Suspended States by Yinka Shonibare @ Serpentine South

Introducing Yinka Shonibare CBE

Yinka Shonibare CBE is a British artist of Nigerian extraction. He works in both London and Lagos. He was born in London in 1962. In 2013 he was elected to the Royal Academy. In 2019 he was made a Commander of the Order of the British Empire (CBE). One of the most interesting things in the exhibition is the fact that Shonibare has made ‘CBE’ part of his name. To quote the curators:

The artist includes CBE as part of his professional name as a gesture towards his complex relationship to British honours and the systems they represent.

In 2021 Shonibare co-curated the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition. In 2004, he was nominated for the Turner Prize. In 2008 and in 2010, his first public art commission, Nelson’s Ship in a Bottle, was displayed on the Fourth Plinth in Trafalgar Square. The Tetley commissioned Shonibare’s ‘Hibiscus Rising’, a major public memorial in Leeds for David Oluwale, which opened in November 2023.

His work has been bought by collections around the world including Tate and V&A in London, the National Museum of African Art, Smithsonian Institute, Washington and the Museum of Modern Art, New York.

Some Shonibare pieces were until recently on display in the Royal Academy’s Entangled Pasts exhibition.

Installation view of ‘Woman Moving Up’ by Yinka Shonibare at the Royal Academy’s ‘Entangled Pasts’ exhibition (2023). Note 1) the human figure 2) the West African patterned fabric. Courtesy the artist and James Cohan Gallery, New York. Photo © Royal Academy of Arts, London / David Parry © Yinka Shonibare CBE RA

The Shonibare work that I’m familiar with is characterised by 1) life-size human figures, sometimes looking like mannequins, sometimes like statues and 2) bright and vibrant colours used in decorative styles.

Suspended States

This is is Shonibare’s first solo exhibition in London for over 20 years and features two new large-scale installations: Sanctuary City and War Library. The Serpentine South Gallery has been divided into four distinct rooms or spaces for the show.

1) In the foyer or first room is ‘Wind Sculpture in Bronze IV’. Then come 2) ‘The War Library’ 3) ‘Sanctuary City’ and 4) ‘Decolonised Structures’. Off to one side is a room detailing Shonibare’s extraordinarily prolific work with art charities and groups he’s set up or hosts, either in London or Nigeria, but this is more part of his biography and career than art as such. It contains a packed timeline and an interesting video but no art works. Also gathered in the first few spaces are half a dozen works from his quilt series about African birds and cowboys angels. So to take them in order:

Wind Sculpture in Bronze IV

Straightaway the visitor is introduced to Shonibare’s swirling forms and colourful designs. Wind Sculpture in Bronze IV captures a giant billowing cloth, hand-painted in turquoise, yellow and orange Dutch wax pattern.

Installation view of showing ‘Wind Sculpture in Bronze IV’ in ‘Suspended States’ 2024 by Yinka Shonibare CBE at Serpentine South (photo by the author)

The wall label gives us some interesting cultural history which is that, back in imperial times, Dutch traders copied colours and designs from batik work in their colonies in the Dutch East Indies (what is now Indonesia). They adapted the patterns for mass production and sold them in West Africa. Here they became very popular and copied by local craftsmen and manufacturers who produced their own versions for sale within the British economic sphere. Slowly these colours and patterns became associated in the Anglosphere with West Africa, as they are today. But their true history reveals the complex cultural and economic entanglements of a globalised world.

(PS: A similar work, Material (SG) IV, has just been installed in the gardens of Dulwich Picture Gallery in South London.)

Three sets of quilts

1. The African Bird Magic quilt series

Large quilts of bold design and bright colours featuring realistic portrayals of endangered birds such as the Sokoke Scops Owl, Mauritius Fody and Comoro Blue Vanga into which are inserted traditional African tribal masks.

Installation view of ‘Suspended States’ 2024 by Yinka Shonibare CBE at Serpentine South showing two of the ‘The African Bird Magic’ quilt series © Yinka Shonibare CBE 2024. Photo © Jo Underhill. Courtesy Yinka Shonibare CBE and Serpentine

I liked these because I like, and value, birds. I have birdfeeders in my garden and plant insect-friendly flowers to encourage the insects the birds eat. And anyone who knows 20th century western art has been groomed to like African masks from their inclusion in so much Modernist art.

Apparently these pieces are intended to:

explore the degradation of the African environment through colonial industrialisation and its disastrous effects on ecology

But I didn’t get that one little bit from the actual works, which are pretty and decorative.

2. Creatures of the mappa mundi

Same kind of treatment, different subject. Large framed quilts depicting mythical creatures sourced from illustrations found in the largest surviving medieval map, Hereford Cathedral’s Mappa Mundi (late 13th and early 14th century). This one depicts the Bonnacon, a bull-like creature known for defending itself with caustic excrement.

The Bonnacon from ‘Creatures of the Mappa Mundi’ (2018) by Yinka Shonibare CBE. Commissioned by Meadow Arts. Courtesy Yinka Shonibare CBE and Goodman Gallery, Cape Town, Johannesburg, London and New York; James Cohan Gallery, New York; and Stephen Friedman Gallery, London and New York. Photo © Stephen White & Co.

I like medieval art and am a big fan of Northern renaissance art, but I wasn’t particularly taken with these. They seemed clumsy next to the delicacy and care of the originals.

Again, these pieces suffer from what you could call ‘over explanation’, as Shonibare claims that they reference ‘the history of xenophobia in European history and the resulting extinction of species’.

‘The map reflects our contemporary concerns of fear of the stranger or “other” which often leads to xenophobia. The depictions of extinct creatures of legend are a reminder that we may yet become extinct if we do not take care of our environment.’

If you say so, but none of that is visible in the actual work. This heavy freight of meaning has been projected onto it.

3. The Cowboy Angels woodcut series

The Cowboy Angels woodcut series depicts cowboy tropes from the American West with the text ‘Angel’ hovering above. Each cowboy is portrayed with angel wings and an African mask superimposed over their face. The subject matter is obviously messing with the idea of ‘the cowboy’ but are also interesting technical experiments with the woodcut print medium. Shonibare creates cuts in the printed paper to reveal Dutch wax printed cotton and collages each work with Financial Times newspaper as a commentary on economic dynamics connecting countries and ‘to signify power relations.’

He made the series in 2017 partly in response to the election of Donald Trump. I wonder what he’ll do if Trump gets re-elected this year.

Installation view of ‘Suspended States’ 2024 by Yinka Shonibare CBE at Serpentine South showing one of the Cowboy Angel woodprints © Yinka Shonibare CBE 2024. Courtesy Yinka Shonibare CBE and Serpentine

This sounds like a great idea but I didn’t actually like the works which lacked something, some kind of inspirational zing.

These quilts and prints are all in alcoves or side rooms. The three main exhibition rooms are devoted to three large installations. These are (in order):

1. The War Library

Two walls of a big white gallery are entirely given over to floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, which are packed, unsurprisingly, with books. The immediately noticeable aspect of these is that a) they are all different sizes b) from what you can see of the spines, they are all decorated with Shonibare’s trademark colourful patterns and c) the title of each one is given in gleaming gold lettering.

Installation view of ‘Suspended States 2024’ by Yinka Shonibare CBE at Serpentine South, showing ‘The War Library’ © Yinka Shonibare CBE 2024 (photo by the author)

The exhibition guide booklet which you pick up at the start of the show gives more detail, telling us there are 5,270 books bound in Dutch wax print cotton and that along the spines of 2,700 books is gold lettering naming conflicts and peace treaties. Some of the books are left without lettering, indicating events that are yet to take place.

On the white table are a couple of computer monitors and keyboards where visitors are meant to access further information created by the extensive research conducted by a team of 10 specialists which informed The War Library. When I visited both monitors were being used by toddlers who, given full access to the internet, were playing video games.

All galleries have security people in every room. In big old institutions like the National Gallery these are little more than security guards to protect the pictures. In somewhere like the Serpentine these ‘gallery hosts’ are often young, well educated, sometimes art students or budding artists themselves. I always ask them what they think, since they have inside knowledge of exhibitions and their views are younger and more au courant than mine.

In this way I discovered, to my surprise, that the young women gallery hosts at the Judy Chicago exhibition up the road at Serpentine North thought that Chicago was now a corporate brand, an international business whose second-wave feminism had little or no relevance to women today. And at the Shonibare, I ended up having quite long conversations with no fewer than three of the hosts who shared their views and also the kind of things visitors asked them.

Turns out that quite a few visitors to this room asked the host whether this was an actual library and kept wanting to take the books off the shelves and read them. They had to have it explained to them that it was an art installation and, in some cases, what an art installation is. Wouldn’t do them any good as the objects are real books but bought second hand for their shape and size and the actual contents bear no relation to the covers and titles.

Also the titles are not in alphabetical order but completely random, with no sequence or meaning, which offended the obsessive-compulsive librarian in me.

As to the idea that a library of books about war is some kind of radical idea, I was genuinely puzzled. Some 26 universities in the UK offer War Studies courses, each of which will, of course, have libraries packed with books on the subject.

And as to the idea that researching these (fairly recent) wars required ten assistants, I was very puzzled since we nowadays have a thing called the internet which, at the click of a switch, will show you things like:

Hard to see how it can have taken ten assistants to go through these easy-to-find lists and extracting the ones he wanted. Would have taken me an hour or less. And which ones did Shonibare select? Well:

The War Library does not aim to provide a comprehensive list of every conflict and peace process, instead it provides an insight into the global and historic reach of colonisation and the role it has in shaping society today.

Ah. So wars where non-white peoples massacre each other are downplayed while anything involving white imperialists is foregrounded. In other words, this is a partial, biased and propagandist view of history. I wonder if such recent conflicts as the Syrian civil war, the Libyan civil war, the Yemen civil war or the Sudan civil war feature, or if they are excluded because they don’t fit the blame-imperialism-for-everything narrative.

The guide goes on to quote Shonibare:

‘We’ve had so many of these conflicts, and we’ve had so many peace treaties… Do we learn anything from them, or do we just ignore them, or do we just carry on the catastrophe?’

I was amused when the gallery host who I was chatting to herself volunteered the view that this is such a trite question it doesn’t even merit an answer. The logical problem in that statement is who is the ‘we’ he’s talking about? I think all of us progressive gallery-goers can probably agree that war is hell and that we’ve thought as much since we were at school. The trouble is that our fabulously peaceful opinions don’t stop people like the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF) under Abdel Fattah al-Burhan and the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces under Janjaweed leader, Hemedti, from tearing their country apart for personal gain. What they know is that military force does win victories, allowing you to seize land, goods and plunder, and so is worth waging. What people who start wars know is that people do win wars and that the gains for the winner are worth the cost (for the leaders, at any rate). So it’s got nothing whatever to do with whether we have learned anything, and everything about whether Third World paramilitary leaders have learned from the past: and what they’ve learned is that war pays. Does that help explain the world a bit, Yinka?

One last point: in the same quote he says that the work ‘raises questions about human memory and amnesia’. Really? You think that our current discourse and media and conversations have forgotten about imperial wars and have been erased by some kind of amnesia? Really? I wonder whether he’s heard of the three Imperial War Museums and the National Army Museum, which fall over themselves to document and apologise for imperial wars, of the History Channel or history documentaries on the BBC, Channel 4 and Channel 5, or of the hundreds and hundreds of books, documentaries and exhibitions which pour off the presses and fill the media with accounts of British imperialism, the injustices of colonialism, the horror of slavery, and so on and so on.

Far from there being some kind of social amnesia about these issues, it seems to me that we are so oversaturated with them that, as in other European nations, the dominance of the progressive woke narrative has triggered a sizeable backlash among ordinary citizens who are fed up of being told that they or their parents are racist, imperialist exploiters and that their countries only owe their wealth to the slave trade / imperial exploitation etc.

I’m not taking sides. Just pointing out that the claim that these are forgotten issues strikes me as ludicrous.

2. Sanctuary City

The second installation is in the Serpentine’s biggest gallery which has been blacked out for the purpose. It consists of small-scale replicas of a dozen or so buildings from around the world which have acted as sanctuaries to refugees, in the historic past and the present.

Installation view of ‘Suspended States 2024’ by Yinka Shonibare CBE at Serpentine South, showing the ‘Sanctuary City’ installation © Yinka Shonibare CBE 2024. Photo © Jo Underhill. Courtesy Yinka Shonibare CBE and Serpentine

These are:

  • Arima Boys Government School, Arima, Trinidad And Tobago
  • Amnesty International, London, England
  • Basmah Shelter, Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh
  • Beaulieu Abbey, Hampshire, England
  • Bibby Stockholm, Dorset, England
  • Cathedral Of Saint Elijah, Aleppo, Syria
  • Chinese Methodist Church, Hong Kong, China
  • Chiswick Women’s Refuge, London, England
  • Covenant House, Mexico City, Mexico
  • Hôtel Des Mille Collines, Kigali, Rwanda
  • Notre-Dame, Paris, France
  • Peter Mott House, Lawnside, New Jersey, USA
  • Pu’uhonua O Hōnaunau, Hawaii
  • St Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin, Ireland
  • Temple Of Hephaestus, Athens, Greece
  • Tokeiji Temple, Kanagawa, Japan
  • United Nations HQ, New York City, New York, USA

They can be grouped into categories such as ‘recent buildings’ (Hotel des Mille Collines, Rwanda, and Refuge’s headquarters in London), ‘sites of worship’ (Notre Dame Cathedral, Paris and the Chinese Methodist Church, Hong Kong) and ‘ancient sites’ (Temple of Theseus, Greece and the Tokeiji Temple, Japan).

As you can see, this is an interesting and thought-provoking list but the names aren’t actually visible anywhere (the exhibition wall labels give only the installation titles with no explanations). They’re only available if you’ve picked up the 15-page exhibition booklet.

Deprived of this knowledge, what you actually see is a collection of model buildings, all painted matt black on the outside with one or two lights to illuminate the interiors which are brightly decorated in Shonibare’s characteristic colourful patterns.

Installation view of ‘Sanctuary City’ at ‘Suspended States 2024’ by Yinka Shonibare CBE at Serpentine South, showing models of Notre Dame in Paris (left) and the UN building in New York (right) © Yinka Shonibare CBE 2024 (photo by the author)

According to the earnest guidebook:

The installation highlights the basic human need for safety and shelter in a time of increasing regional conflict and socio-economic disparities. Shonibare describes shelter as ‘one of the most pressing political concerns right now.’

According to the gallery host I chatted to about it, several of the toddlers who’ve visited with their parents have asked if they are dolls’ houses. This made me chuckle and immediately wish the models had been populated with little human figures, refugees in blankets cowering inside while supporters and opponents of hosting refugees held protest marches outside, waving banners and shouting through megaphones.

Shonibare thinks he’s ‘addressing’ contemporary issues but that’s really another way of saying ‘reacting to the news’. In this respect this installation is a bit like reading newspaper headlines in the Daily Mail or the Guardian about refugees. Yes, I see the problem and I had sort of heard about it since it has indeed been one of the central subjects of British politics for the last ten years or so. Well done for spotting this. And your solution is?

3. Decolonised Structures series

Shonibare has selected seven or eight of the statues of British historical figures which can be found all around London and Shonibared them, decorating them with his trademark Dutch wax colours and patterns.

‘Decolonised Structures’ (2022 to 2023) by Yinka Shonibare CBE. Commissioned by Sharjah Art Foundation. Courtesy Yinka Shonibare CBE and Goodman Gallery, Cape Town, Johannesburg, London and New York; James Cohan Gallery, New York; and Stephen Friedman Gallery, London and New York. Photo © Stephen White & Co.

These are immediately more visually pleasing, striking and memorable than a library of books or a collection of architects models, which explains why they are used in all the promotional materials, press releases and posters for the exhibition. Also, despite the efforts of Shonibare and the curators to insist that they raise vital questions about colonialism and the legacy of empire blah blah blah, they are, essentially, comic.

They reminded me of the anti-capitalist protests of 2000 in Parliament Square (how did that go? have they overthrown capitalism yet?) whose sole outcome was that some wag cut a slice of turf and placed it on a statue of Winston Churchill so as to give him a punk Mohican. And how this image was itself taken up by street artist Banksy who made a copy of it, which he turned into prints, which can be bought for (unsigned) £10,500 to £16,000 or (signed) £70,000-100,000. There’s your artists overturning capitalism for you.

Back to the Shonibare works, the pamphlet devotes quite a lot of space to potted biographies of all these old imperial figures, including a lengthy explanation of who Queen Victoria was, for anybody who’s never heard of her before. I couldn’t help laughing when the guide carefully explained that the period of Victoria’s reign ‘is often referred to as the “Victorian Era”‘. When I read that I realised maybe the guide is for schoolchildren, a sentence like that is certainly pitched at school age. At which point it dawned on me that maybe the entire exhibition is pitched at schoolchildren: certainly the ‘messages’ are GCSE level –war is bad; we must help refugees; imperialism was dreadful. Reinforced when I read the potted biography of Winston Churchill who, it explains with the same level of condescension, was Prime Minister during the Second World War, ‘when he delivered powerful speeches’. This isn’t really BBC Bitesize level.

Installation view of ‘Decolonised Structures’ in ‘Suspended States 2024’ by Yinka Shonibare CBE at Serpentine South, showing statues of, from left to right: Clive of India, Kitchener of Khartoum and, remind me who the grumpy-looking bald guy on the right is? © Yinka Shonibare CBE 2024 (photo by the author)

I liked very much the luminous colours and patterns the statues have been covered with. Nowhere in the guide does it mention that they’re very trippy. I remember the hippy era, and then the 90s period of raves and E, when this world of swirling multicoloured patterns overlaying old statues would have gone down nicely to the accompaniment of the right medication.

I also noticed the careful way this patterning omitted a) the hilts of the swords some figures wear, which have been very carefully gilded, and b) the scrolls some figures hold, which have been carefully left a statue-sand colour. I guessed this was to draw attention to the use of Force (swords) and bogus Legality (the scrolls) by imperialists to impose imperial control over huge areas of the globe.

Detail of the statue of Sir Henry Bartle Frere showing how the scroll in his hand has been deliberately excluded from Shinobare’s flower power treatment in ‘Suspended States 2024’ by Yinka Shonibare CBE at Serpentine South (photo by the author)

Pondering this display and reflecting on all the other exhibitions and works you see these days mocking and criticising the British Empire and colonialism, I couldn’t help thinking it’s an easy subject, an open goal, like shooting turkeys in a barrel. Who’s going to object? All these figures are long dead and gone. Criticising the current rulers of Nigeria or any other African country, dwelling on the horrors of African civil wars or genocides, addressing the role of Islamic fundamentalism in Nigeria and across North Africa, the interventions of the Wagner Group, the neo-colonialism of the Chinese in Africa – all the interesting, difficult current issues in Africa, these are never the subject of contemporary art works. A lot more complicated, lot more risky. Keep it simple, keep it safe. Blame whitey.

What to do with old statues?

I got talking to the gallery host in the statue room and we had an interesting discussion about various aspects of them, for example the swords and scrolls thing I mentioned above. But she said in her opinion the most interesting question the display raises is, What should we do with these old statues of imperialist criminals / historical heroes (depending on point of view)?

She told me the work was party triggered as a response to the famous chucking into Bristol harbour of the controversial statue of Bristol slave trader Edward Colston on 7 June 2020. The Colston statue was recovered and triggered an extended debate about what to do with it. This has concluded with the damaged statue, in its graffitied state, being put on permanent display in the M Shed museum since 2021.

So what should we do with the hundreds of statues of British imperial figures which litter London, which were erected when they were heroes of British history and the British Empire, and who the public discourse, like a vast oil tanker, is slowly turning against in light of the unstoppable flood of revisionist, anti-colonial historical interpretations?

Pull them down? Hide them away? Put them in a specially-commissioned museum of imperial criminals?

The gallery host told me that Shonibare’s own opinion is that they should be left in place but given information panels which explain their true roles (i.e. Shonibare and woke progressives’ interpretation of their true roles). To take them down and store them, or even put them on display in a museum, would be to remove them from public spaces and so contribute to the general historical ‘amnesia’ which we’ve seen him deploring elsewhere.

Rorschach tests

The gallery host I chatted to about the dolls houses made the point that all three installations are like blank canvases onto which people project their own concerns, something she’s picked up from their questions and comments. Wars, refugees, imperialism are the Big Subjects of the three installations and people bring their own preconceptions and then project them onto the works. The works trigger people’s pre-existing opinions. Oh isn’t war awful. We must do something about these poor refugees. Wasn’t the British Empire dreadful.

Picking up on her point I suggested they’re like Rorschach tests, like the abstract shapes the Swiss psychologist Hermann Rorschach developed in the 1920s i.e. a hundred years ago, to detect psychological problems in patients who (he discovered) projected onto these abstract shapes the personal issues and obsessions they were suffering from. One way of thinking about them…

Venice Biennale

Shonibare will feature in the official Nigerian Pavilion at the 60th International Art Exhibition, La Biennale di Venezia, from 20 April to 24 November 2024, one of eight intergenerational artists exhibiting in the ‘Nigerian Imaginary’. This, apparently, contemplates the current moment and presents a ‘defiant future’ for Nigeria. As I read this I couldn’t help thinking that, out in the real world, while artists and art critics spin their progressive fantasies, the ‘defiant future’ is happening now.


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Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (2003)

This is a staggeringly good novel. It is a vividly imagined, adult, clearly written, extraordinarily powerful, tremendously moving but – be warned! – deeply harrowing read.

Kambili Achike

Purple Hibiscus is narrated by Kambili Achike (with the emphasis on the first syllable, KAMbili). She is the chronically shy, sensitive 15-year-old daughter of a father who is a tyrannical wife beater, control freak, Catholic zealot and bully, a terrifying domestic tyrant named Eugene Achike (we only learn the family surname on page 48).

The book immerses us straightaway into a household admired for its cleanliness and godliness by the Eugene’s colleagues at the factories he owns and the newspaper he’s proprietor of (the Standard) – and by his co-religionists at the Church of Saint Agnes (not least Father Benedict, who lets him be senior celebrant and singles him out for mention in virtually every sermon). Everyone looks up to the public man, employer, philanthropist and pillar of the church.

But behind closed doors, Papa runs every detail of his household with obsessive strictness, timetabling every minute of his children’s, wife’s and servants’ time, expecting strict adherence to precise daily routines such as the 20-minute-long grace before meals, the prayers after meals, and a whole lot more.

Anybody who infringes any of the household’s countless regulations incurs, first the frosty silence of the father, then the ominously soft voice, and then the sudden outburst of violence, slappings, beatings and whippings. The result is that Kambili grows up in an atmosphere of strained tension you can cut like a knife and which Adichie depicts with asphyxiating power.

Silence hung over the table like the blue-black clouds in the middle of rainy season. (p.32)

She sat still for a long, tense moment, as still as Papa was, as still as we all were. (p.98)

For her entire young life Kambili has watched her mother, Beatrice, small and slight and totally cowed, quietly obey the master, gently limping around. Quite regularly he gives her a black eye, leaving it ‘the black-purple shade of an overripe avocado’ (p.190). From time to time her husband, much bigger and stronger than her, beats her unconscious. Then the two children know without needing to be told that it is their job to fetch cloths and water and clean up any bloodstains left on the bedroom or hall.

To say that Kambili and her brother, Jaja (that’s his nickname, his real name’s Chukwuka, p.143), are continually walk on eggshells is an radical understatement. Every memory, scene and dialogue is fraught with menace which grips the reader by the throat.

Love-fear

What gives the novel its twisted power is the way Kambili is both terrified of, but also absolutely in love with, her terrifying father. She wants to make her Papa proud, she wants it to be her who comes up with just the right religious reference, or pious platitude (‘I wished I had thought to say that’), and so earns the tyrant’s momentary ‘love.’ Desperate for his approval.

I wanted to make Papa proud, to do as well as he’d done. I needed him to touch the back of my neck and tell me that I was fulfilling God’s purpose. I needed him to hug me close and say that to whom much is given, much is also expected. I needed him to smile at me, in that way that lit up his face, that warmed something inside me. (p.39)

When Papa hands her the cup of tea Mama has just made for him, so Kambili can take a love sip, she does so even though the hot tea burns her tongue.

I held it with both hands, took a sip of the Lipton tea with sugar and milk, and placed it back on the saucer. ‘Thank you, Papa,’ I said, feeling the love burn my tongue.

So there is a very powerful conflict, not so much love-hate because she never hates her father; she reveres him. It’s more a case of love-fear. Fearful adoration. Here’s the adoration:

It sounded important, the way he said it, but then most of what Papa said sounded important. He liked to lean back and look upwards when he talked, as though he were searching for something in the air. I would focus on his lips, the movement, and sometimes I forgot myself, sometimes I wanted to stay like that forever, listening to his voice, to the important things he said.

And here’s the fear:

He knew. I wanted to shift and rearrange myself on the bed, as if that would hide what I had just done. I wanted to search his eyes to know what he knew, how he had found out about the painting. But I did not, could not. Fear. I was familiar with fear, yet each time I felt it, it was never the same as the other times, as though it came in different flavours and colours. (p.196)

Maybe as a result of the oppressive atmosphere Kambili reveals, from time to time, that she has a nervous stutter.

  • I stopped to take a breath because I knew I would stutter even more if I didn’t.
  • I looked away and inhaled deeply so that I would not start to stutter. (p.72)
  • I went over to join them, starting to pace my breathing so that I would not stutter. (p.141)
  • I took a deep breath and prayed I would not stutter. (p.239)

And she gives a description of what a stutter feels like:

How did Jaja do it? How could he speak so easily? Didn’t he have the same bubbles of air in his throat, keeping the words back, letting out only a stutter at best? (p.145)

The bond with her brother and fellow victim, Jaja, runs very deep:

It was only when I was alone with Jaja that the bubbles in my throat let my words come out. (p.155)

And gives a name to the way she and her brother communicate through looks, too terrified to verbalise anything in front of their father, or even if he’s not in the room in case he’s hovering nearby. She calls it their ‘eye language’ (p.108) which is later called, in Igbo, an asusu anya (p.305).

And it’s only puzzled feedback from her cousin Amaka that makes her realise that she whispers. She has been brought up so that everything she says, she says in a whisper (p.117).

Examples of Papa’s brutal corporal punishment

One day Kambili is late getting to the schoolgate at the end of the day. When the driver tells her father, he slaps her on both cheeks at the same time, leaving marks on her cheeks and a ringing in her ears which last for days (p.51). She is familiar with the sound her father’s hand makes slapping Jaja’s face, ‘like a heavy book falling from a library shelf in school. And then he would reach across and slap me on the face with the casualness of reaching for the pepper shaker’ (p.69).

When Eugene comes across Kambili eating a little cereal to accompany taking Panadol for stomach cramps of her period, just ten minutes before they are due to attend morning Mass, he undoes his belt and whips not only Kambili but his wife and son for aiding her sin. (p.102)

We learn that when he was ten, Jaja missed two answers in his catechism test and so, when he got home, Papa took him up to his room and deliberately broke the little finger of his left hand (p.145).

When they were small, Papa made them go and choose the stick which he would then beat them with (p.193).

Bastards can be heroes, too

This is compounded by another fairly straightforward duality, which is that her father is, in fact, in public, a brave man. ‘Brave’ because the main narrative gets going just as there is a military coup in Nigeria and Eugene, wealthy from his business interests, also owns what is made out to be more or less the only independent newspaper in Nigeria, the Standard.

The point being that when representatives of the new regime come calling and offer Eugene bribes to come over to their side, he sends them packing. When the editor of the Standard is abducted and held prisoner by the army for a week, undergoing torture, Eugene works behind the scenes to get him released and reinstated, and gives the editor his full support to carry on printing critical articles and exposés of the new rulers.

In other words, he is a genuinely brave and principled man; a man whose devout Catholic faith means that he genuinely believes in God’s Law and an afterlife and so has the courage and convictions to stand up to the military rulers he despises. And his stand offers succour to millions of others who disapprove of the regime. He is, actually, a brave and principled man. And a domestic tyrant.

Advantages of a child narrator

Solving the puzzle

A child overhears things in a house which it doesn’t understand. The adult reader enjoys the pleasure of piecing together what’s happening from the fragments the child observes.

Irony

This is connected to irony, specifically the occasions when the child narrator is still puzzled but the adult knows what’s going on, so the text has two levels of awareness running in parallel.

Wealth and poverty

There’s a sort of irony, or two levels, working in the way that Kambini doesn’t realise how wealthy and privileged she is. How could she? Kambini has been raised in a very wealthy family, her father the owner of numerous factories and a newspaper. They live in a gated compound with servants including a cook (Sisi), a driver (Kevin), a gatekeeper (Adamu) and a gardener. She goes to a very expensive (Catholic) private school (Daughters of the Immaculate Heart) where she is teased by the other girls for being so quiet and meek.

It’s probably not irony at all, I just mean the way we are from time to time reminded that the entire psychodrama of the novel is happening in an extremely wealthy, gated, privileged environment, completely cut off from the everyday realities of Nigerian life as lived by 99% of the population – as on the occasion early in the novel where she goes with her mother to the Enugu market, and a lot later, when Father Amadi takes her to Nsukka market to have her cornrows done.

Innocence

The way the story is narrated by a child can be very moving because the child’s innocence and sweetness keeps breaking through despite the terrible domestic environment she inhabits.

An example is the way that Kambini is rarely allowed out on her own but when she and her mother go shopping to the city’s market, she is always moved by the extreme poverty she sees there. A mad woman is rolling in the mud, her wrap undone to reveal her white underwear, and Kambini has a pure, fairy tale desire to run over and tie up her wrap and wash her muddy face and save her (p.44). She wants to save herself.

Clarity of observation

And the child narrator just notices things, dwells on details which an adult would be in too much of a hurry to observe or would overcharge with meaning.

Mama gave me the Panadol tablets, still in the silver-colored foil, which crinkled as I opened it. (p.101)

This is one of the basic functions of having a child narrator, to achieve a certain artlessness in the narrative style. I noticed how many times the text has sentences starting ‘I watched’, indicating Kambili’s role as acute but naive observer:

I watched Mama as we walked. Till then I had not noticed how drawn she looked. Her skin, usually the smooth brown of groundnut paste, looked like the liquid had been sucked out of it, ashen, like the colour of cracked harmattan soil.

I watched the sisters as we sang. Only the Nigerian Reverend Sisters sang, teeth flashing against their dark skins. The white Reverend Sisters stood with arms folded, or lightly touching the glass rosary beads that dangled at their waists, carefully watching to see that every student’s lips moved.

I watched Mama walk toward the kitchen, in her limping gait. Her braided hair was piled into a net that tapered to a golf-ball-like lump at the end, like a Father Christmas hat. She looked tired.

I watched their lips move as they spoke; Mama’s bare lips were pale compared to Aunty Ifeoma’s, covered in a shiny bronze lipstick. (p.74)

The Achebe influence

Quoting Chinua

The very first sentence contains a reference to the father of Nigerian literature, Chinua Achebe:

Things started to fall apart at home when my brother, Jaja, did not go to communion and my father flung his heavy missal across the room and broke the figurines on the étagère. (Opening sentence, p.3)

The reference being to Achebe’s first and most famous novel, which was titled ‘Things Fall Apart’. In the back of this paperback edition of the novel the publishers have included a profile of Adichie in which she mentions that, when just starting out as a writer, she sent some work to Achebe for his consideration and was amazed and heartened when he bothered to not only reply, but give her heartfelt encouragement.

Living in Chinua’s house

In fact Adichie’s Wikipedia page tells us that, when she was small, Adichie lived in a house on the campus of the University of Nigeria which had previously been occupied by Achebe. From her earliest years she had a kind of physical as well as literary attachment to him.

Obviously the 1990s setting is very unlike the setting of Achebe’s classic novels of Igbo tribal life (Things Fall Apart), or of the years just around independence in the 1960s (A Man of the People). Another obvious difference is that it’s about a schoolgirl not a young man, as most of Achebe’s fictions are.

Useless fathers, angry sons

But more than one scene reminded me very strongly of Achebe’s works. There’s an extended scene where the tyrant father Eugene berates Kambili for not working hard enough, upset that she only came second in her class at school. He proceeds to lecture her about how he had none of her advantages, nobody paid for his schooling, he had to walk 8 miles to school his father, Papa-Nnuku, was a pagan who worshipped fetishes and mocked his son’s Christian faith.

All this reminded me of the central figure of Things Fall Apart, Okonkwo, who also worked his way up to eminence despite being the son of a poor, useless father. Okonkwo, like Eugene, then projected the strict self-discipline which had got him to his place of eminence onto his family, in the form of ferocious bursts of bad temper and the routine beating and whipping of his numerous wives and children.

So both Achebe and Adichie’s novels are about the incandescent anger and domestic violence of a fundamentally angry self-made man, operating on a very tight spring.

Revisiting the ancestral village

A bit later, Eugene takes his family from the city back to the village of his father, where he grew up. Here Eugene, typically, has a grand house and is greeted as a benefactor and patron. But when Kamibili and Jaja visit their grandfather, he is still living in a much more basic hut, still eats yam, still worships the old gods, still speaks in proverbs.

In other words, this grandfather comes over very strongly indeed like a figure from one of Achebe’s tribal-period novels. The whole idea of going back from the metropolitan city to visit parents living in the old way in the old village is also a recurring scene in Achebe’s novels set in contemporary Nigeria, No Longer At Ease and A Man of The People.

Folk stories

Similarly, when he comes to stay with Aunty Ifeola, old Papa-Nnukwu tells old folk stories which have exactly the same flavour as the folk stories which litter Achebe’s novels (pages 157 to 161).

Proverbs

Even small details echo, for example Eugene has an old man thrown out of his compound because he is an infidel, as he’s being bundled out the oldster calls out imprecations and proverbs. One, ‘You are like a fly blindly following a corpse into the grave,’ appears in at least one Achebe novel, Arrow of God (where it takes the form: ‘The fly that has no one to advise him follows the corpse into the ground.’)

Titles

Anthills of the Savannah takes its name from a natural phenomenon, that disastrous fires sometimes sweep across the savannah, destroying all the vegetation but leaving the anthills as striking survivors. Whimsically, Achebe’s character sees them as repositories of history which survive a disastrous fire in order to tell succeeding generations about life in the former times. It is implied that books are like this, novels like Achebe’s, their purpose to survive in the fierce times of Nigeria’s military dictatorship, to preserve history and stories for later generations.

Well, Adichie’s title is also taken from a natural phenomenon which is made to be heavily symbolic. Among her other talents Aunty Ifeoma is a gardener and, being at a university, has gotten friendly botanists to do a bit of experimental horticulture, coming up with new varieties for her, among which are a new strain of purple hibiscus, and this, like Achebe’s anthills, is then laden with symbolic meaning.

Jaja’s defiance seemed to me now like Aunty Ifeoma’s experimental purple hibiscus: rare, fragrant with the undertones of freedom, a different kind of freedom from the one the crowds waving green leaves chanted at Government Square after the coup. A freedom to be, to do.

Plot overview

The text is divided into four parts. Chronologically the central event in the story is the big blow-up on Palm Sunday when the teenage son Jaja abruptly rebelled against his father, breaking all the rules and refusing to go to Church, and on Palm Sunday of all days!

This prompts his father to white-hot rage in which he throws his missal (‘a book containing the texts used in the Catholic Mass throughout the year’) across the living room and demolishes a fragile étagère (‘a set of open shelves for displaying small objects’) on which had been displayed a collection of delicate porcelain miniatures of dancers. These small, delicate objects are precious possessions of the frail wife and mother, Beatrice, so when they’re smashed to pieces by Eugene’s rage, it feels heavily symbolic.

Anyway, in a tried and tested narrative tactic, the brief (14 pages) description of this climactic event is repositioned from the middle of the series of events covered by the narrative, to the beginning of the text in order to provide a dramatic opening scene.

Then, as in a million movies, we flashback in time to understand the context and build-up to the event, in the longest, central, part of the book (235 pages).

Then, having described the climactic event in the history of this horrible family, and provided a detailed background and build-up to it, the final two parts are much shorter: 1) showing the immediate consequences of Jaja’s rebellion (35 pages), with 2) a brief epilogue looking back at it all from the present day (13 pages).

Part 1. Breaking Gods: Palm Sunday (14 pages)

As mentioned, this is the description of the teenage son, Jaja, refusing to go to the Palm Sunday service and his enraged father, Eugene, throwing his missal across the room and shattering his wife’s collection of delicate figurines.

Part 2. Speaking with our Spirits: Before Palm Sunday (235 pages)

Background on the family. We learn that Eugene has an agèd father, Papa-Nnukwu (aged 80, p.82), living in a place called Abba Town. But because he is not a Christian and remains faithful to the old gods, Eugene allows Jaja and Kambili to visit the broken-down old man in his traditional mud-and-thatch-enclosed (p.81) compound for precisely 15 minutes and forbids them to sully their Christian tongues with pagan food or drink.

By contrast Eugene liked his wife, Beatrice’s, father, who died five years ago, because he was a Christian, in fact one of the first to convert under the guidance of the early white missionaries.

But this central section is dominated by Eugene’s sister, Aunty Ifeoma. She is an immense relief to the reader because she is the opposite of her brother: she is fun and carefree and unaffected by religious bigotry and her brother’s insane obsession with discipline and control.

Her whisper was like her – tall, exuberant, fearless, loud, larger than life. (p.95)

She’s a lecturer at the university who wears bright clothes and make-up, laughs and jokes unaffectedly and is a thrilling breath of fresh air whenever she visits the terrified Achike household.

I watched every movement she made; I could not tear my ears away. It was the fearlessness about her, about the way she gestured as she spoke, the way she smiled to show that wide gap. (p.76)

It is only on page 79 that we learn the rather staggering fact that the narrator, Kambili, is 15 years old. The impression everything gave up to that point was of someone much younger, 11 or 12.

Aunty Ifeoma is a widow. Her husband, Ifediora, was killed in a car crash. She has three children, Kambili’s cousins, Amaka (a girl, 15), Obiora (boy, 14), Chima (boy, 7). They all laugh and talk in a free, unconstrained way which Kambili can only wonder at.

Lots more detail on Eugene’s repressive regime: although they have satellite TV the children are never allowed to watch it. They have a record player/stereo but never ever use it. She doesn’t own any trousers as Eugene considers women who wear trousers to be ungodly.

Christmas celebrations which, for Eugene’s family, mean a welter of Masses, penances, confessions and so on. The key event is that Aunty Ifeoma comes to stay and brings a thrilling air of freedom. And then invites Kambili and Jaja to come and stay with her at her home at the university where she teaches, to get to know their cousins. And not just a day visit, but come for a week, some of which they’ll spend on an outing to a village where there’s allegedly been a religious apparition of the Virgin Mary, Aokpe.

Papa very grudgingly allows this visit. It is the first time 15-year-old Kambini has stayed a night away from home in her entire life.

Ifeoma’s flat is in a block. It has low ceilings and concrete floors rather than the high ceilings and marble (!) tiled floors of Eugene’s house. BUT it is liberty, freedom. During these crucial five days Kambili is introduced to an entire new world of freedom and happiness and laughter.

I had felt as if I were not there, that I was just observing a table where you could say anything at any time to anyone, where the air was free for you to breathe as you wished. (p.120)

Not only is Ifeoma’s apartment shabby but everything about the university, and indeed the country, comes over as rundown. There’s a petrol shortage so she can’t run her car. The running water is cut off. The electricity keeps cutting out. The doctors are on strike. And so on. All of this is obviously an eye-opening contrast with Kambili’s household where everything works and there is food galore.

In the relaxed if poor and shabby Ifeoma household Jaja flourishes. Within days he appears to have grown into a confident young man, bigger, broader in the shoulders, offering to do chores like wash the car, relishing the freedom of conversation and laughter.

Kambili struggles much more. She observes the freedom and laughter around her but cannot join in. In particular she is criticised by Ifeoma’s daughter, Amaka, to a level which might qualify as bullying. She speaks in a whisper, she stutters, she often says nothing at all, so Amaka forms the completely incorrect opinion that she is stuck-up and aloof, a ‘backyard snob’ (p.205). the opposite. Kambili is desperate to join in but doesn’t know how.

Stuff happens. A neighbour phones up Aunty Ifeoma to tell her that Papa-Nnukwu is unwell. Petrol is hard to get so she is grateful to the local Catholic priest, Father Amadi, loans her a gallon. She drives off and later that afternoon returns with the grandfather, who the family proceed to fuss and pet. Ifeoma had hoped to get him diagnosed and treated at the campus surgery but it, like all the doctors in the country, are on strike. A family friend, Dr Nduoma, prescribes medication, which Ifeoma rolls up in the cassava flour dumplings for Papa to eat at mealtimes.

