|
 : Let’s
paint a personal picture of you. What was growing up like? Where
do you live now?
Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani: I
was born in Enugu, Nigeria. A year later, my parents moved to my
hometown, Umuahia. I spent the first part of my childhood years
in Umuahia Town—in the GRA, close to the railway station,
amongst the expatriates and the Rotary Club members. I spent the
second part in Umujieze Village, Umuopara, Umuahia—where none
of the roads were tarred, where barefoot children yelped with wonder
whenever they saw a woman driving a car, where I could look out
of my bedroom window and see trees and foliage that were home to
different wild animals.
At 10, I left home to attend boarding school in the Federal Government
Girls College, Owerri. From there, I went on to study Psychology
at the University of Ibadan, Nigeria.
I’ve been living in Abuja, Nigeria, but recently moved to
Lagos.
 :
Tell us about your parents.
ATN: My father, Chief Chukwuma Hope Nwaubani, is regarded
as the most-experienced Chartered Accountant in Umuahia, Abia State.
Some years ago, he went back to study for an additional university
degree and graduated as the best law student in his class, at the
age of 63. My mother, Chief Mrs. Patricia Uberife Nwaubani, began
her teaching career as the only black teacher in an upper-middle-class
British school where the pupils offered her bananas and rubbed the
skin on her arm to see if the black pigment would come off. She
also worked in the Nigerian education sector and with the civil
service, before resigning in 1983 to join my father in running his
private accountancy firm. Both of them still work together. Both
of them have, at some point or the other, been actively involved
in Nigerian politics.
:
How did you get started in writing? Was writing always
‘inevitable’ for you?
ATN: Like most writers, I started writing stories before
I was ten. I earned my very first income from winning a writing
competition at the age of 13. That was the first of several writing
competition wins. At 15, I was awarded best poet and playwright
in my secondary school.
But then, writing was just one of the many things I was good at.
Such as chess and Scrabble and oratory and singing and washing dishes.
In fact, I once boasted to a friend that I would be the very best
dish-washer if I ever got a job in a restaurant. That, of course,
was before I realised that washing dishes was not the most interesting
way for a lady to spend her days.
Years ago, my mother wrote a novel which she never published; my
godmother, Mrs. Angela Ukairo, co-authored some of the textbooks
I used in school; and Flora Nwapa, the first female black African
to have a novel published, was my aunty—my mother’s
cousin. Yet, I was never inspired to serious writing. Until 2001
when one of my mentors looked into my future and told me that I
was supposed to put my writing talent to less leisurely use. Something
inside me clicked, and I suddenly knew.
:
What sort of things did you read as a child? How
did they affect how you write?
ATN: My parents purchased most of the books I read as a
child. Most of them were about African children living in mud huts
and hawking oranges to pay their school fees. I read so many of
these books that I began wishing my family also lived in a mud hut
with thatched roof, and subsisted on proceeds from our yam farm.
It was not until I left home and experienced being broke a few times,
that I finally realised there was nothing glamorous about lack.
As a teenager, I had more freedom over what books I read. At about
the same time, books started disappearing from the shops and the
available few became terribly expensive. (I am told that happened
as a result of the series of military dictatorships in Nigeria.)
Most of the books I could get my hands on were borrowed from friends
who had borrowed from other friends, and most of the books I purchased
were from second-hand book sellers who offered old stock at more
affordable prices. Hence, three quarters of the books I read from
my teenage years either had no front or back covers, or started
from page 115. Still, I enjoyed them. In fact, it was many years
before I found out that one of my favourite books of all time was
called The Last Hurrah by Edwin O’Connor.
Fortunately, the Jilly Cooper and Sam Levenson and P.G. Wodehouse
books all came with front and back covers!
With time, I learnt to identify the humour writers from the second-hand
piles and found myself inadvertently moving away from ‘African
stories’. I became concerned about this and raised the issue
with different people. All of them had similar responses: ‘There
is nothing to laugh about in Africa. War and poverty and hardship
are our realities.’ That point of view seemed to make sense
until I encountered Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes
in 2006. It was one of the most dismal tales of hardship I had
ever read, but the style was humorous. Eureka! I could write an
‘African story’ that did not necessarily taste bitter!
In December 2006, I was finally ready to write my first novel.
I started clicking away in January 2007. By the end of February
2007, I Do Not Come to You By Chance was born.
:
In tackling the 419 spectre in your first novel,
have you felt a need to explain your country to itself? Or to the
world - like an Achebe putting a human face on a demonised country?
Have you feared the possibility of entrenching the stereotypes of
association?
ATN: I didn’t feel the need to do anything apart from
tell a story the way I knew it to be—things I had observed
in a world I lived in. I wasn’t worried about those Westerners
who think everything Nigerian is 419; I wasn’t worried about
those Nigerians who are obsessed with changing the impressions of
the West. I wasn’t too worried about stereotypes, either.
