen du deutsch?’ he asked you with a smile on his face too. You have been around for a long time around here. You have met people from all over Europe, you know a little bit of everything, especially languages, so it wasn’t a problem replying in German, but you knew you couldn’t communicate effectively.

‘Nein, English oder französisch,’ you responded with your little knowledge of German and let him know the languages you understood better.

‘English will be fine Sir,’ he said courteously.

You don’t like being addressed as Sir, so you corrected him immediately.

‘Samuel, call me Samuel and how may I help you?’ you inquired.

‘My name Burk, I am a PHD student in Political Science from the University of Berlin,’  He said. Definitely you knew no person would walk into the refugee area apart from refugees and the educated ones looking for numbers and statistics.

‘May I just ask you a few questions Sir, if you don’t mind,’ he smiled.

You knew they would always ask a few questions with a smile on their faces, not a welcoming smile, but one that longs rather for answers. That smile wasn’t sympathizing; instead it was filled with awe and curiosity. Maybe when you tell your story they will think you are another lunatic that tried to cross the ocean at the risk of his own life. You laughed in your mind, after all the frustrated among them have no place to go rather than commit suicide.

‘May I ask how you came to Geneva and became an asylum seeker?’ he asked you.

You have told that emotional heart wrecking story over and over so that you didn’t even want to repeat it again. You have been here long enough to realize that nothing comes out of it.

‘I arrived in Geneva four months ago for a conference, due to the political instability I decided to apply for asylum,’ you answered.

‘Do you think they are treating you fairly? And will you rate the facility, good, fair, poor or excellent? ’ He asked, scribbled a few words on his paper.

‘Poor,’ you answered.

‘And may I ask why?’ he asked looking into your eyes as if the answers will correspond with your facial expression.

‘Well, many promises never get fulfilled, look at our quarters, they are nothing to talk about…’ you answered. You are not a man of many words. You easily get irritated talking about things like this. The young scholar felt your irritation and refrained from asking further questions.

‘Thank you Samuel for helping with this project,’ he said.

You smiled, shook the hand he offered and walked into the building.

The Ethiopians and Palestinians took different corners in the room smoking Shisha with their hookah. You are the only West African in the room. You don’t smoke with either of them. You rolled your bed and lay quietly. You are hunted. You are. The memories flood your head once again. A fighter in the desert that watched men die. A fighter in a sea that was saved by a miracle. You slept.

The night has come; the lights are shining from in the distance. You looked at your watch and it was 12 AM. You made your way to the night club. That was where you wanted to be. You just wanted a coloured room with girls dancing, and that’s where you went to. You sat in the lounge; the pretty girls were shaking their asses and sashayed past you. You bought a glass of whisky. Took the first sip and let it burn your mouth before burning your throat.

Then you gulped the rest of the whisky and walked into the ballroom. You just came to feel yourself. To dance alone no matter how strange it looks. But you don’t mind if a pretty girl walks into your space. That night you made more money from selling your drugs to the young men in fine suits and a lady in a nice party outfit. It is about your survival and nothing else. You understand that better. No girl came your way till the dancing light went off and you went home.

You are up again, back at the gym. The boxer doesn’t miss his practice.  Life has punched your head and to balance it, it was necessary for you to punch something, so you chose to be a boxer. You knew the sun would shine on you in the future and you would find your heart within its rays, on that tiny stream of light.

You now knew there were no thousands of fish washed ashore, but you could still grab a handful of them. Home was only in your heart, a place you longed for and went to through the desert and sea each day you of your life. It is the most difficult and painful path one could take. A pain only a boxer could bear.

About the Author

Chika Onyenezi was born in Owerri, Nigeria, in 1986 and currently lives in Houston, Texas. He is a graduate of Peace and Conflict Studies from European Peace University, Austria. His short stories have appeared online and in print in Story Time, African Roar (2012), literary master Inc., poor mojo, long story short, and elsewhere.  He is currently working on a collection of short stories.