Early one morning Kambili watches Papa-Nnukwu says his morning prayers and blessings. It leaves her impressed (me too), and:

He was still smiling as I quietly turned and went back to the bedroom. I never smiled after we said the rosary back home. None of us did. (p.169)

Also, Kambili falls in love, more accurately develops a fierce unspoken crush on the priest Father Amadi. She longs for him to mention her name or look at her, but when she does is rendered speechless, looks down at her feet, feels a wild burning inside. Father Amadi takes her to a football pitch to play with a group of boys. In the event she just watches but with quite a lot of lust in her heart for the nimble, fit, smooth-skinned priest.

After a few days Eugene discovers that his pagan father is staying in the same house and rings up Aunty Ifeoma, furious. Kambili is petrified of what he will do to her and Jaja. But these concerns are trumped when Papa-Nnukwu is found dead in his chair. Much lamenting, everyone is in tears, the family doctor comes and confirms and a few hours later cemetery men come to take away the ozu or corpse.

But then Papa turns up, outraged that neither of his children had told him, in their daily call, that a heathen had moved in with them. He orders them to pack up, say quick goodbyes and drives them off. When they arrive home it’s to find their mother with a purple black eye.

Then comes the most searingly memorable scene in the book. Eugene makes the terrified Kambili stand in their expensive bath tub and holds on to her while he pours scolding water over her feet. This is for wilfully knowing it was a sin to be in the same house as a heathen and yet not tell him. It was for deliberately walking into sin. It is for her own good and he cries, himself, as he explains why he is doing it.

Her mother carries her sobbing to bed, they lay a mix of salt and cold water on the roasted feet, she has to wear oiled socks for days.

But in parallel to this horrifying moment, there’s a political crisis. The editor of the Standard arrives, telling Papa that the new military ruler, Big Oga, has offered an exclusive interview for them if they will spike a story about the disappearance of a noted dissident, Nwankiti Ogechi. Papa insists the paper reject the interview and run the story. Later, soldiers arrive in trucks and their leader offers Papa a large bribe, which he rejects, angrily throwing them out of his house (p.200).

In the following days more and more visitors arrive, members of the opposition, the democratic coalition, warning Papa that he might be assassinated and giving a list of other government critics who had been bumped off.

In fact his editor, Ade Coker, is assassinated, blown up by a parcel bomb he opened at the breakfast table. For the first time Kambila and Jaja see their father crying, small and vulnerable, being consoled by their mother.

And this breaks him. He is slower, heavier. Soldiers close down his factories. He spends all day praying. At night they hear him shouting incoherently from the balcony.

Eugene discovers a watercolour painting Amaka had made of their grandfather and given as a parting gift to Kambila. Predictably infuriated, he grabs it, tears it into pieces but is bewildered when Kambila shrieks ‘No’ and throws herself onto the fragments. And Eugene stars to kick her, losing control of himself and kicking her repeatedly till she passes out.

She wakes up in hospital where she is so seriously injured – broken rib, internal bleeding – that the priest arrives to deliver the last unction. Drifting in and out of consciousness, she wakes to find Aunty Ifeoma at her bedside and telling her Mama that this cannot go on, that she, Ifeoma, will take the children away for their own protection.

Cut to Kambili recuperating at the shabby but happy apartment of Aunty Ifeoma. Snarky Amaka has accepted her now. She also mentions that Father Amadi was especially worried and insisted on driving all the way to Enugu to see her in hospital. Amaka reveals that all the girls in her Catholic school have crushes on the handsome young priest, but that he himself seems to have an extra soft spot for Kambili. He takes her to another evening of football practice with boys and she chokes with adoration.

He picked up the water bottle, drank deeply from it. I watched the ripples in his throat as the water went down. I wished I were the water, going into him, to be with him, one with him. I had never envied water so much before. His eyes caught mine, and I looked away, wondering if he had seen the longing in my eyes. (p.226)

There’s trouble at the university, though. Ifeoma has a visit from a colleague who says she’s on a government blacklist and is likely to get fired or worse. A week or so later, the students riot. It’s a bad one, they burn down the administrator’s house and he only escapes in the boot of a car. (This reminded me very powerfully of the extended student riot scene in William Boyd’s debut novel, A Good Man in Africa, and of the student riots which trigger a murderous response from the police in Achebe’s novel Anthills of the Savannah.)

Soon afterwards, the security police force their way into Ifeoma’s apartment, throw their weight around, empty all the drawers and cupboards, accusing her of helping incite the students to riot, before leaving with a menacing warning – rather like the security police bursting into the rooms of the protagonists of Anthills. In a spectral kind of way the final passages of the two novels overlap in hyperspace.

Father Amadi takes Kambili to have corn rows done by her Aunt’s hairdresser in the market. Poverty and peasant simplicity. She also snails collected by her children. She shrewdly points out that Father Amadi likes her which makes Kambili almost faint with pleasure.

A few evenings later Aunty Ifeoma and a university colleague review the situation: a military dictatorship, galloping inflation, power cuts and no fuel, the university shut down and half the faculty denouncing the other half. Ifeoma has contacted her relative in America to see if she can get a job. But the colleague replies:

‘The educated ones leave, the ones with the potential to right the wrongs. They leave the weak behind. The tyrants continue to reign because the weak cannot resist. Do you not see that it is a cycle? Who will break that cycle?’ (p.245)

God it keeps on being horrible because out of nowhere Mama arrives in a taxi. She’s come all the way from hospital in Enugu and tells a horrified Ifeoma and the kids that Eugene, in his latest rage, broke a coffee table over her stomach and triggered a miscarriage. She was only 6 weeks or so along and hadn’t told him. She slumps on the floor and cries and cries until she passes out.

And yet the next day, Papa calls and, although Ifeoma puts down the phone on him, Beatrice insists on calling him back and, after a long private conclave, emerges as if in a trance and announces that she and the kids were going home. Eugene will come to collect them tomorrow. Nothing anyone can say can talk her out of her conviction.

Next day the monster arrives to collect them all. Mama sinks into the arms of her beater. Kambili is shocked that her father has lost so much weight. Also that his face is entirely covered in a rash which rises to countless spots with white pussy heads.

In the car the tyrant recites the rosaries he always says when he’s driving and the two children look out of their windows, blank with horror and fear and despair.

Part 3. The Pieces of Gods: After Palm Sunday (35 pages)

The next day is Palm Sunday, the day on which Jaja refuses to go to Mass and Eugene throws his missal across the room, as described in part one. And then this section describes the aftermath.

The whole atmosphere of the house changes. Mama doesn’t sneak about but takes Jaja’s dinner up to him on a tray. Jaja moves his desk against his bedroom door when Papa tries to get in.

Yewande Coker, widow of the editor who was blown up, pays a visit with her daughter who had not spoken since the assassination, and who Eugene had paid to be seen by the best therapists in Nigeria and abroad. She gets down on her knees to thank Eugene but he insists she gets up and says it is all God’s work, everything come from God. He is not corrupt. He doesn’t do things for the power or money or flattery. He does an awful lot of charity because he believes it is right.

Surprisingly, maybe, the whole family goes to Mass on Good Friday. Then Aunty Ifeoma phones. When Kambili answers she tells her she’s been sacked from the university for subversive activities. She’s applied for a visa to travel to America. And Father Amadi is leaving for missionary work in Germany.

Jaja decides on the spot that they are going back to Nsukka, today, right now. He marches into Papa’s bedroom to tell him. Papa is clearly fading. He is a shadow of his former self. He protests but Jaja won’t take no for an answer and tells Kambili to pack her things.

They settle right back into life at Aunty Ifeoma’s apartment. There’s an argument because Amaka is scheduled to be confirmed but refuses to take a British confirmation name such as Mary or Veronica. There are several scenes where Father Amadi really does seem to be falling in love with Kambili, swatting a mosquito on her thigh, easing a flower she’s holding off her finger and onto his. I expected them to kiss at any moment (p.269).

They finally go on the pilgrimage to Aokpe which has been bruited for so long, but only a page is spent describing it. Basically a slight young girl dressed in white appears to a credulous crowd who believe trees start to shake and the face of the Virgin Mary appears in the sun. In fact this is what happens to Kambili but we have seen what a deeply damaged young woman she is.

A day or two later she and Father Amadi are driving round the parish as he says goodbye to his flock. At one point Kambili finally blurts out ‘I love you’. To my slight surprise they don’t kiss, but the Father talks her down and reassures her that she will one day find true love with an eligible man.

In the parallel storyline, Aunty Ifeoma finally gets her American visa after a tense interview in Lagos.

Father Amadi’s last day arrives and she is angry with him, won’t reply. He hugs her and drives away. that’s it.

The university authorities have given her 2 weeks to vacate the apartment, The children help her pack till it’s empty apart from boxes. She says they should all go and stay in Enugu while she asks Eugene for money for the tickets to America, and Father Benedict works on Eugene to let Kambili and Jaja go to boarding school.

But all best are called off when Mama phones up to say Eugene is dead. He was found slumped at his desk at one of his factories. Jaja’s only response is he feels guilty that he didn’t do enough to protect their mother. he should have stood up to the tyrant.

The climax of the plot is very sudden. Jaja and Kamili return to their compound. Mama is taking control for the first time in her life, issuing orders, refusing to let mourners into the compound. At one point she answers the phone, listens, puts it down and very calmly tells her children that the autopsy has found the poison. She has been adding poison to his tea for months.

Shortly afterwards the police arrive to ask questions and Jaja makes a confession, saying it was he who poisoned his father. And they arrest him and take him away (p.291).

Part 4. A Different Silence: The Present (13 pages)

I’m still reeling from this sudden turn of events when we have fast forwarded several years. During that time Jaja was convicted and sent to gaol, despite Mama telling everyone she did it, writing letters to the newspapers, lobbying ministers and so on. Everyone thought she was a grief-stricken widow driven mad by grief over her husband and son, and so they forgave her not attending to the niceties of widowhood etc. Mama has gone downhill. Now she sits rocking backward and forward in a chair, oblivious of most things people say to her.

But now all that is in the past. The military leader of the country has died suddenly and the newly empowered opposition is calling for the release of all political prisoners among whom, rather puzzlingly, Jaja is included.

Now the narrative opens with Kambili and Mama being driven to the prison for their weekly visit (by the new chauffeur, Celestine, Mama having sacked Kevin). Jaja has suffered. Mama and Kambili have spent a lot of Papa’s money bribing guards and warders and the prison authorities but Jaja has still been whipped and forced to stay in a cell so crowded they have to take it in turns to stand or lie down and the floor is covered in human faeces. He’s been in prison for 31 months.

As to Aunty, her whole family write letters to Kambili who now details the kinds of things written to her by Ifeola, feisty Amaka and intellectual Obiora who’s got a scholarship to a private school.

As to her love for Father Amadi, he writes regularly from Germany and Kambili carries his letters around with her. She has found peace. She loves him even if he can’t love her back. For a while she thought she was competing with God for the priest’s affection. Now she knows they are sharing it and that’s fine.

I don’t think the details of any of this are particularly important. it’s a tying up of all the loose ends. But above all it indicates that Kambili is, as Sylvia Plath put it, through. She has come through. She has survived. She is no longer a mute, stuttering, backward girl, but an expressive, fully alive, woman in control of her own life.

Jaja looks awful when he is brought to the meeting room. they have brought freshly cooked jollof rice and meat and he stuffs his face. They tell him the lawyers assure them he will be freed in a week. Then they will take him to Nsukka first and then to America to visit Aunty Ifeoma.

‘We’ll plant new orange trees in Abba when we come back, and Jaja will plant purple hibiscus, too, and I’ll plant ixora so we can suck the juices of the flowers.” I am laughing. I reach out and place my arm around Mama’s shoulder and she leans toward me and smiles.’ (p.307)

And on this bright and happy note the novel ends. Who knows whether any of that came true, whether Jaja was released, whether they went to Nsukka or America – but at this moment, as the image freezes and the credits start to roll, Kambili is hopeful and happy, and so is the reader.

Thoughts

A child’s-eye view

In this kind of fiction the child’s-eye view of things allows for, or requires, a kind of wide-eyed innocence of tone. Part of this is the dwelling on pregnant details. The novel’s packed with them, scores of images described in detail, like the children’s running round catching flying ants in the rain, or the worms they find in Aunty’s bath, or the cricket Obiora holds in his cupped hands or the persistent snail which keeps escaping from the basket of the hairdresser in Nsukka market.

The child’s eye approach allows the prose to operate more closely to poetry than a more adult with its attention to meaningful details.

My critique of this would be that, like all styles which claim to be simple, it is in fact extremely contrived. A superficial reading might be tempted to describe the entire novel as a wonderful recreation of a child’s point of view, but is it? It bears no relation to my own children who I watched growing through the age depicted here (about 15). In my opinion the text conforms to a literary stereotype of how wide-eyed and innocently observant children ought to be. Praise for its creation of a child’s point of view is, in my opinion, praise for its conformity with a widely accepted stereotype of how children ought to see and think.

My own children were much more strange and unpredictable and unexpected, much more savvy, confused, anxious, clever, funny and exasperate, than the smoothly even tenor of Kambili’s consciousness as portrayed in this text. It’s a literary artifice.

Feminism

Obviously the text massively lends itself to feminist interpretation. Papa Eugene embodies The Patriarchy, a big toxic male who has acquired power and money in a man’s world but dominates his family with twisted, righteous sadism. He is at one pole of values, associated with obsessive control, stifled emotions, strict timetabling and physical punishment.

At the other pole is Aunty Ifeola representing freedom, happiness, spontaneity, laissez-fair household management (i.e. once the kids have done their chores, they’re free to watch TV or play), some rules about attitude and behaviour but which mostly involve gentle chiding rather than Eugene’s barbaric corporal punishment.

Man bad, woman good. It’s a striking fact that the symbol of happy domesticity and independent femininity, Ifeoma, has the same name as the author’s own mother, mentioned in the book’s dedication, Mrs. Grace Ifeoma Adichie.

The colonial legacy

Apart from all his other issues, Eugene is in thrall to the British colonial legacy. The Christ on the cross in their church is white. The family priest, Father Benedict, is white. Kambili has grown up watching her father, commanding and dominating in all other areas, submit to priests, especially white priests.

Papa changed his accent when he spoke, sounding British, just as he did when he spoke to Father Benedict. He was gracious, in the eager-to-please way that he always assumed with the religious, especially with the white religious.

In thrall to this whiteness, in a giveaway moment Kambili quite naturally imagines that God is white, that his hands are white. And:

Sometimes I imagined God calling me, his rumbling voice British-accented… (p.179)

It is a measure of her fast-growing maturity that in the final passages of the book she takes part in conversations about the racism of the British rulers, the demeaning attitudes of the American visa people, and understands the bits of Ifeola’s letters which describe how Africans are patronised in America.

When the text begins she thinks God is white and has never heard of these issues. By the end she is reading and processing and discussing them like an adult.

Igbo vocabulary

Adichie has all her characters speak both English and Igbo so the dialogue contains many Igbo terms, casually spoken. Most of them go unexplained and so remain a mystery to the non-Igbo speaker:

  • abia
  • aja – sand or oracle
  • akara
  • akwam ozu – funeral?
  • aku na-efe – the winged termites (aku) are flying
  • amarom
  • anam asi
  • annara
  • atulu
  • biko
  • chelu nu – wait
  • chelukwa
  • chi m! – an exclamation
  • Chima – name meaning ‘God knows best’
  • Chiamaka – name meaning ‘God is beautiful’
  • Chiebuka – name meaning ‘God is the greatest’
  • chukwu aluka
  • ebezi na
  • ehye
  • ‘Ekene nke udo – ezigbo nwanne m nye m aka gi’ – ‘The greeting of peace – my dear sister, dear brother, give me your hand (song lyric)
  • ekwerom – I don’t agree
  • ekwuzina
  • ezi okwu
  • fiam – just like that
  • fufu – dumplings made by stirring, pounding, or kneading starchy vegetables like cassava till it has a dough-like consistency
  • garri – the flour of the fresh starchy cassava root, in this case moistened and shaped into balls to be dipped in soup
  • gbo
  • gi – singular ‘you’
  • gini?
  • gini mezia? – what happened next?
  • gwakenem
  • icheku – some kind of fruit growing on trees
  • igasikwa!
  • imana
  • inugo
  • itu-nzu – morning declaration of innocence to the traditional gods or ancestors
  • ka
  • ke kwanu? – how are you?
  • kpa
  • kunie
  • kwusia
  • maka nnidi
  • makana (p.191)
  • mechie onu – shut up (p.224)
  • mgbalu
  • mmuo – traditional masquerades with figures wearing masks and costumes representing gods
  • nna anyi
  • nna m o – my father (p.183)
  • ndi
  • nee anya
  • neke!
  • nekwanu anya
  • ngwa
  • ngwanu
  • ngwanu
  • njemanze!
  • nna anyi
  • nna m – my father
  • nne
  • nno
  • nno nu
  • nodu ani – sit down (?)
  • nwoke – man of the house (p.184)
  • nwanyi oma – pretty woman (p.239)
  • nwunye m
  • nzu – chalk used for drawing lines on the floor as part of ancestor worship (p.167)
  • o bugodi
  • o di egwu – an exclamation
  • o di mma
  • o gini
  • o ginidi
  • o maka – so beautiful
  • o nkem
  • o zugo – it is enough
  • oburia
  • ofe nsala – some kind of dish
  • okada – motorcycles
  • okpa – foodstuff made from mixing cowpea flour and palm oil and steam cooking
  • okwia
  • onugbu soup
  • orah leaves – prepared as a foodstuff, for soup
  • ozu – corpse (p.185)
  • oyinbu – white people (p.244)
  • sha
  • ube
  • uchu gba gi! – a curse (p.189)
  • umu m – welcome (p.190)
  • umunna – local community
  • uni – plural ‘you’
  • yeye – an adjective

Patriotism and emigration

It amused me that Chinua Achebe is routinely hailed as the father of African literature and the father of Nigerian literature and lauded by Nelson Mandela and numerous other big names, for his depiction of African roots and culture – but that, as soon as the opportunity presented itself, in the 1970s he went to America to teach (at the University of Massachusetts Amherst from 1972 to 1976). And that, after his car crash in 1990, Achebe went back to the States and never returned to Nigeria, dying in Boston in 2013.

His writings praised Africa and lambasted colonialism but Achebe spent the last 23 years of his life in the world’s only superpower and the epicentre of western neo-imperialism, America. Follow the money.

So when I read more about her, I was struck to learn Adichie did the same. It’s worth copying out Wikipedia’s account because it really brings home the American-ness of her education and writing career:

At the age of 19, Adichie left Nigeria for the United States to study communications and political science at Drexel University in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. She transferred to Eastern Connecticut State University (ECSU) to be near her sister Uche, who had a medical practice in Coventry, Connecticut. She received a bachelor’s degree from ECSU, summa cum laude, in 2001. In 2003, Adichie completed a master’s degree in creative writing at Johns Hopkins University.

Adichie was a Hodder fellow at Princeton University during the 2005 to 2006 academic year. In 2008, she received a Master of Arts degree in African studies from Yale University. Also in 2008, she was awarded a MacArthur Fellowship. She was awarded a 2011 to 2012 fellowship by the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study, Harvard University.

Adichie’s story ‘Ceiling’ was included in the 2011 edition of The Best American Short Stories.

Her third novel, Americanah (2013), an exploration of a young Nigerian encountering race in America, was selected by The New York Times as one of ‘The 10 Best Books of 2013’. The book went on to win the National Book Critics Circle Award and was picked as the winner for the 2017 ‘One Book, One New York’ program.

In 2015, she was co-curator of the PEN World Voices festival in New York City. She delivered the festival’s closing address, which she concluded by saying: ‘I will stand and I will speak for the right of everyone, everyone, to tell his or her story.’

Just an observation; that both Achebe and Adichie are lauded as Nigerian and African writers and yet spent a good deal of their adult lives living and working entirely in the USA. Writers write, but money talks.

It’s an dilemma she’s well aware of. In the novel Aunty Ifeoma has a relative who’s gone to teach in America and her children wonder when she, too, will emigrate, a dilemma embodied in more than one exchange with her children.

‘We should leave,’ Obiora said. ‘Mom, we should leave. Have you talked to Aunty Phillipa since the last time?’
Aunty Ifeoma shook her head. She was putting back the books and table mats from the sideboard drawers. Jaja went over to help her.
‘What do you mean, leave? Why do we have to run away from our own country? Why can’t we fix it?’ Amaka asked. (p.232)

And also the exchange I quoted above between Ifeoma and a university colleague. Should you stay and make your minuscule contribution to trying to fix a broken country, or do the best thing for your family and leave?

Enugu

The novel is set in Enugu, the capital city of Enugu State in south-eastern Nigeria, where the family home and the kids’ schools are, with a few outings to a) Abba to see grandpa and b) the trip stay with Aunty Ifeola at Nsukka. I was curious to see how easy it is to get to Enugu from the UK, idly wondered if it would be worth visiting, and thought I’d check advice about travelling there.

‘Widespread terrorist activity, inter-communal violence, and kidnapping’, the ‘heightened risk of kidnapping, violent civil unrest, and armed gangs.’ I can see why Adichie prefers to stay in the safety of New York, building up her collection of honorary degrees.

Commitment

At some level, you have to like an author, you have to get on with the worldview and stories and prose style and the whole Gestalt that they present. As negative examples, I had an allergic reaction to the patronisingly smug tone in Mary Beard’s history of Rome, and went slowly off Giles Foden as his novels became more and more like dramatised versions of Wikipedia articles with increasing amounts of woke virtue signalling chucked in. They’re negative examples.

By contrast, this book made me a huge Adichie fan. When Eugene kicked his daughter almost to death and then she lay semi-delirious slowly recovering in hospital, something inside of me snapped. Tears came to my eyes and I was transported to a whole other level. I became a massive Adichie fan. This is a masterpiece.


Credit

Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie was published by Algonquin Books in 2003. References are to the Harper Perennial 2005 paperback edition.

Related link

Surprisingly for a contemporary novel, the entire text is available online:

Africa reviews

Anthills of the Savannah by Chinua Achebe (1987)

‘Your Excellency is not only our leader but also our Teacher. We are always ready to learn…Your Excellency is absolutely right. I never thought of that. It is surprising how Your Excellency thinks about everything.’
(The head of the secret police, Professor Okong, grovelling to the military dictator in Anthills of the Savannah, page 18)

‘Worshipping a dictator is such a pain in the ass. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was merely a matter of dancing upside down on your head. With practice anyone could learn to do that. The real problem is having no way of knowing from one day to another, from one minute to the next, what is up and what is down.’
(Irreverent journalist Ikem Osodi, page 45)

‘This is negritude country, not Devonshire.’
(John Kent, also known as the Mad Medico, page 57)

‘This country na so so thief-man full am.’
(Drunk police sergeant at a roadblock lamenting the theft of his radio, page 213)

Background

There was a gap of 21 years between Chinua Achebe’s fourth and fifth novels. A lot happened in his life and in Nigeria, which I’ve summarised in my review of his 1983 pamphlet, ‘The Trouble with Nigeria’.

Achebe wrote five novels. Two are emphatically set in the past, in the colonial period of the 1890s (Things Fall Apart) and the 1920s (Arrow of God). Three of them have contemporary settings: No Longer At Ease (late 1950s), A Man of the People (mid-1960s), and this one, Anthills of the Savannah (late 1970s). Read in sequence, they neatly represent a story of decline and fall of the nation, at the same time as the characters go up the political pecking order.

No Longer At Ease takes the time and trouble to portray one man, Obi Okwonkwo, a university graduate who has studied in Britain, who struggles to maintain his high moral ideals in the face of a series of personal crises and difficulties, culminating in him doing what he spent most of the novel swearing he would never resort to, which is to start taking bribes to influence his decisions as a civil servant in the Education Department. It is a private tragedy limited to just one fairly lowly civil servant, which Achebe makes symbolic of the widespread corruption afflicting Nigeria even before Independence.

A Man of the People ups the stakes by having its protagonist, Odilo, take an active part in politics, standing as a candidate in a general election against his far more canny opponent, a tribal chief and sitting cabinet minister. So A Man of the People a) steps up a rung to examine politics at a regional level but b) in terms of decline and fall, is a far more wide-ranging depiction of corruption, bribery and bad leadership than No Longer.

And Anthills of the Savannah completes the progress: in terms of social rank, it is set at the highest level, opening with ministers attending a meeting chaired by the terrifying military dictator who now runs their country. In terms of what I’ve called decline and fall, it shows how the purely personal scruples of Obi, and then the party political idealism of Odili, both from the idealistic 1960s, have been completely swept away in the tsunami of a military coup.

In the late 1950s Achebe’s characters are fretting about corruption; in the mid-60s they are feebly trying to set up a new political party; by the late 1970s they exist in a state of continual fear about how to survive an arbitrary and violent military regime.

That’s what I mean by saying that Achebe’s three contemporary novels chart the decline and fall of Nigerian political life, from high-flown optimism at the time of independence (the early 1960s) to cynicism and terror 20 years later.

The detail with which Achebe wanted to portray a military dictator and the impact of military rule on a nation presumably also explains why Anthills is the first of his novels not to be set explicitly in Nigeria, but in the fictional Africa country of ‘Kangan’. Presumably it was just too dangerous to write something which would be interpreted as a direct attack on very powerful people still pulling the strings in 1980s Nigeria.

(Nigeria was ruled by the military from 1966 to 1979, in which year the army allowed free elections and the return to civilian rule. Achebe worked on Anthills throughout the 1970s so, although the army relinquished power in 1979, the novel very much captures the atmosphere and fear of living under military rule. In the event, the short-lived Nigerian Second Republic came to an end when another military coup overthrew it in 1983, ironically in the same year Achebe had published ‘The Trouble with Nigeria’ complaining about the country’s terrible leaders. Renewed military rule was to last another 16 years, until 1998.)

Setup

Anthills is set in the fictional African nation of Kangan (capital city: Bassa). The military dictator is a successful general named Sam. He didn’t carry out the military coup himself but the coup leaders asked him to become President and he agreed.

Trained at Sandhurst and a lifelong soldier Sam knew nothing about how to run a country so he turned to his civilian friends. Chief among these was Christopher Oriko, an academic. He and Sam had been schoolboys together at the Lord Lugard College 20 years earlier (pages 65, 66). Oriko helped Sam recruit various eminent figures to become his cabinet and was made Commissioner of Information.

The novel opens (Chapter 1) with a meeting of this cabinet which makes it perfectly clear that all these grown men are now absolutely terrified of the general. He has shed his initial nerves, is now in complete control of the situation, and has grown into a mercurial and quick-to-anger tyrant on the model of Idi Amin. (The comparison with Amin is explicitly made by Captain Abdu Medani in the final chapter, who says that rumour had it that Amin used to personally strangle then behead rivals for any woman who took his fancy, storing their heads in a fridge, p.221.)

What’s making him cross today is that a delegation from the troublesome province of Abazon has arrived in the city and wants to meet him to plead for investment in water holes and wells for their drought-stricken region. The President wants to fob them off by sending a photographer and journalist to give their visit lots of publicity but not actually have to meet them, make excuses about him having to meet some other VIP or something.

Technique

Such is the power of his subject matter that it’s easy to overlook Achebe’s interest in technique. Take his deployment of a consciously simplified monumental style in the two tribal novels, Things Fall Apart and Arrow of God. Or the way No Longer At Ease starts at the end, with the protagonist in court facing corruption charges, then flashes back in time to describe the sequence of events which led him there.

Well, Anthills represents a notable leap forward in narrative technique. Two things are immediately noticeable, in structure and style.

In terms of structure, many of the characters have periodic chapters named after themselves, which give their points of view in the first person. These are mixed with other chapters told in the third person. This is surprisingly effective.

In terms of style, one big thing. Some of the text is in the conventional past tense, but there are also passages told in the present. The interesting thing is this doesn’t bother the reader, you barely notice the switch from past to present tense in the verbs even when it happens in sequential sentences.

She shot up from my face where she was lying and gave my face a quick scrutiny. ‘I hope you are not being sarcastic,’ she said. I affect great solemnity, pull her back and kiss her mildly. (p.67)

Summary

In a sense Anthills of the Savannah is an African version of the terror experienced by the courtiers of any tyrant. It reminded me of descriptions I’ve read of Stalin’s court. My mind also leaps to the scenes featuring Robert Shaw as King Henry VIII in the movie ‘A Man For All Seasons’, by turns hugely jovial and terrifyingly angry. And Henry isn’t an inapt comparison because Achebe has his character Chris remark that most African leaders are like ‘late-flowering medieval monarchs’ (p.74).

The book describes in detail the changing relationships between:

  • Chris Oriko, who helped General Sam to the presidency and is now the government’s Commissioner for Information
  • his girlfriend, Beatrice Okoh, also known as BB, a Senior Assistant Secretary in the Ministry of Finance (p.75)
  • his old schoolfriend Ikem Osodi, now editor of the National Gazette, a newspaper fiercely critical of the regime
  • and his girlfriend, Elewa

The three men have known each other since school and their lives have been intimately connected.

‘We are all connected. You cannot tell the story of any of us without implicating the others.’ (p.66)

Oriko and Osodi have settled into a long-term antagonism because, as the former explains, he’s tired of waking up every Thursday knowing he’s going to have to defend Osodi’s latest inflammatory editorial to His Excellency (HE).

It was only in the last quarter or so of the book that I realised how privileged Achebe intends us to see his characters as – living in a privileged government compound, having servants, cars and drivers, operating at the highest levels of state and politics. This didn’t come over at first because the characters seem so ordinary and even banal. It’s only when they step outside their privilege bubble into the ‘real world’ that the characters, and the reader, begins to feel the real poverty which the huge majority of the population live in…

Chapter 3

Ikem gets into a ludicrous race/rivalry with a taxi driver to get ahead in spaces in the colossal traffic jam on the route to the Presidential Palace, both losing their tempers in the temper-fraying permanent bad traffic which characterises Bassa.

Chapter 4 (Ikem)

Ikem remembers a year earlier attending a public execution on a beach. The crowd roared its approval and he was disgusted. Welcome to the Colosseum.

(Compare and contrast the brilliantly thorough exhibition about public executions at the Museum of London Docklands, which explained how executions were the occasions of public holidays, festivals, celebrations, eating and drinking and picking pockets in London from the 16th to 19th centuries.)

Ikem is appalled at watching four criminals being led out of the police van, tied to stakes on a beach with bull’s eyes attached to their chests, and then killed by firing squad, while the crowd roared. This episode seems to demonstrate a) the crudeness of civil life in the newly independent state and b) Ikem’s huge distance from the mass of the people which, like any Third World intellectual, he claims to represent or speak for.

Chapter 5 (Chris)

White man John Kent, who goes by the nickname Mad Medico, hosts a drinks party for Chris, Ikem, their girlfriends and an arrival from London, Dick, who set up a new literary magazine, Reject, nearly four years ago (p.58). They reminisce about how approachable and innocent Sam was back in the old days. The chapter starts with anecdotes about how Mad Medico acquired his nickname and ends with stories about sex, see below.

Chapter 6 (Beatrice)

His Excellency phones Beatrice and invites her to a small dinner party. We get a sense of the closeness of the trio when Beatrice tells us that for the first year of HE’s rule, she and Chris went regularly to the palace, till HE found his style and became more aloof. I think Achebe indicates the voice of Beatrice by making her sentences long and clumsy, and having her mangle some phrases i.e. not as fluent as Chris or Ikem.

It’s a fairly formal dinner of 15 or so people, including senior officials, the Army Chief of Staff, that kind of level. There’s a woman American journalist who Beatrice, characteristically snaps at. A long difficult dinner is followed by dancing in the drawing room overlooking the lake. The President boomingly introduces the subject of African polygamy to roars of laughter from his sycophants. For reasons I didn’t fully understand Beatrice undertakes to seduce him and shimmies so close against him that she feels his erection growing (see Sex, below). But then for reasons I didn’t understand tells him a story about being jilted by a lover when she was at a student dance in London, something which infuriates the President who storms off. Next thing Beatrice knows she’s being escorted to the car to take her home. Was it because she didn’t simply go to bed with him but insisted on telling some moralising anecdote?

Chapter 7 (Beatrice)

Yes, the prose style of Beatrice’s sections is different from the others, deliberately long winded and confusing. In this chapter she seems to be explaining that she is bringing together all the scattered parts of the narrative to tell ‘their’ story. This begins, however, with the story of her life, how she was raised on an Anglican Mission and how if any of the children misbehaved, their father thrashed them with a cane and sent them to bed (p.85). In fact her father whipped insubordinate children throughout the region, and whipped her mother, too. Once she tried to console her mother, who instead pushed her away so violently she hit her head on a stone mortar. She was 7 or 8 at the time. Man hands on violence to man.

Then she describes her very close blood-brother friendship with Ikem who she met as students in London, how she’s always been enchanted by his grand thoughts and fluency but they never quite became lovers.

Chapter 8: Daughters

This chapter continues the theme of interpolated stories, in this case Igbo legends, starting with the story of Idemili, daughter of God.

The text becomes confusing. It jumps to Beatrice being marched in disgrace from HE’s soirée, as described at the end of chapter 6. Next morning she wakes to bird song and remembers stories from her girlhood although, as the omniscient narrator points out, she was brought up in a British Anglican compound and so was deprived of her cultural legacy (the legacy Achebe devoted his lifetime to promoting).

Chris calls her the next morning and motors over, they have an argument, she bursts into tears, he cuddles her, they kiss, then go to the bedroom tear off each other’s clothes and Achebe wins the Bad Sex in Fiction Award 1987 (p.114).

Beatrice tells Chris everybody was criticising Ikem at HE’s party and so he (Chris) must patch up his arguments with Ikem.

Chapter 9: Views of Struggle

Ikem drives to the seedy Hotel Harmoney which is where the delegation from Abazon is staying. He is welcomed and feted at which point I realised that Ikem is himself from the province in question, which becomes even clearer when some of the speakers mildly criticise him for not attending the monthly meetings of the Abazon community in Bassa (the capital city). This is identical to the structure of No Longer at Ease whose protagonist, Obi Okwonkwo, is an Igbo and is severely criticised by the monthly meeting of Igbos living in the capital (Lagos).

At which an illiterate elder from among the Abazon delegation stands up and delivers an extended speech which concludes that folk stories are what save us (p.124). He goes on to describe what the referendum held two years earlier to decide whether Sam should be made president for life looked like to village illiterates like himself i.e. highly suspect. They trusted the opinion of Ikem and when he didn’t write in favour of it, they voted No. Then the Big Chief’s people were in touch and said that as punishment for voting no all investment in water infrastructure in their region would be cancelled.

Now the white-haired old man says they have travelled all the way to Bassa to put their case to the Big Chief but he claimed to be meeting some other Big Chief so he couldn’t meet them. He tells the folk story of the tortoise and the leopard, whose point is that the tortoise was determined not to give up without a fight. The elder says they may lose but at least future generations will know at least they put up a fight.

In the hotel parking lot Ikem is issued with a totally spurious parking ticket by a typically arrogant mocking threatening policeman. Next day he calls the Chief of Police and uses his reputation, goes to visit the police HQ. The Chief is embarrassed such an important man was hassled by his traffic cops, calls in everybody on duty that night and gives them a bollocking before identifying the culprit who is ordered to hand over Ikem’s papers, which he had confiscated.

Clout. Pull. Intimidation. The thing is it works both ways: in the cop who threw his weight around, and then in the Chief’s embarrassment at having bothered a VIP. Somehow everything about this trivial incident highlights the lack of principle, the lack of objective service, the personalised nature of law enforcement, which is at one with its universal corruption.

Chapter 10: Impetuous Son

A knock at the door of Ikem’s apartment and it’s two taxi drivers, the one he got into the silly race for spaces in the traffic jam in chapter 2, and the head of his union of taxi drivers. They’ve come to thank Ikemi for standing up for them and the working classes in his editorials. Most of this chapter consists of dialogue in pidgin which I didn’t understand a word of.

Chapter 11

That night Ikem has sex with Elewa then drives her home. He returns home, brews a coffee and reflects on the absurdity of so-called ‘public affairs’:

nothing but the closed transactions of soldiers-turned-politicians, with their cohorts in business and the bureaucracy (p.141)

Characteristically, for Achebe, the only actual political ‘policy’ Ikem is associated with is writing editorials against capital punishment. Nothing about industrial, economic or fiscal policy. Instead a load of poetic guff about how the leaders need to:

re-establish vital inner links with the poor and dispossessed of this country, with the bruised heart that throbs painfully at the core of the nation’s being. (p.141)

Not particularly practical. Meanwhile Sam calls Chris to his office and announces he is going to have Ikem arrested for working cahoots with treasonous elements from Abazon, for attending a secret meeting with them in the north of the capital (i.e. the meeting with the Bassa Abazon Association we saw being dominated by a worthy old man). He goes on, in classic security state style, to claim Ikem also had a role in conspiring to deliver a No vote in Abazon during the presidential referendum. Sam orders Chris to sack Ikem as editor of the Gazette. Chris refuses and tenders his resignation. Sam laughs in his face and says he better watch out, or he’ll be next (p.144). Chris refuses to write the letter but Sam says it will get written anyway, and also that the head of the security service will be investigating his (Chris’s) role in the referendum.

So it’s Ikem’s visit to the Hotel Harmoney to see the Abazon delegation (as Sam himself requested back in chapter 1) which looks like it’s going to be the mainspring of the tragedy.

The letter of his dismissal is couriered to Ikem that afternoon. Ikem drives over to Chris’s place, finding Beatrice there. It’s only now that Chris tells everyone how deeply upset Sam was when he lost the president-for-life referendum, and was particularly hurt that his two closest friends let him down, that Chris as Commissioner for Information, didn’t do more, and Ikem chose to take annual leave and so didn’t write an editorial supporting it.

Elewa turns up and they all watch the 8 o’clock news. Ikema smiles through the item about his sacking but leaps from his chair when the next item announces that the six men in the delegation from Abazon, including the kindly old tribal elder, have been arrested on charges of conspiracy.

Chapter 12

Ikem delivers a speech at the university on the folk story of the tortoise and the leopard, as told him by the white-haired Abazon elder in chapter 9. Tough audience of students who all appear to take Marxism with literal seriousness, one student calling for Kangan to be placed under the dictatorship of the proletariat. He then mocks the leaders of the ‘working classes’ i.e. the trade union leaders who are more concerned about preserving their privileges and being treated like VIPs than changing the system they inherited. Ikem refuses to give easy answers. Obviously acting as Achebe’s spokesman in the text, he says everybody asks the writer for easy answers but the writer’s job is to ask questions.

‘No, I cannot give you the answers you are clamouring for. Go home and think! I cannot decree your pet, textbook revolution. I want instead to excite general enlightenment by forcing all the people to examine the condition of their lives because, as the saying goes, the unexamined life is not worth living. As a writer I aspire only to widen the scope of that self-examination.’ (p.158)

Everyone in the country must, in other words, become a reflective intellectual like himself. And when this doesn’t happen, as it can’t happen, Ikem will, like Achebe, write a long essay explaining why his country has let him down.

Ikem’s lecture concludes with an attack on his student audience for replicating in miniature all the vices of the nation at large, tribalism, corruption and the preservation of mediocrity and bad management. All covered by parroting right-on revolutionary phrases from Marxist professors who have absolutely no intention of overthrowing or even reforming the system they do so well out of.

During the jokey question and answer session which follows his lecture, someone asks whether he’s heard the proposals by the president to have his face put on the currency. Ikem jokes that any head of state who puts his head on a coin is tempting his people to take it off, the head he means. Much laughter. It was probably this light-hearted joke which condemned him to death (see below).

Chapter 13

Next day’s newspapers lead in the biggest type that Ikem has been promoting seditious beliefs including the suggestion that our Beloved President be beheaded! The secret police have been monitoring the Mad Medico. He is arrested, held and interrogated for four days, then deported. Chris and BB drive round to Ikem’s flat (at 202 Kingsway Road) to find his flat has been ransacked and he (Ikem) is not there. The neighbours say they saw two army jeeps outside in the middle of the night.

Chris spends the day on the phone ringing round the other high officials (he is a cabinet member, after all) like the Attorney General, the head of the State Research Council, the President himself, but they are all either unavailable or claim to have no knowledge.

Then the 6 o’clock news leads with a long story which accuses Ikem of being at the heart of a conspiracy to overthrow the state, how he was arrested by security forces but chose to fight and in the struggle a gun went off which killed him (p.169).

Chris packs and leaves for a ‘safe house’ immediately. He reaches out to foreign journalists to disseminate the true story of Ikem’s behaviour and murder, and claims on the BBC that Ikem was murdered by the Kangan security forces. He has a clandestine meeting with the leaders of students who photocopy Chris’s leaflet on the case and widely distribute it. In retaliation the security forces descend on the university campus, rampaging through it with batons (not actually shooting anyone) raping some female students. Then the campus is closed down.

The British High Commissioner complains but is handed a letter written by that poet, Dick, from chapter 5, who had written to the Mad Medico about the little drinks party at his flat at which he had heard a member of the cabinet (Chris) speak so openly and critically of the president. In other words, the security services have done a very good job of marshalling and then twisting all available evidence to make it seem like Ikem and Chris really were part of a conspiracy against the President and the State.