Just like the lady crying because people are calling her fat. Is
she crying because she is fat or because people are calling her
fat? If we are so bothered about the way we are or the way the
world perceives us, the first step is to change.
:
Your title, 'I Do Not Come to You by Chance' sounds like a droll, found object. How
did it end up on the cover of your book?
ATN: My 'droll' title was inspired by two quotes:
"It is not enough to be the possessor
of genius—the time and the man must conjoin. An Alexander
the Great, born into an age of profound peace, might scarce have
troubled the world. A Newton, grown up in a thieves' den, might
have devised little but a new and ingenious picklock."
--John Cleveland Cotton, Diversions of Historical Thought
and
“I returned, and saw under
the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to
the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men
of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and
chance happeneth to them all.”
--Ecclesiastes 9:11 I and my agent, Daniel Lazar, then
went through heaps of 419 emails until we came across an opening
line that reflected both the ‘time’ and ‘chance’
elements, and the personality of the novel.
:
Here’s a quote from your book:
"Then came my father’s diagnosis. For a poorly paid civil servant to get
caught up in an affliction like diabetes was the very height of
ambitious misfortune."
Does writing humour come naturally
to you, or is this a sheen you have to paint onto your literature,
subsequently?
ATN: My sense of humour is my general outlook on life.
I tend to view things from a quirky angle. I’ve been warned
that I need to sound more serious, though. How else will
the world know that I’m a serious African writer dealing with
Deep Issues of the Continent?
For decades, Africans have been blaming the ‘colonial masters’
for things going wrong in our countries. With my writing career,
I’ve decided to apply the same principle. If I meet people
who are offended by my sense of humour, I will blame it on the British.
Really, I have watched too many British comedies in my lifetime.
I just love them. ‘From Keeping Up Appearances’ and
‘Only Fools and Horses’, to ‘The Catherine Tate
Show’ and ‘The Kumars at No. 42’. On the other
hand, if I meet people who love my sense of humour, I will tell
them that it is inherited. Laughter and humour were never lacking
in my family, not even in times of deepest crises. One of my science-inclined
brothers actually did a stint of successful stand-up comedy. There
is always lots of cheer and laughter amongst us when I and my siblings
get together.
:
The main protagonist in your
new novel is male. Your first story for AW, Coming to The UK, also has a male hero. Do you have any special challenge
getting into the head of a male character? Did you grow up with
male siblings? Have you received any comments from men reading your
pages who responded to your depictions? Is it time for Equal Opportunity
feminists to picket your fiction? Is there a female protagonist
on the cards?
ATN: It turns out that every single piece of fiction I’ve
written has been in a male voice! I didn’t realise that there
was anything unusual about that until people made comments about
it. I’m not sure that I have any explanation. I guess an
appointment with good old Sigmund Freud might be quite in order.
But then, I do have three brothers whom I adore and it is possible
that I grew up wanting to be like them because they were all so
outstanding. At the same time, I’ve absolutely enjoyed being
female and have always received admiration from the men around me.
It could also be that I try to distance myself as much as possible
from the characters in my fiction. I really dread people reading
my work and imagining me in any of my characters. Whenever I do
decide to write about myself, I don’t think there’ll
be any need to coat it in fiction. Recently, I started compiling
some personal essays and they just might see the light of publishing
someday.
For now, all I have to say to the Equal Opportunities feminists
is that I am not Kingsley. Anybody spoiling for a fight should
dig it out directly with Kingsley, whose thoughts and feelings were
expressed in my novel.
A female protagonist? Hmm. I really do need to make that appointment
with Sigmund Freud.
:
Are there any Big Issues that will engage your writing?
Are there subjects, themes, problems you are particularly passionate
about? Would you say you have found your voice? Are you still searching?
ATN: There are issues I’m particularly passionate
about and as time goes on, they’ll become clearer to everyone.
For starters, I think it’s time Africans faced the hard fact
about the source of our problems—not corruption, not poverty,
not HIV, not the white man...but the way our people think. There
are certain mindsets that have kept our societies where they are
today, thought patterns that have governed our lives for centuries.
It might be a bit lofty expecting the older generations whose minds
are already crystallized, to change. But we can systematically
start deprogramming our young people. If not, the story of Africa
will still be the same in generations to come.
I don’t know that I was ever searching for my voice so I can’t
say that I have or have not found it. I really don't approach writing
in an academic way which means I’ll probably never have straightforward
answers to these sorts of deep, intellectual questions.
:
Can you give me a couple of examples of these
'thought patterns' or 'mindsets' and the problems they can cause?
ATN: For starters, our intrinsic culture abhors the rising
of another in opposition to us. Therefore, we tend to believe that
the increase of others is detrimental to us and will usually do
anything to quell the next person’s progress if it doesn’t
appear to benefit us directly.