That night security forces come knocking on the door of Beatrice’s flat, where the terrified Ewela had come to seek sanctuary. Both women dress and watch the soldiers as they search everywhere, but leave without arresting either woman.

Chapter 14

Someone in the security forces phones Beatrice and tells her he knows where Chris is but doesn’t want to arrest him, tell him to move safe houses. Is it a trick to catch him? Beatrice phones and tells him to move. She goes to work as normal, then shopping to give an air of normality. The unknown mole in the security services calls again to say the city isn’t safe; Chris has to move out. The TV news announces that anyone found guilty of helping Chris, now an enemy of the people, will be guilty of treason which is punishable by death.

A couple of pages devoted to describing how callous and harsh Beatrice had been on her servant, Agatha, for years, ridiculing her membership of a revivalist Christian congregation and so on. Now, for the first time, Beatrice begins to feel compassion for her.

Chapter 15

Describes how Chris was handled through a succession of safe spaces. But the announcement of the death penalty for people helping him makes his current patron think someone might grass him up, so he better move out the city. First step is to move from the Government reservation to a safe house in the northern slums.

He’s collected in a taxi which is part of the network, with three minders. They get through three roadblocks but are stopped at a big one with many cop cars, lights flashing. On impulse Chris gets out of the car but this draws attention to him and his companion and a fierce soldier approaches. Tense scene where his companion does most of the talking, assuring him Chris works in a garage, and he has the brainwave of taking a kolanut out of his pocket and offering the soldier some. That’s all it takes. The soldier’s face lights up and he waves them through.

Chapter 16

Five days later Chris starts the move north. For those days he stays in the house of the very poor Braimoh, a taxi driver with five children. Beatrice elects to spend the night with him on the noisy bed Braimoh and his wife give up for their distinguished guests.

It was only at the point I realised just how privileged and elite a lifestyle Chris in particular had enjoyed, with a big house in the Government compound. a) the height of his privilege and so now b) the depth to which he has fallen, cadging a kip on the bed of a dirt-poor, taxi driver.

And realised that his journey represents an odyssey out among the common people who he and Ikem and their ilk spend so much time pontificating about but of whose lives they really know next to nothing. It is by way of being an education and a sort of penance. He has become ‘a wide-eyed newcomer to the ways of Kangan’ (p.201) undergoing a ‘transformation’ of the man he was (p.204).

Chapter 17

The bus journey on the Great North Road. The colourful design and slogans painted on long distance buses. The poverty of the passengers. The change from tropical rain country to dusty savannah as you head north. There’s been drought for two years. All water has to be bussed in (p.208).

Chris had been joined on the run by a student leader who is also wanted by the authorities, Emmanuel. He is still being accompanied/guarded by the faithful taxi driver, Braimoh. So there are three of them watching the landscape change, become more arid. Chris notices the anthills dotted around the savannah and thinks of Ikem’s prose poem hymn to the sun (the one quoted in full in chapter 3).

The bus is regularly stopped at checkpoints whose sole purpose is to extort money from the driver. Chris begins to understand the universal extent of the low-level extortion which dominates all Nigerians’ lives.

Then they come to a ‘checkpoint’ which is packed with a crowd all drinking beer and talking loudly, some dancing. When the bus stops, instead of just the driver going to pay the routine bribe, all the passengers get out and hear the astonishing news that there’s been a coup. The sergeant in charge of the checkpoint heard it on the radio half an hour ago just as a lorryload of beer pulled up, so they stopped the lorry and impounded its contents and distributed it to the growing crown and triggered an impromptu street party. Chris and Emmanuel try to get sense out of the crowd or the drunk policemen, but they just tell them to stop asking questions and drink like everyone else.

There’s a scream and Chris sees the drunk police sergeant dragging a young woman towards a nearby group of mud huts, with the obvious intention of raping her. Some women are asking him to stop, lots of the men are cheering. Chris strides right over and confronts the sergeant, tells him to stop, tells him he will report him to the Inspector-General of Police. The sergeant takes his gun from his holster, cocks it and shoots Chris point blank in the chest. Emmanuel runs over and kneels by Chris as he lays on his back and dies.

The cop drops his gun and runs off chased by Braimoh who tackles him on the edge of the scrub and they roll around struggling a bit but the cop is bigger, stronger and more desperate than Braimoh, staggering to his feet and running off leaving the latter lying in the dust.

Chapter 18

Beatrice arranges a naming ceremony for Elewa’s 28-day-old baby. Seeing as we were told Elewa was just barely pregnant in chapter 14 as Chris’s flight began, I take it this must be 7 or 8 months later.

In a brief recap we learn that after hearing about Chris’s death Beatrice collapsed, withdrew into herself etc. But then Elewa nearly had a miscarriage which forced Beatrice to emerge from her grief and assume responsibility for the young, poor, uneducated woman. So, it turns out, Beatrice has gone on a journey of self discovery comparable to Chris’s.

A group of friends or comrades regularly come to her flat, worried about her, namely:

  • Braimoh the taxi driver (so he wasn’t hurt in the fight with the drunk sergeant, as I’d feared)
  • Emmanuel the rebel student leader who accompanied Chris on his journey
  • Captain Abdul Medani, who had led the search of her fat and, she realises, was the voice of the mystery calls warning Chris to move on
  • Adamma, the pretty girl Emmanuel spent the later stages of the ill-fated bus journey trying to chat up, joking about his failure to do so with Chris

As far as I can tell the coup was an intra-military affair i.e. one bit of the army overthrew the President and the new leader is Major-General Ahmed Lango (p.218).

We learn that in the coup Sam was kidnapped from the Presidential Palace, tortured, shot in the head and buried in a shallow grave in the bush. The obvious point is that all three of the men who had been friends since their schooldays and whose fates were entwined with the modern history of Kangan (or so Achebe tries to persuade us) are now dead, run over by the juggernaut of history. And that kind of flaccid rhetoric about ‘history’ is precisely how Beatrice/Achebe see it. Were, she wonders, Ikem and Chris just victims of random accidents, or:

Were they not in fact trailed travellers whose journeys from start to finish had been carefully programmed by an alienated history? If so, how many more doomed voyagers were already in transit or just setting out, faces fresh with illusions of duty-free travel and happy landings ahead of them? (p.220)

This is OK as ‘literary’ writing, I suppose, but pointless waste of breath as political or sociological or historical analysis. I doubt it, because Achebe clearly believes in his characters and much of their debate, especially the long speech Ikem gives at the university defending the importance of storytellers – but you could argue that the entire novel is a satire on the uselessness of writers and writing, vapouring away in their ivory towers while history or events continue relentlessly on, completely ignoring all their fierce inconsequential debates.

The naming ceremony is held in Beatrice’s flat amid much tears over the dead father (Ikem) whose spirit, however is floating over them and smiling, apparently. Many tears which the reader is, I think, meant to join in.

Agatha chants one of her Christian songs and starts dancing. A Muslim woman who we’ve never heard of before, more or less invented for this scene I think, starts dancing along. So Beatrice, a self-declared pagan, thinks what the hell and starts dancing, too. I think we’re meant to see it as significant that this ecumenical gesture, this healing of communities, takes place among women, the healing sex according to much feminist thought (p.224).

Elewa’s mother and uncle turn up. The latter is a keen guzzler of booze but then unexpectedly becomes quite authoritative, and leads a traditional prayer (described as ‘the kolanut ritual’) for the long life, health and happiness of the newborn child (a girl) and indeed for everybody there (p.228).

(The baby is named Amaechina which means May-the-path-never-close, or Ama for short, p.222.)

On the book’s last pages we learn a secret. As he lay dying Chris’s last words to a tearful Emmanuel were ‘The last grin’, or at least that’s what he thought. When Emmanuel tells the christening party this, Beatrice rushes off in tears. When she returns, it’s to explain that this was a coded message or in-joke for her benefit. In one of their many arguments, Chris and Ikem had referred to themselves and Sam as three green bottles hanging on the wall (as in the song ten green bottles).

Somehow Beatrice manages to slightly distort this message into the Author’s Message for the book as a whole, which is about the isolation of its intellectual protagonists from the mass of the people.

‘The bottles are up there on the wall hanging by a hair’s breadth, yet looking down pompously on the world. Chris was sending us a message to beware. This world belongs to the people of the world not to any little caucus, no matter how talented…’ (p.232)

The very last paragraphs describe Beatrice achieving a kind of serene happiness, knowing that Chris died a good death, achieved wisdom at his death, like a holy man in a parable. ‘Beautiful,’ whispers Beatrice with tears running down her face, ‘Beautiful.’

Servants

A theme of the novel is how the intelligentsia as represented by Chris and Ikem, are out of touch with, disconnected from, remote from, the ‘ordinary people’, despite Ikem in particular going on about how his class needs to reconnect with ‘the poor and dispossessed of this country’.

Meanwhile, it seems to be taken for granted that all of Achebe’s characters have servants. I was staggered that even the poor young civil servant in No Longer At Ease had a houseboy, and the characters in this novel all seem to have a ‘boy’, housekeeper or cook. For example, Ikem’s cook Sylvanus, who is itching to demonstrate his culinary prowess to Beatrice when Ikem brings her home (chapter 5), or Beatrice’s maid, Agatha. Servants? A cook? A maid?

The African intellectuals go on and on about how the wicked white imperialist used to boss around and humiliate their fathers and grandfathers…and then boss around and humiliate their own (black) servants. The narrator tells us that Beatrice regularly reduces her maid Agatha to tears, making her cry for hours (p.185). Here’s Beatrice addressing her:

‘Agatha, you are a very stupid girl and a wicked girl… get out of the way!’ (p.182)

Only towards the end of the book is there a kind of set-piece where Beatrice for the first time sees Agatha as a human being, and realises how mean she’s been for years and years. Illumination too late.

Marxism

The chapter describing Ikem’s lecture crystallises the sense that a lot of the opposition to the military regime back then was couched in the date rhetoric of Marxism-Leninism. The radical characters refer to ‘the dictatorship of the proletariat’ as if this was a viable policy or could ever be the answer to anything.

This led me to realise that Achebe wrote Anthills of the Savannah through the 1970s and 80s i.e. in a dire period of the Cold War, when communist rhetoric was very popular, not just among students in the West, but much more pressingly in Third World countries, in places like Angola or Mozambique where Marxist parties were at war, in the rhetoric of the ANC in South Africa and so on. A whole mental worldview cast in terms of outdated concepts like ‘the bourgeoisie’ and ‘the proletariat’, ‘class war’, ‘revolution’, ‘communist utopia’ and so on.

It was only two short years after Anthills of the Savannah was published that the Berlin Wall came down leading the disintegration of the Soviet Union and the end of communism in Russia and Eastern Europe. Leaving Marxist intellectuals around the world intellectually and morally bankrupt. Epic fail.

It was a sudden insight for me that Achebe’s entire writing career took place during the Cold War. He wrote poems, some stories and essays after the Wall came down, but no more novels. He may well have been the godfather of African literature but he was also a Cold War author.

Anger

Lack of self discipline, immaturity and quick temper are just some of the things Achebe accuses his countrymen of in his withering essay, ‘The Trouble with Nigeria’. These negative attributes are very visible in the quick tempers and violence dramatised in A Man of The People and are on ample display here. Nigerians, according to this book, get furious with each other at the drop of a hat.

When Ikem phones Chris at work and the latter’s secretary insists he’s not in, Ikem starts yelling down the phone, ‘an angry man’ (p.27). It doesn’t take much to make Elewa become ‘really aggressive’ (p.35). Ikem is in the middle of his morning conference when his stenographer peers round the door to say he’s got a call, and Kiem asks who it is ‘angrily’ (p.36). Chris’s secretary makes a pert remark after Ikem has had an angry meeting with him, so he slams the door behind him in his rage (p.44). Ikem is parked in a market when he sees a soldier aggressively park his car, nearly knocking a trader over. The soldier then insults the trader ‘with a vehemence I found astounding’ which leaves Ikem ‘truly seething with anger’ (p.48). When the soldier sent to collect her tells her they’re not going to the Palace but the Presidential Guesthouse Beatrice is ready to ‘explode in violent froths of anger’ (p.72).

According to Beatrice, Ikem and Chris are always having ‘fierce arguments’ (p.73). When the security guard at Chris’s apartment complex won’t let a taxi driver in, they get into a heated altercation (p.149). When the soldiers come to search Beatrice’s flat, the sergeant leading his platoon is bursting with anger and hatred of her (p.177). When Beatrice loses her car keys and returns to a phone box where she made a call to find a man using it, when she taps on the window he angrily insists there’s no keys there and makes an angry hissing noise at her (p.181). When Beatrice gets back to her flat and finds her servant Agatha hasn’t made Elewa a proper big breakfast, she is furious at her (p.183).

As Achebe suggests in ‘The Trouble with Nigeria’, this lack of self-control, this lack of self-discipline, is connected to immaturity and childishness. The reader can extend the trait to the country’s leaders, whose speeches are full of petulant complaints, and are themselves quick to rain down dire threats on their opponents. Everyone seems to be angry all of the time.

Stupidity

Notoriously, the central claim of Achebe’s long essay ‘The Trouble with Nigeria’ was that the problem was the terrible quality of its leaders, not least that these leaders were uneducated, ignorant and stupid. In this book His Excellency Sam is described by Ikem as ‘not very bright’ (p.49) and there is a constant, understated hum throughout the book, a continual criticism of people who are illiterate, semi-literate and uneducated; and an implicit valorisation of Chris and Ikem and their like for having enjoyed a top hole education, first within Kangan and then topped off with post-graduate study in Britain.

Sex

As in A Man of the People I was dismayed by the novel’s bluntness about sex. Take Ikem’s description of Elewa’s lovemaking, ‘I shall never discover where in that little body of hers she finds the power to lift you up bodily on her trunk while she is slowly curving upwards like a suspension bridge’ (p.37). Or how he believes that, soon after sex a man should return to his own apartment in order to work. How he ‘couldn’t write tomorrow’s editorials with Elewa’s hands cradling my damp crotch’ (p.38).

How, when young Sam was in bed in Camberley recovering from double pneumonia, MM set him up with a good-time girl who gave excellent blowjobs (with an ‘invigorating tongue’, p.61). Which in turn makes Chris recall his ill-fated 6-month marriage to a woman named Louise who was ‘totally frigid in bed’ (p.63), and then another girl he went out with who ‘flaunted her flesh’, lacing her performance with ‘moans and all that ardent crap’ (p.63).

On one of their early nights together, Chris tells Beatrice loads about him and Ikem and Sam, including the morning after Sam and his then-girlfriend, Gwen, had sex, she woke and wanted another go, he said ‘there was nothing left in the pipeline’ so she:

‘swings herself around and picks up his limp wetin-call with her mouth’

at which point he gets an erection. This leads to a whole page devoted to Beatrice commenting on this behaviour, saying ‘how disgusting’, asking whether he ejaculated in her mouth, that’s something she’ll never do, and so on (p.69).

When Chris and Beatrice have sex in chapter 8 it should win an award for embarrassingly over-written sex scenes. In the same chapter Chris caricatures what would happen if he fled Kanga, went into exile in the west and it is typical of the novel’s worldview that he immediately thinks that in exile he would ‘sleep with a lot of white girls’ (p.118). Are white girls that sexually available to Nigerian students? Apparently so.

When Beatrice compares Chris and Ikem the salient point is not regarding their political position or economic theory or ideals for the country, it’s that Ikem has had a ‘string of earthy girlfriends’ (p.119).

When Beatrice insists on spending Chris’s last night in Bassa with him, even though it’s at the slum home of taxi driver Braimoh, the pair still have sex in someone else’s bed and despite the fact that his host’s five small children are sleeping on mats in the same room, separated only by a sheet hung from string strung across the room, so any wakeful children can hear the act (p.198).

Maybe we’re meant to find the sexual anecdotes, especially in the first half of the text, warm and funny; maybe they’re meant to indicate the openness between the three former friends and their girlfriends, a kind of prolongation of their student-era, light-hearted promiscuity. But to me almost all this sex talk felt somehow joyless and crude. It put me off the characters and the book.

And, just as in A Man of the People, I found it disappointing that these so-called ‘intellectuals’ don’t have an idea in their heads, don’t have a single practical suggestion about how to improve the law or commerce, industry, investment or economy of their country: they just spend all their time telling stories or thinking about sex.

And, of course, the entire narrative climaxes, or ends, with a fight over a sex act, namely Chris intervening to stop the police sergeant raping a young woman. Putting aside the (nasty) content of the act, it’s characteristic of Achebe’s contemporary stories that the decisive event is sexual rather than political, just as the swing event in A Man of the People is not a political decision but Odilo’s anger at Chief Nanga sleeping with his girlfriend. Seems like, in Achebe, sexual hot-headedness always trumps politics analysis.

Embedded stories

The character Ikem is now a powerful newspaper editor but like all literature students, fancies himself as a poet and author. All Achebe’s books contain numerous traditional proverbs and some of them (Arrow of God) describe characters telling each other traditional folk stories. In this one, we have Ikem’s productions quote in full, being:

  • a Hymn to the Sun (pages 30 to 33)
  • a ‘love letter’ to Women (i.e. a feminist interpretation of history and reform) (pages 97 to 101)
  • the leopard and the tortoise

Explanation of the title

At the end of chapter 3 Ikem composes a Hymn to the Sun – an unlikely thing, maybe, for a tough newspaper editor to do, but adding an interesting extra layer of meaning to the novel’s text. Half-way through he describes the way a hallucinatorily fierce sun burns away vegetation from the face of the earth, leaving trees looking like bronze statues:

like anthills surviving to tell the new grass of the savannah about last year’s brush fires.

So the anthills are repositories of history which survive a disastrous fire in order to tell succeeding generations what happened. So maybe that is the purpose of this book: to survive in the fierce times of Nigeria’s military dictatorship, to preserve history and stories for later generations.

Conclusion

I read Anthills of the Savannah when it first came out and it left a lasting, positive impression on me. Rereading it almost 40 years later I found I disliked many things about it. Of Achebe’s five novels I think it’s the weakest: I’d recommend any of the others, but especially Things Fall Apart and Arrow of God before it.

Without maybe being fully aware of it, Achebe seems to have moved into thriller territory, with the last 40 pages being an account of a man on the run from the state security services and he does a capable job but it’s not really his forte. The folk stories interspersed in the narrative are not as numerous as I expected, only about three in total, not enough to lift the book into the realm of magical realism which was so fashionable when it was published.

He makes a clear effort to be a feminist, taking time to flesh out the character of Beatrice, her one-sided upbringing, her experiences in London, falling in love with Chris, her boldness at the President’s party, overcoming her terror when Chris goes on the run, with plenty of reflections thrown in about the plight of women, the oppression of women, how women have to stick together, women are the future etc. All correct sentiments, but not really dramatised in the plot. Good intentions, somehow not fully worked through.

Also his prose style has gone to pot. I initially thought the long unravelling sentences were limited to Beatrice’s sections of the novel and designed to characterise her feminine thought processes like Molly Bloom’s in Ulysses. But they’re not. They occur throughout and are often really clumsy.

All these attractions of Abazon had of course to be set against the one considerable disadvantage of being a place where the regime might be sleeping with one eye open especially since the death of Ikem and an ugly eruption of a new crisis over the government’s refusal to turn over his body to his people for burial under the provocative pretext that investigations were still proceeding into the circumstances of his death! (p.195, cf p.196)

Achebe took over a decade to write this relatively short novel. Don’t you think that sentence could have been a teeny bit improved? Probably by breaking it up into two or more shorter sentences? And does it need the exclamation mark at the end? It serves mainly to make the thought it contains come over as callow and naive.

But most of all I disliked how useless, impractical, spurious and distracting most of its intellectual content is. Economic, social, industrial, developmental, fiscal and social problems need practical, thought-out and costed solutions, not folk stories and witless vapouring about:

re-establishing vital inner links with the poor and dispossessed of this country, with the bruised heart that throbs painfully at the core of the nation’s being.

I know it’s only a novel not an economic strategy, but it was Achebe himself who chose to make it a novel about politics, to get his hands dirty by entering the political arena and to give his characters great long speeches about the future of their country, the future of democracy, the validity of revolution, about feminism and overthrowing the patriarchy and smashing the system and supporting the poor.

So it is deeply disappointing that amid all this fine rhetoric the book’s political analyses are so limited and shallow – big on rhetoric about stories and feelings but, for all practical purposes, quite useless.


Credit

Anthills of the Savannah by Chinua Achebe was published in 1987 by Heinemann Books. References are to the 1988 African Writers Series paperback edition.

Related link

Chinua Achebe reviews

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A Man of the People by Chinua Achebe (1966)

‘Big man, big palaver’
(The one-eyed thug, Dogo, describing Chief the Honourable N.A. Nanga in A Man of the People, page 15)

The Africa trilogy

Achebe’s previous three novels – Things Fall Apart (1958), No Longer at Ease (1960), Arrow of God (1964) – are grouped together under the title of the ‘African Trilogy’. They are all told in the free indirect style, meaning they have an omniscient third-person narrator but that narrator tells everything from the point of view of a central protagonist, at moments entering deep into their minds and thought processes so we see the world from their point of view.

Books 1 and 3 of the trilogy are entirely set within the world and mindset of ‘backward’ ‘primitive’ tribal people from a subset of the Igbo people of south-east Nigeria. Their whole point is to immerse you in the mindset, beliefs and practices of these people and make you understand that they in fact had a deep and rich cultural and spiritual life, complicated customs, laws and processes for managing themselves, most of which were brutally over-ridden with the advent of white Europeans, specifically British imperial administrators.

Book 2 is set in the contemporary world (i.e. around 1957/58) but is also told in the free indirect style, and has the protagonist, Obi Okonkwo, frequently returning to the undeveloped village of his birth and ancestors. It’s also tied into the trilogy because the protagonist, Obi, is the grandson of the central figure of the first book, Okonkwo.

A Man of The People

The point is that A Man of the People marks a significant break with the trilogy. It is still set in Nigeria but it is a) very much the contemporary Nigeria of 1964 and b) above all, it is told in the first person.

It is a first-person narrative told by a young male teacher, Odili Samalu (full name p.23). It is a mazy narrative, punctuated with lots of flashbacks. In these we learn about Odili’s boyhood in the village of Urua, his success at the local school, winning a scholarship to university, his womanising student days, travelling to London to do a post-graduate certificate in teaching, then his decision to take up a teaching post at an out of the way private or grammar school in the town of Anata. He has been teaching there for 18 months (p.8).

Chief the Honourable N.A. Nanga

The present part of the narrative kicks off in 1964 when this school is paid a visit by an eminent Nigerian politician and cabinet minister, Chief the Honourable N.A. Nanga.

It turns out that Odili has a history with Nanga. Back in 1948 Nanga had been Odili’s teacher in standard three and Odili had been one of his favourite pupils. Then the narrative jumps to 1960 and political events which first disillusioned Odili with his country’s politicians.

A general election was imminent. The world price of coffee had collapsed throwing the Nigerian economy into crisis. The Minister of Finance, Dr Makinde, who had a PhD in Economics presented a well worked out plan for dealing with the public finances which would require cuts to public services. Because of the election, the Prime Minister said no and abruptly sacked not only the Finance Minister but also the majority of the cabinet which had backed him. He instructed the central bank to start printing money, which led to the high rate of inflation which is still dogging the country as the narrative opened. But much worse, he launched fierce attacks on the Finance Minister, calling him and those who backed the plan conspirators and traitors and saboteurs working with foreign powers to undermine the country. Press and radio echoed these cries and ambitious MPs in Parliament joined in, yelping like jackals, like a ‘pack of bench hounds, at their prey.

Odili happened to be in the public gallery of the Parliament when the Prime Minister made this speech and was appalled at the naked greed, the unleashing of public hatred, and lickspittle sycophancy he saw on display. Among the lead jackals baying for a place in the cabinet was the Chief the Honourable N.A. Nanga who Odili is welcoming to his private school.

From the day a few years before when I had left Parliament depressed and aggrieved, I had felt, like so many other educated citizens of our country, that things were going seriously wrong without being able to say just how. We complained about our country’s lack of dynamism and abdication of the leadership to which it was entitled in the continent, or so we thought. We listened to whispers of scandalous deals in high places – sometimes involving sums of money that I for one didn’t believe existed in the country. But there was really no hard kernel of fact to get one’s teeth into. (p.39)

So a central strand of the novel is a portrait of this corrupt politician who embodies everything Achebe thinks is wrong with Nigerian politics in the first few years after independence.

  • he presents himself as a great benefactor of his people, dispensing largesse at every opportunity
  • despite having two wives, Nanga has a mistress (a ‘parlour wife’, p.22) he has appointed to various profitable positions within his portfolio with the result that she is festooned with expensive clothes and accessories
  • he is accompanied everywhere by a journalist writing down his wit and wisdom and feeding positive stories to the press
  • and by an entourage which includes ‘a huge, tough-looking’ security guard
  • full of himself, Nanga has had numerous streets, avenues and so on named after him

And he’s stupid (see below). Nanga invites Odili to look him up next time he’s in the capital (of the region, Bori, not Lagos, capital of Nigeria), saying ‘we must promote clever people like you’ etc.

First Odili goes to visit his father, Hezekiah Samalu, in his home village of Urua. They have an argument because his father is about to marry his fifth wife (Odili’s mother died in childbirth).

With Nanga in the capital

Then Odili takes Nanga up on his invitation, pays a social call on him in Bori and finds himself invited to stay in the minister’s huge mansion, being taken the houses of his fellow cabinet ministers,

What comes across loud and clear is that within a few years of independence all the elements are in place for Nigeria’s decline and fall. Universal corruption. Politics seen as not an opportunity to serve the country but to garner position, power and wealth for yourself, your family and clan. Over indulgence in the trappings of power i.e. big cars, huge houses, every mod con, bodyguards, multiple wives. Extreme rhetoric whereby ministers or authority figures constantly scream about murder, poisoning, conspiracies and so on, and are correspondingly hysterical in their threats of punishment, torture, death and so on. The assumption right from the start that the press is not there to be a free and critical part of the system of checks and balances but a medium of propaganda to be whipped into line.

Achebe is well aware of all this, it’s the issue at the core of the book:

A man who has just come in from the rain and dried his body and put on dry clothes is more reluctant to go out again than another who has been indoors all the time. The trouble with our new nation – as I saw it then lying on that bed – was that none of us had been indoors long enough to be able to say ‘To hell with it’. We had all been in the rain together until yesterday. Then a handful of us – the smart and the lucky and hardly ever the best – had scrambled for the one shelter our former rulers left, and had taken it over and barricaded themselves in. And from within they sought to persuade the rest through numerous loudspeakers, that the first phase of the struggle had been won and that the next phase – the extension of our house – was even more important and called for new and original tactics; it required that all argument should cease and the whole people speak with one voice and that any more dissent and argument outside the door of the shelter would subvert and bring down the whole house. (p.37)

We see plenty of examples of Nanga creaming off backhanders and bribes which are called ‘dash’. Odili’s own father is more in turn with general opinion than his priggish son:

My father’s attitude to my political activity intrigued me a lot. He was, as I think I have already indicated, the local chairman of P.O.P. in our village, Urua, and so I expected that his house would not contain both of us. But I was quite wrong. He took the view (without expressing it in so many words) that the mainspring of political action was personal gain, a view which, I might say, was much more in line with the general feeling in the country than the high-minded thinking of fellows like Max and I. (p.114)

According to the publisher’s summary on the cover the book is intended to be a comedy (‘a very funny satire’ opines Angus Wilson) but: 1) nothing in any of it made me laugh except for one sentence at the very end (see below), and 2) instead it felt like a grim anticipation of the 60 years since independence during which Nigeria has become one of the most violent, unequal and corrupt places on earth (ranked 150th out of 180 countries for corruption by Transparency International).

Plot summary

Odili is a schoolteacher at a country grammar school. Cabinet minister the Honourable N.A. Nanga comes to address the school. Odili reminds him that he was his teacher back in 1948 and tells him he want to university, then did a PGCE in Britain, before returning to become a teacher. Nanga invites Odili to come and stay with him in his luxurious government mansion in Bori. Here Odili has sex with a white married woman guest of Nanga’s but when he then invites his own girlfriend, Elsie, to stay the night, she prefers to have sex with the chief, prompting Odili to storm out and go and stay with his friend, the lawyer Maxwell Kulamo. Maxwell inducts him into a new political party they’re setting up named the Common People’s Convention (CPC). There’s a meeting of the small steering committee which includes a trade unionist and someone from an Eastern Bloc country, though they’re all careful to emphasise that they’re not communists. Also, none of them are working class i.e. the people. Odili is surprised to learn the party’s backer is a minister in the existing government. At a stroke I guessed he’s encouraging the CPC as part of an internal powerplay. Odili goes back to his town, and pays two visits, one to Chief Nanga’s ‘bush wife’ who is tired and bitter that he’s taking up with a new young parlour wife; and then the young wife-to-be of Nanga, Edna, and her protective greedy father. Odili offers to give Edna a lift on the back of his bicycle to visit her mother in hospital, taking a home-made lunch but like an idiot manages to crash it, spilling all the food in the sandy road and grazing her knee. Ouch. Odili is in a campaign to seduce and sleep with Edna, maybe taking her virginity, in revenge for Nanga bedding Elsie. It’s like a children’s game with women as the winnings.

A corruption scandal blows up and brings down the government. An election is called. Odili announces he is going to contest Nanga’s seat which consists of five villages, including his home village Urua and Nanga’s base, Anata. This is on page 100 of this 150-page book so exactly two-thirds through. He encounters resistance in Anata. The principle of his school, Mr Nwege, sacks him. Like all the characters, Odili can’t behave politely but starts insulting Nwege who is instantly enraged and runs to get his shotgun, so Odili flees (p.102). Everyone is so quick to anger, insult then violence. When Odili tries to gain admission to Edna’s hospital the gateman doesn’t tell him private cars aren’t allowed in but shouts at him ‘like a mad dog’. I don’t see how this is comic. It is symptomatic of the high levels of anger and intemperance throughout the text. They even frighten the protagonist:

I reflected on the depth of resentment and hatred from which such venom came – and for no other reason than that I owned a car, or seemed to own one! It was depressing and quite frightening. (p.104)

He then drives over to Edna’s place and when she lets him in she is petrified that her father, who’s popped out for a poo, will kill him when he returns. She is literally shaking with fear (p.104). And when the father sees Odili, he does, indeed, run to fetch his machete with the aim of hacking him to death. I don’t see how this is funny. They manage to calm him down but as Odili leaves, Edna’s father threatens to beat her. Funny?

The election campaign commences and Odili has to hire bodyguards, a main on, Boniface, a violent thug, and three assistants, plus load up on weapons which eventually included machetes and two shotguns. The youth wing of Nanga supporters carry violent placards and attack his rallies. In his essay ‘The trouble with Nigeria’ Achebe claims it’s the corrupt and badly educated leadership – he says nothing about this resort to anger and violence which characterises every level of public discourse.

Anyway, Chief Nanga drives up in a Cadillac full of bodyguards to Odili’s father’s house and very smoothly converts the father, over a new bottle of whisky describing how abominably his son behaved in abusing his hospitality etc. Then Nanga offers Odili a scholarship for further study plus £250 to pack in his campaign. He’s going to lose anyway, Do what his buddy Maxwell has already done, which is take the money and stand down.

In fact Nanga was lying and the next day max and the rest of the team (a dozen organisers) roll up to help Odili with his campaign bringing a car, a minibus and two new Land Rovers with loudspeakers fitted on the roofs. They hold a rally with Max declaiming through the speakers but the crowd is apathetic and replies with two points: 1) the politicians may be corrupt, but so is almost everybody down to the lowliest council official and storekeeper, so an attack on ‘corruption’ is actually an attack on the very ‘people’ the CPC claims to be standing for, and 2) nobody expects the CPC to be any different, everybody expects them to join the existing political parties, the P.O.P. and P.A.P. on the gravy train (p.125).

Max tells Odili he did take a bribe from his opponent in his constituency (Max and Odili are fighting campaigns in adjoining constituencies), £1,000 from Chief Koko – it’s what paid for the shiny new Land Rovers – but he won’t honour the terms of the deal, he won’t stop campaigning.

Things start to go wrong. Odili’s father is expelled from his party (just to be clear, his dad was a treasurer of the established opposition party the P.O.P.), then tax inspectors came demanding a new, much bigger payment, and could only be persuaded not to arrest him with the payment of a cash bribe (£24). How can Odili, Max and their dozen friends hope to change the embedded practices of an entire society?

Next day the village Crier announces there is only one candidate worth voting for, Chief Nanga. The message is repeated on the radio. A message comes that his father’s expulsion from his party will be reversed if he simply signs a document dissociating himself from his son’s (Odili’s) subversive activities.

A day or two later Nanga holds the inaugural rally of his campaign. Foolishly, Odili decides to attend. He tries to mingle with the crowd but one of Nanga’s creatures spots him and Nanga immediately tells the crowd to seize him. So Odili is manhandled to the front of the crowd and then taken by minders up onto the stage where Nanga reads out the long list of his bad behaviour, treachery and scheming, as the roars of anger get louder. Then Nanga playfully hands the microphone to Odili so the crowd can hear his excuses but he doesn’t get further than ‘I came to tell the people that you are a liar…’ before Nanga slaps him, then lots of other fists are pummeling then something hard feels like it is cracking his skull and he loses consciousness.

When he awakes it is to find he has a cracked skull, a broken arm, and bruises to his groin where he was heartily kicked by Nanga’s henchmen. He is confused for weeks and only slowly finds out he is under arrest for having dangerous weapons in his car (the machetes and shotguns), a car Nanga’s thugs ransacked, turned over and set on fire. In fact the charge was dropped once it was clear Odili wasn’t going to sign his nomination papers to stand as a candidate (he thought he’s already submitted them but they were intercepted by Nanga’s thugs).

Anyway the day of the election comes and goes and Odili is still in bed recovering. When he hears that his good friend Maxwell was killed in his electioneering, in the process of investigating vote rigging, he suffers a relapse. Max was run over as he was getting out of his vehicle by thugs of Chief Koko’s. For some reason Koko is nearby and Max’s girlfriend, Eunice, gets a gun out of her handbag and shoots Koko dead, before she’s arrested.

On election night the gangs assembled by these ruling MPs, Nanga and Koko, get out of control and go on the rampage, attacking markets, burning and looting, which lasts for days.

At first the Prime Minister is re-elected and selects all the cabinet who had been disgraced, including Nanga. Violence continues across the country and he assures foreign investors the country is safe and stable.

Meanwhile, in the love interest part of the story, Edna has been visiting him. Turns out she refused to marry Nanga. Turns out she loves Odili. This is very inconsistent with the scene where she shouted at him to leave her house (?) but it does provide the standard happy ending of the slight comic novel.

When he finally gets out of hospital he and his father go and see Edna’s father to begin a ‘conversation’ about marrying her. Edna’s father says no but then history takes a hand. In the only thing that made me smile in the whole book, I liked the phrasing of:

But the Army obliged us by staging a coup at that point and locking up every member of the Government. The rampaging bands of election thugs had caused so much unrest and dislocation that our young Army officers seized the opportunity to take over. We were told Nanga was arrested trying to escape by canoe dressed like a fisherman. Thereafter we made rapid progress with Edna’s father who, no doubt, saw me then as a bird in hand… (p.147)

So there’s a military coup, the entire existing government is thrown in prison, and Odili ends up with the girl. Happy ending, of sorts.

The final thought of the book is Odili’s complete disillusion with the people of Nigeria, because the day after the coup the entire population, from the loftiest intellectuals to the lowliest latrine cleaners, like the population of Oceania in Nineteen Eighty-Four, completely and absolutely switches its allegiance from the old regime, which it now reviles, to the new one, which it fulsomely praises.

So the novel ends on a note, I thought, of real despair. In his essay The trouble with Nigeria Achebe famously wrote that it’s Nigeria’s main problem has been its appalling leaders. The implication, in fact the explicit conclusion of this book, is that this is not the case. But the real trouble with Nigeria, the last pages of this novel imply, is its people.

Note

I now proceed to say some very blunt things about the stupidity, childishness, ignorance, quickness to anger and swift resort to violence which characterises the world of the novel and, if it is in any way intended as a depiction of his native country, of Nigeria as a whole. I felt nervous doing this but have just finished reading Achebe’s 1983 essay The Trouble with Nigeria and have discovered that everything I comment on is raised and worried over in that essay. In other words, the negative qualities I discuss in the next few sections are aspects of Nigerian life which Achebe himself lamented. In other words, the novel deliberately paints Nigerian political and social life in almost as unflattering light as he could manage, almost as if he wanted to stun his country into reform.

Stupidity

It’s a tactless thing to write but what really comes across from the book is not that Nanga or any of his cabinet colleagues are especially corrupt – they are, of course, but the real take-home is that they’re just stupid, very stupid; stupid, ignorant and uneducated. All Nanga’s charisma and loud-talking makes it easy to forget the surprising fact that he is, as Odili tells us, ‘barely literate’ (p.47). And he was a teacher!

I know the novel is packed with the moral fol-de-rol which GCSE students are told to waste their time writing essays about (‘Was Odili right to do x?’, ‘What options does Edna have in a patriarchal society?’ etc) – but surely the important dynamic is established early on, in that story about the Minister of Finance, who had a PhD in public finance and a sound plan, being sacked and vilified by the Prime Minister and the lickspittle press and replaced by Nanga, who is a loudmouthed ignoramus.

It’s not me imposing this on the text – the young university-educated characters (Odili, Maxwell, Kadabie) themselves comment on the ignorance of their leaders. Here’s Odili’s friend, the lawyer Maxwell:

‘That’s all they care for,’ he said with a solemn face. ‘Women, cars, landed property. But what else can you expect when intelligent people leave politics to illiterates like Chief Nanga?’ (p.76)

And one of the villagers, an elderly man. Max addresses in a campaign rally freely admits the people’s ignorance:

‘We are ignorant people and we are like children.’ (p.126)

Not everyone can go away to university. Hardly anyone gets to go and be educated in Britain. Meanwhile 99% of the population continues illiterate and soaked in its traditional beliefs, namely that the tribal chieftain’s first job is to provide for his people. Out of that venerable, traditional, tribal, people’s assumption comes the corrupt structure of most African countries’ political and economic systems.

Quick to anger

I’ve highlighted the little sequence of characters getting irrationally furious (the hospital gatekeeper, Edna’s father, gangs of Nanga’s supporters). But the protagonist, Odili, is like this, extremely quick to take violent offence. And so is his father. When Nanga visits them at their house in Urua, Odili refuses to put his newspaper down so his father, instantly super enraged, steps towards him as if to hit him (p.115). When Edna’s brother doesn’t immediately go and fetch Edna when he pays her family a visit, Odili immediately starts shouting at the poor boy (p.129). After Edna has given him a good dressing-down, the brother warns Odili that the minder set on her by Nanga will castrate him (Odili) if he finds him there in Edna’s house (p.129). Then, of course, Odili is badly beaten up on Nanga’s campaign stage. And then his friend Max is murdered by his political opponent, Chief Koko.

Can’t everyone just try to calm down and be civil to each other?

Childish

Much of the behaviour of a lot of the characters, comes over as petulant and childish. The narrator is touchy:

‘Hello, Jalio,’ I said, stretching my hand to shake his… He replied hello and took my hand but obviously he did not remember my name and didn’t seem to care particularly. I was very much hurt by this and immediately formed a poor opinion of him and his silly airs. (p.62)

A trait which forms the spine of the plot when he makes his juvenile determination to get his own back on Chief Nanga for sleeping with his girlfriend, by sleeping with his future wife (Edna).

The same tetchy quickness to feel insulted comes over in Nanga’s touchiness about what journalists write about him and his heartfelt wish to muzzle and silence them.

It explains why all the characters’ political ideas are blunt and stupid as a child’s: to acquire more money and power; muzzle the press; intimidate other political parties; throw anyone who disagrees with them in prison. In fact most of the satire is at Odili’s expense because he never has any idea how to run a country or an economy, he has no policies or ideas of any kind except to get his own back on Chief Nanga.

It’s not that it’s corrupt or wicked so much as that it’s childish, a childishly inadequate mentality for running a country.

‘We are ignorant people and we are like children.’ (p.126)

And it’s this childishness, this immature petulance and resentment of any criticism, which the outside world was to hear in the angry speeches of African leaders like Patrice Lumumba, lashing out at the West for not helping him tackled Congo’s chaotic crises, the angry rants of Idi Amin or Robert Mugabe or Thabo Mbeki, over the decades to come.

Over-symbolising

This is connected to something else I noticed, which is the way all the characters (the meaningful characters i.e. the men, in this patriarchal narrative) madly over-inflate even the tiniest incident into being symbolic of The State of Nigeria. When Nanga shags Odili’s ‘good-time girl’, the latter delivers a long aggressive diatribe to the startled older man, but what stood out for me is when he says ‘What a country!’ as if one man sleeping with another man’s girlfriend somehow typifies an entire nation.

But that is exactly how the narrator thinks. Everywhere he looks he sees symbols and allegories of Nigeria’s present and portents of its future. It explains his conviction in the novel’s last 30 pages or so that the gimcrack little ‘party’ he and his schoolchum have cobbled together is somehow ‘our society’s only hope of salvation’ (p.128). Similarly, when Edna tells him to buzz off and leave him alone, Odili is immature enough to make it hugely symbolical:

What I felt was sadness—a sadness deep and cool like a well, into which my hopes had fallen; my twin hopes of a beautiful life with Edna and of a new era of cleanliness in the politics of our country. (p.130)

think it was this incorporation of a supposedly ‘political’ element in the novel which led critics to praise it and give it its status. Yet just having your character constantly worrying that every little event somehow threatens the very future of his country, nay the whole of Africa!! doesn’t really amount to political analysis. The opposite. It makes him sound like any saloon bar bore droning on about the country going to the dogs.

Sex

Odili is highly sexed and lets us know it. He describes his sexual exploits at university. He tells us he slept with his current girlfriend, Elsie, a nurse, within an hour of meeting her. There’s a dinner for some foreign guests of Nanga’s and he ends up sleeping with the white American, Jean. This doesn’t stop him going to see Elsie the next day and trying to sleep with her. He has a role model in his father who has four wives and is about to wed a fifth, thus being able to have sex with any of five women.

And it spills over into Odili’s initially tolerant attitude to Nanga, who has two wives, a mistress, and is expected to have sex with any of his (especially foreign) guests who are up for it – ‘a man who had so many women ready to make themselves available’ (p.60), who has sex with an educated woman lawyer paying her £25 a pop (p.127).

While he stayed in his household, Odili and Nanga ‘swapped many tales of conquest’ (p.59) and the text shares some humorous anecdotes about these sexual ‘conquests’ with us. When Nanga asks about Elsie Odili dismisses her as a ‘good-time girl’ (p.59) i.e. not marriage material. In a taxi with Elsi, Odili throbs with anticipation, Elsie dressed up for a party ‘looks ripe and ready’ (p.68), sex indeed throbs through many of the pages.

This may well be an accurate depiction of a modern (1964) Nigerian young man but it felt like a shame. One of the many appeals of the African trilogy was its tremendous chasteness about sex which was almost never mentioned. Both casual sex and adultery barely seem to have existed in the tribal culture Achebe describes in Things Fall Apart and Arrow of God and this is one of the aspects which gives them such a chaste, monumental, timeless aspect, like Homer.

Not so in this novel which throbs with sweaty male sexuality and often feels as seedy and sordid as the nastier Kingsley Amis novels. We learn about ‘ the unsettling effect which imminent fulfilment always has on’ Odili and that his fantasies about Elsie are so intense that one night he had a wet dream so messy he had to change his pyjamas. When Elsie decides to sleep with the rich cabinet minister instead of Odili, the latter goes on a long soulful walk round Bori and calls her a ‘common harlot’ (p.71), all of which feels insufferably childish.

The book cover tells us that Anthony Burgess included A Man of The People in his personal selection of the 99 best novels in English since 1939. To be unfair, maybe this was partly because Achebe had managed to reproduce the casual sexism and political simple-mindedness of a British writer like Kingsley Amis in an African setting.

Pidgin

A pidgin or pidgin language:

is a grammatically simplified means of communication that develops between two or more groups of people that do not have a language in common. Typically, its vocabulary and grammar are limited and often drawn from several languages…A pidgin is a simplified means of linguistic communication as it is constructed impromptu, or by convention, between individuals or groups of people. A pidgin is not the native language of any speech community, but is instead learned as a second language.

All the African characters in A Man of The People slip into pidgin very easily and have extensive conversations in it:

‘I think I tell you say Chief Nanga de go open book exhibition for six today,’ I said.
‘Book exhibition?’ asked Elsie. ‘How they de make that one again?’
‘My sister, make you de ask them for me-o. I be think say na me one never hear that kind thing before. But they say me na Minister of Culture and as such I suppose to be there. I no fit say no. Wetin be Minister? No be public football? So instead for me to sidon rest for house like other people I de go knack grammar for this hot afternoon. You done see this kind trouble before?’ (p.60)

According to the narrator pidgin has an inbuilt ‘levity’ or lack of seriousness so that merely switching to it lightens the mood or indicates jokiness. Similarly, switching out of it implies a refusal to be jokey or a switch to more serious subject matter (p.87).

I understood occasional words and phrases (this exchange starts out reasonably comprehensible) but almost all of it was impenetrable to me and so I ended up skipping all the dialogue in pidgin.

Beyond the novel

In case you think my judgements on the worldview and political and cultural situation depicted by the novel are harsh, here are some excerpts from Martin Meredith’s book The State of Africa (2011), from his chapter describing the build-up to the Nigerian military coup which took place in 1966, the year A Man of The People was published:

By nature, Nigerian politics tended to be mercenary and violent. Political debate was routinely conducted in acrimonious and abusive language; and ethnic loyalties were constantly exploited. The tactics employed were often those of the rough house variety… (p.194)

Of the 1965 general election in the Western region of Nigeria, he writes:

The campaign was fought on all sides with brutal tenacity; bribes, threats, assault, arson, hired thugs and even murder became the daily routine. Akintola’s new party – the Nigerian National Democratic Party (NNDP) – used its position in government ruthlessly to rig the election at every stage – blocking the nomination of opposition candidates, kidnapping election officials, destroying ballot papers and falsifying results… (p.198)

It was this environment of political chaos and violence which triggered the military coup launched in January 1966. Meredith describes it with a blunt candour which is worth reproducing for its shocking effect:

The hopes that Nigeria would serve as a stronghold of democracy in Africa came to an abrupt halt on 15 January 1966. In a series of coordinated actions, a group of young army officers wiped out the country’s top political leaders. In Lagos they seized the federal prime minister, Sir Adubakar Tafawa Balewa, took him outside the city and executed him by the side of the road, dumping his body in a ditch; in Kaduna, after a gun battle, they shot dead the premier of the Northern Region, the Sardauna of Sokoto. In Ibadan they killed the premier of the Western Region, Chief Ladoke Akintola. The wealthy federal finance minister, Chief Festus Okotie-Eboh, a notoriously corrupt politician, was dragged screaming from his house, flung into a car ‘like an old army sack’, and driven away to be murdered… (p.193)

The army leaders claimed to be not just staging a coup but sweeping away the entire old order, managed by corrupt elders. Two points:

1. Odili and Max talk about sweeping away the old regime, as if a dozen or twenty utopians with a few loudspeakers could ever do such a thing, but a) that was obviously always hopelessly naive and b) there are hints in the text that even if the CPC had won the election (impossible) they would have been sucked into the same patterns of corruption as the old guard. So only an actual revolution which decimated the old ruling class could have hoped to effect change.

2. But it didn’t effect change. Instead the country sank into further chaos triggered by the fact that most of the young military leaders were Igbo, which triggered resentment and then anti-Igbo violence in the north then west of the country, leading to huge flight of the Igbo minorities in both places back to their homeland in the south-east, and then the secession by the Igbo authorities, the declaration that they constituted a new independent country, Biafra. Which led to the Biafran War or The Nigerian Civil War (1967 to 1970) in which up to 2 million Igbo civilians died from famine.

This catastrophic background makes the naive political dreaming and petty personal feuds of A Man of the People‘s protagonist, Odili, look even more childish and superficial. In the real world this half decade of Nigeria’s history showed that it had basically three options: corrupt but essentially peaceful civilian rule; military coup and rule by the army; ruinous civil war. Of the three the first one, the one Idoli and his friends so fervently want to overthrow, is quite clearly the least bad.

In a sentence

Critics praise A Man of The People as a ‘political’ novel or for its ‘political’ content but, in my opinion, its so-called ‘political’ element is shallow, childish and completely inadequate to the catastrophic political and historical moment it purports to describe.


Credit

A Man of the People by Chinua Achebe was published in 1966 by William Heinemann. References are to the 1988 Heinemann African Writers series paperback edition.

Related links

Chinua Achebe reviews

Africa reviews

Arrow of God by Chinua Achebe (1964)

Arrow of God was Chinua Achebe’s third novel. It forms, along with 1) Things Fall Apart and 2) No Longer at Ease, the so-called ‘African Trilogy’. It shares similar settings and themes as its predecessors, being set among rural tribal people in the south-east of colonial-era Nigeria.

Book 1 of the trilogy, Things Fall Apart, is set in the 1890s and concerns Okonkwo, a big man in the local village, Umuofia. Book 2, No Longer At Ease, is about Okonkwo’s grandson, Obi Okonkwo, now living in Lagos but who frequently revisits his parents in his ancestral home, Umuofia, and is set 60 years later, in the 1950s.

Arrow of God is set chronologically between the two previous books, in the 1920s. It tells the story of Ezeulu, the chief priest of a set of six villages in Igboland, so not the Umuofia of books 1 and 2, though very similar in developmental level (very basic), diet, culture and religion. And Umuofia is mentioned several times as being a nearby village, so it’s still very much in the same region.

The phrase ‘Arrow of God’ comes from an Igbo proverb in which a person, or sometimes an event, is said to represent the will of God, an idea which is only fully explained right at the end of the narrative.

Arrow of God is twice as long as either of its predecessors, the chapters are longer, and Ezeulu has a larger extended family than Okwonkwo in the first novel. Just some of the reasons I found Arrow of God the hardest to read of the three books but, in the end, possibly the most rewarding.

Chapter 1

Ezeulu is the chief priest of Ulu, which seems to comprise the six villages of Umuaro (later listed as Umuachala, Umunneora, Umuagu, Umuezeani and Umuogwugwu). He is old. His eyesight is failing. He has an extended family:

  • Ezeulu’s first wife, Okuata who died years ago, mother of:
    • Ezeulu’s eldest son Edogo, ‘quiet and brooding’, carving a tribal Mask, married to Amoge, has a small child
    • eldest daughter, Adeze, tall and bronze skinned (p.361)
    • daughter, Akueke, marries a man who beats her, so comes home for a year
      • Akueke’s daughter, Nkechi
  • Ezeulu’s second and senior wife, ‘head wife’, Matefi (feels ignored by Ezeulu who favours his youngest wife, Ugoye):
    • Matefi’s son, and Ezeulu’s eldest son, Obika, tendency to anger, boastfulness and drunkenness
    • Matefi’s daughter Ojiugo
  • Ezeulu’s third and youngest wife, Ugoye:
    • Oduche, the son sent to Church to learn the ways of the white man
    • Obiageli, a girl child
    • youngest son, still a boy, Nwafo
  • Ezeulu’s younger brother, Okeye Onenyi

To recap, Ezeulu’s sons are, in order of age:

  • Edogo
  • Obika
  • Oduche
  • Nwafo

The narrative opens with Ezeulu fulfilling one of the duties of his role which is to scan the skies for the arrival of a new moon. When he sees it, Ezeulu ritualistically roasts one of the 12 holy yams set aside to  mark the 12 months of the year. When the twelfth and final yam is eaten, it triggers the Feast of the New Yam. Only then are the villagers allowed to set about harvesting the next crop of yams. This custom, which has the weight of religious belief behind it, will be the cause of the crisis which brings to book to its climax…

For the time being, it’s during this process of Ezeulu waiting for, then sighting, the new moon, that we meet most of the members of his extended family, arguing and bickering or going about their daily activities.

There are flashbacks to notable events. Most striking is the time his daughter, Akueke, came back to Ezeulu’s obi or compound, after being badly beaten, yet again, by her abusive husband, Ibe. This threw Ezeulu’s son, Obika, into a fury and he stormed off to the other village where the husband lived, beat him badly and returned carrying him tied to his bed. Ibe was left on this bed, under a tree for several days, before his kin arrived to reclaim him and complain about his treatment. They accepted that his beating Akueke was wrong but complained at him being abducted.

The point of this kind of anecdote is it shows how the tribal people had their own set of values and their own ways of sorting out disagreements or addressing unacceptable behaviour, according to custom and tradition.

Chapter 2

Chapter 2 describes how the six villages of Umuachala, Umunneora, Umuagu, Umuezeani, Umuogwugwu and Umuisiuzo came together for protection against slave raids from a place called Abame. They named themselves Umuaro and commissioned medicine men to create a god for them, who was named Ulu. When they banded together like this, the town of Okperi gave them land to build on as well as the deities Udo and Ogwugwu to worship.

But now, several years later, the leaders of Umuaro want to go to war with Okperi. The issue is some farmland which has lain fallow for years, whose ownership Umuaro and Okperi are contesting.

The chapter focuses on a big meeting of the tribal elders at which Ezeulu explains all this and counsels peace. But he is defeated by a big speech by Nwaka, who tells a different narrative about the founding of Umuaro and implies that its menfolk have become lazy cowards.

The meeting agrees to send Akukalia, who is aggressively for war, as an envoy to Okperi, to sound them out. Ezeulu counsels caution but isn’t listened to. Akukalia and his two companions go to the compound of one of his relatives, Uduezue, where he is rude and graceless, ignoring rituals of friendship and demanding to see the Okperi elders. Uduezue takes him to see Otikpo, they are joined by Ebo, all of them insisting that serious business cannot be conducted on a market day like today.

The conversation degenerates into shouting during which Ebo implies Akukalia is impotent so the latter attacks Ebo, beating him round the head. Ebo runs off to get a machete but Akukalia beats him to it, rushing into his hut, grabbing his ikenga or personal fetish and splitting it in two. Everyone is horrified at this sacrilege, Ebo loads his musket and, as Akukalia charges him, shoots him dead.

So war breaks out. First there is another big meeting of the elders. Ezeulu again takes a critical role, saying it was a mistake to send a hot-head like Akukalia and advising calm. But the war party, led by Nwaka, say that it is insulting that Okperi haven’t sent envoys to apologise for Akukalia’s death. Nwaka organises a separate meeting to which Ezeulu isn’t invited and makes a speech saying the High Priest isn’t a king, and can’t advise about policy, his only job is to conduct religious rituals. This meeting opts for war and there follow two days of fighting.

Maybe the most significant single aspect of all this is the scale of the so-called war. For on the first day Umuaro kills just two men from Okperi. On the following day Umuaro kills four men and Okperi kills three. Nine dead. Peanuts compared to the post-independence African wars I’ve been reading about, minuscule numbers.

Anyway the whole thing grinds to a halt when the local white man, who they call Winterbotta, intervenes with armed troops. Winterbotta confiscates the guns from both sides and publicly destroys them.

The thing about this entire event which I found hard to decipher from the text is that it is a flashback. The Ezeulu of the present, the man watching for the new moon, is remembering events which happened five years ago. The thing is he is still bitter/upset at having been ignored, and still upset that a large part of the elders of the six villages continue to think he was wrong, and continue to support Nwaka.

Chapter 3

The chapters about the natives, locals or Africans, alternate with chapters about the handful of British administrators working in the Okperi region. These are:

  • Captain Winterbottom, District Commissioner, been in Nigeria 15 years
  • Mr Clarke, Assistant District Officer, only been on station for 4 weeks
  • Roberts, an Assistant Superintendent of Police in charge of the local detachment
  • Wade, in charge of the prison aka the Assistant Superintendent
  • Wright, doesn’t not really belong to the station, a Public Works Department man supervising the new road to Umuaro

Winterbottom considers himself an old hand. He fought against the Germans in the Cameroon campaign of 1916, where he gained the rank of captain. He has had to tell Wright off for sleeping with local women. He also suspects he’s using bad methods, including whipping, to get his road made.

It is bloody hot. Everyone is awaiting the arrival of the rains. He is awaiting the arrival of young Tony Clarke for dinner. Clarke’s only been out four weeks. For his part, Clarke is nervous and irritated at having to wear a formal dinner suit in the stifling heat.

As conversation, Winterbottom points out the collection of native guns he has and explains that he confiscated them from the natives to end a small conflict. This, of course, is the war we’ve seen described in chapter 2. there is a point here which is that Winterbottom’s explanation is significantly wrong, or glosses over the subtler details which Achebe’s account included. It’s the kind of simplifying which any administrator might apply to a situation, but the gap between the native understanding / explanation and the colonial one is significant and symbolic.

Anyway Winterbottom proudly tells Clarke it was this act that won him the local nickname of Otiji-Egbe, the Breaker of Guns. And a key feature of the whole little incident is that Winterbottom found that the only native who didn’t lie, who had integrity and told the truth, was a local high priest named Ezeulu.

Clarke is reading a book about Africa, ‘The Pacification of the Primitive Tribes of the Lower Niger’ by George Allen. This is notable because mention of this very book is made in the last sentence of Things Fall Apart. In that book the long complicated life story of the protagonist, Okonkwo, is reduced to a few sentences in the larger book being written by the administrator under whose rule Okonkwo is alienated and, eventually, kills himself. It is mightily symbolic that Clarke is reading the book. In its position at the end of Fall Apart it demonstrated how native traditions and entire life stories were almost completely ignored, misunderstood, reduced to a handful of sentences. Now the reference here shows how such misunderstandings and simplifications were handed down through the generations of colonialists, becoming accepted fact, becoming part of the discourse of power and administration.

We hear Winterbottom criticising London’s policy of indirect rule i.e. the policy of wherever possible creating local chiefs and leaders. Winterbottom thinks this is misconceived and is leading to all kinds of petty tyrants being artificially created.

Chapter 4

So five years pass after that ‘war’ and Nwaka gains increasing influence in Umuaro. He has an important backer, Ezidemili who is the priest of Idemili, the personal deity of one of the six villages, Umunneora. Ezidimili points out that Idemili has existed since the beginning of time whereas Ulu was created by the villagers.

When Winterbotta asked Ezeulu to nominate a member of his family to go to church to learn the ways of the white man he nominated his son Oduche, In fact it took 3 years for Ezeulu to enact this decision i.e. Oduche only started going to church two years ago.

On this particular morning the church bell is ringing and Oduche has dressed to attend Sunday service. Ezeulu regrets his decision. When his young son Nwafo interprets the church bells as saying: ‘Leave your yam, leave your cocoyam and come to church’ Ezeulu reflects that this is a ‘song of extermination’ i.e. calling the natives to neglect their work, their farming, their food and, by extension, neglect their traditional culture.

Then one of the family notices a box in Oduche’s hut is moving. To cut a long story short, the church had a new teacher, John Goodcountry, who told the congregation to aggressively overthrow the old customs. One of these was worship of the python who was considered a holy animal. So Oduche decides to kill one of the pythons that live in the roof of his mother’s hut. But when he’s manoeuvred it with a stick down to the ground he is scared of smashing its head in, in case he is cursed, and so manipulates it into a box which he locks, telling himself that it will die but he won’t be responsible for killing it.

It’s this moving box which has freaked the family out. When Ezeulu prizes it open with a spear everyone sees the imprisoned royal python (which quickly slithers to freedom) and word gets round the village that Oduche has committed a great blasphemy.

Ezidemili, the trouble-making priest of Idemili, sends a visitor to Ezeulu to ask what reparation he is going to make for the abomination his son has committed against his god. Ezeulu, incensed at being placed in this position, tells the visitor to return to Ezidemili and tell him to ‘eat shit’. I was surprised at the use of this swearword, as Achebe’s prose is usually so chaste and restrained. Must have had much more force in 1964.

Chapter 5

Back with Captain Winterbottom, his bitternesses and disgruntlements. The British policy is to create local leaders based on tribal values and culture so as to effect indirect rule. Cheaper and better. But Winterbottom thinks it is fake and is creating a generation of petty tyrants.

The great tragedy of British colonial administration was that the man on the spot who knew his African and knew what he was talking about found himself being constantly overruled by starry-eyed fellows at headquarters.

He remembers the case of James Ikedi, a native who he appointed officer for Okperi. After a while Winterbottom learned that this man was abusing his position to take bribes and kickbacks, plus selecting the best young women to take to bed. After 6 months he had to suspend him but then the Senior Resident came back from leave and reinstated him. And then Winterbottom learned that the man had set himself up as king, calling himself His Highness Ikedi the First, Obi of Okperi.

This was what British administration was doing among the Ibos, making a dozen mushroom kings grow where there was none before.

What prompts all this is an overbearing message from the Senior District Officer ticking Winterbottom off for delaying in selecting local chiefs. What makes it worse is that this man used to be Winterbottom’s subordinate but has been promoted over him.

Anyway, if he’s forced to appoint local leaders, he has in mind the chief priest Ezeulu.

Chapter 6

Back in the village Oduche is hiding from his father who is livid with him for trapping the royal python. He eventually returns, afraid, but Ezeulu doesn’t harm him.

Ezeulu’s in-law, Onwuzuligbo, comes to negotiate about the return of the beaten wife, Akueke, to his village. It is a friendly discussion. Ezeulu offers kolanut, Onwuzuligbo draws lines on the ground with white chalk and then colours the big toe of his right foot white. (Only near the end is it explained that these lines are the visitor’s ‘personal emblem’.) The negotiations are quite detailed, including recompense for the year that Ezeulu has been feeding her.

On the back of this Ezeulu sends the town crier around the village to announce the Festival of the Pumpkin Leaves.

Chapter 7

The Festival of the Pumpkin Leaves involves all the villages so on this one day the men of Umuachala and Umunneora meet as friends. We are shown the preparations of Ezeulu’s wives, Matefi, Ugoye, and daughter Akueke. The marketplace is packed. Grand arrival of Nwaka’s five wives, each wearing showy ivory leg decorations and fine velvet.

Then the central ceremony of the Festival which involves the big drum Ikolo and Ezeulu performing various acts, including recounting the story of the arrival of the god Ulu, and then asking the god for purification. There is a lot of running about, plus the women of each of the villages taking it in turn to perform ritual dances, trampling the pumpkin leaves which have been scattered on the floor.

This whole chapter has focused on Ezeulu’s womenfolk, gossiping about each other and in-laws. It ends with Akueke explaining that she is soon to return to her husband who beat her but now the entire village promises will do so no longer.

Chapter 8

Cuts back to the Brits and specifically Mr Wright who is in charge of getting a road built (with local labour) from Okperi to Umuaro, home of the novel’s protagonist Ezeulu. Wright hasn’t enough money to pay the labourers and toys with cutting their wages in order to recruit more. (In details like this Achebe captures the lofty indifference to the natives’ lives of their white masters.)

In the event Wright gets Winterbottom’s permission to recruit unpaid labour from Umuaro. The elders of Umuaro offer Wright two groups who have recently come of age (the natives seem to organise themselves into generations by year group, as at western schools). There’s some jokes about the cordial rivalry between the two groups and the nicknames they give each other, relating to the smallness of their penises.

Moses Unachukwu had been the first Christian convert in the region. Being a carpenter, he helped build the church. All this means he is the only native who speaks English (after a fashion) and so he acts as interpreter between Wright and these new recruits, which increases his kudos throughout the villages.

The story of Ezeulu’s son Obika and his friend Ofoedu being late turning up for the road work assignment because they are hungover from a drinking party the night before (a party which included much knowledgeable discussion of the sources and potency of palm wine). Despite being late Obika swaggers up to the labouring party and provokes Wright to lose his temper and lash out with his whip. Obika charges him but Moses wisely holds him back, then Wright’s assistants hold Obika while Wright gives him six lashes of the whip on his bare shoulders (p.369).

This leads the men to down tools and have a big discussion about whether to carry on working, which stirs up the whole issue of why they’re working for the white man, what right he has to tell them what to do, and so on, quite heated discussions in which Moses, Obika and his trouble-making friend Ofoedu take a leading part. Moses preaches submission because the material and religious power of the white man are unstoppable:

‘I have travelled in Olu and I have travelled in Igbo, and I can tell you that there is no escape from the white man. He has come. When Suffering knocks at your door and you say there is no seat left for him, he tells you not to worry because he has brought his own stool. The white man is like that. Before any of you here was old enough to tie a cloth between the legs I saw with my own eyes what the white man did to Abame. Then I knew there was no escape. As daylight chases away darkness so will the white man drive away all our customs. I know that as I say it now it passes by your ears, but it will happen. The white man has power which comes from the true God and it bums like fire. This is the God about Whom we preach every eighth day…” (p.371)

(I should explain that this place named Abame was the centre of the local slave trade and when its inhabitants murdered a white man sent to talk to them, the whites returned in force, with African soldiers, and killed every man, woman and child in the place. News of this massacre spread round the region and is routinely invoked whenever anyone suggests any kind of rebellion against white rule.)

Ezeulu hears that his son has been whipped and considers reporting Wright to Winterbottom, but when Obika and Ofoedu arrive back at the compound and admit to being late and drunk and insubordinate, Ezeulu decides not to. He hates Ofoedu, who he considers a ‘worthless young man who trails after his son like a vulture after a corpse’ (p.376).

(Incidentally, we see Ezeulu’s opinion of Wright who, unlike tall and commanding Winterbottom, Ezeulu finds short and thick and hairy as a monkey.)

Chapter 9

The homestead of Edogo and his wife Amoge. Their first child died in a few months and now the second infant is sick, too. He ponders Ezeulu’s partiality for some of his sons over others and wonders who will succeed him as chief priest.

Ezeulu’s old friend and one of the few people he listens to, Ogbuefi Akuebue, comes to visit. This is because Ezeulu is still recovering from his energetic exertions at the Festival. Akuebue carries out the drawing of the four white chalk lines, colouring of the big toe of the right foot.

Nothing very significant comes of this visit. Ezeulu’s sons attend, the youngest, Nwafo, fetching first a kola nut, then some water, Edogo entering, greeting the guest and offering palm wine which has just been sent him by the client who’s commissioned him to carve a wooden door. Akuebue repeats a profound tirbal saying about booze:

‘The only medicine against palm wine is the power to say no.’

As a teetotaller that struck a chord. I think the point of these slow domestic scenes is precisely that, to immerse the reader in the etiquette and manners of these people, every bit as detailed and precise as the ladylike manners of Jane Austen’s characters.

They discuss a bit the fate of Obika being whipped, and discuss whether anyone can know the truth who was not there. A conversation about epistemology and morality.

Chapter 10

Tony Clarke is hosting his boss, Winterbottom, to dinner. Clarke has been in Nigeria for 6 weeks. He’s just back from a tour of the region (also known as the division or district) during which he stayed a night in the official rest house where Wright is staying as he supervises construction of the road, and discovered he likes Wright very much. They have a massive gossip about Winterbottom, uttering the word ‘captain’ with sarcasm. Wright tells Clarke that part of Winterbottom’s problem is that during the Cameroon war of 1916, his wife left him for another man. They go on to agree that ‘Old Tom’ as he’s known is a figure of fun back at headquarters in Enugu.

During the gossip we learn that Winterbottom came out to Africa in 1910 and has been there 16 years. So it must be 1926 (p.391).

All that is told in a flashback, a memory in Clarke’s mind. Achebe uses flashbacks a lot. They add depth to the narrative but also contribute to it being confusing, for example it took me ages to realise that all of chapter 2 with its account of the lead-up to the brief village war, was a flashback.

Back in the present Clarke hosts the dinner (consisting of small dry chicken cooked over a wood fire by his cook). As in almost all the British chapters, there’s a moment symbolising British ignorance and slackness. Winterbottom had specifically asked Clarke to enquire into rumours that Wright was whipping the native workers. Only when he returned does Clarke remember that, despite or because of a boozy evening with Wright, he completely forgot to ask. Anyhow, he didn’t really know how to make enquiries: who should he ask? who would translate for him? who could he trust?

The point is that Clarke therefore wrote in his official report that there was no whipping. Winterbottom is mildly puzzled because word has got to him of the whipping of Obika. On balance, he decides to trust Clarke and his report will enter the official record, but it’s another example of the British authorities not understanding or getting the full story.

Anyway, their little conversation returns to Winterbottom’s bugbear, namely the ill-advised policy of setting up local chiefs, and Winterbottom repeats the story of James Ikedi who, given a little authority, turned himself into a corrupt abuser and now king of his own people.

‘The man was a complete nonentity until we crowned him, and now he carries on as though he had been nothing else all his life. It’s the same with Court Clerks and even messengers. They all manage to turn themselves into little tyrants over their own people. It seems to be a trait in the character of the negro.’

This little speech was probably intended to be hair-raisingly patronising and insulting in the fresh optimistic days of 1964 as African nations were gaining their independence. Now, 60 years later, after tyrants and dictators such as Mobutu and Amin, after Bokassa, Sani Abacha, Mugabe, Macias Nguema, Sekou Toure, Siad Barre, Mengistu, Omar al-Bashir and Hissene Habre, Paul Kagame, Isaias Afwerki, after countless civil wars (Angola, Mozambique, Sudan, Eritrea, Somalia), coups and massacres, it sounds more like a prophecy than a slur.

Chapter 11

Ezeulu visits his friend Ogbuefi Akuebue. Akeubue tells his son, Obielue, to go to his mother and ask for a kola nut, the standard food broken at visits. Akeubue has a back problem which means he can’t straighten up after sitting a long time. In this and a thousand other domestic touches, Achebe humanises his characters, normalises them, seeks to erase the barrier of incomprehension which we see the colonial rulers erecting in the narratives themselves.

During the conversation they hear gunshots which, interestingly, neither man attributes to violence i.e. fighting let alone shooting in anger, are things of vanishing rarity. Instead Ezeulu immediately realises they are shots fired to ward off evil spirits. In other words, someone is seriously ill. It is Ogbuefi Amalu and Ezeulu goes to visit him allowing the text to give us a very detailed description of the traditional medicines, fetishes and objects festooning his room to effect a cure.

A few days later Ezeulu is back at his obi when Obika’s bride arrives, accompanied by all her womenfolk, 20 in total, while Ezeulu’s compound is packed with family and relatives. In other words, a grand occasion. She is named Okuata, is tall and strikingly good looking. Again this is an opportunity to display detailed knowledge not only of the etiquette of such an occasion but what everyone is wearing, especially the bride, her hairstyle, the strings of jigida covering her privates. The full ceremony, including the sacrifice performed by a medicine man, and the anxious thoughts of bride and groom, are thoroughly described.

Unusually, the medicine man, Aniegboka, does not bury the hen the family brought along with the other symbols of the past which must be buried in the roadway back to Okuata’s village, as is the custom, but instead says he will take it home and eat it himself. This worries Obika, who, when the procession returns to his obi, asks his father if this is usual. Ezeulu says no but it is no worry because he performed his part; what the diviner does with the holy objects is not his concern.

But Achebe observes that Ezeulu is mightily pleased that his son was a) concerned about the proprieties and b) asked his father about it i.e. showed reverence and filial duty. Maybe he is growing up now he is married.

Chapter 12

Next morning the newly married and deflowered Okuata is pleased to wear the loincloth of a married woman and immensely relieved that her virginity has been confirmed. Obika sends a goat to her parents in thanks for her ‘virtue’ being intact. It’s probably obvious, but isn’t the entire way women were treated in this society a textbook definition of ‘patriarchy’.

Edogo goes to visit Ezeulu’s friend Akuebue because he is worried about (what he thinks are) his father’s plans for succession to the priesthood i.e. his positioning of Nwafo to inherit it.

Meanwhile, almost the entire extended household went to the stream to fetch water and an argument breaks out. The new bride Okuata pays just a bit too much attention to Oduche the Christian, whereupon his sister Ojiugo rather loudly tells Okuata that this is the infidel who killed the royal python, which infuriates Obika who confronts Ojiugo, who slaps him, who beats her back, and the entire family has to separate them. They and onlookers take sides and there are further micro-disputes.

Obviously, when Ojiuga gets home, crying, with slap marks on her face, her mother Matefi sets up a loud howling prompting Ezeulu to stride into her hut and tell her to ‘shut your mouth’ (p.415). In my Conclusion I suggest the book has many more characters, with their own storylines, than the previous two novels and this makes it rather like a soap opera.

His friend Akuebue visits Ezeulu, ostensibly to talk about Oduche but the conversation spills out into a rehash of the clan’s accusations that five years ago, in the little village war, Ezeulu betrayed his clan to the white men. This triggers a lengthy justification from Ezeulu, saying the coming of the white man and the overpowering of their people is nothing to do with him. It was nothing to do with him when the white man massacred Abame. And now, it is absurd of people like his enemy Nakwa to blame him, Ezeulu, for the rise of the white man. Do they think that if they overthrow or kill Ezeulu, the white man will go away? Of course not. Leading up to Ezeulu’s comment on himself:

‘I can see things where other men are blind. That is why I am Known and at the same time I am Unknowable. You are my friend and you know whether I am a thief or a murderer or an honest man. But you cannot know the Thing which beats the drum to which Ezeulu dances. I can see tomorrow; that is why I can tell Umuaro: come out from this because there is death there or do this because there is profit in it. If they listen to me, o-o; if they refuse to listen, o-o. I have passed the stage of dancing to receive presents.’ (p.419)

Akuebue realises that Ezeulu sent his son Oduche to the church not as a sellout of the clan but as a sacrifice to staunch the white man’s power.

To everyone’s astonishment a black messenger from Winterbottom arrives, dressed in a fancy uniform. After a fuss of etiquette, he announces that Winterbottom has summoned him to go to Okperi. He then throws in some corruption, saying that Winterbottom is busy to Ezeulu might have to wait several days but if he gives the messenger a big meal, he’ll make sure he’s seen the next day. Ezeulu is calm and dignified and says he goes nowhere to attend anyone; Winterbottom must come to him. The messenger is outraged. Ezeulu offers that his son Edogo will go in his stead. The messenger refuses to take the message.

Chapter 13

Ezeulu calls a big meeting of the six villages. As usual the formalities and etiquette are described in some detail. First Ezeulu describes to them the arrival of the white man’s messenger. Then there is a general debate in which his enemy, Nwaku, is predictably critical. And then Ezeulu concludes proceedings by saying he will travel to Okperi to see Winterbottom.

Description of the estrangement between Ezeulu who became a priest and his half-brother, Okeke Onenyi who inherited their father’s skills as a medicine man. Family soap opera. Okeke is fond of his nephew, Edogo, which is part of the reason Ezeulu dislikes them both.

Cut to a complete change of scene. Winterbottom is coming down with his annual bout of fever. He brags about being an ‘old coaster’ to Clarke who is shrewd enough to realise that, as the new boy, he needs to act impressed. He is just tipping over when he receives the message that Ezeulu refused to accede to his summons. In a fury Winterbottom orders that officers be sent to arrest Ezeulu, bring him to Okperi, and throw him in prison until Winterbottom has returned from the visit he’s planning to make to headquarters in Enugu. But then he falls into a delirium and is taken to hospital.

In the hospital he is treated by the missionary doctor Mary Savage who inadvertently reveals the fact to the local staff that she adores the sick man.

Meanwhile, two officers are dispatched to arrest and bring back Ezeulu, in handcuffs if necessary. After much prevarication by the villages, they find Ezeulu’s compound and, after terrifying the family, finally establish that Ezeulu has already departed and is heading for Okperi. Now the two messengers are afraid of looking like fools, and so decide they will take two members of the family back with them as security, to be released as and when Ezeulu appears. Old Akuebue talks them out of this with a counter-offer of gifts, so they are presented with a feast of yam and chicken and palm wine, given two live cocks and two shillings. Here as in all other dealings with the so-called Court Messengers, as in the career of James Ikedi, you can see how the presence of the white man encouraged black-on-black corruption and extortion which hadn’t been there before, which tribal customs and processes had prevented. The white man brings the threat of arbitrary and extreme violence which his middle men can use to extort gifts from terrified villagers.

Meanwhile all the natives on Government Hill connect the fact that Winterbottom fell seriously ill just after ordering the arrest of the Chief Priest of Ulu as proof of Ezeulu’s power, proud of the might of their customs despite the white man’s bullying.

Clarke returns from the hospital anxious for Winterbottom’s life so when his steward tells him that Ezeulu has arrived, he irritably orders him to be locked up. All the black staff on Government Hill are now terrified of Ezeulu’s power. So the officers of the guardhouse sweep it out and pretend it is a guest room for Ezeulu and Obika. Their wives bring lots of food which Ezeulu refuses.

Then two messengers who went to Umuora are revealed as frauds because Ezeulu got there under his own steam without them. What’s more, they begin to suspect they might be liable to Ezeulu’s magic and so consult an old dibia (medicine man) who tells them to bury the two cocks and the money Ezeulu’s family gave them.

Thus great fear of Ezeulu’s power spreads through the entire black staff on Government Hill, their families and villages.

Chapter 14

Later that night Ezeulu has a dream-vision of his grandfather confronting the obstinate men of Umuora, of the villagers of Umuora as his enemy.

Clarke decides to follow through on Winterbottom’s feverish determination to teach Ezeulu some manners and so leaves him in prison for four days. En route to the hospital he and Wade come across a more than usually lavish sacrifice (the same cocks and money the two messengers dedicated) and stop to examine it. When Wade sees the money, he pockets it. Clarke is alarmed at this desecration of a native offering.

Initially hostile to the clansman who had brought the messenger to his compound and is now looking after him in ‘prison’, John Nwodika, the latter’s insistence on being a good host and getting his wife to prepare fulsome meals brings him round.

Obika returns to Umuora. As you can imagine every member of the family is alarmed and upset. We have gotten to know them so well that we register the different responses of each one. When Akuebue hears the Ezeulu is being fed by the wife of Nwodika, he instantly declares he is setting off to see Ezeulu. He doesn’t trust the people of Okperi one inch.

So later that day his son, wife (Ugoye) and friend (Akuebue) arrive at the prison. They find Ezeulu extremely relaxed about his extended stay. He jokes that if the white man dies and requires him to be sacrificed that will be fine, though his family immediately let out storms of protest.

Winterbottom’s steward, John Nwodika, the man who’s been looking after Ezeulu now tells them all the story of how he came into the white man’s service and then his excitement at promoting his clan (Umuora).

Ezeulu has come to trust Nwodika. Edogo is grateful to him for looking after his father. So they perform the ceremony to become blood brothers, namely breaking a kola nut, cutting their thumbs and smearing some blood on a nut, then eating the nut smeared with the other’s blood.

Eventually, after being kept waiting four days, Ezeulu is summoned to the presence of Clarke who treats him disrespectfully before finally getting round to telling Ezeulu that the British want to make him the warrant chief of Umuaro. There’s a silence then Ezeulu says he will nobody’s chief except Ulu’s. Infuriated, Clarke has him sent back to the cells.

Chapter 15

Word gets around that Ezeulu has refused to be the white man’s puppet. Clarke goes to see Winterbottom who’s been in hospital for two weeks and looks very ill and weak. Apprised of the situation, Winterbottom tells Clarke to keep the priest locked up till he caves in and co-operates with the administration. Clarke is relieved not to have to make the decision but troubled by the lack of legal justification for locking up an old man who’s done nothing wrong.

After 32 days during which his reputation has spread far and wide, Ezeulu is told he is free to leave. All through this period he has not cared about the white man’s decisions at all – it is the battle with his own people he is determined to win. He wants to lay to rest forever the accusation made by Nakwa and his ilk that Ezeulu collaborated with the white man and even brought the white man to Umuora. Now nobody can say he is a collaborator.

Clarke took the decision to release Ezeulu partly on his own, partly influenced by a letter from a report by the Secretary for Native Affairs recommending that the policy of appointing new chiefs be suspended.

Chapter 16

So Ezeulu sets out for Umuaro, accompanied by the faithful John Nwodika who wouldn’t hear of him making the long journey alone. En route the rains start, really heavy continuous freezing cold rain, so that Ezeulu arrives home drenched, much to the concern of his kin.

They warm him, rub him with oils, and he has over 50 visitors, not counting women. For most of the time he leans against the wall not saying anything, letting his friend Akuebue answer all their questions. When he was at Okperi the entire village seemed to be The Enemy, but once he’s back he hears all kinds of conflicting opinions (especially on the key issue of whether to confront the white man or not) and realises it’s not so simple.

Suddenly Ezeulu has a religious revelation, a key moment which changes his entire attitude to himself and the problem of his enmity with his own people. The god Ulu speaks in his ear and berates him for thinking that this is his fight. What if he is only part of a wider plan? Ulu explains that he has his own fight with another deity, Idemili.

Since it’s at the core of the narrative and its interpretation it’s worth quoting at length:

‘Ta! Nwanu!’ barked Ulu in his ear, as a spirit would in the ear of an impertinent human child. ‘Who told you that this was your own fight?’

Ezeulu trembled and said nothing.

‘I say who told you that this was your own fight which you could arrange to suit you? You want to save your friends who brought you palm wine he-hehe-he-he!’ laughed the deity the way spirits do – a dry, skeletal laugh. ‘Beware you do not come between me and my victim or you may receive blows not meant for you! Do you not know what happens when two elephants fight? Go home and sleep and leave me to settle my quarrel with Idemili, who wants to destroy me so that his python may come to power. Now you tell me how it concerns you. I say go home and sleep. As for me and Idemili we shall fight to the finish; and whoever throws the other down will strip him of his anklet!’

After that there was no more to be said. Who was Ezeulu to tell his deity how to fight the jealous cult of the sacred python? It was a fight of the gods. He was no more than an arrow in the bow of his god. This thought intoxicated Ezeulu like palm wine. New thoughts tumbled over themselves and past events took on new, exciting significance. Why had Oduche imprisoned a python in his box? It had been blamed on the white man’s religion; but was that the true cause? What if the boy was also an arrow in the hand of Ulu? (p.476)

He should stop worrying and agonising about scruples and details. His god has a plan. He is just a part of it.

Chapter 17

You might have expected the white people to make an appearance, maybe Clarke to send more soldiers, and relations with them become more fraught, as they do at the end of Things Fall Apart – the whole situation building up to some grisly climax… But no. Back in Umuora life returns to normal.

Life went on as though nothing had happened or was ever going to happen.

Achebe summarises the way each of the family members carries on being themselves (having gotten his new wife pregnant, Obika returns to his normal behaviour of drinking too much palm wine). The six villages celebrate their various festivals. The rains stop, allowing the yam tubers to ripen.

The chapter then turns into a very detailed, evocative, immersive description of the inauguration of the new Mask Edogo has spent a lot of the narrative carving. A huge crowd assembles to watch the procession accompanied by flute and led by Obika, by far the most handsome manly man in the village, then the ritual slaughter of the two rams. It is a masterful description.

Chapter 18 – the crisis

It approaches the Feast of the New Yam which marks the new year. Emissaries from the six villages visit Ezeulu to tell him they are worried that 12 moons have passed and he has not set the date for the feast. Ezeulu reprimands them for infringing on his powers but when they leave he is youthful and gay. He is going to get his own back on the village which ignored his advice all those years ago.

Word gets round that Ezeulu is refusing to name the day of the feast and so ten wise men come to see him. Argument. They say that delaying setting the feast time will delay harvesting, their yams will rot in the ground and they will all starve. Ezeulu for his part says he still has three holy yams left to eat before he can declare the date. The point is that he only eats these yams at the arrival of each new moon. So his ruling implies everyone will have to wait two more months before harvesting their yams. Well, can’t he eat them all on one day, the elders ask? Don’t be ridiculous, that would be blasphemy. Well, can’t the elders take the blasphemy and penance on themselves? Various attempts to solve the issue, until they leave.

It turns into a real issue. Ezeulu’s delay means the people of the six village of Umuaro will have to wait two more moons before harvesting their yams, their main crop. Meanwhile the rains come to an end, the earth hardens and the harvesting becomes daily more difficult.

Ezeulu becomes public enemy number one. His family are sneered at. His grandchildren are called names. Women refuse to sell his wives goods in the market. Elders of the villages discuss the rights and wrongs of his behaviour. Ogbuefi Ofoka shrewdly observes that Eleuzu has been spoiling for a fight with Umuora for some time, and now this has given him the opportunity.

Abruptly the focus of the narrative shifts completely to the local Christian church, run by the zealous John Jaja Goodcountry, Catechist of Still Mark’s C.M.S. Church, Umuaro. Achebe gives a complicated account of the fortunes of Goodcountry’s church, which takes in events in other districts, religious conflicts with the natives etc. The point is, Goodcountry hears about the growing controversy about the Feast of the New Yams and sees it as an opportunity for recruitment.

He has it put around that anyone who brings one yam to the Christian church will win the support of the Christian God who is far more powerful than Ulu, and who will permit them to then commence their harvesting (which has been dangerously delayed by Ezeulu’s obstinacy).

Chapter 19

Ezeulu’s obstinacy has resulted in famine. The neighbouring peoples to Umuaro are making a fortune selling them yams at market while Umuaro’s own yams rot in the ground unharvested. An eminent man dies but his family cannot hold a wake because there are no yams.

A deadly silence descends on the famine-stricken village. Nobody visits Ezeulu. A new moon comes and Ezeulue eats the twelfth yam, But there is still a whole 28 days till he eats the last one and the harvest can begin. People will be starving by then.

The climax is dense and spooky. the family of Ogbuefi Amalu who died in the rainy season approach fine handsome Obika to perform the role of ogbazulobodo on the night before the dead man’s second burial. The performance requires him to adopt the personality of the spirit and then race through all the pathways of the village repeating time-honoured proverbs. Although Ezeulu’s family is unpopular, Obika is still the best at running and chanting, and so he accepts the invitation.

As usual, a detailed and utterly convincing description of the preparation of the ritual, Obika’s dressing and then becoming the spirit and setting off running. But he returns to the preparers and mourners much sooner than expected and collapses at their feet and dies.

They bring Obika’s body to Ezeulu. He breaks. Why did the god do this to him? He followed his rules to the letter. Why has he been punished? Lost in the endless labyrinth of theology, Ezeulu cracks and goes mad, like his mother before him.

The very end of the narrative (like that of Things Fall Apart) returns to the whites. Winterbottom had been recuperating from his illness in England. Now he returns to his post, marries the doctor and never even hears a word of Ezeulu’s fate. The entire complex story with its numerous interlocking relationships, its entire world of values and motivations, simply doesn’t exist for the white rulers. But:

It looked as though the gods and the powers of event finding Winterbottom handy had used him and left him again in order as they found him.

So was he, also, part of Ulu’s plan? Was Winterbottom, also, an arrow of god?

What happened?

So what happened in the central storyline? There are six possible interpretations:

1. Was Ezeulu right to follow his interpretation of his religious duty, to hold out to the letter of the law dictating that he only eat one of the holy yams per month, and thus throwing the village he was meant to be protecting into crisis? Was there no compromise, no way he could have eaten the other two yams on the same day and blamed the elders, who would have done penance to appease Ulu? I.e. was he only doing his duty?

Or 2, was he being obstinate and taking advantage of the crisis in order to wilfully punish the village he had a grudge against? I.e. was the situation caused by his obstinacy?

Or 3, was it all the white man’s fault? By arresting him and keeping him in prison on Government Hill for just over a month, through two new moons (which he couldn’t celebrate by eating the holy yams set aside for each one) was it white man’s interference in the natural scheme of things which caused the crisis?

Or 4, as per Ezeulu’s vision of Ulu, was this all part of Ulu’s plan which Ezeulu didn’t agree with but which he had to follow. Was Ezeulu just a pawn in the god’s larger plans, an arrow of god, in which case the six villages themselves, and the famine they suffered, were all part of some larger plan which no mortal could understand?

Or 5, did the god punish Ezeulu for taking against the village the god exists to protect? In the villagers’ opinion:

Their god had taken sides with them against his headstrong and ambitious priest and thus upheld the wisdom of their ancestors – that no man however great was greater than his people; that no man ever won judgement against his clan. (p.512)

Lastly, 6, the novel ends with the thought that the only ones to benefit from the situation were the Christians. Many families ignored Ezeulu’s ruling and took advantage of John Goodcountry’s offer, taking a yam to sacrifice to the Christian god in the hope that this would supersede the blasphemy done to Ulu. In other words, the entire complex tangled sequence of events turns out to be just a footnote in the white man’s cultural and religious conquest of Igboland.

Traditional sayings

Part of the power and authority of Things Fall Apart derives from the wealth of folk stories and, especially, traditional sayings or proverbs which the characters utter as a regular part of their dialogue. There are so many, it gives an impression of a great plenitude, that there’s an indefinite storehouse of folk wisdom to draw on.

The thing is, some of these recur in No Longer At Ease. And the same ones occur again in Arrow of God. This rather undermines the initial impression of a huge storehouse, and begins to give the impression of the opposite, of a finite set of saying which are endlessly regurgitated by characters. In all three books occurs the saying about the little bird, nza, who ate and drank and got over-confident and challenged his personal god to single combat. There’s also the proverb about the outsiders who weep louder than family at the funeral. And then the story of the bird Eneke-nti-oba. When his friends asked him why he was always on the wing he replied: ‘Men of today have learnt to shoot without missing and so I have learnt to fly without perching.’

  • ‘When an adult is in the house the she-goat is not left to suffer the pains of parturition on its tether.’ (cited three times in chapter 2, in chapters 13 and 18)
  • ‘When the roof and walls of a house fall in, the ceiling is not left standing’ (quoted twice, in chapters 2 and 8)

For reference, I’ll publish a list of all these wisdom sayings in my next blog post.

Conclusion

There are many more characters in Arrow of God than Achebe’s previous books and they’re more densely crowded. It’s not only longer, it feels a lot more busy. And unlike the first two books it doesn’t focus so much on one central protagonist. Instead the extra length allows Achebe to describe in much more detail other characters such as Ezeulu’s wives and children, his sons and daughters. There are also many more sub-plots, for example, about the domestic abuse of his daughter Akueke, or Oduche attending the Christian church, or Obika being a swaggering braggart, or descriptions of the quiet son, Edogo, as he works on the Mask he is carving. It feels more like a soap opera, with multiple characters and storylines all going on at the same time, alternating and interweaving.

This made Arrow of God significantly harder to read than the first two books, which are shorter and more focused, with just the one central storyline concentrating on the protagonist. At quite a few places I got lost and had to reread paragraphs or pages to figure out who was doing what and what was going on.

So it’s a harder and more demanding read than the first two. But, on the plus side, being longer and more copious than its predecessors means the reader is more thoroughly immersed in the range and diversity of native life, immensely immersed, soaked.

Maybe this is why Achebe, many years later, wrote in a brief foreword that Arrow of God was his favourite among his novels. It feels the most encyclopedic, giving a really comprehensive overview of the tribal life and customs of the time. It stands alongside Things Fall Apart as a mighty achievement.


Credit

Arrow of God by Chinua Achebe was published in by Heinemann Books in 1964. References are to the 2010 Everyman’s Library edition.

Related link

Chinua Achebe reviews

Africa reviews

No Longer at Ease by Chinua Achebe (1960)

‘A man who lives on the banks of the river Niger should not wash his hands with spittle.’
(Traditional Igbo proverb, No Longer At Ease, chapter 1)

‘Na so did world be.’
(Igbo proverb, p.230 and elsewhere)

Chinua Achebe’s second novel is closely linked to the first, Things Fall Apart. The protagonist of that book was Okonkwo, a big man in the village of Umuofia, of the Igbo people in what would later become south-east Nigeria. Three-quarters of Things Fall Apart depicts the culture and practice of the Igbo people in the 1890s; the final quarter depicts the slow but unstoppable arrival of British colonial rule bringing with it European religion, administration, law and order, and showing the adverse affect these had on traditional Igbo culture and on Okonkwo in particular.

This second novel leaps forward about 60 years, to the late 1950s, to describe the life of Okonkwo’s grandson, Obi Okonkwo. In Things Fall Apart one of the many ill effects of the arrival of the British was that Okonkwo’s eldest son, Nwoye, converted to Christianity and moved out of the district altogether, changing his name to Isaac, betraying his heritage and rejecting his (often violent) father. We are told that Nwoye moved to the nearest big town, Umura, where he enrolled in teacher training college. Well, the protagonist of this book, Obi, Okonkwo, is Nwoye’s son (page 159; his mother is named Hannah Okonkwo, p.158).

An executive summary is pretty simple. Obi is a smart young man who gets the opportunity to study law in Britain. After graduating, Obi returns to his native Nigeria and gets a job in the public administration. Here he is shocked to discover that local government, already, before independence (which came in 1960), is mired in corruption.

In various ways, Obi’s attempts at honesty are rebuffed or mocked. He meets a young woman and falls in love, sharing with her the moral dilemmas he is faced with. Just paying to maintain his status, for example, paying the insurance on his car, stretch his resources. then his mother falls ill and needs medical treatment. Then he gets his girlfriend pregnant and has to pay for an abortion. The bank start pressing him about his ever-growing overdraft. Obi starts accepting bribes. The climax comes when he accepts one from an undercover policeman and is subsequently arrested, charged and taken to court for bribery.

The novel opens at the end of the plot, with Obi in court on trial for corruption and the narrative takes the form of flashbacks, back to all the moments which led up to him standing in court, broken and demoralised.

Chapter 1

Chapter 1 describes responses to Obi’s arrest and trial. White colonials (notably Obi’s boss, Mr Green) are depicted as dismissing all Africans as corrupt. He and his cronies are described drinking and pompously laughing at the exclusive white men’s club, served by discreet black stewards.

By complete contrast we are then introduced to the Umuofia Progressive Union, formed 6 or 7 years earlier (i.e. about 1950) by men from Obi’s village of Umuofia, with a view to subsidising the education of the best and brightest among them (p.157).

Obi was the first candidate chosen under this scheme and had been loaned £800 to study in England, to be repaid over 4 years after his return – and now here he is, on trial, bringing shame on his village and clan, harshly criticised by some in the Union. In fact, he had already outraged many in the Union, years earlier, by changing the subject he studied in England from the (useful) Law to (useless) English (p.158).

The narrative then moves further back in time to the big prayer meeting held in Umuofia and hosted by his father, the retired Christian catechist, where Obi is toasted as the pride of the community and given blessings and presents and advice for his trip, first to Lagos, then to London.

Chapter 2

Stories about big city Lagos told by soldiers who’d fought for the British in the Second World War, when they returned to Umuofia. En route to the UK, Obi looks up a friend from his school, Joseph Okeke (‘a second class clerk’), who briefs him about life in the big city.

Then the scene cuts to four years later, with Obi returned from the UK and living in Lagos, now attached to his girlfriend, Clara, and discovering seedier, poorer slums of the city which he hadn’t seen on his brief stay en route to England.

Quite quickly we are immersed in Obi’s post-British life in Lagos, complete with girlfriend Clara Okeke who is a nurse, puts up with Obi reading his poems, prefers to go to trashy violent American movies. His friend Christopher, a graduate from the London School of Economics. They have long arguments about the future of Nigeria and the role of bribery already present in the black administration.

Chapter 3

The reader is getting used to the narrative jumping around in time. Now we leap back to when Obi and Clara first met, at a dance in St Pancras Town Hall in London. Obi was clumsy and gauche. Eighteen months later they meet by chance on the boat back to Nigeria, the MV Sasa, sailing from Liverpool.

Evocative description of the sea journey, companions at dinner, the changing moods of the sea. Obi has bad sea sickness and formerly aloof Clara is kind enough to give him some pills for it. Obi becomes firm friends with a white man, John Macmillan (p.172). They discover they’re both 25 years old.

The ship docks at Funchal, largest city in the Madeira islands. Obi, John and Clara explore the city together. That evening, back on board ship, they have their first kiss.

Chapter 4

On arriving at Lagos a local official tries to extract a £5 import duty on Obi’s radiogram. It’s a symbolic re-introduction to African corruption. ‘Dear old Nigeria,’ he said to himself (p.176).

The officials of the Umuofia Progressive Union arrange a grand gala reception for the prodigal son. We learn his first name is actually Michael, Michael Obi Okonkwo (p.177). The scene is played for laughs (I think) with a big discrepancy between Obi’s informal approach (dressing in shirtsleeves, delivering an informal speech about education) which contrast strongly with the shirt and tie formality of the Union’s officials and a grandiose speech about obi representing their village in the Great Future of the Country etc.

After the reception his friend Joseph takes him to a bar for a drink. Obi wants to eat traditional Nigerian food but finds it impossible to order. Nobody with ambition eats the old-style food (roast yams and bitter-leaf soup).

A flashy car draws up outside the club and out gets the super-popular, handsome and well-groomed politician the Honourable Sam Okoli. Happening to be in a chair facing that way, Obi sees he has a female companion in his flash car. It is Clara.

Bribery and corruption

In the 20 or so books about post-independence Africa I’ve read this year, corruption emerges as such a consistent universal feature of African states and economies that you eventually realise it is the system, the way things are run and managed from the lowest to the highest levels, while the fol-de-rol about democracy or transparent governance etc are formal hoops African leaders have to jump through in order to get their next tranche of World Bank loans, half-mocking lip service paid to western banks.

So this book is a fascinating insight into how the issue of corruption was perceived, discussed and addressed by Africans at the time of independence, over 60 years ago. Just the fact that Achebe chose to make the topic a central theme of his second book, with repeated discussions of it by the characters, is itself hugely revealing. Regarded just as documentary evidence for social history, it’s a fascinating body of evidence. I was riveted by passages like this:

In Nigeria the government was ‘they’. It had nothing to do with you or me. It was an alien institution and people’s business was to get as much from it as they could without getting into trouble. (p.178)

Chapter 5

Obi writes a paper expressing his view that corruption is caused by the older generation and will be stamped out once a new, young generation of university graduates like himself rise to the top. He interviews for a job in the civil service, led by a white man who is happy to discuss recent literature with Obi (recent literature including Graham Greene’s ‘The Heart of The Matter’). This man asks him point blank if he wants to the job (Secretary to the Scholarship Board) so he can take bribes? Obi is understandably furious but also demoralised that this is the universal and low expectation of even educated young Nigerians (cf. p.212 where Joseph’s friends simply expect Obi to take bribes).

While waiting to hear the result, Obi takes a ‘mammy-wagon’ i.e. a packed bus, the 500 miles from Lagos to Umuofia.

On the way corrupt policemen pull them over for a bribe. Obi watches the driver about to pay and both participants shy away from being directly witnessed. This only leads to the driver motoring a bit further on then stopping and running back to pay the policemen. Instead of the standard 2 shillings the bribe is jacked up to 10 shillings. Everyone in the car blames Obi for his goody two shoes, over-educated fussiness which has only ended up making them worse off. Obi despairs of wiping out corruption. Educating the masses would take centuries. It has to come from changing the people at the top. Maybe a benign dictator.

An enlightened dictator. People are scared of the word nowadays. But what kind of democracy can exist side by side with so much corruption and ignorance? (p.186)

This book was published in 1960, just as Nigeria gained independence, six years before it had its first military coup in 1966. To date there have been five military coup d’états in Nigeria. Between 1966 and 1999 Nigeria was ruled by a military government apart from the short-lived Second Nigerian Republic of 1979 to 1983 = 29 years of military rule.

The mammy wagon arrives at the famous market town of Onitsha, allowing Obi to wander round it and Achebe to slip in a description of it, before he completes the last 50 miles to Umuofia. There’s a heartfelt passage, which feels very autobiographical, on how lonely Ibo felt in London, and how he felt like a cultural traitor, studying the language of the colonist, instead of his own culture.

Back in the village he is greeted by a great assembly, featuring his father the Christian but plenty of village elders who have refused to become Christians, and speak and think in the old ways, sitting on goatskin, unable to imagine a ship which sails the oceans, only able to conceive of Obi’s trip as a voyage to the land of the spirits. The old culture lives on very powerfully in Umuofia.

Pidgin

Many of the characters, the minor uneducated ones, appear to speak pidgin English. It feels like this novel is a good source of information about the state of pidgin in 1950s Nigeria, but I am too uneducated / ignorant of the subject to comment.

Christopher’s prowess at pidgin i.e. being able to switch between English, Igbo and pidgin to suit the company, time and situation (p.238).

Chapter 6

When everyone else has left, an intimate portrait of Obi’s family, his mother, father, brother, six sisters (p.196). His father, Isaac, is officious and bossy about his Christian faith in a way reminiscent of his tyrannical father, Okonkwo. Isaac forbade his wife, Obi’s mother, Hannah, to tell her children the old folk stories (p.197). Obi remembers being a boy at the village school and humiliated because when called on by the teacher to stand before the class and tell a folk story, he couldn’t. He went home in tears and told his mother. She said wait till your father goes to his next evening prayer meeting, then she told Obi a folk tale. Then he was able to tell it in school. These all feel like pure autobiography of Achebe whose father was a teacher and evangelist. Achebe’s father took the Christian name Isaiah; Obi’s father takes the Christian name Isaac.

It’s difficult to convey how candid and moving these passages are. No great excitement, no arguments, no historical moments, just a sense of the warmth and companionableness of a large family who enjoy teasing and entertaining each other. Made me jealous.

Chapter 7

He remembers the second white man he saw, a Mr Jones who was a school inspector 20 years previously i.e. about 1937 (in fact, later in the text the narrator dates it to 1935, p.235). Mr Jones was tall and drove a big motorbike which he left half a mile from the school so he could arrive unannounced and detect faults. How he interrupted the black headmaster, Mr Nduka and then, in his rage, slapped him. How Mr Nduka was an expert wrestler and in a flash had Mr Jones on the floor in a wrestling hold. How all the children fled in terror.

Obi presumably passed his interview because we now see him starting h is first job, in government administration. His boss is the rude Mr Green, while his immediate manager is the old and cowering African, Mr Omo, who has bad teeth and can only speak pidgin.

As a new senior civil servant Obi is awarded a clothing allowance and a car. He phones Clara who is thrilled. he discovers the Honourable Sam Okoli has no designs on Clara, in fact is soon to marry her best friend. Sam lives in a massive house. There was controversy when the government blew £35,000 on each new house for its ministers. He shows off to Clara and Obi his gramophone and tape machine. He has immaculate flunkeys to wait on him. All this before independence. You can see why post-colonial critics accuse the Europeans of establishing a template of gross inequality between governors and governed which the African ruling classes simply copied.

Clara tearfully tells Obi she can’t marry him because she is an osu, a kind of Igbo version of the Indian ‘untouchable’, from a family which devoted itself to a particular tribal god and became outcasts (defined on pages 207, 208 and 256). Obi, as an educated man, consider all this gibberish, insists that he will marry her, buys an engagement ring.

The friend in Lagos, Joseph Okeke, whose place he’s still staying at, argues with him, saying his parents, Christians though they may be, will reject an osu as a bride, specially for the local boy made good Obi. (Later Clara says she doesn’t like Joseph because ‘he’s a bushman’ i.e. uneducated, close to the old tribal rural ways, p.237.)

The first educated Nigerian generation

Sprinkled through the book are references to the idea that they – Obi, Clara, Joseph et al – belong to the new young generation, they are going to do things a new way, not just re. corruption, but bringing western education, standards of behaviour etc, in exactly such things as this ridiculous superstition about osu. But some of them are aware that, being a pioneer generation means they can’t change everything at once. For example, his educated friend Christopher coming down on his parents’ side, regarding Clara:

‘You may say that I am not broad-minded but I don’t think we have reached the stage where we can ignore all our customs.’ (p.264)

Chapter 8

We learn the years is 1956 because the Umuofia Progressive Union holds its next meeting on 1 December 1956 (p.212). You can see why the UPU exists, to promote the interests of men from the village who have moved to the big city and have formed what is in effect s self-help group. But you can also see how it itself fits into the matrix of corruption in the sense that, having got ‘one of theirs’ into a good government job, they expect him to speak up for his clansmen and use his influence to get them jobs and money.

In the event Obi makes a gracious speech and a good impression until the President of the UPU (‘the father of the Umuofia people in Lagos’) very mildly starts to refer to Clara as bad company. He had barely hinted at her osu background (‘a girl of doubtful ancestry’) when Obi, trembling with fury, leaps to his feet, shouts abuse at the President and, despite plenty of voices telling him to calm down, storms out of the meeting and has his driver roar off.

Having just read Things Fall Apart I see that Obi has inherited the fiery temper which characterised and was the downfall of his grandfather, Okonkwo.

Chapter 9

At his new work Obi is given an office with Mr Green’s secretary, Miss Marie Tomlinson. She seems to be sweet and friendly although Obi suspects her of being a spy set to catch him out.

Obi has been back from Britain for 6 months when he is first tempted by a bribe. An inoffensive looking man named Mr Mark offers him a bribe to give preferential treatment to his daughter. Obi chases him out of the office, not least because Miss Marie Tomlinson has witnessed the entire thing.

Obi is as proud of himself for resisting temptation as he was after he lost his virginity (to a white woman in England, p.220).

Money pressure. Obi is paid a monthly salary of £47 ten shillings, but from this he is paying back his loan from the UPU at £20 a month, and sending £10 to his parents, and promised his father, on his visit back to Umuofia, that he would pay his younger brother, John’s, school fees.

That evening Mr Mark’s 17 or 18 year old sister, Elsie Mark (p.222) knocks on his apartment door. He kindly invites her in and she tells her sad story, that the family spent all their money on her elder brother who failed all his exams, so now it’s desperately important that she goes to university in order to get a good job with lots of money to support her family and she’ll do anything to get a recommendation from Obi in his capacity as Secretary to the Scholarship Board. I think the implication is she is prepared to sleep with him but at this moment Clara bursts through the front door, bridles when she sees the girl, helps herself to a drink from the fridge, asks about the soup she made for Obi and generally makes it crystal clear that he is her man. But she needn’t have bothered. The poor young girl is humiliated. Obi kindly offers to run her back into town (taxis are expensive) and all the way back Clara gives him a hard time.

Chapter 10

A year later the insurance on Obi’s car is due, £40. He only has £13 in the bank. Not least because he sent his mother £35 to be given private medical treatment. Then there’s his electricity bill. And the tyres have gone and need renewing.

He decides he has to take out a £50 overdraft with the bank. Which all leads to an argument with Clara. Her way of arguing is to go completely silent and, since she does most of the talking, creating a great silence, which eventually intimidates Obi into capitulating.

Chapter 11

Obi’s speculation about Mr Green, who works very hard at the job but, Obi thinks, for a vision of Nigeria which doesn’t exist, for the Nigeria of his western colonialist dreams. Clara sends a package via a messenger from her hospital, which contains £50. Obi goes to see her, to tell her he can’t accept it. They argue about it.

Obi and Clara go to see his friend, Christopher the economist, and his latest girlfriend, Bisi, who persuade them to go dancing at the Imperial Hotel. Interesting description of dancing styles to high-life music. When they emerge from the bar in the early hours it’s to discover that someone’s broken into Obi’s car and stolen the box with Clara’s £50 in it.

Chapter 12

Mr Green is depicted as a bigot who, despite having ‘served’ in the country for 15 years, makes a point of telling everyone that all Africans are corrupt and lecturing Obi on his fellow ‘educated’ Nigerians who expect the Government to pick up the tab for their lives.

He’s obviously meant to be a narrow-minded bigot but I couldn’t help having a sneaking liking for him, as I did for the bigoted ex-pats in Ronan Bennett’s novel about Congo at the time of independence, The Catastrophist. On the face of it they’re illiberal bigots except that they turn out to predict the future (political chaos, violent secessions, civil war, white flight) with perfect precision, while the sympathetic liberal characters, who hoped for the best, turn out to be completely wrong.

Mr Green is more obnoxious than that, he goes out of his way to be offensive and insulting. He’s an arse, basically. But there’s enough truth mixed up in his prejudice to make him an interestingly complicated character.

Obi receives a letter from his father saying his mother requires further medical treatment.

Then he has a day with friend Christopher going to chat up two Irish Catholic girls he knows, then onto Bisi’s place, then to his latest girlfriend’s, Florence. Obi tells him about the girl, Elsie Mark, who appeared to offer herself in order to win a scholarship. She got it anyway and is studying in England, now. Christopher calls him a fool for turning down sex with her. She probably slept with the rest of the Board. Maybe, Obi says, but can’t he see how corrupt it is. They go out for dinner and argue about definitions of bribery late into the night.

Chapter 13

February 1957 (p.249). Clara again tells him she wants to break off the engagement. She says it’s because his parents will disapprove. He reassures her, they kiss, they make love.

Obi takes a week’s leave back home. He explains how villagers like his expect the local boy who made good in the big city to shower them with largesse except that, as we’ve seen, he’s actually broke (specially as he’s just paid John’s fees for one term, £16 ten shillings), so that’s a problem (p.251).

When he gets to Umuofia he discovers his mother is very weak and ill and old, with hands like claws. He tries to contain his sorrow. Performers from a funeral pass by and stop to serenade them. His mother likes music, ‘even when it was heathen music’.

Chapter 14

Still on this week’s leave at his village, Obi finally has the conversation about Clara with his father. His father tells him point blank he cannot marry Clara. They debate it, Obi saying it’s ridiculous superstition and will have disappeared in ten years’ time, his father insisting he will curse himself, his sons and daughters, their sons and daughters, for generations to come. In a funny way Obi enjoys the argument because he feels he is engaging with his father in a way he never has before, in all his 26 years (p.257).

The next morning he is up early to attend family prayers led by his father. Then he is alone with his very sick mother who horrifies him by telling him that if he marries an osu she will kill herself and he will have her blood on his hands!

Obi retires to his bed, claiming to be too tired from the long journey to see anyone, which neighbours and people who’ve come to visit consider a great insult. In the evening his father comes quietly into his bedroom but instead of discussing the osu issue, Obi’s father tells him about how he rebelled against his father and how his father cursed him, and all his life he’s lived under this shadow.

Chapter 15

Obi drives the 500 kilometres all the way back to Lagos in one go, without stopping, nearly crashing into a mammy-wagon on the way. He washes, changes, goes to Clara’s apartment, tells her about his mother, tries to make it sound like a small impediment which can be fixed, but Clara says ‘I told you so’ and hands him back her engagement ring (p.263). Then she lowers her voice and says there was something else she wanted to tell him, but…she’ll sort it out herself. Presumably she means she’s pregnant.

Obi drives to see his friend Christopher who 1) takes his parents’ side, saying he personally would never marry an osu; and 2) he can get him the addresses of some abortionists, though again he personally thinks it’s the woman’s responsibility, not least because you can never be sure whether you’re the father.

The first doctor they go to see is an old guy who refuses point blank to perform an abortion. The second one is much younger and demands £30 in cash. Both ask Obi why doesn’t he simply marry her?

Chapter 16

Obi sweats about where to get the money, rejecting the options of a moneylender, his friends let along the President of the Umuofia Union. He settles on the smooth and handsome and rich Honourable Sam Okoli.

At 2pm the next day Obi is at the clinic and hands the doctor £30 in cash. The doctor tells Clara to stay and Obi to return at 5pm. Obi goes out and gets into his parked car, watches Clara exit the clinic and get into the doctor’s car and they drive away. After a few seconds Obi panics and lurches after them. He’s too late but he drives all over Lagos like a mad thing trying to find them.

At 5pm he’s back at the clinic but the doctor is alone, telling him he wants to keep Clara in overnight in case of complications. Next day Obi’s back at the clinic and pushes past the nurse and all the waiting patients to see the doctor. The doctor very casually says Clara had a few complications but is now at a private clinic being looked after by a colleague of his. Obi races over to the address he gives him, and is told Clara is seriously ill and cannot see visitors.

Chapter 17

Next morning Obi is back at work and the last thing he needs is the poisonous bigot Mr Green criticising the number of holidays Nigerians treat themselves too etc. He had gone to see Clara at the hospital but when she spotted him she simply turned to the wall. All the other patients saw this. Obi has never felt so humiliated.

His finances are pressing. He wants to pay Clara back the £50 that was stolen. He goes see Mr Omo about his advance. I didn’t understand this. I think he got an advance for his visit back to his parents in Umuofia but didn’t realise it was a loan and had to be paid back, retaining a sum calculated according to mileage. He does the sums and discovers he can only claim for £15 for his drive to and from Umuofia. He’ll have to lie and say he went further, say to Cameroon.

When Obi considers the total situation, he realises it’s the burden of having to pay £20 back to the Union which is screwing his finances. He decides to unilaterally stop paying it, without telling them.

He writes and rewrites a long self-extenuating letter to Clara but can’t get the tone right. Yes, great at quoting T.S. Eliot, but rubbish at managing his job, finances and relationships. Portrait of a callow young man.

Chapter 18

Clara is in hospital for five weeks then goes on 70 days sick leave without contacting him. Then he gets a demand from the Revenue for income tax £32. Then his mother dies and, although he sends money, it isn’t enough to pay for an impressive funeral, which is noted by the entire town, and reported back to the UPU in Lagos. An avalanche of troubles and failures.

By this stage it is clear Obi is a man crushed by a combination of circumstances rather than any particular Grand Flaw. Early on in the novel he had argued with the white man who interviews him for his job that tragedy isn’t a matter of one Grand Event which brings closure and satisfaction to all concerned. Real tragedy is the daily grinding down of people by circumstances. You can see how that speech was inserted as a comment on this entire narrative.

The vexing thing is, of course, that everybody misinterprets his actions. We hear a load of speeches at the Union from old timers who’ve seen it happen all-too-often, the young man who gets an education, moves to the big city, is seduced by the sweets of sin i.e. women, and forgets his family, his village and the old ways. They are like the Chorus of a Greek tragedy, or Achebe’s reimagining of a Greek tragedy as one of grinding crushing circumstances rather than a grand climax.

His work gives him leave, he goes home, cries his eyes out and sleeps like a baby. Then Joseph, the ‘bushman’, arrives with a crate of beers to be put in the fridge, and then in groups about 25 of the UPU arrive at Obi’s flat. Joseph may be a ‘bushman’ but he understands his people better than Obi. The arrivals condole with Obi who is genuinely touched, then get on with gossiping about news and current affairs.

The indictment of a young man who doesn’t respond appropriately to his mother’s death reminded me of Albert Camus’s novel The Outsider.

‘Poor mother!’ he said, trying by manipulation to produce the right emotion. But it was no use. The dominant feeling was of peace. (p.280)

Chapter 19

Suddenly the novel ends. Just four more pages, in which Obi feels as if he’s been through the wringer, been through the fire, and emerged new-forged.

It is the season when students applied for their scholarships. Obi has brought a lot of the paperwork home. A flash car pulls up in front of his apartment block. A confident flash man enters his flat and proffers £50 cash if Obi will recommend his son for the scholarship to study in Britain. He goes on to say they ought to become friends, and he will nominate him to become a member of Lagos’s premier club. Then he walks out ignoring Obi’s feeble protestations. The money lies there all the rest of the day and the night while Obi agonises.

In a few swift paragraphs we cut to a scene of Obi dancing with a young girl who is on the short list of candidates. He manoeuvres her to the bedroom. They have sex though it isn’t in the event, very fulfilling. He drives her back to her place then drops round to friend Christopher’s to joke about it.

Obi has, in other words, been thoroughly corrupted. He pays off Sam Okoli who loaned him money, he pays off his bank overdraft. Then someone brings £20. He takes it but a few minutes later the same man returns with a police officer. They search Obi, find the marked notes and he is charged with corruption. The rest is like a dream, he sleepwalks through it in a daze.

And in a quick throwaway paragraph, Achebe brings us back to the very start of the novel with Obi standing in the dock, listening to a series of witnesses to his life saying none of them understand how a fine, upstanding man with all the privileges and perks of his fine education let himself sink to the blah blah blah.

High life music

In chapter 11 Obi and Clara, Christopher and his latest girlfriend, Bisi, go to the Imperial hotel where the band plays this song and the dancefloor is immediately packed.

It’s followed by ‘Gentleman Bobby’.

Music dates stories faster, more completely, than language. This novel is as old as this music and doesn’t the music sound dated, messages from another, more innocent world?

Thoughts

Corruption is the nominal central theme of the novel, as discussed above. But from this emerges the bigger one of the clash of cultures and values over this question of osu, a clash which remains as fierce and intractable as when the missionaries first arrived in Umuofia 60 years earlier. In this respect the novel paints a really persuasive, compelling portrait of the way the old African traditions not only lived on and continued to thrive but presented an ever-wider chasm with the values of ‘the modern world’. It is this clash which the novel really presents, with the power which comes from the slow patient accumulation of thousands and thousands of tiny details, of language and description and characterisation.

Then there’s sexual politics. Clara’s abortion nearly kills her. So no-one dies but Clara nearly does and the foetus does, victims of the failure of a traditional patriarchal society to join the modern world. Mind you, as so often, the real blocker to a rational solution is not Obi’s father, who is presented as almost a victim, a sensitive man who laboured under a lifelong curse – it’s his mother, the caring woman he thought he had a special bond with, who threatens to kill herself if he should marry an osu. He thinks he can talk his father round. With his mother’s absolute ban there can be no negotiation.

Achebe is great for all kinds of reasons, for being the first great African novelist, for his style, for his loyalty to his roots, for his phenomenal ability to completely immerse you in the African milieu. All the way through I was trying to put into words the thing which makes his books so immensely enjoyable, and I think it’s his sincerity. There’s no bullshit, contrivance or pretence, for effect. It feels like he’s giving you his own experiences, slightly tweaked to fit into a novel narrative, but without pretence or contrivance. You feel like you’re reading something really profound and true. Sounds silly but it’s almost an honour to read Chinua Achebe’s novels.

Conrad and Heart of Darkness p.235.


Credit

No Longer At Ease by Chinua Achebe was published in 1960 by Heinemann Books. References are to the 2010 Everyman’s Library hardback edition.

Related links

Chinua Achebe reviews

Africa reviews

The Shadow of The Sun: My African Life by Ryszard Kapuściński (1998)

Ryszard Kapuściński (1932 to 2007) was foreign correspondent for the Polish News Agency during the communist era and so one of the few Polish journalists allowed to travel freely outside the country. He first visited Africa in 1957 and returned periodically. As he explains in the brief foreword, although he attended on the state events and interviewed the national leaders he was tasked with reporting, he also went out of his way to explore byways, hitching lifts, travelling on local buses, wandering with nomads in the desert, staying with peasants on the savannah, curious about all aspects of African life.

So this book is not a factual or historical survey. It’s not a collection of his printed articles and reporting. Instead, Kapuściński’s text has more in common with a novel, or the kind of allusive, literary and thoughtful short texts of someone like Italo Calvino. They are more like meditations, in which he mingles personal travels, meetings and interviews, with serious factual points (about slavery or the creation of the African states), along with ‘deeper’ reflections on Africa’s history, geography, customs and plight, mingled with consciously beautiful and lyrical descriptions.

Written over a forty year period, they’re like snapshots, impressions, pegs and pretexts for very ‘literary’, semi-philosophical reflections and musings. So although it contains quite a lot of facts about Africa, they’re not in the form of dates and data, but of generalisations, thoughts and musings.

It struck me that this explains why the book doesn’t contain any maps. That would give it an inappropriate specificity and humdrum factuality. Kapuściński’s Africa is an Africa of the mind, of the imagination.

And because the text has a meandering, sumptuous feel, it’s not a book you read in a hurry in order to process the information, but rather one you pick up and reread to enjoy the thought and style and the civilised, ruminative worldview. Here’s a representative slice of Kapuściński.

Both sides of the road are dense with greenery. Tall grasses, thick, fleecy shrubs, spreading umbrella trees. It’s like this all the way to Kilimanjaro and the two little towns nearby, Moshi and Arusha. In Arusha we turned west, towards Lake Victoria. Two hundred kilometers on, the problems started. We drove onto the enormous plain of the Serengeti, the largest concentration of wild animals on earth. Everywhere you look, huge herds of zebras, antelopes, buffalo, giraffes. And all of them are grazing, frisking, frolicking, galloping. Right by the side of the road, motionless lions; a bit farther, a group of elephants; and farther still, on the horizon, a leopard running in huge bounds. It’s all improbable, incredible. As if one were witnessing the birth of the world, that precise moment when the earth and the sky already exist, as do water, plants and wild animals but not yet Adam and Eve. It is this world barely born, the world without mankind, and hence also without sin, that you imagine you are seeing here. (p.43)

1. The Beginning: Collision, Ghana 1957 (11 pages)

Ghana A vivid description of what it’s like to step off the plane from dark and rainy northern Europe into the dazzling glare of the African sun. A week getting to know Accra, capital of Ghana, especially its intense foetid smell. Kapuściński attends a speech by the new Prime Minister, Kwame Nkrumah, informal, joyful. The friend who took him introduces him to Kofi Baako, the 32-year-old Minister of Education and Information, who he goes to visit the next day in his office, the ramshackle telephone exchange, his books and enthusiasms, he was unemployed till Nkrumah called him, his ambition to drive up literacy rates. Baako invites him to a party where he shows him his collection of cameras.

2. The Road to Kumasi (10 pages)

Ghana He catches a bus from Accra’s chaotic bus station, which is the peg for meditations about the three worlds the African inhabits: the palpable visible world; the world of the ancestors, who lived and died, but not completely; and then the world of the spirits. And standing over all three, God.

African time and Western time. Western man is dominated by time, a slave to time, which is an inflexible machine. For the African time is more flexible, elastic, comes into being as required. Time appears when we need it, hibernates when we don’t.

Hence the Africans’ incredible ability to wait, sitting, squatting, lying passive, on pause, hibernating in the hot sun. Kapuściński fantasises African history, small clans, impermanent and nomadic in a vast continent. They didn’t have the wheel and, south of the Sahara, no pack animals, because of ferocious tropical diseases. Trade was primitive, exchange of goods and ideas and therefore technology, non-existent. Hence the almost complete absence of towns or cities or the indicators of civilisation found on other continents. It was a continual migration, which also explains why the ancestors are the key figures, because they are carried from place to place in oral tradition.

3. The structure of the clan (11 pages)

Ghana In the industrialised West the individual is king and individualism is the dominant ideology, taken to its furthest extremes in America. In Africa, it is the extreme opposite; life is about the clan, which means the extended family. A clan comprises all who believe they share a common ancestor. A clan has a chief whose job is not only to rule the living but to mediate with the much larger number of clan members who are dead, with the ancestors.

The clan chief is expected to share out what he has and any wealth he acquires with the extended family of the clan (like a Viking warlord, like a Roman aristocrat besieged with suppliants). This is basic to the structure of society and explains what the West describes as corruption i.e. as soon as a prominent citizen acquires place and power, they direct money, opportunities and jobs to their extended clan. That’s how it works. Those are traditional African values.

4. I, a White Man (9 pages)

Dar es Salaam, 1962. Kapuściński as correspondent of the Polish Press Agency. He is crushed by his consciousness of being white i.e. the same skin colour as the colonial oppressor. He sees the prominence of skin colour, and generalised forms of apartheid, everywhere. Thus the three zones of Dar es Salaam, white luxury, busy Asian shops, black slums. He feels guilty even though his nation, Poland, never colonised everywhere; the reverse, Poland was itself divided and conquered by its neighbours.

5. The Cobra’s Heart (9 pages)

Tanzania With a Greek colleague, Leo, he hires a four-wheel-drive to drive from Dar to Kampala, capital of Uganda, which is about to be awarded independence, 9 October 1962. They get badly lost in the endless savanna where there are few roads but a bewildering matrix of tracks. They stay overnight in an empty trackside hut. Only when he’s lying on the bed does he realise there’s a poisonous cobra placed directly under it, which he and Leo attack with an empty metal canister.

They drive on for another day and through the night. Kapuściński reflects on how Uganda was carved out in the Scramble for Africa, its borders forcing together different and rival kingdoms. He checks into the converted barracks where journalists covering the independence day celebrations are being house, but feels tired and dizzy, then passes out.

6. Inside the Mountain of Ice (9 pages)

Uganda Kapuściński comes to in a hospital where an Asian doctor tells him he’s for cerebral malaria. He describes the chill and fever and light-headedness of malaria. After an attack you feel like ‘a human rag’.

Reflections on how European settlement of Africa for hundreds of years amounted to little more than ports on the coast. There were no cities or towns, no broad roads, all the rivers are hard to navigate and the interior is purulent with fatal diseases. Only at the very end of the nineteenth century did the various European nations who’d carved up Africa make an effort to create railway lines into the interior. Since the Africans couldn’t be persuaded to do this, the British imported thousands of labourers from India. One of them was the grandfather of the Dr Patel who’s now treating him.

Dr Patel tells him stories of the Asian immigrants’ terror of the lions who preyed on them, and then how you never see a dead elephant because the old weak ones tend to fell into waterholes or lakes and get sucked down into the muddy bottom.

7. Dr Doyle (9 pages)

Tanzania Having returned from Kampala (we hear nothing about the independence ceremony he went to cover) Kapuściński carries on feeling ill. When he wakes one night to find the pillow covered in blood he goes to see a Dr Laird who tells him it’s tuberculosis. Laird is packing up to go back to Blighty and passes him on to an Irish doctor, Dr Doyle.

He takes one of the male nurses, Edu, as an example of the extended family which is so important to Africans, and gives a comic account of the enormous fuss a clan or family member makes when greeting another member.

8. Zanzibar (27 pages)

January 1964. There’s a coup in the island state of Zanzibar. The black Africans overthrow the Arab Sultan. Kapuściński tells us he knows the main press guy in Nairobi, Felix Naggar, chief of Agence France Presse in East Africa, the kind of guy who knows everything and everyone.

A humorous account of the desperate efforts of the 40 or so Western correspondents in Nairobi to get to the island, seeing as how the airport is closed and the coup leaders threaten to shoot down any planes. Very handily, Kapuściński puts in a call to Abeid Karume, leader of Zanzibar’s Afro-Shirazi Party. After a bit of cajoling, Karume says he’ll allow a plane carrying Kapuściński (and Naggar) to land. That’s how you get scoops! The coup was led by 25-year-old John Okello, who Kapuściński manages to visit in his chaotic extended household.

Which turns, unexpectedly, into an extended meditation on the slave trade and it’s long-tern impact on Africa i.e. ruinous not only in economic social terms, but psychologically, embedding a sense of humiliation and defeat.

He and colleagues had only been in Zanzibar a week or so when, during the last week of January 1964, the armies of Tanganyika, Uganda and Kenya mutinied, in rapid succession. The half-comic, half-terrifying story of their attempt to escape Zanzibar in a motor dinghy and getting caught in a terrifying storm which drives them back to the coast. Eventually, they catch a plane out.

9. The Anatomy of a Coup d’Etat (10 pages)

Lagos, Nigeria, 1966. Kapuściński’s notes on the key facts. The coup came after a bitter civil war in Western Nigeria. In the coup about 8,000 soldiers were deployed to all the main cities and politicians in Nigeria’s 5 major towns were arrested and, in some cases, shot. The country seems pleased with the coup. He quotes press releases by the military which claim this is the second, true liberation, after the first one of 1961; this time it is a liberation from black imperialists, civilian politicians having, in five short years, become a byword for corruption and greed.

Kapuściński casually makes quite a big point I hadn’t seen before; that because free enterprise commercial economy was still in its infancy, and because all of the raw material extraction corporations, as well as all of the banks, are still in foreign hands – politics, in many African countries, was one of the few careers where an ambitious, money-minded person could actually make money.

A withering pen portrait of Chief Samuel Akintola, Prime Minister of Western Nigeria, who had done just that, siphoned money from public finances into his own accounts, stealing millions, with the result that he had houses everywhere, a fleet of twelve limousines, while his troops fired on protesting, starving crowds.

10. My Alleyway, 1967 (10 pages)

Lagos, 1967. How he chooses not to live in the gated white community of bankers and diplomats at Ikoyi, but above the warehouse of an Italian businessmen who’s sold up and left, up an alleyway in a very poor slum quarter where he interacts with normal Nigerians, although he has to get his own water from a street pump and avoid the street gangs. Power outages. The stifling heat at night. ‘Merely existing in this climate is an extraordinary effort’ (p.111). Extreme poverty among the workless who often have only one possession. Real hunger. Paralysis by heat. Cheap booze. He describes the amazing creation of slums from whatever junk is lying around in the street. A man called Suleiman helps him buy a voodoo charm at the magic market, which he hangs over his door and from that moment on is never burgled again.

11. Salim (9 pages)

Mauretania Kapuściński is at an oasis which has one solitary petrol pump and so is a stopping place for trucks travelling through the Sahara. He’s picked up by a trucker called Salim driving a French Berliet truck. They break down in the desert. Description of the blinding heat as Salim ineffectually tinkers with the motor. They take shelter under the truck from the sun. That night another truck arrives and rescues them, at least he thinks it does, he’s hallucinating exhausted.

12. Lalibela, 1975 (10 pages)

Ethiopia. By the mid-70s the optimism of the 1950s and 60s about Africa had evaporated. Optimists and ideologues had believed that independence, by itself, would bring wealth to over-populated, poverty-stricken places. But it didn’t. Instead it brought the immense corruption of the first generation of independent politicians, who used tribal and ethnic conflicts to stay in power, till overthrown in military coups, which arrived with disillusioning regularity.

Kapuściński knows Teferi, owner of a truck company in Addis Ababa. He sets out to travel to Lalibela which is experiencing a drought and famine. Roads are primitive and everywhere throw up a thin volcanic dust which is as fine as mist, and gets into every crevice of your clothes and body. Alleyways full of still, emaciated people dying of hunger.

On through the parched terrain and the furnace-like gorges to Lalibela, where a series of 11 churches have been carved into the body of a mountain. Ought to be one of the wonders of the world. Kapuściński watches as a crowd of the sick and emaciated surge towards him and his driver. Over a million died in the prolonged drought and famine which during the rule of Haile Selassie and the man who overthrew him in 1974, Mengistu Haile Mariam.

13. Amin (10 pages)

Uganda Kapuściński visited Uganda many times and met Idi Amin several times. This chapter is a potted history of his murderous career, dictator of Uganda from 1971 to 1979. During his reign of terror an estimated 300,000 Ugandans died, usually painfully, many tortured to death.

14. The Ambush (9 pages)

Uganda 1988. Kapuściński is one of three journalists accompanying a mission of three Ugandan government ministers to parlay with the rebel soldiers who are laying waste the north of the country.

A passage explaining the prevalence of child soldiers in Africa. In really long-running conflicts it’s because a lot of the adult men are dead. There are lots of orphans and they gravitate to whoever will feed them. And modern weapons are designed to be light and handy. Lacking an adult sense of consequences or conscience, African child soldiers slaughter each other in huge numbers.

15. There shall be a holiday (9 pages)

Uganda, 1990s. Godwin, a journalist from Kampala, takes Kapuściński to his home village. A study in rural poverty of a depth and misery none of us in the West can understand.

16. A Lecture on Rwanda (18 pages)

Precisely that – an unusually detailed, historical explanation of why the two ethnic groups, the minority but often wealthy Tutsis and the majority, mostly peasant farmer Hutus, descended into a spiral of mutual hatred and ethnic massacres, starting at independence in 1959, with another outbreak in 1963, then 1965 all paving the way, though no-one knew it, for one of the most horrific genocides in history, 7 April to 15 July 1994. He mentions France and President Mitterrand’s role in the whole terrible thing (sending French troops to protect the genocidal government because they were French-speaking and the Rwandan Patriotic Front – who sought to end the genocide – had grown up in exile in Uganda and so spoke English. To protect their precious ‘Francophonie’ the French government let the genocide go ahead, and the protected its leaders. Evil scum.)

I’ve read better factual accounts, but Kapuściński tries to give a feel for what it felt like for two mutually hostile, resentful and fearful peoples to be stuck in the same small, claustrophobic country.

17. The Black Crystals of the Night (9 pages)

Uganda Being driven through western Uganda, and forced to stop for the night at a strange village, Kapuściński reflects on the African’s fear of the night, and their completely different causology which attributes events to supernatural forces and magic. The difference between witches and sorcerers. Years later he reads a paper by the anthropologist E.H. Winter about the Amba people of East Africa who are unusual in living in fear that the witches are among them, live in their own communities with the result that their communities are prone to internecine conflict.

18. These People, Where Are They? (10 pages)

Ethiopia 1991. Itang, a place in western Ethiopia near the border with Sudan, has for several years been site of a camp for refugees from Sudan’s civil war. They belong to the Nuer people. Kapuściński has travelled here with the UN Commissioner for Refugees but they have arrived in the pouring rain to find a mystery: the camp is empty.

Kapuściński recounts how the British stapled together two completely different peoples, the Arab Muslim North and the Christian or animist, black South into the country they called Sudan. The first civil war broke out in 1962 and lasted till 1971, when an uneasy ceasefire took hold. When in 1983 the Muslim government in Khartoum tried to impose Sharia law on the entire country the south erupted in rebellion. The war has been going on ever since. Kapuściński reflects on the way wars in Africa are seldom reported, not even recorded by the participants, and their details quickly fade and are lost:

History in these parts appears suddenly, descends like a deus ex machina, reaps its bloody harvest, seizes its prey, and disappears. (p.198).

The military regime in Khartoum is deliberately trying to starve the Southern rebels, led by John Garang’s Sudan People’s Liberation Army (SPLA), into submission. During the second Sudan Civil War an estimated 1.5 million people died, mostly unarmed civilians.

19. The Well (9 pages)

Somalia He hitches a lift with Hamed, a merchant from Berbara, to Laascaanood, in northern Somalia. In fact ‘lift’ means joining a camel train through the blisteringly hot desert, all of which Kapuściński describes with great vividness and goes on to describe the mental world of the nomad tribes whose most precious possession is their camels.

20. A Day in the Village of Abdallah Wallo (8 pages)

Senegal A village by the Senegal river which forms the border with Mauretania to the north. Description of the rhythms of a typical day which starts with girls getting up to go fetch water, then the women go off in search of firewood in a landscape which has been denuded of all trees, bushes and vegetation, looks like the moon, even as time moves towards the unbearable heat of midday.

21. Rising in the Darkness (14 pages)

Ethiopia 1994. Addis Ababa. Mengistu’s Soviet-backed Marxist regime fell in 1991. With Soviet help he had built up one of the biggest armies in Africa. But as fighters from the rebel province of Eritrea approached the capital, Mengistu unexpectedly fled (to Zimbabwe) and his army, just as unexpectedly, disintegrated.

Kapuściński goes to Addis Ababa prison to speak to the imprisoned intellectuals and ideologues behind the disgraced regime.

One of Africa’s problems is that its intelligentsia emigrates. Addis doesn’t even have one bookshop, for a country with a population of 60 million. Invincible illiteracy and ignorance reigns. In the impressive Africa Hall Kapuściński meets impressive, smart new Africans who work for international organisations (the UN etc) and speak fluently and plausibly about Africa’s problems. Like all well-paid consultants they are smooth talkers with plans and schemes and timelines and development goals and gender equality strategies and completely divorced from reality (cf books about the Americans in the Green Zone of Baghdad after the 2003 invasion, notably Imperial Life in the Emerald City: Inside Baghdad’s Green Zone by Rajiv Chandrasekaran).

In the real world the biggest change made to African lives in the previous decade has been the widespread availability of lightweight plastic containers for carrying water, the stuff of life, from rivers or streams or wells to settlements. So this carrying can now be done by children. (p.229)

Over half the population of Africa is under 15. In 1998 when this book was published, the population of Africa was 780 million. Today, in 2023, it is 1.4 billion, nearly double in 25 years. By 2050 it is predicted to be 2.5 billion. The poverty, the fighting over resources, the famines and the droughts, will be cataclysmic.

22. The Cooling Hell (28 pages)

Monrovia, capital of Liberia. Incredibly hot and humid.

A large portion of Liberia is covered in jungle. Thick, tropical, humid, malarial, and inhabited by small, impoverished, and weakly organised tribes. (p.239)

At the airport he walks down into a jostling crowd who swiftly steal his passport and return ticket. Two hustlers offer him their protection and drive him to a sleazy hotel packed with prostitutes run by a Lebanese. His room is packed with astonishingly huge cockroaches. Cut to an extended history of Liberia, land of freed slaves from the American South. The amazing thing is how the freed slaves returned to Africa immediately set about recreating the slave society they had experienced in the American South in Africa, depriving the local Africans of political rights, confining them to bantustans.

William Tubman was president of Liberia from 1944 until his death in 1971. He was replaced by his vice president, William Tolbert who was considerably more corrupt and brutal. Tolbert was overthrown in 1980 by a group of army non-commissioned officers who went to the presidential palace to demand back pay, found it undefended and Tolbert asleep in his bed, so they murdered him, chopped his body into pieces with bayonets and threw it in the courtyard for animals to eat.

Their leader was 27-year-old Samuel Doe so he became president. He was an illiterate from a small tribe deep in the jungle, the Krahn, and didn’t know how to run a country so there followed ten years of misrule and drift until:

The First Liberian Civil War began in December 1989 when the National Patriotic Front of Liberia led by Charles Taylor invaded Liberia from the Ivory Coast to overthrow him. A former deputy, Prince Johnson, led another militia, so two armies ended up fighting for control of the capital, Monrovia. When a contingent of Nigerian troops arrived to try and bring order on 9 September 1990, Doe drove to the port to meet them but was captured by Johnson on the way.

Kapuściński describes the two hour long video which shows explicit details of Doe being tortured (after being beaten bloody, his ears were cut off with bayonets) by soldiers while Prince sits at a nearby table asking Doe for the numbers of his bank accounts.

Whenever a dictator is seized in Africa, the entire ensuing inquisition, the beatings, the tortures, will inevitably revolve around one thing: the number of his private bank account. (p.247)

You can watch the video of Doe’s torture YouTube. A few hours after this Doe died and his body was thrown on a municipal tip. But instead of ending with Does’ death, the Liberian civil war intensified, ruining the country’s economy as it collapsed into territories run by brutal warlords.

All of which leads into a meditation on the power of modern African warlords who are responsible more than anyone else for the ruin of entire countries. Who do they prey on? The weakest in their own societies, recruiting children to drug and train as soldiers, raping peasant women or stealing all their food and belongings leading their societies into a downward spiral into barbarism (pages 254 to 256).

Africa too is changing, growing poorer and more wretched. (p.225)

The number of warlords is growing. They are the new power, the new rulers. (p.256)

23. The Lazy River (9 pages)

Cameroon. He drives to a place in the jungle called Ngura, the parish of a priest named Father Stanislawek, who lives in an old ruined barrack and whose life’s work it is to try and build a church, although there are no building materials and no workers. A digression on the fundamentally religious (or superstitious) nature of all Africans.

They drive on to a settlement for gold prospectors working in a deep river gorge and occasionally selling the small dust sized specks of gold they find to Arab merchants lazing in their tents above the gorge.

24. Madame Diuf Is Coming Home

Senegal Kapuściński catches the train from Dakar (Senegal) to Bamako, the capital of Mali. In his compartment are a young Scottish couple, and a ‘heavy energetic’ woman, Madame Duif. At first the train puffs through the attractive colonial buildings on the seaboard. Suddenly there is an eruption of shouting and the scene changes to shanty town slums. Turns out the poor people have their market on the train tracks as it’s one of the few open spaces in the slums, and the train has just ploughed through it, sending stalls merchandise and shoppers flying. Prolonged meditation on the poverty, lack of hope, meaning and purpose, the surviving from day to day, of tens of millions of nameless Africans.

25. Salt and Gold (9 pages)

Mali Bamako, the capital city. He wants to seek out the war with the Tuareg. Description of the centuries-old conflict between the nomadic Sahara-dwelling Tuareg and the land-bound, cattle-raising Bantu. The Tuareg used to capture and trade the Bantu as slaves. Mutual hatred.

He catches a local bus to Mopti, on the Niger river, and then bribes his way onto a plan to Timbuktu, marvelling at the strangeness of the Sahel landscape below. Timbuktu is built of clay the same colour as the sand so it is as if the desert has risen up and adopted the shape of a city.

26. Behold, the Lord Rideth upon a Swift Cloud (9 pages)

Southern Nigeria, Port Harcourt. He attends a revivalist Christian church service. A vivid description and a meditation on the difference between the African and the Western sense of sin and guilt.

27. The Hole in Onitsha (8 pages)

Eastern Nigeria The town of Onitsha is said to host the biggest market in the world. Descriptions of and thoughts about African markets. Only in such a vast teeming place do you fully realise to what extent:

the world is swamped with material tenth-rateness, how it is drowning in an ocean of camp, knockoffs, the tasteless and the worthless. (p.300)

In fact Kapuściński and his driver soon get caught in a massive traffic jam, reduced to a complete standstill. He walks into town to find out what’s causing the holdup and discovers the only road through town has a huge muddy hole in the centre, down into which cars and lorries are gingerly driving, and then have to be pulled out using ropes and winches. Around this event a carnival crowd has assembled with hawkers and vendors and itinerant sorcerers.

28. Eritrean Scenes (8 pages)

The perilous journey, along mountain switchback roads, from Asmara to Massawi, Eritrea’s major port. Eritrea only gained de facto independence from Ethiopia in 1991 and legal independence in 1993, having fought the longest independence war in Africa, for 30 years, since 1961.

During the war the Eritreans built an entire alternative nation underground. They have a museum of abandoned military hardware in Asmara which Kapuściński visits, but it is nothing compared to the vast plain full of ruined military equipment at Debre Zeyit.

29. In the Shade of a Tree, in Africa

The last chapter is a meditation on the importance of trees, often isolated, giant survivors, in remote hot African villages: a place where children are taught in the morning, women meet and gossip at lunch, men sit smoking and chatting in the evening, a symbol of the enduring multifacetedness of African life.

Which morphs into a final meditation on the way the limited languages of Europe, and the simplistic racist worldview engendered by colonialism, limits to this day our understanding of this huge continent, its hugely diverse peoples and spirits and ancestors.

Sample passages from the book

Here are some examples of Kapuściński’s swirling, lyrical, philosophical way of thinking and writing.

Western individualism versus African communalism

This is Africa and the fortunate nouveau riche cannot forget the old clan tradition, one of whose supreme canons is share everything you have with your kinsmen, with another member of your clan or, as they say here, with your cousin…Whoever breaks this rule condemns himself to ostracism, to expulsion from the clan, to the horrifying status of outcast. Individualism is highly prized in Europe, and perhaps nowhere more so than in America; in Africa, it is synonymous with unhappiness, with being accursed. African tradition is collectivist for only in a harmonious group could one face the obstacles continually thrown up by nature. (p.36)

Ryszard Kapuściński on time

The European and the African have an entirely different concept of time. In the European worldview, time exists outside of man, exists objectively, and has measurable and linear characteristics. According to Newton time is absolute: ‘Absolute, true, mathematical time of itself and from its own nature, it flows equitably and without relation to anything external.’ The European feels himself to be time’s slave, dependent on it, subject to it. To exist and function he must observe its ironclad, inviolable laws, its inflexible principles and rules. He must heed deadlines, dates, days and hours. He must move within the rigours of time and cannot exist without them. They impose upon him their requirements and quotas. An unresolvable conflict exists between man and time, one that always ends with man’s defeat – time annihilates him.

Africans apprehend time differently. For them, it is a much looser concept, more open, elastic, subjective. It is man who influences time, its shape, course and rhythm (man acting, of course, with the consent of gods and ancestors). Time is even something that man can create outright, for time is made manifest through events, and whether an event takes place or not depends, after all, on man alone. If two armies do not engage in battle, then that battle will not occur (in other words, time will not have revealed its presence, will not have come into being). Time appears as a result of our actions, and vanishes when we neglect or ignore it. It is something that springs to life under our influence, but falls into a state of hibernation, even nonexistence, if we do not direct our energy towards it. It is a subservient, passive essence and, most importantly, one dependent on man.

The absolute opposite of time as it is understood in the European worldview. (pages 16 and 17)

Compare and contrast with his description of the African attitude towards the deep, dark African night, as a hopeless realm in which men are prey to unspeakable fears (p.184). And his comparison of the African and the Western sense of guilt (p.294).

Ryszard Kapuściński on history

Experience has taught me that situations of crisis appear more dire and dangerous from a distance than they do up close. Our imaginations hungrily and greedily absorb every tiny whiff of sensational news, the slightest portent of peril, the faintest whiff of gunpowder, and instantly inflate these signs to monstrous, paralysing proportions. On the other hand, however, I also knew something about those moments when calm, deep waters begin to churn, and bubble into general chaos, confusion, frantic anarchy. During social explosions it is easy to perish by accident because someone didn’t hear something fully or didn’t notice something in time. On such days the accidental is king; it becomes history’s true determinant and master. (p.78)

And:

History is so often the product of thoughtlessness: it is the offspring of human stupidity, the fruit of benightedness, idiocy and folly. In such instances it is enacted by people who do not know what they are doing – more, who do not want to know… (p.252)

The bayaye

Here’s Kapuściński describing the long trek made by Samuel Doe, an unemployed man without a future, from a remote impoverished village though trackless jungles to the distant capital, Monrovia, in search of work, food, a purpose.

The trek from the jungle to Monrovia requires many days of difficult marching across roadless tropical expanses. Only young, strong people can manage it. And it is they who arrived in the city. but nothing awaited them here: neither jobs, nor a roof over their heads. From the very first day, they became bayaye – that army of the young unemployed squatting idly on all the larger streets and squares of African cities. The existence of this multitude is one of the chief causes of turmoil on the continent: it is from their ranks that local chieftains, for a pittance, often with only the promise of food, recruit the armies they will use in their struggles for power, organising coups, fomenting civil wars. (p.244)

So the brute demographic fact of all these unemployed young men goes a long way to explaining the instability of African states, the ease with which warlords can recruit ‘soldiers’, the complete indiscipline so often shown by these ‘soldiers’, who murder, rape and loot at will at every settlement they come to; and the way they often melt away when their warlord is killed, returning to the sullen apathetic groups you see lining the streets of every African city.

In a later chapter Kapuściński continues the theme, explaining that during his lifetime Africa’s cities have become swollen and contorted out of all recognition. He knew the often sweet, provincial cities in the early 1960s. Nowadays some of them are ten times the size, mostly consisting of shanties and slums.

Kapuściński explains two major reasons for the grotesque hyper-expansion of the cities:

  1. Drought and famine in the 1970s, then again in the 1980s, drove millions off the land where they were starving, and into the cities where there was at least a thin thread of hope.
  2. Conflict. People fled the countryside in tens of millions because it was the scene of never-ending conflict, with rampaging militias arriving out of the bush, raping and murdering everyone then moving on. That doesn’t happen, in the same way, in towns or cities. So millions of peasants to the towns travelled looking for security. Who can blame them? (p.273).

Results? Vast teeming slums and tens of millions of unemployed bayaye.

Kapuściński’s questions

In Mary Beard’s book about Rome, she drove me nuts by littering every page with sets of rhetorical questions which aren’t designed to search and enquire but merely to introduce the next pre-arranged part of her lecture (which she then, very often, didn’t explain very well).

In complete contrast, Kapuściński uses series of questions to really dig into the roots of the issues he’s discussing. His questions help build up the sense that, even after forty years of visiting, Africa, Africans, and the African mentality are still impenetrable mysteries to a white European like Kapuściński.

Kapuściński’s compassion

I think of the camp we passed leaving Dakar, of the fate of its residents. The impermanence of their existence, the questions about its purpose, its meaning, which they probably do not pose to anyone, not even to themselves. If the truck does not bring food, they will die of hunger. If the tanker does not bring water, they will die of thirst. They have no reason to go into the city proper; they have nothing to come back to in their village. They cultivate nothing, raise nothing, manufacture nothing. They do not attend schools. They have no addresses, no money, no documents. All of them have lost homes; many have lost their families. They have no one to complain to, no one they expect anything from. (p.274)

Klara Glowczewska

A word of praise for the translator, Klara Glowczewska. I don’t speak Polish so can’t vouch for what the original text is like but Glowczewska has turned it into lovely, flowing, rhythmic and evocative English prose. There are none of the surprises or quirks you often find in English speakers writing in English. Instead, everything is turned into a lovely mellifluous, sometimes vivid and arresting, prose which allows Kapuściński’s thoughts and observations to unfold luxuriously, or startle and confront the reader, as appropriate. This book is a deep pleasure to read.

The African interior is always white-hot. It is a plateau relentlessly bombarded by the rays of the sun, which appears to be suspended directly above the earth here: make one careless gesture, it seems, try leaving the shade, and you will go up in flames. (p.280)


Credit

The Shadow of The Sun by Ryszard Kapuściński was published in Polish in 1998. The English translation by Klara Glowczewska was published by Alfred A. Knopf in 2001. All references are to the 2002 Penguin paperback edition.

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The State of Africa: A History of the Continent since Independence by Martin Meredith (2005) – 2

This is a huge, 700-page, compendious history of all the African nations from independence (roughly the mid-1950s) to the time it was written (around 2010), so 55 years or so of modern African history.

Meredith chooses as epigraph to this big book the Latin tag from Pliny the Elder, ‘Ex Africa semper aliquid novi’ meaning ‘Out of Africa always something new’ – but a reading of the actual book confirms how utterly inappropriate this is. For if Meredith’s book demonstrates anything it is that, since independence, out of Africa have come the same five or six stereotypical narratives or events – civil war, one-party rule, dictatorship, economic collapse, famine, vast amounts of foreign aid – and the consistent failure to deliver the utopian dreams everyone hoped for in the heady first years of independence.

Two major contexts

Meredith only mentions them in passing but two broad historical contexts are worth bearing in mind.

  1. The independence movement in Algeria spiralled out of control into an appallingly brutal war which neither side was able to stop, and which threatened to tear the colonial power, France, apart. The war was at its worst in 1957 to 1961. The point is that Algeria stood as a terrible warning to the other colonial powers (Britain, Belgium, Portugal) of what might happen if they mismanaged things or delayed.
  2. The victory of Fidel Castro’s communists in Cuba in 1959 ushered in an era when the threat of the new African states falling to communism seemed very real and of global importance in the war between the two superpowers. Hence the head of the CIA warning President Eisenhower that Congo’s Patrice Lumumba might be ‘the African Castro’ and America’s feverish paranoia that if Congo fell to the communists it might influence the entire continent (p.104). Looking back, this level of anxiety seems exaggerated, even absurd. But the context is crucial in understanding the actions of all the colonial powers, but especially of America, which set about undermining left-wing governments and supporting right-wing, capitalism-loving dictators across the continent.

Both of these examples or precedents (Algeria, Cuba) lay behind the decisions of Britain and Belgian, in particular, not to linger or suppress independence movements. In other words, they added to the sense of urgency and haste which characterised the rush to make Africa independent, with such questionable results.

Part 1

1. The Gold Coast experiment (Ghana)

The tragic life of Kwame Nkrumah who went from political prisoner in the early 1950s, to lead his own political party, the Convention People’s Party, won the general election held under British auspices in 1954, before leading Ghana to independence in March 1957. Meredith vividly describes the week-long celebrations, attended by worthies from around the world including Zhou Enlai and Richard Nixon.

With a sickening inevitability Nkrumah found the new country difficult to rule, repressed political opposition and rigged elections. In 1964 he amended the constitution to make Ghana a one-party state, with himself as president for life. In 1966 Nkrumah was deposed in a coup led by the National Liberation Council.

2. Revolt on the Nile (Egypt)

Colonel Gamal Abdel Nasser led the 1952 revolution which overthrew the 32-year-old playboy King Farouk I. Much rhetoric about freedom and Arab socialism as Nasser tightened his grip on power, imprisoning rivals and getting elected president in 1956. The catastrophe of the Suez Crisis which put the nail in the coffin of the British Empire. From that moment Britain’s rush to decolonise picked up speed.

3. Land of the Setting Sun (Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria)

Apparently, the Arab word for north-west Africa, maghreb, means ‘land of the setting sun’ (as opposed to our word ‘Levant’ which means ‘rising’, to describe the old Ottoman Empire).

This chapter describes the descent of Algeria into a terrible insurgency which kicked off in the spring of 1954 with a wave of bomb attacks by the National Liberation Front (French: Front de libération nationale or FLN) with both sides slowly breaching their early declarations to target only combatants, so that by August 1954 the FLN was bombing civilian cafés and restaurants while the French security forces cracked down hard on the civilian Arab population, with large-scale arrests and torture.

An often overlooked aspect of the terrible war in Algeria (1956 to 1962) was that it made the French more amenable to granting its neighbours, Tunisia and Morocco, independence. Meredith describes the independence campaigning of Habib Bourguiba in Tunisia and Sultan Mohammed V in Morocco. The French arrested, imprisoned and exiled both these leaders, but eventually gave into widespread protests and both Morocco and Tunisia gained their independence in March 1956.

In 1957, amid an upsurge in terrorist bombings, the French governor of Algeria handed power over to the military, led by General Jacques Massu. The army locked down the capital city Algiers, ringing it with barbed wire, dividing it into sections which could be searched, cleared and then surveilled. Thousands of Algerians were arrested and tortured using electric shocks or waterboarding. It became known as The Battle of Algiers. In the country, peasants were rounded up into camps while native collaborator/spies (harkis) were deployed by the French.

By 1958 the FLN had been defeated, its leaders seeking refuge in Tunisia, whose new leader Bourguiba gave them sanctuary. However, the political system in France itself was in crisis. Violent disagreements about policy in Algeria led to the collapse of a series of short-lived governments. Worried that pacifist-defeatist politicians would gain power, in May 1958 the military took control of Algeria, allying with leading colons (white French colonists) to form a Committee of Public Safety. The French government declared a blockade, at which the Committee called for the return of the wartime hero, General de Gaulle.

4. L’Afrique Noire (Senegal, Ivory Coast)

L’Afrique Noire was the French term for the sub-Saharan part of its colonial empire, including Senegal and the Ivory Coast. Meredith describes the careers of Léopold Senghor of Senegal and Félix Houphouët-Boigny of Côte d’Ivoire.

5. Winds of Change (British colonies)

This chapter covers the independence movements in British colonies such as Nigeria.

Nigeria

Nigeria had only been created by the forcible union of north and south Nigeria in 1914, the north and south having themselves been slowly cobbled together from former, smaller protectorates since 1900. Nigeria could be divided into three great blocs: the north was Muslim and Hausa-speaking, with a conservative, feudal social system. It had few schools or colleges. The West, including the capital Lagos, was mostly Yoruba. Being on the coast, dotted with cities, it was more economically advanced and urban. In the East lived the Igpo who tended to be very well educated but had no social system of their own and so were scattered around Nigeria’s other territories. In addition there some 250 other ethnic groups, some of which protested and rebelled, including the Edo-speaking people of Benin province who longed to restore the kingdom of Benin. The British struggled with successive constitutions to try and create a balance between all these different constituencies. Nigeria was granted independence in 1960.

As a rule of thumb British colonies in West Africa were much more advanced than British colonies in East Africa (Kenya, Tanganyika) and Central Africa (north and south Rhodesia, Nyasaland). Politics in these latter countries was dominated by the fierce lobbying of the small white minorities, who dominated the local governors. Thus the settlers persuaded the Colonial Office to create a federation of Central Africa, consisting of Rhodesia and Nyasaland.

Kenya

Plans for a similar federation in East Africa were wrecked by the Mau Mau rebellion, which was an organised protest against the grotesque monopoly of the best agricultural land in Kenya by whites, and the land deprivation and lack of rights enforced on the million-strong Kikuyu population. Meredith gives a thorough account: the phrase mau mau actually meant nothing in Kikuyu, it was just a rallying call, and then the name given to the secret meetings where oaths of allegiance were sworn to the movement. Despite white paranoia, very few whites were actually killed during the so-called ’emergency’ (1952 to 1960), Meredith gives the number as 32, fewer than lost their lives in traffic accidents in Nairobi over the same period. He details British accusations that the Kikuyu leader Jomo Kenyatta, leader of the Kenya African Union (KAU) was involved, which led to a kangaroo court convicting and imprisoning him; and the brutal measures the British took against the insurgency, including setting up concentration camps.

The first Blacks were elected to Kenya’s legislative council in 1957. In October the Highlands area was formally opened to all races. The British thought they would continue to rule Kenya for at least another decade. In the event, independence was granted on December 12, 1963.

Nyasaland

Meredith gives the story of Nyasaland, to which the elderly Dr Hastings Banda returned as leader of the independence movement in 1959, determined to scupper Britain’s plans to make it part of a federation with Rhodesia. The colonial governor imported troops who tried to quell protests which turned into riots, troops shot, protesters killed, it becomes a nationwide movement etc.

Meanwhile, in neighbouring north Rhodesia, in the run-up to contested 1959 elections the authorities banned a leading nationalist party and imprisoned its leader, Kenneth Kaunda. Britain was losing its reputation for progressive colonialism in a welter of protests and arrests across all its African colonies.

Abruptly, Harold Macmillan’s conservative government gave in. Late in 1959 the Foreign Secretary Iain Macleod said further repression would lead to bloodshed. In February 1960 Macmillan gave his famous Winds of Change speech. Behind it was fear that further suppressing calls for independence would drive African nations into the hands of the communists. The British knew most of their colonies weren’t ready for independence – Meredith lists the pitiful number of native lawyers or administrators in the central and east African countries – but hurrying was a less bad option than delay, with the increasing repression, bloodshed and reputational damage that would inevitably entail.

6. Heart of Darkness (Congo)

The gruesome history of the Belgian Congo. It beggars belief that there are still statues of King Leopold II, one of the most blood-thirsty rulers in history, in Belgium. Congo was notable for four or five reasons:

  1. It was and is the largest country in Africa.
  2. The grotesque rule of Leopold II was probably the most evil, mass murdering of all the colonial regimes. As many as 10 million Congolese died during his rule, 1885 to 1908.
  3. Once the colony had been handed over to the Belgian government to run, it developed through the 20th century as one of the richest sources of minerals (particularly copper and diamonds) in the world.
  4. The rush to independence was hastiest and most foolhardy here than almost anywhere else. At independence Congo had 3 Black civil servants, 30 university graduates, no doctors, secondary school teachers or army officers. The firebrand new Prime Minister, Patrice Lumumba, had just four years of secondary school education plus one year in a technical college for postal clerks (p.95).
  5. With the result that within days of winning independence on 1 June 1960, Congo collapsed into chaos.

The army mutinied, the entire province of Katanga tried to secede, riots in the main cities included attacks on whites so that the entire Belgian community i.e. everyone who knew how to run the infrastructure of the country, fled in panic. Profile of the hectic unpredictable character of Lumumba, and the long dismal series of events which led, first to his arrest and, eventually, to his murder by Belgian and Congolese soldiers on the orders of his one-time lieutenant, Joseph-Désiré Mobutu, with the collusion of the UN and US, on 17 January 1961.

The stream of crises continued until Mobutu took power in a definitive military coup in 1965, and was to rule a one-party state for 32 years, until 1997.

7. The White South

South Africa

Meredith points out that the southern nations of Africa – north and south Rhodesia, south-west Africa and South Africa – looked at the other African countries gaining independence and were horrified by what they saw, especially the complete chaos punctuated by bloodbaths and military coups in Congo.

The fiercest response was in South Africa which in 1948 had established the system of apartheid and spent the next decades hardening the division between whites and blacks. Meredith chronicles the early history of the African National Congress (ANC), revolving round the figure of Nelson Mandela and the failure of peaceful efforts to counter apartheid. Peaceful protests such as general strikes became harder to justify after the SA authorities carried out the Sharpeville massacre on 21 March 1960, killing 69 protesters and injuring 180.

The more violent atmosphere heralded by the massacre led the ANC to establish the armed wing of the struggle, uMkhonto we Sizwe, in 1961. These guys carried out a not very effective sabotage campaign against a variety of infrastructure targets. In 1962 Mandela was arrested and imprisoned, despite a lack of evidence against him. But then in 1964 the authorities discovered the ANC and uMkhonto we Sizwe hideout at Rivonia, which was stuffed with incriminating documents. On the basis of these, Mandela was retried and, along with the key leadership of the ANC and uMkhonto, sentenced to life imprisonment on 12 June 1964.

Rhodesia

Meredith gives the history of Rhodesia, taking in the creation of the two independence parties, ZANU and ZAPU, up until November 1965 when Ian Smith‘s Rhodesian Front government, rebelling against pressure to grant Black independence, issued a Unilateral Declaration of Independence (UDI) from the mother government in the UK.

Angola

Angola was a backwater of the mouldering Portuguese empire, which was ruled by the dictator António de Oliveira Salazar. In 1956 the People’s Movement for the Liberation of Angola (Movimento Popular de Libertação de Angola or MPLA) was founded but police swoops in 1959 and 1960 arrested most of its leaders. In 1961 the colony was horrified by an outbreak of extreme violence in the north, where machete-wielding gangs massacred white bosses and the Blacks who worked for them. This was partly the work of a different group, the União dos Povos de Angola (UPA), run by Holden Roberto.

Mozambique

On the other side of the continent, in the other Portuguese colony, Mozambique, 1962 saw the creation of the Frente de Libertação de Moçambique (FRELIMO) which commenced a campaign of small-scale guerrilla attacks against border posts etc.

Dates of independence

1956 – Sudan, Morocco, Tunisia

1957 – Ghana

1958 – Guinea

1960 – Cameroon, Senegal, Togo, Mali, Madagascar, Democratic Republic of Congo (Belgian), Somalia, Benin, Niger, Burkina Faso, Ivory Coast, Chad, Central African Republic, Republic of Congo (France), Gabon, Nigeria, Mauritania,

1961 – Sierra Leone, Tanganyika

1962 – Burundi, Rwanda, Algeria, Uganda

1963 – Kenya, Zanzibar

1964 – Nyasaland (Malawi), North Rhodesia (Zambia)

1965 – Gambia

1966 – Botswana, Lesotho

1975 – Angola, Mozambique

1980 – Zimbabwe

1990 – Namibia

1993 – Eritrea

2011 – South Sudan

Part 2

8. The Birth of Nations

A chapter summarising the dire state of the geography and economies of most African nations at independence, and the consequent economic challenges they faced. It’s here that Meredith gives the shocking figures about the lack of African graduates or professionals right across the continent.

9. The First Dance of Freedom

Abandoning democracy

Meredith laments that almost all the new national leaders consciously disavowed democracy and instituted one-party rule. It’s interesting to read their justifications. It was claimed that democracy derived from advanced societies with well-defined classes and class interests which could be represented by political parties. By contrast, leaders like Nkomo and Kenyatta argued that while parties may have been necessary to organise and motivate different groupings in the fight against colonialism, now the colonialists had left and the nations were free, democracy represented a threat to African countries because the likelihood was that parties would come to be based on tribal or regional allegiances and so work to split and divide the nation. There’s actually a lot to this argument, as that’s what many African parties came to be, fronts for specific tribes or regional interests.

One-party rule

Regardless of the justifications, almost all the first leaders of the newly independent African nations went on to abolish democracy, establish one-party rule, declare themselves presidents for life, lock up any opposition figures (p.176), create cults of their greatness (p.180), set up a secret police which was told it could go to any lengths to save the state from communist or capitalist or imperialist subversion etc etc. These cults often took the name of the Great Leader – Nasserism, Nkrumahism and so on (p.163).

Corruption

And misuse money, in two specific ways: 1) instituting state-sponsored corruption at every level of society, while 2) spending fortunes on grandiose building projects, palaces, mansions, waterfront hotels. Presidents, ministers and powerful figures swiftly awarded themselves ‘the platinum lifestyle’ (p.171).While Nkrumah was crapping on about ‘African socialism’ his ministers made fortunes. Ghanaian minister Krobo Edusei caused a scandal when his wife ordered a £3,000 gold-plated bed from a London store. In later life he admitted to owning 14 homes, a luxury beach house, a London flat, expensive cars and six different bank accounts. African socialism.

Army coups

In 1958 in Sudan the army took control in Sudan from squabbling politicians. In 1963 Togo’s president was shot dead in a coup. In 1964 African mobs overthrew rule by the Arab elite and the sultan was forced to flee, the French army had to put down military coups in Gabon and Cameroon, while the British army suppressed army mutinies in Tanganyika, Uganda and Kenya. From 1965 coups became more frequent: in 1965 Algeria’s first leader was deposed; Mobutu overthrew president Joseph Kasa-Vubu in Congo; there was a military coup in Benin; Colonel Jean-Bedel Bokassa seized power in the Central African Republic, and so on.

10. Feet of Clay (Ghana)

An extended description of Kwame Nkrumah’s slow descent into authoritarian rule, isolation, paranoia, arbitrary arrest of opponents, accompanied by rising corruption. Meredith makes the pretty well-known point that patronage and corruption weren’t parasites on the system which could be eliminated; they were the system.

A detailed account of how Nkrumah destroyed the Ghana economy through mismanagement, ignorance, terrible accounting, disastrous decisions and so on. Incompetence on a national scale, plus classic withdrawal into dictator paranoia. And, also classically, when the army intervened it wasn’t for the good of the country – they’d happily watched it go to wrack and ruin – it was because Nkrumah started tampering with it, wishing to bring it directly under his control as he had done every other aspect of Ghanaian life. So it was that while Nkrumah was visiting China in 1966, the army deposed him. Joyous crowds celebrated in the streets, his statues was pulled down and portraits defaced. The kind of thing we were to see scores and scores of times in developing countries around the world over the past 60 years.

11. A House Divided (Nigeria)

Nigeria. Meredith explains the entirely tribal basis and vicious infighting of Nigerian politics which led up to the January 1966 military coup, in which the Supreme Council of the Revolution not just sacked but executed civilian politicians. And the complicated rivalries between North, West and East Nigeria which led leaders in the East to declare independence as Biafra, and the 3-year-long war which followed, in which up to 2 million Nigerians died.

12. Death of an Emperor (Ethiopia)

An entertaining account of the elaborate ritual which surrounded the Emperor Haile Selassie and the surprisingly aggressive imperial campaigns which had doubled his country’s size, starting back in the time of his ancestor Menelek (ruled 1889 to 1913), including the annexation of Eritrea and contested parts of Somaliland.

In the early 1970s mismanagement, especially of a famine in Wollo, protests by various sectors, and Selassie’s hastening senility, emboldened a group of army officers, who called themselves the Derg, to stage a coup in stages throughout 1974, which ended with the complete overthrow of Selassie on 12 September. In November the junta executed 60 former officials of the imperial government plus dissident elements within the Derg itself, by firing squad, and Ethiopia was declared a republic to be governed on Marxist-Leninist lines.

  • The Emperor: Downfall of an Autocrat by Ryszard Kapuściński (1978)

13. The Coming of Tyrants

After the first few heroic years of optimism, the military coups began. But worse was the advent of the monsters: Abaid Karume in Zanzibar (1964 to 1972); Jean-Bedel Bokassa in the Central African Republic (1966 to 1979); Idi Amin in Uganda (1971 to 1979); Francisco Nguema in Equatorial Guinea (1968 to 1979); Mengistu Haile Mariam in Ethiopia (1977 to 1991).

14. In Search of Ujamaa (Tanzania)

Julius Nyerere in Tanzania. He was a committed socialist though without a socialist party or advisers. In the mid-1960s he nationalised everything in Tanzania and proclaimed this native form of socialism ujaama, which is KiSwahili for ‘familyhood’ (p.253). In 1974 this was turned into the forced movement of some 11 million peasant farmers into collective farms, which had the same kind of catastrophic effect as in the Stalin-era Ukraine or Mao’s China i.e. the collapse of agricultural productivity and widespread hunger. Nyerere had to go begging to the World Bank and IMF and food agencies for emergency food supplies. As its economy went steadily downhill, Nyerere’s one-party state did improve literacy, schools, drinking water etc, but almost entirely funded by aid from the West.

15. The Passing of the Old Guard

Ghana

Nkrumah’s sad exile in a slowly deteriorating villa in Guinea planning a triumphant return to Ghana which never took place.

Egypt

Nasser’s great dreams of leading an Arab renaissance came to nothing, attempts to unify with Syria were a fiasco, his intervention in Yemen backfired, leading up to the humiliation of the 1967 Arab-Israeli War in which the Israelis seized the Sinai with its oil wells from Egypt. Yet he remained popular and Egypt was plunged into mourning when he died in 1970 of a heart attack, aged just 52.

Kenya

Jomo Kenyatta was the opposite of Nyerere, a keen advocate of capitalism, and provided the stable political and legal framework within which private enterprise could flourish. Much of the land belonging to the white settlers, the issue behind the Mau Mau movement, was sold to Black Kenyans. During the 1970s he faced political challenges and hardened his one-party rule. His fiercest critic was found murdered etc. Late in life Kenyatta slowly lost interest in ruling, preferring to concoct complex riddles. He died peacefully in 1978.

Senegal

President Léopold Senghor remained strongly Francophile, committed to maintaining links with France, accepting French capital in business and retaining French troops to safeguard his regime. In France he was a noted poet. In 1976 he bucked the one-party trend of his neighbours by allowing the establishment of two new political parties. In 1980 he handed over power to his protégé, becoming the first African ruler to relinquish power voluntarily.

Guinea

The first president of Guinea, Ahmed Sékou Touré, created a paranoid atmosphere of permanent plots which he claimed to uncover and used to arrest, torture and publicly execute opponents, real or imagined. A fifth of the population fled abroad. Touré nationalised industries, persecuted independent businesses, created parastatal agencies, so that the economy tanked and was, eventually, only surviving on western aid. After 20 years of enforced socialism, he began to relent and allow some elements of private enterprise.

16. The Slippery Slope

An overview of the calamitous economic issues which hit Africa in the 1970s and 80s, being:

  • famine and drought
  • the two oil shocks of the 1970s
  • the collapse of commodity prices on which most African states depended for foreign revenue
  • the disastrous loss of agricultural land, soil degradation and desertification

On top of all this, an explosive growth in population.

17. The Great Plunderer (Zaire)

This refers to Joseph-Désiré Mobutu, who ruled Congo from the date of his second military coup in 1965 to his overthrow by the forces invading from Rwanda in 1997. During those 32 long years he changed the country’s name to Zaire, Africanised all placenames (Leopoldville > Kinshasa, Elizabethville > Lubumbashi) and even his own name, changing it to Mobutu Sese Seko Kuku Ngbendu Wa Za Banga.

Mobutu nationalised agriculture, seized all businesses from foreign owners, causing a collapse in the country’s economy, and looted it on a grand scale, siphoning vast amounts into private bank accounts. Probably the greatest African kleptocrat, he was said to have stolen up to $15 billion. The Americans supported him on the simple Cold War basis that he was fiercely anti-communist and so maintained the centre of Africa against any Soviet influence. Mobutu was an honoured guest of US presidents from John F Kennedy to George Bush. Meredith doesn’t need to comment.

18. White Dominoes (Mozambique, Angola)

Portugal was the last European country to decolonise. Independence movements in its two main African colonies, Angola and Mozambique, commenced military activities in 1961, leading to what became known as the Portuguese Colonial War (1961 to 1974).

In 1968 Portugal’s long-serving dictator, António de Oliveira Salazar, was replaced by another authoritarian ruler, Marcello Caetano. He inherited military operations in Portugal’s main two African colonies, Angola and Mozambique. However, junior army officers had become unhappy with the way the army seemed like it was committed forever to these ruinous, unwinnable wars and so, on 25 April 1974, carried out the Carnation Revolution, overthrowing Caetano. Portugal’s new military rulers set out to divest themselves of her colonies immediately. Small Guinea-Bissau was easily granted independence in 1973.

Mozambique

In Mozambique the main liberation force had been the Front for the Liberation of Mozambique (FRELIMO) led by the zealous Marxist, Samora Machel. Terrified by the fire-breathing rhetoric of Marxist Machal, in the year between the declaration of independence in 1974 and its legal implementation on 25 June 1975, most of the 250,000 Portuguese in Mozambique fled the country, including all the civil servants, administrators, managers of the infrastructure and all businesses.

Frelimo passed a law ordering the remaining Portuguese to leave the country in 24 hours with only 20 kilograms (44 pounds) of luggage. Unable to salvage any of their assets, most of them returned to Portugal penniless, leaving a country empty of experienced administrators, engineers and so on.

Frelimo commenced an aggressive implementation of Marxism-Leninism which proved a disaster: central planning was as badly managed here as in most other African countries, leading to economic collapse, inflation, shortages of everything but especially food. Industrial output and agriculture collapsed leading to widespread famine. Frelimo eventually generated so much opposition that the anti-communist forces united to form the Mozambican National Resistance (RENAMO) rebel militias.

Renamo found backing from South Africa and the US. Civil war between Frelimo and Renamo was to consume 15 ruinous years from 1977 to 1992. An estimated one million Mozambicans perished during the civil war, with somewhere between 300,000 and 600,000 dying of famine. 1.7 million Mozambicans took refuge in neighbouring states, and several million more were internally displaced.

Angola

Something similar happened in Angola. As the deadline for independence approached, three rebel or independence groups/parties/armies vied for power, being the FNLA, MPLA and UNITA. As violence broke out most of the white Portuguese fled and the country collapsed into a civil war between what emerged as the two main forces, the communist People’s Movement for the Liberation of Angola (MPLA) and the anti-communist National Union for the Total Independence of Angola (UNITA). The civil war lasted from 1975, with interludes, until 2002. See:

Part 3

19. Red Tears (Ethiopia)

How in 1974 the Provisional Military Administrative Committee (PMAC) of army officers, also known as the Derg, overthrew the regime of emperor Haile Selassie. In 1977 Colonel Mengistu Haile Mariam seized full control and initiated a wave of repression which became known as the Red Terror. During this two-year campaign as many as 50,000 Ethiopians were arrested, tortured and executed. The Derg dumped the corpses in the street and gained notoriety by demanding that families of the executed pay for the bullets. Marxist-Leninist housekeeping.

Meredith explains how Mengistu’s Marxist-Leninist policies, along with his brutal campaigns against Eritrean and Tigrayan separatists in the north, helped bring about the great Ethiopia famine of 1984 which led to Live Aid. At the time more than half of Ethiopia’s annual budget was devoted to maintaining an army of 300,000 (armed and supplied by Soviet Russia) in order to carry out operations against the Tigrayan People’s Liberation Front (p.334).

Mengistu was a doctrinaire Marxist who believed in collectivising agriculture and enforcing super low prices in order to provide subsidised food for his key constituencies in the cities. The detailed chronicle of his deliberate ignoring of the famine, attempts to deny it, to prevent journalists or aid agencies entering the famine-stricken areas, and then the politically motivated strategy of moving hundreds of thousands of starving people against their will from the north (close to where Eritrean separatists operated) to the more secure south where they had no homes or livelihoods, makes for terrible reading. What a complete bastard.

The title of this chapter comes from a memoir of his time in Mengistu’s government written by a defector from the Derg, Dawit Wolde Giorgis, ‘Red Tears: War, Famine and Revolution in Ethiopia’. In the words of reviewer Mohammed Hassen, this exposes ‘the callous brutality of the Ethiopian government towards its own people’, and the leaders of the Derg as ‘uninformed, anti-people, anti-democratic criminal thugs’ (Online review).

20. Fault Lines (Chad, Sudan)

Chad

Across the north of Africa is a line between the Arab Muslim north and the start of the Black African and often Christian south. Meredith gives a long, detailed and deeply depressing account of the north-south conflict in Chad, in which both sides massacred each other and Colonel Gaddafi, in power in Libya from 1969 onwards, took advantage by trying to seize northern Chad and, at his most ambitious, declared the unification of Chad with Libya – under his supreme control, of course.

Sudan

To the East, the equally long-running and demoralising war between Muslim north and Christian south Sudan. A key aspect of the backstory to both conflicts is that the northern Muslims had, for centuries, captured southern blacks as slaves as part of the widespread Arab slave trade. In fact Meredith records Arab militias capturing and enslaving Black southerners in the 1980s, all accompanied by vitriolic racism about the Blacks being sub-humans etc. About the Atlantic slave trade I hear on a daily basis and in virtually every art exhibition I go to; about the Arab slave trade, never.

21. The Scourge of AIDS

The interesting point is the number of African governments which refused to acknowledge AIDS or dismissed it as a racist Western conspiracy, with the result that many African countries didn’t commence AIDS-awareness campaigns till the 1990s by which time the disease had taken hold in their populations. Two notable exceptions were Senegal under Abdou Diouf, and Uganda under the leadership of Yoweri Museveni. Respect.

22. The Lost Decade

A detailed look at the economic collapse of almost all African countries by the 1980s so that they became increasingly dependent on foreign aid, on loans which needed to be continually rescheduled, and the accompanying demands from the IMF and World Bank for ‘structural reforms’. Through mismanagement, drought, civil war, collapse of commodity prices, most African countries became dependent on aid from the West.

What comes over, and is expressed in terms by African commentators themselves, is what condemned Africa to becoming the most backward and poverty-stricken of the world’s continents was the appalling quality of African leaders – tyrants, dictators but, above all, thieves, on an epic, mind-boggling scale.

23. The Struggle for Democracy

The long hold on power of Africa’s strong men, the generation who took power at independence and often clung on to it for 25 years or more, for example:

  • Gnassingbé Eyadéma of Togo (president for 38 years)
  • Omar Bongo in Gabon (41 years)
  • Félix Houphouët-Boigny of Côte d’Ivoire (president for 33 years)
  • Mobutu in Zaire (32 years)
  • Hastings Banda in Malawi (30 years)
  • Kenneth Kaunda in Zambia (27 years)
  • Moussa Traore in Mali (22 years)

Of the 50 African states in 1990, almost all were one-party states or military dictatorships.

The fall of the Berlin wall and collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 ushered in a new era. One party regimes and Marxist regimes appeared old-fashioned overnight. But the strong men clung on in the new landscape, for example Mobutu who struggled on for another 7 years.

24. A Time of Triumph (South Africa)

A long and harrowing description of ‘grand’ apartheid in all its totalitarian, racist horror. Meredith gives an interesting explanation of the changes in international affairs and geopolitics during the late 1980s which led the apartheid leadership to consider sweeping reform. He ends with a moving account of negotiations with Nelson Mandela, climaxing with his release and then the first free, multi-racial elections in South Africa’s history.

Apart from the long, complex history of violence, guerrilla warfare, civil war between the ANC and Inkatha, South Africa’s interference in all the nations bordering it and so on – on a human level I learned that a) Mandela and the last apartheid leader, F.W. de Klerk, really didn’t get on, and that b) when his marriage to wife Winnie Mandela ended, she very publicly took a much younger lover and embarrassed him in public (‘Mandela’s late years of freedom were constantly blighted by her wayward example’), leaving him an often lonely figure (p.438).

Part 4

25. In The Name of the Prophet (Egypt, Algeria, Sudan)

Sayyid Qutb

The imperialists had oppressed them. Secular nationalism was a failure. The first generation of post-independence rulers turned out to be corrupt tyrants. Socialism and Marxism turned out to be dead ends. Following the Iranian revolution of 1979 there began a revival of political Islam which seemed to many ordinary people a last resort, given that all western political systems and theories had failed. Political Islam encouraged the idea that western concepts like democracy or capitalism were infidel and inappropriate to Muslim lands, and that only return to the purity of the Prophet’s laws and rules would restore society.

The principal architect of jihad ideology [was] Sayyid Qutb…whose writings influenced generations of radical Islamists. (p.444)

Qutb, an Egyptian who supported the Muslim Brotherhood, was imprisoned by Colonel Nasser, then executed in 1965 – but not before he’d developed, written and distributed a starkly simplistic view of Islam. According to Qutb the entire Muslim world can be divided into the Party of God and the Party of Satan with no middle ground. Repressive regimes cannot be changed from within and so must be overthrown by jihad i.e. armed struggle.

Any land that hampered the practice of Islam or failed to apply sharia law was ipso facto part of Dar el-Harb – the Abode of War. ‘It should be combated even if one’s own kith and kin, national group, capital and commerce are to be found there.’ (p.444)

This is really, really important. Qutb’s writings are crucial to understanding the modern age. His simplistic binary worldview, and his insistence that democracy, nationalism, human rights and all those other ideas, are infidel western abominations – all this explains the wars which have steadily engulfed the Arab/Muslim world in the last 30 years.

Qutb’s writings explain why generations of jihadis have been convinced that the only honourable and devout course of action is to fight your enemies to extermination. His writings have hugely contributed to instability right across the Arab world and are the ideological background to jihadis fighting in Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Yemen, Libya and Sudan. Meredith mentions a couple of other Muslim thinkers:

  • cleric Omar Abdel Rahman who taught that jihad was the only way to vanquish the enemies of Islam (p.445)
  • Muhammed al-Farag, who taught that jihad is the sixth pillar of Islam and that armed struggle is imperative for all true Muslims in order to cure a decadent society: ‘the first battlefield for jihad is the extermination of these infidel leaders and to replace them with a complete Islamic Order’ (p.446)

Only jihad can bring about the perfect Islamic society. Jihad must be waged until the perfect Islamic society is achieved. But there are many forces resisting this, the obvious outside forces of America and the West, but also the populations of many of these countries. So the kind of perfect Islamic state the jihadis dream of will probably never be achieved. Therefore the Muslim world, certainly in the Middle East and North Africa, is condemned to permanent war or insurgency for the foreseeable future.

Algeria

The Front de libération nationale (FLN) had been the main force behind the long bloody war for the independence of Algeria from France. After independence was finally granted in 1962, the FLN became the party of government, instituting socialist policies and a one-party regime. Meredith lists the reasons why the FLN slowly became unpopular. Two stick out. One was that they downplayed agriculture in a bid to industrialise, keeping food prices artificially low in order to placate their constituencies in the towns and cities. The result was that life as a farmer got harder and harder, with many rural youths deciding to quit the poverty of the countryside and try their luck in the city. This is interesting because it’s an abiding theme of so many of these countries. If I could travel back in time to the early 60s and was an adviser to newly independent African nations, I’d say: ‘Cherish your farmers’. In Algeria, as everywhere else, neglecting and even undermining agriculture led to the country becoming ever more reliant on food imports.

The second is the explosion in population. I am a Darwinian materialist, a believer in the blunt facts of the environment and biology a long way before culture and politics. Thus the simple relevant fact is that the population of Algeria exploded from 10 million in 1962 to 26 million in 1992. No rate of economic growth, anywhere, could keep up with this explosion in mouths to feed and, more to the point, young men to employ.

Groups of young men hanging round on street corners become a prey to warlords and the siren call of violent revolution. This is true all round the developing world. The West supplied the medicines to developing countries which hugely improved infant mortality and recovery from illness, but without doing anything to transform a) cultural attitudes to women and childbirth or b) expand the economies. Result: lots of aimless young men looking for a cause.

Enter radical Islam which promises a better world, which gives young men a purpose, a goal, a sense of identity, and money and respect. What’s not to like, what’s not to sign up and commit your life to?

As radical Islamic parties began to appear in Algeria the military command which called the shots in the FLN tried to cancel them. After complicated manoeuvres the FLN agreed to hold free elections and Islamic parties stood in them. But when the Islamists looked like winning, the FLN abruptly cancelled the results and took back military control. The rest of the story could have been written by an AI bot. The Islamists hit back with a terror campaign, the army cracked down, arbitrarily arresting thousands, imprisonment without trial, torture etc, the Islamists ramped up their campaign, and so on.

Again, with utter inevitability, the insurgency spawned an extremist wing, the Groupe Islamique Armé (GIA). With utter predictability they started off saying they’d stick to military targets but soon found these too well protected and their attacks having less and less affect so they widened their targets. Journalists were singled out, but more and more members of the general public were also murdered. Abdelkader Hattab wrote a pamphlet titled: ‘Throat-slitting and murder until the power is God’s’ (p.457).

As in Iraq, in order to build the perfect Islamic state, it turned out to be necessary to kill lots of Muslims, first hundreds, then thousands, then tens of thousands, and eventually hundreds of thousands.

What became known as the Algerian Civil War lasted from 1991 to 2002 and led to around 150,000 deaths. Of course the economy was wrecked. Of course a lot of the best and brightest middle classes simply fled abroad.

Egypt

I visited Egypt in 1981 and then in 1995, just before Islamist terror groups began attacking tourists. Groups like Jamaat al-Jihad and Gamma Islamiyya increasingly targeted government officials, intellectuals, journalists and foreign tourists. They attacked and murdered Coptic Christians, burned Christian shops and churches, and bookshops and theatres and video stores. Farag Foda, one of Egypt’s best known writers, was shot dead. The Nobel laureate Naguib Mahfouz was knifed. ‘Throat-slitting and murder until the power is God’s’, in practice.

Then they started attacking tourists: in 1996 17 Greek pilgrims were murdered outside their hotel. In 1997 58 foreign tourists were murdered in the Valley of the Kings. Meredith tells us that a Japanese man was eviscerated and inside his stomach cavity was stuffed a note reading: ‘No to tourists in Egypt’ (p.461). Fine by me. I’m never going back to a Muslim country.

Egypt’s president, Hosni Mubarak, had come to power after the assassination of his predecessor Anwar Sadat by army Islamists in 1981. Now Mubarak set about crushing the Islamic groups ruthlessly, telling his own people and the international community that he wouldn’t let Egypt become the next Algeria. This chapter takes the story up to 2000, when Mubarak was arresting members of the Muslim Brotherhood and other Islamic organisations to prevent them standing in that year’s elections.

26. Black Hawk Down (Somalia)

The first fact about Somalia is that, at independence, about 40% of the people who thought of themselves as Somalis lived outside the borders of the country, in Ethiopia or Kenya. So from the day of independence the government neglected agriculture and the economy and focused on military action to try and extend its borders to include the full population.

Second fact is the Somalis have a strong and complex clan system, clans within clans, which extends in a hierarchy from the five main super-clans down through ever-diminishing sub-clans. So:

  1. Never-ending warfare helped impoverish the country, especially after the Soviet Union dropped its support for Somalia in favour of Mengistu’s Marxist revolution in neighbouring Ethiopia.
  2. As central government collapsed under the pressure of military defeats, poverty, famine and so on, the country disintegrated into a warzone of permanently fighting, feuding clans, at multiple levels, with warlords ruling their territories through terror.

27. The Graves Are Not Yet Full (Rwanda)

The Rwandan genocide. I’ve summarised the dreadful events elsewhere. I’ll just pick up on two related themes, mentioned re. Algeria. 1) the population of Rwanda ballooned from 2 million in 1940 to 7 million in 1990, which led to 2) lots of unemployed youths hanging around, waiting for a cause and meaning (and cash):

Youths with no prospect of work were easily recruited [into the interahamwe) with promises of land, jobs and other rewards… (p.496)

The French government of François Mitterrand comes over as the genocide-supporting scumbags indicated by all the other accounts. For example, it was the French government which refused the Belgian request to increase the number of the latter’s peacekeepers, so that Belgians ended up being forced to watch Tutsis being hacked to death in front of them but were unable to intervene. Because of France (p.510).

Mitterrand was determined to prevent a Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) victory in Rwanda even if it meant continuing to collaborate with genocidal killers. (p.519)

France made five arms shipments to the Hutu government while it was carrying out the genocide. Bastard Mitterrand sent a French force into Rwanda to protect the Hutu Power génocidaires (the equivalent of protecting the SS). Meredith tells of French soldiers slowly realising that the Hutus they had been sent to protect were in fact genocidal killers and realising that their government (Mitterrand) had lied to them. The piles and piles of Tutsi corpses were a clue. But the French government refused to allow their troops on the ground to track down and bring to justice the génocidaires hiding among the mass Hutu refugees who fled into Congo, once the Tutsi-led RPF reactivated the civil war and invaded in order to end the killing.

To the end, the French protected the organisers of the genocide. (p.522)

We’re never meant to forget the Holocaust. Well, in the same spirit, surely we should never forgive the arms and aid and support and protection the French government extended to the perpetrators of the second most horrific genocide of the twentieth century.

Mind you, Meredith goes on to paint the UN as far worse, biased towards Hutu president, Juvénal Habyarimana, ignoring reports from the Canadian commander of the UN force on the ground, UNAMIR, General Roméo Dallaire. And then the Belgian government, which withdrew their contingent altogether, abandoning thousands of Tutsis who had taken shelter in their compounds and who were hacked to pieces within hours of their abandonment (p.512). And the Americans behaved disgracefully, Bill Clinton doing everything he could to avoid using the G word (genocide) and refusing to commit troops. Everyone in a position of power in the West let the genocide happen.

More Tutsis were killed in churches than any other type of building, although a lot were killed in maternity wards where a lot had their bellies ripped open and their babies hacked to pieces before they themselves were hacked to death.

Some people still believe in the essential goodness of the human race. Such innocence is touching, charming, but dangerous.

28. Where Vultures Fly (the two Congo wars)

Who supported Mobutu after he had reduced Zaire to starving ruins? France. Why? Because he spoke French. Because he represented la francophonie. Because he represented a bulwark against the rise of the beastly English-speaking leaders such as Museveni of Uganda. France supported mass murderers and world-beating kleptocrats because their crimes were less important than the preservation of ‘French culture’ (p.525). Look at their wise and good achievements in the realm of international affairs: Vietnam. Algeria. Models of wisdom and statecraft. And Vichy, when millions of French people wholeheartedly co-operated with German Nazis whose values they enthusiastically endorsed.

This is not an exaggeration. When considering international affairs, it’s important to bear in mind what despicable depths the French establishment’s paranoid fear of the English-speaking world drives them. James Barr describes the despicable behaviour of the French in Lebanon and Syria during the Second World War:

This chapter describes how the million and a half Hutu refugees from Rwanda were crammed into refugee camps, mostly in Congo, where the Hutu Power génocidaires rebuilt their power, controlled the distribution of aid, murdered dissenting voices, kept the refugees in line with terror, while they sold some of the aid the West gave them in order to buy arms to re-invade Rwanda and resume attacking Tutsi communities.

Meredith explains how the leader of the RPF, Paul Kagame, conspired with President of Uganda Mouseveni to invade eastern Zaire, to crush the Hutu Power leaders, to force the Hutu refugees to return to their country. How they found a useful idiot from within Zaire to front the army they were creating, namely fat, stupid guerrilla turned nightclub-owner Laurent-Désiré Kabila.

The combined RPF and Ugandan army force which Kabila fronted not only liberated the Hutu refugee camps, but marched on Congo’s capital, Kinshasa, triggering the panic-stricken flight of the sick old dictator, Mobutu in 1997. In short order and to his own surprise, Kabila found himself in power and set about surrounding himself with cronies in the traditional style. Unwisely, he tried to bolster his support among the Congolese by turning on his Ugandan and Rwandan-Tutsi backers, whose forces were much resented in Kinshasa and beyond.

This policy badly backfired because when Kagame and Museveni found their puppet acting up against them, in 1998 they instituted a second invasion from the east, this time not marching but flying their forces direct to Kinshasa to overthrow Kabile. At this point, however, various outside countries began to get involved, several big ones supporting Kabile who had signed lucrative deals with them allowing them to plunder Congo’s natural resources.

This was the complex situation which led to what became known as the Great War of Africa. Slowly the country splintered into regions held by rival warlords or outside armies. A peace treaty was signed in 2002 which required armies from Rwanda, Burundi, Uganda, Angola and Zimbabwe to withdraw. In four years of chaotic conflict (1998 to 2002) some 3 million Africans had died, mostly unarmed Congolese civilians. But even after the peace treaty, fighting continued in east Congo, and continues at a low level to this day.

29. Blood Diamonds (Liberia, Sierra Leone)

Liberia

Meredith recaps the extraordinary early history of Liberia, a colony on the west coast of Africa funded in 1822 by guilt-stricken liberal Americans who wanted to return some of their slaves to the motherland. Instead, the few thousand returned Blacks ended up creating their own version of slavery, subjugating the poor locals, exploiting their labour, building homes and dressing in the elaborate nineteenth century style of their former American oppressors. Now the immigrant Blacks oppressed the locals. The Americo-Liberians amounted to no more than 1% of the population but lorded it over the indigenes.

In a neat historical irony, in 1931 an international commission found members of the entirely Black Liberian government guilty of involvement in organised slavery (p.546).

But it the story stops being in any way funny when in April 1980 Master Sergeant Samuel Doe led a coup which overturned a century of Americo-Liberian rule. Semi-literate, Doe came from a minority tribe, the Krahn, from the deep jungle. He and colleagues broke into the mansion of President William Tolbert to complain about unpaid wages. Finding him asleep in bed they shot him multiple times before disembowelling him and dumping his body in the garden. This was the coup where Tolbert’s cabinet ministers were taken down to the beach, tied to posts and shot by a squad of drunken soldiers. I remember seeing the video on the news. This set the tone of ten years of savage, primitive, ignorant, incompetent rule.

Like all stupid people, Doe thought the world revolved around him and thus saw conspiracies everywhere. His comms people publicised the idea that he had survived 38 or more assassination attempts because of his magical powers, because bullets stopped in mid-air, knives refused to cut him, and so on – fairy tales designed to appeal to the largely illiterate population.

In August 1984 Doe arrested a popular university lecturer and 15 colleagues claiming they were planning a coup. When students protested, Doe sent a troop of soldiers who opened fire indiscriminately, stripped students naked, demanded money and/or raped them (p.551). This all made me think of all Kwame Nkrumah’s speeches from the 1950s and 60s about ‘Africa for Africans’, ‘African values’, how a liberated Africa would become a beacon of progress and civilisation…

Throughout all the mayhem the US government stood by Doe, declaring his obviously rigged elections valid, overlooking his brutal massacres, upping annual aid to $80 million, and inviting him to the White House for red carpet treatment. Why? Because he was staunchly anti-Soviet. That’s all that mattered (p.555).

In November 1985 General Thomas Quiwonkpa, who had led the 1980 coup along with Doe, tried to seize power and there was premature rejoicing – until Doe managed to regain control, hunt down Quiwonkpa and have him kicked and hacked to death, followed by even harsher crackdowns on the population, which including victimisation of the entire Gio tribe which Quiwonkpa came from.

In 1989 another former colleague, Charles Taylor, led a militia into Liberia from neighbouring Ivory Coast, thus commencing a guerrilla war against Doe. Doe sent out death squads to devastate villages in the regions Taylor had seized. Taylor armed children (‘Small Boy Units’) and told them to kill everyone. The country descended into barbarity.

Bolstered by cane spirit, marijuana and cheap amphetamines, youths and boy soldiers evolved into psychopathic killers, adorning themselves with women’s wigs, dresses, fright masks and enemy bones and smearing their faces with white clay and make-up in the belief that this gave them supernatural perception…’It’s a children’s war,’ said a senior United Nations observer. ‘Kids get promoted in rank for committing an atrocity. They can cut off someone’s head without thinking. The troops move into a village. They take everything and kill and rape. They stay a couple of weeks and then move on.’ (p.558)

It’s interesting to read that many of the stoned fighters thought that wearing wigs or dresses i.e. adopting two identities, would confuse enemy bullets. Traditional African values. Reminds me of the website I found last time I was reading about this subject, a collection of photos of the surreal garb of drug-addled psychopathic militia men.

In 1989 a colleague of Taylor’s named Prince Johnson split off from Taylor’s army to set up the Independent National Patriotic Front of Liberia, with the result that Liberia became caught in a three-way civil war. Or just – war. Marauding soldiers from each side burned, looted, raped and massacred at will. Half the population fled the country. Nigeria sent a peacekeeping force which didn’t establish any kind of peace but secured a few buildings in the capital Monrovia. When Doe drove down to the port to greet them, he was captured by Prince Johnson’s men.

Johnson ordered a video to be made of his men torturing a badly battered Doe, including the moments when they sliced his ears off. The video became a bestseller across West Africa. You can watch it on YouTube and reflect on the speeches of Kwame Nkrumah explaining how African values would civilise the world.

Inevitably, the African peacekeeping force turned out to be every bit as corrupt and lawless as the militias they were sent to police, giving warlords weapons in exchange for looted goods, leading to the joke that ECOMOG stood for ‘Every Car Or Moving Object Gone’.

Taylor established control everywhere outside the capital, and came to commercial arrangements with western companies to allow trade to continue. In two years he’s estimated to have raked off £200 million from these gangster deals.

Sierra Leone

The chaos from Liberia then spilled over into neighbouring Sierra Leone. This country was already a basket case due to the 17-year, one-party rule of President Siaka Steven whose regime made a fortune trading diamonds via Lebanese dealers, while the economy languished, government employees went unpaid, and gangs of youths filled the streets looking for a cause. The usual.

The force Taylor sent into Sierra Leone in March 1991 called itself the Revolutionary United Front (RUF) and was led by the psychopath, Foday Sankoh. This was the group Anthony Loyd writes about terrifyingly in Another Bloody Love Letter. Child soldiers became a key feature of Sierra Leone’s civil war. They were given drugs, indoctrinated and taught to kill. Some had to kill their own parents as an initiation test. Some hated it, wanted to leave but were afraid of themselves being killed. But others loved it. As researchers Krijn Peters and Paul Richards concluded:

‘The pay may be derisory but weapon training pays quicker dividends than school ever did; soon the AK47 brings food, money, a warm bath and instant adult respect. The combat groups substitutes for lost family and friends.’ (quoted page 563)

Like the white overseers in King Leopold’s Congo, the RUF took to hacking off the hands and limbs of civilians, at random, purely for the terror it created. Hundreds of thousands of civilians fled their homes. A coup in the capital brought Valentine Strasser to power. He paid a firm of mercenaries, Executive Outcomes, to clear the capital Freetown in exchange for rights to the country’s diamond mines. Executive Outcomes fighters cleared Freetown in one week, testament to the shoddy, amateurish character of the African fighters on all sides.

More splinter groups, more coups, more fighting, 14 attempts at a ceasefire, tens of thousands more hand choppings and mutilations. A final ceasefire brought UN intervention. But when the UN went to seize the diamond mines, in 2000, the RUF captured 500 of its peacekeepers. It was now that Britain sent in a full battle force to release the UN troops, seize government buildings and train the SL army. Sankoh was arrested and the RUF splintered into ineffectual groups. In the wake of the British intervention, the UN deployed 18,000 troops to bring about a comprehensive peace.

Eleven years of war had left 50,000 dead, 20,000 mutilated, three quarters of the population displaced, and Sierra Leone at the bottom of the league of human development. Back in Liberia, Charles Taylor amassed a huge fortune from illegal diamond trading. His overthrow in 2003 was as violent and brutal as his coming to power, with two more factions, groups or militias murdering and raping their way to the capital. Eventually Taylor was forced out but flew peacefully to Nigeria to take up life in a comfortable retirement villa. There is no justice on earth, nothing like justice.

30. No Condition Is Permanent (Nigeria)

Meredith describes the brutal rule of General Sani Abacha, military ruler from 1993 to 1998. His crackdown on all opposition. The rise of organisations representing the Ogoni people of the oil-rich Niger Delta who had seen none of the tens of billions of oil money generated around them, only the pollution and destruction of their environment. The work of the popular writer Ken Saro-Wiwa, who was eventually arrested, accused of organising an anti-government conspiracy etc and, despite international protests, executed in November 1995.

Abachi’s death in 1998 is the opportunity for a review of how far the country had fallen. Despite annual oil revenue of $280 billion, income per head was less than a third of what it had been in 1980, at $310; half the population lived on less than 30 cents a day and had no access to clean drinking water. Half of under fives were stunted due to malnutrition. Nigeria was regularly judged to be the most corrupt country in the world.

What this litany of disasters begins to impress on even the most sympathetic reader is that Africans do not seem able of running their own countries. Catastrophic wars, epic corruption, barbaric violence resulting in crushing poverty, if the generation of independence campaigners had seen the future would they have been in such a tearing hurry to gain independence from their colonial masters?

Abachi’s death didn’t bring peace and light: the end of the military regime led to an explosion of political parties across the country, which themselves exacerbated ethnic rivalries, and also the rise of Islamic militancy, which led to clashes between Muslims and Christians. Despite free elections in 1999 and again in 2003, observers wondered whether Nigeria, a country of 120 million made up of 250 ethnic groups, was ungovernable. [That was in 2000. Nigeria’s population in 2023 has almost doubled, to 215 million.]

31. The Honour of Living (Sudan)

General Omar al-Bashir seized power in Sudan in 1989 and declared his commitment to creating an Islamic state. This was followed by the arrest of all opposition figures, torture including burning, beating and rape, the usual behaviour of leaders promising to build a better society – first you have to lock up a lot of people. 1991 saw the introduction of a new Islamic penal code: women were hounded out of public life, segregation of men and women was enforced in all public places, there was a ban on music, cinema and the compulsory Arabisation of all culture.

The ideologue of all this was Hassan al-Turabi, founder of the National Islamic Front and founder of the Muslim Brotherhood. After the first Gulf War, in 1991. Turabi set up the Popular Arab and Islamic Conference to bring together thinkers and leaders to fight back against America’s ‘colonisation’ of the Arab World. Sudan became a refuge for anti-western terrorist groups. This is very important. It marks the start of a new type of aggressive new anti-western ideology, of the war on America.

Meredith gives a good short description of the career of Osama bin Laden. In 1996 the blind cleric sheikh Omar Abdel Rahman organised the bombing of the World Trade Centre. Extremists trained in Sudan undertook assassinations and attacks across the Arab world. In 1998 activists trained by al Qaeda attacked hotels in Kenya and Tanzania, killing 263 people. Now we enter ‘the modern world’, the era we still live in in 2023, the era of unceasing conflict and Islamic insurgency across the entire Arab world.

Their Islamic ideology justified the Bashir regime in intensifying the war against southern, Black, Christian rebels. Villages were bombed, populations massacred and sold into slavery, with the blessing of Islamic scholars. The southern forces split into two parties who had a civil war between themselves in which tens of thousands of civilians died, which triggered a famine in which hundreds of thousands perished (p.594). Humans, eh? Impressive species.

Alongside massacres in the south went the discovery and exploitation of oil. The Khartoum government reaped a huge bonanza and spent it on…arms. By 2002 the civil war had left an estimated 2 million dead. But after 9/11 the Americans became active. Sudan was identified as a training base for Islamic terrorists and Bashir had to back down and promise to comply.

32. Black Gold (Angola)

The crushingly depressing history of Angola in the 1980s and 1980s, a country destroyed by an endless civil war between the supposedly ‘Marxist’ MPLA government based in Luanda, and the madly self-centred, narcissistic, overweening arrogance of Jonas Savimbi, leader of UNITA.

Land mines, aerial bombing, indiscriminate massacre, burning, looting, rape of women and children. Maybe 5 million died, many more had legs blown off by the millions of landmines, the country was laid waste – all while Eduardo dos Santos and the elite of the MPLA lived like kings by salting away the revenue derived from the huge oil deposits found just offshore. Getting on for half the annual oil revenue, billions of dollars, was stolen by dos Santos and his clique, while the children starved to death in the streets. As with Congo, or Nigeria, why give aid to oil- and resource-rich countries which have enough natural income to invest in infrastructure, roads, markets, clean water, schools, but which they either steal or spend on arms and weapons?

33. A Degree In Violence (Zimbabwe)

The slow descent into paranoid dictatorship of Robert Mugabe. I hadn’t realised that he was initially conciliatory towards the white minority, and even his arch enemy Ian Smith, for the first two or three years of his rule because his first priority was eliminating all his black rivals, starting with Joshua Nkomo and his Zimbabwe African People’s Union (ZAPU). It was called the Gukurahundi campaign (Shona for ‘the early rain which washes away the chaff before the spring rains’). During this campaign Mugabe’s notorious Fifth Brigade, trained by North Koreans, rampaged through ZAPU’s heartland, Matabeleland, and massacred thousands of civilians accused of being ‘dissidents’. Some estimates say as many as 80,000 were killed during the 5-year campaign.

Slowly Zimbabwe became like all the other African one-party states, a machine for redirecting wealth into the pockets of a small elite around the figurehead leader. As the economy collapsed and inflation and unemployment rose, so did Mugabe’s deployment of racist, anti-white rhetoric, focused on the policy of farm reclamation, seizing back land from the white farmers who owned a disproportionate amount of it. As Meredith explains, it’s all Mugabe had left, rabble-rousing racism to distract attention from the complete failure of his leadership.

Mugabe’s successive rounds of farm seizures spelled the end of commercial farming as a major industry in Zimbabwe. Many of the confiscated farms didn’t go to the deserving poor but to friends and family and tribal supporters of Mugabe, who then stripped and sold off their assets or left them to rot. Hundreds of thousands of Blacks who worked on the confiscated farms were thrown out of work. Land lay fallow. Food production collapsed. Zimbabwe, once the bread basket of southern Africa, became dependent on food aid.

By 2003 the economy had collapsed and an estimated quarter of the population had fled the country. Three-quarters of the remainder lived on less than a dollar a day. Meredith covers the coming together of opposition movements in the Movement for Democratic Change and the rise of its leader, Morgan Tsvangirai, the elections he contested in 2002 and 2008, elections Mugabe comprehensively managed with intimidation, violence and hectoring messages through state media.

Opposition activists were hunted down, beaten, tortured and in some cases murdered. (p.646)

Meredith’s narrative takes the reader up to 2008 when Mugabe, despite spending 28 years utterly devastating his country, was still in power. It was very depressing to switch to Wikipedia and see that Mugabe continued to rule the country he had ruined for another nine years, till he was overthrown in 2017.

34. Somewhere Over The Rainbow (South Africa)

The books and movies all focus on Nelson Mandela‘s long march to freedom. Not so many examine the calamitous challenges he faced on taking power in 1994: trying to reverse the best part of a century of totalitarian racism which had entrenched grotesque inequality between the affluent whites and the crushingly poor Black population; trying to integrate millions of badly educated young Africans into the economy, trying to introduce Blacks into every level of a 100% white political and civil administration and into SA’s commercial life. The army, the police, the education system, everything needed reforming.

Plus the expectations of activists at all levels who had spent a lifetime working for the ‘revolution’ which would create a land of plenty. There was an epidemic of strikes and protests or just straightforward crime. To all this Mandela had to react much like Mrs Thatcher, explaining that the state just didn’t have the resources to make everyone rich. There would have to be belt-tightening. It would take time.

Meredith has an extended passage describing the work of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, how it struggled to find its way, was a compromise in nature and intent, but ended up unearthing far more than anyone expected. Its impartiality was emphasised by the way it was reviled by both sides, both stalwarts of the apartheid regime and the ANC itself, found guilty of murdering white civilians, Black opponents, of prosecuting a civil war with Inkatha, and the 400-plus victims of ‘necklacing’.

Meredith’s account of Mandela’s sustained efforts to achieve reconciliation between the races at every level bring a tear to the eye. What a hero.

His successor, Thabo Mbeki, elected unopposed to lead the ANC in 1997, was not a hero. Despite having been raised a communist, Mbeki promptly announced a set of neoliberal capitalist policies designed to boost the economy, namely strict fiscal discipline, lower government deficits, privatisation and liberalisation of state industries.

But Mbeki will go down in history as the man who adopted a minority view that HIV did not cause AIDS, promoted this view at every opportunity, refused to support AIDS awareness campaigns, refused to license anti-HIV drugs, for year after year, in the face of mounting criticism both within SA and internationally.

Mbeki insisted on playing the race card i.e. insisting that the global scientific consensus about HIV/AIDS was a racist attack on Black Africans on a par with apartheid. His obstinate refusal to allow anti-retroviral drugs to AIDS patients and pregnant women was calculated, by 2008, to have led to the premature deaths of 365,000 South Africans.

The greatest political challenge facing every nation is not to end up being led by idiots.

Mbeki undertook a more aggressive strategy of getting white businesses to include Black partners but, far from lifting the entire Black population out of poverty, this tended to enrich just the small number of educated, well-connected Blacks. The strategy developed into crony capitalism. Perceiving that they were being discriminated against, some 750,000 skilled whites just left the country, replaced by less qualified or experienced Blacks (p.679). Services decayed. Poverty grew alongside rising violent crime.

South Africa now has exceptionally high rates of murder, gender-based violence, robbery and violent conflict. It has consistently had one of the highest murder rates in the world.

Mbeki turned into a typical African leader. He created a climate of fear in the ANC. He emasculated parliament. He appointed officials for their loyalty to him, not their abilities. He shamefully supported Robert Mugabe even as Mugabe turned into a dictator and reduced his country to beggary.

And, falling into line with traditional African leaders, Mbeki and his cronies became involved in corruption, in particular creaming off hundreds of millions of dollars from state defence procurements. The ANC became split between the Mbeki faction and one led by Jacob Zuma, who himself was charged with money laundering, fraud and rape.

In 2007 Zuma stood against Mbeki and won the post of ANC leader, then stood for the presidency in 2009. The party split, but corruption became more embedded. The gap between rich and poor grew. Crime became the only way to survive for millions. After this book was completed Jacob Zuma went on to be elected president and serve from 2009 to 2018.

Incidentally, Meredith has written a series of books about South Africa, including a biography of Mandela, which explains the authoritativeness of his SA chapters:

  • In the Name of Apartheid: South Africa In The Post War Period (1988)
  • South Africa’s New Era: The 1994 Election (1994)
  • Nelson Mandela: A Biography (1999)
  • Coming to Terms: South Africa’s Search for Truth (2001)

35. Out of Africa

Decline

In 2001 the Organisation of African Unity was replaced by a new African Union. Same old dictators, though. Same corruption, same tribalism, same civil wars. Same population explosion which means half the population live below the poverty line, same huge unemployment, with millions permanently on the brink of starvation. 250 million Africans are undernourished; school enrolment is falling; life expectancy is falling. [This appears to be wrong, now; life expectancy in Africa is, apparently, 63.]

MDGs

By some estimates the West has spend £1.2 trillion in aid to Africa. There has often been little to show. In the 2000s there was a flurry of activity with the creation of the Millennium Development Goals. In 2005 Bob Geldof created a huge media event around the Live 8 campaign and gigs. But the West has donor fatigue. Pledges made under MDGs and Live 8 weren’t carried through. African countries have promised to reform and then utterly failed to do so too many times.

China

Into the breach has stepped China, which has been signing trade deals across Africa. The Forum on China-Africa Cooperation (FOCAC). By 2010 China-Africa trade had leapt to $115 billion. A million Chinese had moved to Africa.

The Arab Spring

And then, just as Meredith was completing this book, along came the Arab Spring leading to the overthrow of ageing dictators in Tunisia, Libya, Egypt and on into the Middle East i.e. Yemen, Bahrein, Syria. And yet within a few years, Egypt was back in the hands of the military, Libya had collapsed as a state, Syria fell into a ruinous civil war; only Tunisia survived and flourished as a democracy.

Kenya

Meredith ends with the calamitous recent history of Kenya, which threw out Daniel arap Moi and his cronies (known as the Karbanet syndicate) after 23 years of looting the country. However, his successor, Mwai Kibaki, merely instituted a new kleptocracy for his tribe and supporters (who came to be known as the Mount Kenya mafia). Corruption reached scandalous new heights with some $4 billion a year, or one third of the national budget, being raked off by the corrupt elite.

When Kibaki refused to accept the results of the 2007 election i.e that he had lost to opposition leader Raila Odinga, he plunged Kenya into tribal bloodshed which left thousands dead, the economy damaged and Kenya’s reputation for stability in tatters. It had become just one more African country, ruined by its corrupt rulers’ inability to cede power.

Africa’s wounds are self-inflicted. Africans have proved ruinously incapable of running their own countries. Meredith ends his book by describing the majority of Africa’s rulers as ‘vampires’ who have converted all the instruments of the state into money-making scams, who use rabble-rousing ethnic rhetoric or state terror to remain in power, while their populations slip ever backwards into poverty, sickness and starvation.

Thoughts

Some pretty obvious themes emerge from this 700-page odyssey but in the last 5 or 6 chapters something bigger than the themes struck me, which is that this is a very negative view of Africa. Often it is very harrowing and dark indeed, as when the subject matter is bleak, as in Algeria, Congo, Rwanda, Sudan, Angola.

But it took me a while to grasp how much this is a journalist’s not a historian’s or academic’s point of view of the subject. And, like all journalists, Meredith accentuates the negative. Man buys a puppy for his kids, who love it, is not news. New puppy attacks children, that is news.

I know it’s an obvious and well-known journalistic principle, but in the last 100 pages it really struck home that Meredith focuses relentlessly on the bad news, on countries with long-running wars and political crises, the ones we read about in the newspapers: Nigeria, Sudan, Angola, Zimbabwe, settings for horrible wars, massacres, genocides even. On the basis of this book it would be tempting to write all of Africa off as an irredeemable disaster zone. But there are 50 or so countries in Africa, and not all of them are having civil wars all the time. Some of them might even be doing rather well. Many people might be living ordinary lives, doing jobs, getting married, having parties. Despite the impression Meredith gives, life expectancy across Africa is actually rising.

Anyway, that was my one Big Thought: that if you only read this book you would be left with the impression that Africa is a vast abattoir of eternal massacre and mutilation, vampire leaders and epic corruption. I don’t think Meredith intends to be biased and I’m sure everything he writes is absolutely true. But by the end of his book I began to think that it’s not necessarily the complete truth, about the entire continent, and all its countries, and all the people who live in them.


Credit

The State of Africa: A History of the Continent since Independence by Martin Meredith was published in England by the Free Press in 2005. A revised edition was published by Simon and Schuster in 2011. All references are to the 2013 paperback edition.

Related links

A World In Common: Contemporary African Photography @ Tate Modern

This is an outstanding, wonderful exhibition bringing together some 150 photographs (and a few installations and videos) by no fewer than 36 photographers and artists from across Africa. It is full of breath-taking and beautiful works, suggesting a continent alive with wonderfully creative, innovative artists.

It’s divided into three ‘chapters’, each of which are sub-divided into themes. To quote the curators:

The first chapter is rooted in ancient African cultures and traditions which have survived periods of struggle and resistance. Inspired by Pan-African liberation movements, the second chapter looks at photography’s ability to produce counter histories – archival practices and the agency of photographer and subject are brought into focus. The third chapter explores the impact of globalisation and the climate emergency.

Chapter 1: Identity and tradition

Queens, Kings and Gods

For centuries Africa was conquered and colonised by European countries. The artists in room one pay tribute to the monarchs and matriarchs who resisted colonial conquest and occupation. The photographers here invoke the heritage of kingdoms such as the Asante of Ghana and the Yoruba of Nigeria, who are descended from the goddesses and gods of the ancient spiritual capital, Ilé-Ifẹ̀. Thus a series of big, beautifully clear portraits of traditional monarchs of the present day by George Osodi (born Nigeria 1974).

Installation view of ‘Nigerian Monarchs’ series by George Osodi (2012 to 2022) in ‘World in Common’ at Tate Modern (photo by the author)

There is a set from the ‘We Live in Silence; sequence by Kudzanai Chiurai (born 1981, Zimbabwe) which elaborately recreates biblical narratives, history painting and Christian iconography which themselves turn out to be scenes from the 1967 film, ‘Soleil Ô’, by Mauritanian-born French filmmaker Med Hondo. So, worlds within worlds…

We Live in Silence IV by Kudzanai Chiurai (2017) courtesy of the artist and the Goodman Gallery © Kudzanai Chiurai

Spiritual worlds

The next room gestures towards the complex and diverse history of religion across this vast continent. There’s a set of photographic self portraits by Khadija Saye (1992 to 2017, born and worked in the UK, of Gambian heritage). You might recall that it was one of these photos that British artist Chris Ofili used as the centrepiece for his huge new site-specific Requiem for Grenfell Tower at Tate Britain. In this sequence Saye photographed herself performs a series of rituals using sacred objects that combine her African, Christian and Islamic heritage.

Installation view of the ‘Dwelling: in the space we breathe’ series by Khadija Saye (2017) (photo by the author)

At the end of the room is a stunning work, a set of five huge digital photos arranged to create a striking tableau by Maïmouna Guerresi (born 1951, born in Italy, works in Senegal). Titled ‘M-eating – Students and Teacher’ it shows four girls and an older man sitting around a long table draped in a yellow cloth. The wall behind the table is inscribed with the Basmala, a Muslim prayer recited to elicit God’s blessings. It’s a huge and really powerful image of absorption and contemplation but, more than that, it’s just a beautifully clear and vividly coloured composition.

‘M-eating – students and teacher’ by Maïmouna Guerresi (2012) Courtesy of the artist and Mariane Ibrahim

Masks

The next room is devoted to the role of masks in African religion, ritual, folklore and culture. There’s a stunning series by Edson Chagas (born 1977 in Angola), the Tipo Passe series of sitters wearing contemporary clothes but traditional Bantu masks. ‘Tipo passe’ is Portuguese for passport and the frontal composition references passport photography.

Installation view of the ‘Tipo Passe’ series by Edson Chagas (2014) (Photo by the author)

Opposite these is a series of really wonderful photos by Leonce Raphael Agbodjélou (born 1965, works in Benin), instances from the Egungun series.

Installation view of ‘Egungun’ series by Leonce Raphael Agbodjélou (photo by the author)

As the curators explain:

Egungun is a Yoruba masquerade practice which calls upon the spirits of departed ancestors. Through ceremonial drumming and dance, ancestral spirits inhabit the bodies of Egungun practitioners to pass on blessings and guide the passage of the dead to the spirit world. Clothing plays an important role in Egungun masquerade – elaborate masks and fabrics must completely seal the performer’s body. Agbodjélou’s performers wear costumes which layer expensive foreign materials and traditional Yoruba cloth. This combination of the traditional and the contemporary parallels the Egungun’s complex role as mediators between the world of the living and the dead.

They’re absolutely stunning, vivid photos.

Untitled from the ‘Egungun’ series by Leonce Raphael Agbodjélou

There’s a massive video piece by Wura-Natasha Ogunji titled ‘Will I still carry water when I am a dead woman?’ and showing women dressed in colourful (traditional?) clothes, dragging kegs of water roped to their ankles through the backstreets of Lagos. Here’s a clip:

You may not be altogether surprised to learn that it’s a feminist piece. Their costumes evoke images of Egungun masquerade, a Yoruba practice that manifests ancestors’ spirits and is traditionally reserved for men, and Ogunji explains the piece is designed to question the heavy labour still done by many women in traditional societies.

Chapter 2: Counter Histories

The next room is big with a lot going on. Along one wall is a series of relatively small ‘family portraits’. These loving portraits of family members gesture towards the long history of studio portraiture that gave agency to African photographers and their sitters, letting them create domestic alternatives to the imperial rhetoric of colonial postcards, posters and magazines. These included pioneering photographers such as James Barnor in Ghana and Lazhar Mansouri in Algeria, photographing families and individuals who would gather proudly to have their portraits taken, often for the first time. All fair enough, but they’re relatively small and struggle to compete with the other, enormous offerings in the same space.

Most striking is the large assembly of old box files arranged on a pebbly red base. This is ‘A History of a City in a Box’ by Ndidi Dike (born UK, works in Nigeria). These old file boxes are filled with archival documents, including colonial-era postcards and photographs, and then carefully choreographed on sand and soil. It is a general metaphor for the way information was power for the old colonial authorities and was hidden away in files and folders but then, during the period of independence, colonial archives were abandoned, hidden and destroyed. And yet…that information decayed, became irrelevant, barely concealing the true earth of the country, its geological bedrock, symbolising the country’s real roots.

Installation view of ‘A History of a City in a Box’ by Ndidi Dike in room 4 of ‘World in Common’ at Tate Modern © Tate (Lucy Green)

In the centre, at the back of n this photo, you can see a set of four figures, blown-up and pasted onto cardboard bases, these are the work of Samson Kambalu (born 1975 in Malawi, works in the UK). They’re actually cardboard cut-outs of African soldiers use photographs sourced from the Weston Library in Oxford, UK. They represent the unnamed infantry who fought for the British Empire during the First and Second World Wars and were known as the King’s African Rifles. The cardboard indicates the soldiers’ expendable status to colonial powers. Behind them is a patchwork of quilts inspired by Kambalu’s childhood memories of collecting bubblegum cards of world flags.

Next to them, on the right, you can see a sequence of three big pieces. These are from the sequence ‘Figures’ by Malala Andrialavidrazana (born 1971 in Madagascar, works in France). These are collages of maps, fragments of bank notes, record sleeves and other archival documents which build up into complex, evocative collages. The maps are, as you might expect, old-style colonial-era maps, the idea being that maps were used by the imperial countries to define and control; while the images are of strong African figures, including striking portraits of ancient Egyptian queen Nefertiti and Zairean dictator Mobutu Sese Seko. These are strong, highly impactful images.

‘Figures 1861’ by Malala Andrialavidrazana (2016) at ‘World in Common’ at Tate Modern © Malala Andrialavidrazana

Away on the opposite side of the room is a large alcove with a distinctive black-and-white tiled floor, containing three big vivid sets of photographs by three different photographers.

They are, from left to right, four photos by Ruth Ginika Ossai (Nigeria), three by Hassan Hajjaj (Morocco) and four by Atong Atem (born 1994 in South Sudan, works in Australia).

Ruth Ginika Ossai’s portraits are carefully staged on floormats made of Astroturf and parquet-style laminate flooring. The backdrops are inspired by the special effects featured in Igbo gospel music videos and Nollywood films and give them a super-real feel.

The central three are by Hassan Hajjaj in a series called ‘Kesh Angels’ (named after the Hells Angels and the city’s motorbike culture). These are brilliant. The women are not only wearing vivid djellabas and veils but are posed in deliberately in-yer-face, take-no-**** attitudes. To cap it all, the frames are inset with tins of popular products, one appears to be lamb meat, another of tomato juice. So they’re stylish, stroppy, modern and funny.

Installation view of ‘Kesh Angels’ by Hassan Hajjaj (photo by the author)

To the right of the Kesh Angels are four portraits by Atong Atem. Atem portrays friends who are fellow members of Australia’s African diaspora. She says: This body of work honours the South Sudanese Dinka tradition of record-keeping and archiving as an intimate cultural practice.’ Aren’t they beautiful, brightly colourful, densely patterned, vibrantly alive?

‘Adut and Bigoa’ by Atong Atem (2015) courtesy of the artist and MARS Gallery © Atong Atem

Chapter 3: Imagined Futures

The final room contains yet more series of really strong photographs. The theme is the environmental challenges facing Africa, specifically its overpopulated cities and its degraded environment plus, of course, the heating up and drying out caused by global warming.

Kiripi Katembo (1979 to 2015, born and worked the Democratic Republic of the Congo) discovered that people in his home town of Kinshasa, capital of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, didn’t like being photographed. But he could get away with photographing their reflections in the city’s countless large puddles and pools of water. Often these contained rocks or building rubble, but Katembo discovered that the intrusion of these objects into the crystal clear reflections created an interesting disturbance. As the curators describe it: usually depicted as a chaotic and busy capital, ‘here Kinshasa appears as a dream-like landscape populated by shadows and unidentified objects.’

Installation view of ‘Un regard’ by Kiripi Katembo (photo by the author)

There’s a striking series of large black and white photos by Mário Macilau (born 1984, born and works in Mozambique). These, as the images instantly convey, document the workers of the Hulene landfill site in Maputo, Mozambique. Obviously it shows human beings reduced to picking through rubbish to glean a living, and, of course, affected by the toxic substances released into the air and soil by the widespread practice of burning.

‘Breaking News’ from ‘The Profit Corner’ series by Mário Macilau (2015) © Mário Macilau, Courtesy Ed Cross Fine Art

Related to the same topic of environmental destruction, but in a completely different register, is a series of 3 wonderful photos by Fabrice Monteiro (born 1972 in Belgium, works in Senegal). They’re from his ‘Prophecies’ series and they are absolutely brilliant.

Untitled #1 (2013) from ‘The Prophecy’ series 2013 to 2015 by Fabrice Monteiro in ‘World in Common’ at Tate Modern

‘The Prophecy’ series captures environmental issues facing communities in Dakar, Senegal, from forest fires to coastal erosion. Spookily tall spiritual figures, inspired by West African masquerade and animism, rise up out of the rubbish dumps, themselves made of rubbish and detritus. They’re stunning.

And next to them is arguably the best set in the show, the ones the curators have (wisely) chosen as the posters, a set of four quite stunning, beautifully, staged, semi-abstract photos by Aïda Muluneh (born and works in Ethiopia, 1974).

Installation view of ‘Water Life’ series by Aïda Muluneh, being (top row): The Shackles of Limitation, Steps (bottom row): Star Shine Moon Glow and The Sorrows We Bear

These were commissioned by the charity Water Aid and depict – in an obviously highly stylised way – ‘rural water access and its impact on women’s rights, well-being and education.’ The impact of global warming will obviously further degrade access to drinking water for hundreds of millions of people in the poorest countries. But clearly the thing here is Muluneh’s stunning use of a limited palette of bright blue and red, and her incorporation of traditional African body painting and dress.

Epilogue

The final (small-ish, corridor-like) room in the exhibition hosts videos by two artists. On the whole I don’t like videos. I don’t have the patience – the photos I’ve highlighted earlier in the show all make their impacts with dramatic immediacy whereas art videos are, by and large, extremely slow.

The most striking is ‘In Praise of Still Boys’ by Julianknxx (born 1988 in Sierra Leone, works in the UK).

The 3 or 4 minutes of this I sat and watched featured lots of footage of a very young Queen Elizabeth II visiting somewhere in Africa (Freetown?), white British sailors steering a motor launch through canoes rowed by local Africans, then British troops from the (I’m guessing) 2000 intervention in Sierra Leone (almost none of this is shown in the trailer, above). And this harking on about the British colonial legacy prompted the train of thought which follows in my political commentary on the exhibition.

Political commentary

I hugely enjoyed this impressive, wide-ranging exhibition about African photography as an aesthetic i.e. visual and psychological experience. But aesthetics and politics are far apart, at least in this exhibition and Tateworld more generally. As political analysis or commentary, this exhibition was rubbish. Dire. Seriously misleading. On and on and on and on and on the curators go about ‘colonialism’ which, for most of these countries, ended in the 1960s, 60 years ago, and on and on and on the curators and the artists go about the Atlantic Slave Trade, which Britain banned in 1807, 216 years ago.

In chapter 3 the curators optimistically claim that the featured artists ‘imagine multiple futures’ and cite Senegalese academic, musician and writer Felwine Sarr (born 1972) who calls for ‘Africans to think and formulate their own future’. In his 2016 book Afrotopia, Sarr writes:

‘Africa has always been the object of discourse by others. Now is the time to dream this utopia in Africa itself, to design Africa ourselves, to think, and to act for ourselves.’

Which immediately prompts two objections. 1) Dreaming isn’t going to get you anywhere, buddy. Practical policies might. See Paul Collier’s list of practical steps in his hard-headed book ‘The Bottom Billion’.

But more relevantly to this exhibition, 2) there’s almost nothing about the future, instead there is a sustained, deep immersion in the legacy of colonialism. Loads of the 36 photographers’ work is directly about colonialism, the colonial legacy, colonial control, colonial archives, ‘the colonial gaze’, colonial images, colonial photography, colonial identity cards, colonial posters, colonial postcards. The word ‘colonial’ occurs 26 times on the wall labels. Even if the artist isn’t themselves addressing it, you can bet the curators will drag in a reference to slavery or colonialism or both in their wall labels.

In other words, the overall effect of the exhibition is immensely backward-looking. It’s like a traumatised adult condemned to act out the abuse of their childhood again and again, with no hope of escape. Maps of colonial Africa, footage of colonial Africa, old box files from colonial Africa, old derelict buildings from colonial Africa, trying to escape from the Christian religion imposed by colonial Africa. Backwards backwards, everything relates backwards to a lost era of 60 years ago.

Here’s a timeline of the year and date African nations gained independence, just to make clear how long ago this all was.

24 December 1951: Libya
1 January 1956: Sudan
2 March 1956: Morocco
20 March 1956: Tunisia
6 March 1957: Ghana
2 October 1958: Guinea

1 January 1960: Cameroon
27 April 1960: Togo
26 June 1960: Madagascar
30 June 1960: DR Congo
1 July 1960: Somalia
1 August 1960: Benin
3 August 1960: Niger
5 August 1960: Burkina Faso
7 August 1960: Côte d’Ivoire
11 August 1960: Chad
13 August 1960: Central African Republic
15 August 1960: Congo
17 August 1960: Gabon
20 August 1960: Senegal
22 September 1960: Mali
1 October 1960: Nigeria
28 November 1960: Mauritania

27 April 1961: Sierra Leone
31 May 1961: South Africa

1 July 1962: Rwanda
1 July 1962: Burundi
3 July 1962: Algeria
9 October 1962: Uganda

12 December 1963: Kenya

24 April 1964: Tanzani (Tanganyika 9 December 1961 – Zanzibar 10 December 1963)
6 July 1964: Malawi
24 October 1964: Zambia

18 February 1965: Gambia

30 September 1966: Botswana
4 October 1966: Lesotho

We’re talking about the era of Sputnik. The era when the Berlin Wall was going upBefore the Beatles’ first LP. That is the era, of the 1940s and 50s, which so many of these artists, at least in their Tate interpretation, are harking back to, again and again and again.

This obviously indicates a glaring great gap, two gaps if you like, which are: 1) what happened in Africa during the 60 years since independence and 2) what is happening in Africa today?

Sixty years of mismanagement, civil war, famine and genocide

One wall label sports a quote from Kwame Nkrumah, first Prime Minister of Ghana, the first British African colony to become independent in 1957.

‘We believe in the rights of all peoples to govern themselves. We affirm the right of all colonial peoples to control their own destiny. All colonies must be free from foreign imperialist control.’

Nkrumah overflowed with utopian quotes about how socialism would bring peace and plenty to Africa, he was full of them (see the references to Nkrumah in my review of ‘The State of Africa: A History of the Continent Since Independence‘ by Martin Meredith).

What the Tate wall label does not mention is that Nkrumah went on to become a steadily more repressive figure, passing emergency laws, outlawing the opposition, creating a cult of personality, having himself referred to as the ‘the Man of Destiny’, ‘the Star of Africa’, ‘His High Dedication of Redeemer’ and so on. He was an outspoken supporter of the Soviet Union and Mao’s China, receiving a Lenin Prize, tried to abolish tribalism and wasted money on vast white elephant building schemes. He made himself very unpopular with the rulers of neighbouring African countries when it was discovered that he was supporting various communist and guerrilla movements to overthrow their capitalist governments. In 1966 Nkrumah was himself overthrown in a coup by the army which set about de-Sovietising the economy and reversing most of his calamitous economic policies. At independence Ghana had a GDP on a par with South Korea, but decades of political instability, military coups and economic mismanagement brought the country to the brink of ruin. Ghana is now 83rd in the world rankings of GDP compared to South Korea at 13.

NONE of this is in the Tate exhibition, none of it, no politics, no economics, no contemporary history at all. Africa’s desperate history of secessions, civil wars, genocides, famines, economic mismanagement, rule by brutal Marxist murderers, by kleptocrats and homicidal dictators, NONE of that is here, none. It is all erased, made invisible, ignored, brushed under the carpet.

Instead what the wall labels repeat again and again and again are the only two tunes they know, the evils of colonialism (ended in the 1960s) and of the slave trade (ended 200 years ago). Simplistic binaries.

Why artists and curators simplify history and politics to make them more acceptable

In my review of Paul Danahar’s irritating book about the aftermath of the Arab Spring, I sketched out four reasons why even high-end (BBC, Channel 4) coverage of foreign affairs tends to be simplified and sanitised. These are:

1. Logistically easy It’s easier to get stories out of countries where journalists and film crews can operate freely, so countries with good infrastructure, like Israel or America, tend to be over-represented.

2. Familiar narratives Editors prefer sticking to super-familiar, easy narratives, my examples being the Arab-Israeli conflict and the (now defunct) struggle against the apartheid regime in South Africa. Absolutely everyone was familiar with the outline of those stories which had taken on the simplicity of fairy tales. Pantomime narratives with pantomime goodies and baddies. Easy to understand, easy to write about, easy to feel moral indignation about, easy to go on marches about, all your emotions pre-packaged and ready to take away.

To give an example, bad stuff is happening in various parts of China (Xinjiang, Tibet) but my points 1 and 2 apply in that: 1) it’s difficult to get access to those places, and 2) the issues are complicated. But, for the sake of argument, say that a protest march in Hong Kong is broken up by riot police and – because it’s easy to access and easy to cover – it’s all over the front pages for days. Easy access. Easy issues. Somewhere we know about. Easy to relate to.

3. Britain-related Some places matter more to Brits than others because they used to be colonies or places where Brits lived and feel a residual attachment to, thus India, Hong Kong, Egypt, Kenya – or which we feel some kind of special responsibility for (the Middle East, all those lines on the map, the Balfour Declaration yadda yadda yadda). The result is that these countries are over-represented in British foreign news at the expense of everywhere else.

4. Student causes Lastly, there’s what you could call student politics. Some of these places are associated with big, simple-minded political causes. All good progressive people marched against apartheid in the 1980s. All good progressive people are outraged by Israel’s bombing of Gaza today. All good progressive people agree that China is not keeping to its bargain of letting Hong Kong remain a democracy. Etc.

In the same kind of way all good progressive people are shocked and disgusted by anything to do with the European empires. And all good progressive people are shocked etc by the slave trade.

These are hot button topics, guaranteed to win over the audience, please the crowd, which can’t fail to unite artists, curators and visitors in a cosy feeling of moral righteousness, moral superiority, grievance from the artists and grovelling apology by white gallery goers.

Slavery and the evils of empire are the new consensus topics – everyone agrees that they were utterly evil and that they explain everything about modern Africa.

All the artists chosen for this exhibition stick to the narrow line adopted by the curators that African history ceased some time in the 1960s, at the moment of independence, that nothing whatsoever has happened since then, that all Africans are still trying to cope with the trauma of imperialism or the trauma of the slave trade – and that absolutely nothing significant has happened since.

No military coups, civil wars, mad rulers, stupid socialist economics, thieving stealing looting leaders like Mobutu, psychopaths like Idi Amin, mass murderers like the Hutu regime in Rwanda, cannibals like the Emperor Bokassa, ruinous rebel leaders in Angola or Mozambique, warlord chaos in the Congo.

No African history beyond the 1960s is present in this exhibition because it doesn’t fit the simple-minded, pantomime-level narrative which many of the artists address and the curators almost obsessively promote – white slave traders / colonialists = evil, all black people = saintly victims.

I’m not saying the slave trade wasn’t bad or that colonialism wasn’t wretched, humiliating and shamelessly exploitative. Of course they were. And forms of neo-colonialism are obviously still alive and constraining African nations in all kinds of ways today. But that’s just the starting position: that’s the obvious stuff you need to process before moving on to a more sophisticated understanding of the situation.

You’re not going to begin to understand the plight of modern African countries unless you move on from the 1960s and engage with the 60 years of history since then. And then, once you’ve processed the 60 years since independence, it requires a further effort to engage with the host of military, economic and security issues which plague Africa today, in 2023.

Africa today

And what about the political and economic and social issues which face Africa today? Are these addressed in this exhibition? Is there any mention of the rise of Islamic fundamentalism across North Africa, of the havoc being wrought by al Qaeda, or Boko Haram, or al Shabaab? No. Nothing.

Is there any mention of China’s involvement in Africa over the last 20 years, buying up raw materials and rare metals and food in exchange for infrastructure projects? Mention of China’s ‘Belt and Road’ initiatives all across Africa? Nothing.

Any mention of Russia’s growing involvement in North Africa, specifically through the Russian mercenary outfit, the Wagner Group? Nothing.

Mention of the US’s surprisingly extensive investment in army, navy and air force bases across the region in efforts to combat Islamic terrorists? Nothing.

Lots of complicated geopolitical, military, strategic and economic manoeuvring is going on all across Africa, right now, as we speak, and none of it is discussed, described or even mentioned in this immensely backward-looking exhibition.

Conclusion

So I really liked lots of the art on display, a lot of these photos are stunning and breath-taking, world class, outstanding, and it is such a relief to get away from America and the usual suspects of the art world. Congratulations to Tate for staging this exhibition so beautifully and bringing so many great photographers to our attention.

But as politics this show is a washout, a whitewash, a travesty, a systematic erasure of African history for the last 60 years in favour of a fairy-tale story about colonialism. It not only takes absolutely no account of Africa’s 60 years of troubled tragic post-colonial history but presents a complete blank when it comes to the complex, difficult, multi-sided political issues faced by Africa today. An artistic triumph  but when it comes to any serious discussion of the political, economic and social challenges of contemporary Africa, this exhibition is a travesty, seriously misleading in its omissions, elisions and simplifications of a long inconveniently complex history.


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Tate Modern reviews

Stanley: The Impossible Life of Africa’s Greatest Explorer by Tim Jeal (2)

‘Niama! Niama!’ (‘Meat! Meat!’)
The excited cry of cannibals on the Congo river when they saw Stanley’s expedition approaching (p.197)

Jeal’s exemplary and hugely researched biography (winner of the Sunday Times Biography of the Year award 2007) takes 570 pages (including notes, index etc) to given an immensely detailed narrative of the life of Henry Morton Stanley, widely acknowledged to be the greatest European explorer of Africa. There’s a huge amount about his disastrous childhood, his adventures as a young man, his numerous romantic attachments ie the various engagements which collapsed because he kept on disappearing off to Africa for years , speculation about his psychological profile and needs (an orphan in search of a father who created surrogate families of younger men on his various expeditions).

What interested me more was the general light Jeal’s book shed on the Africa of the 1870s. The French owned Algeria and had footholds in Dakar and Gabon, the British owned the Cape Colony, and a handful of outposts on the Gold Coast (Lagos) and provided military and financial support to the Khedive who administered Egypt on behalf of the Ottoman sultan, while pushing south into Sudan. The Dutch Boers had asserted states in the Orange Free State and Transvaal, and Portugal claimed the coastal strips of Angola and Mozambique in the south west and east coasts, respectively. But huge areas remained unclaimed and unexplored.

Africa before colonial partition, circa 1870

Some large regions were ruled by established African rulers or tribes, such as the Ashanti in the west and the Matabele in the south. Abyssinia was ruled by a long-established Christian emperor. In the 1830s an Arab Muslim ruler had established the sultanate of Zanzibar. The region of Buganda had a king or Kabak, at this period Mutesa, who kept an impressive court and had 300 wives.

I’m not going to attempt a historical overview. I just want to record notes on the social conditions Stanley encountered.

The second Ashanti war

After the success of his Livingstone mission, in 1874 Stanley was sent by the editor of the New York Herald, Bennett, to cover the second Ashanti War. The powerful Ashanti tribe resented the encroachment of the British. When the British bought their last outlet to the sea, Elmina, off the Dutch, it triggered war.  The British government despatched General Sir Garnet Wolseley who invaded Ashanti territory, inflicted a crushing military defeat and burned down the capital, Kumasi. The treaty enforced on the king was to pay 50,000 ounces of gold reparations, keep the trade road to Kumasi open, and abandon human sacrifices. Stanley witnessed and reported on all this. He also saw the put outside the capital city where Ashanti kings ritually decapitated slaves, prisoners and enemies. Their blood was kept in a huge bowl and used in religious ceremonies. There was a pile of skulls alongside rotting bodies (p.152).

The Arab slave trade

The Sultanate of Zanzibar was the epicentre of the East African slave trade, which was entirely run by Arabs. Up to a third of the population of 200,000 was slaves, working as servants or workers on the island’s many plantations. Up to 20,000 slaves a year were brought by Arab slavers from the interior, about half being kept on the island the other half shipped north to become slaves in the Middle East. British estimates varied but the most horrifying calculated that as many as 9 in 10 of the slaves captured or bought in the interior survived the long trek, in chains, back to the coast at Bagamoyo.

The British were dedicated to trying to stamp out the East African slave trade but it could only be done with the co-operation of its managers and of the Sultan. In 1873 he was persuaded to sign a treaty abolishing the trade by Sir Bartle Frere. Jeal emphasises the importance of Stanley’s long reports on the Livingstone mission about the evils of the slave trade, which were published in London just as the Parliamentary committee was debating the trade and helped crystallised British determination to enforce the treaty on the Sultan. However, the actual condition of slavery was not abolished, the slave traders merely found new outlets on the coast, and it is possible the number of slaves captured and traded actually increased for a decade or more after this date (p.160).

For the European explorers there were two big points: almost wherever they went they saw examples of the devastation wrought by the Arab slave traders. But, much worse, all too often, the European explorers opened up entire new areas to the slave trade. Frank McLynn’s book, Hearts of Darkness: The European Exploration of Africa, contains numerous descriptions of explorers returning to regions they had first encountered as lush, fertile and densely populated areas a few years later to find they had been burned and emptied of people by Arab slavers who followed in the European explorers’ wake. Humans, eh.

The great trans-Africa journey 1874 to 1877

Stanley set off from Bagamoyo with 224 porters (known as ‘wangwana’), 3 white companions and five dogs in November 1874. Within weeks all four white men had contracted malaria and fevers of various types. In January 1875 Edward Pocock died of smallpox. Eventually all three white men would perish and all the dogs.

As the going got harder, numerous porters absconded. Stanley sent ‘detectives’ to find them and drag them back. Absconders were put in chains for a couple of days to set an example. Travelling through the territory of the Wanyatu tribe, a straggler was captured and hacked to pieces. A porter who had gone to cut wood was killed by a spear. The tribe attacked but was fought off with rifles, killing six. Next day they attacked again, were fought off but when Stanley told his men to counter-attack, they lost discipline broke into smaller groups and some were speared to death, others hunted through the forest, presumed killed.

By the time they arrived on the shore of Lake Victoria 102 days and 720 miles later, Stanley had lost 62 men, through disease, desertion or killed in fighting with locals. His train of 224 was down to 166. Stanley had brought a boat, broken down into sections so as to be portable by the wangwana, and named the Lady Alice (after his rich man’s daughter girlfriend back in America). They now assembled it and undertook the first ever circumnavigation of Lake Victoria, mapping and charting and measuring as he went. He had complex interactions with the numerous tribes living around Lake Victoria, trying to manipulate tribal enmities to his advantage, nearly being massacred by the inhabitants of Bumbireh island when he landed his boat looking for food, and only just pushing off and escaping with the lives of himself and the 11 porters who accompanied him.

The mighty warlord Mirambo was responsible for the deaths of thousands of men and skulls lined the road to his gates (p.185). It was a custom of the Nyamwezi people to strangle their mtemi (leader) when they became unfit to rule. When I read that, for a split second I wondered what the effect would be if we imported that custom into contemporary Britain.

By the time Stanley and his men reached Ujiji on Lake Tanganyika in May 1876 he weighed 118lb, having lost a third of his body weight. It took Stanley 51 days to circumnavigate and map Lake Tanganyika, discovering it was 450 miles from north to south and therefore the longest freshwater lake in the world.

As Stanley travelled with 130 porters and their camp followers, by boat and canoe along the river Lualaba, they were repeatedly attacked by cannibal tribes, the paths to whose villages were lined with human skulls.

Some of the tribes they parlayed with were very suspicious of writing, which they saw as witchcraft designed to curse the tribe. They insisted Stanley hand over his notebook so he handed over his edition of the complete Shakespeare which was ritually burned in front of the whole tribe (p.198).

None of the expedition had any idea that there were 32 separate sets of waterfalls beyond the 15 mile lake they named Stanley Pool, itself a distinctive lake-like widening of the river, 22 miles long and 14 miles wide and littered with islands large and small. It is gruelling to read of the struggle to carry canoes along the river bank or risk running the river to the next set of falls. Numerous canoes were lost with 20 or so porters and the last, most effective and loyal white man, Frank Pocock, swept over a fall and drowned.

When he had announced on 25 July that they were not far from the sea, his loyal lieutenant, Wadi Safeni, who had saved the Lady Alice on several occasions and been a vital ‘captain’ of the wangwani broke down and went mad, clasping Stanley’s legs, gibbering about an end to their suffering, before running off into the jungle and never being seen again.

In the last 50 miles to the Atlantic coast they ran almost completely out of food, the hundred or more porters were all ill, several women had given birth Stanley sent a letter by the fittest men to the small European settlement at Boma. Miraculously they returned several days later with food, and more arrived by porters. They were saved.

It is touching to read about the fuss Stanley then kicked up with Bennett and the British government to ensure that the survivors of ‘his people’, with whom he had suffered so much, were taken by British gunboat round the Cape and returned to their homes on Zanzibar, fully paid off and compensation given to the families of those who had perished. He had left Zanzibar in November 1874 with 228 people. He returned in November 1877 with 108 (p.217).

Tribes mentioned

The Bangala (cannibals), Barundu, Ganda, Haya, Kumu (cannibals), Manyema, Ngoni, Nyamwezi, Wajiwa, Wané-Mpungu, Wanyaturu, Warasura, Wasongoro, Wakonju, Wavuma, Wasambye, Wasukuma, Wenya.


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