Colonialism led to us becoming charges of nations who trained us
to depend on them for support and to devote our efforts to the growth
of an unseen nation rather than to ours. The Western world still
relates with us as people who need to be looked after and that situation
perfectly agrees with us because it absolves us of the responsibility
for others.
Our culture also programmes us to deify some people while despising
others as mere ants and cockroaches. This is one origin of the
absolute disregard for the common man (ahem...woman) which manifests
in different forms in our societies.
:
What was the attitude of your parents when you began to
show an 'unhealthy' interest in writing? How close have you come
to their original aspirations for their daughter? To your own? What
do they think of your writing? Do you ever cross out a line because
you think of your mother reading it? – Or perhaps, down the
line, your children?
ATN: Unhealthy interest in writing? Haha. Growing up in
my parents’ house, woe betide you if my father ever caught
any of us reading a novel without our Michael West dictionary right beside us, to check the meanings of new words.
Such a diligent father was very unlikely to have considered writing
unhealthy.
My parents had always wanted me to be a lawyer. All my friends’
parents also wanted them to be lawyers and doctors and architects
and engineers. I wanted to do something different. Top on my
list was to be a CIA or KGB agent.
After my Psychology degree, my parents wanted me to carry on studying,
and would most likely have wanted me to go as far as a PhD or something
similar. But from an early age, I was wise enough to realise that
being excellent in academics could very easily lead to a nice, predictable
life—a life that could stifle every other talent and innate
desire that you might have. So far, I have resisted all efforts
by family and former lecturers to re-imprison me inside the four
walls of a school. So far, my life has been full of diverse occupations
that have brought me fulfillment and made the world around me a
better place.
Even before I reach out for a glass of water to drink, I usually
consider what effects my action might have on the people around
me and on posterity. I didn’t have to write anything and
cross it out, though; every unworthy idea was pulverized right inside
my brain before making it to my fingers. But I dreaded my parents
reading my novel. I didn’t want them to interfere with their
opinions and corrections and I wasn’t sure if they would think
it good enough. When they eventually read the galleys, my father
was full of praises, my mother rang me early in the morning to tell
me how much she loved it, and then asked, ‘But how did you
know all those things?’ I guess she meant all those things
about 419. She probably won’t be the only person wondering
about that.
:
Are you more Nigerian than Igbo? More African than
Nigerian? Do you have pan-africanist sentiments? Do you think the
movement has had its day? If you were not Nigerian, what nationality
would you be? Why?
ATN: My father is from Umuahia, my mother is from Oguta…
that automatically makes me Igbo. I was born in Enugu, I own one
of the internationally renowned green Nigerian passport… that
makes me Nigerian. On the atlas, Nigeria is in Africa… that
makes me African. Apart from that, I primarily see myself as God’s
creation. However, I feel a deep sense of patriotism towards my
country, Nigeria, and know that it is my responsibility to make
her a much better place.
:
How did you choose the '419' phenomenon as subject
for your first novel?
ATN: I decided it was finally time to write my novel. I’d
known I was going to write one since 2001. I’ve always had
a fascination with human personality and the science of why people
do the things they do, and I wanted that to be the framework of
my story. One thing led to the other and the 419 thing appeared
to be just right.
While hanging around the Western World, I had noticed that each
time Nigeria was mentioned, the topic of 419 would usually arise.
It might have been annoying if it was not quite amusing. Especially
considering that the 419ers whom the Westerners hold in such awe,
are people whom we in Nigeria (mainly Igbo land) mingle with every
day. They are our friends and acquaintances and the people we love.
Undoubtedly, 419 is a Nigerian shame, but it is also part of our
history. I wanted my story to shed some light on this phenomenon.
I didn’t realise that I had chosen a potentially fascinating
subject until I met my agent. He guided me on how to do justice
to the subject.
Now I’m so glad I wrote about it because for more than two
decades, the “phenomenon” has been a major characteristic
of Nigeria, yet it hardly features in our literature. I imagine
what would have happened is that, some white man from, say, Nebraska
or Louisiana, would have jumped out of the hedges one day with a
novel about Nigerian 419. The novel would have become an international
bestseller, and then, suddenly, every Nigerian writer would have
become aggrieved about someone else telling what should have been
our own story. All the anger would have led to an avalanche of
419-themed stories—from the Nigerian point of view.
:
Is it the case that 419 practitioners seem to
lend themselves to humourous caricature. I am thinking for instance
of the scene in the book where Boniface the 419 kingpin holds court
in his bathroom with his fully dressed lieutenants while he is himself
sitting naked on a toilet bowl.
ATN: The nouveau rich generally lend themselves to humorous
caricature. It appears that the advent of sudden cash does a certain
something to the human brain.
The inspiration for my major characters was not difficult. Alas,
there are several Cash Daddys riding around the streets of Nigeria.
They come in various shapes and sizes—from megalomaniac CEOs
and government officials to philanthropists and politicians, who
believe that they are above whatever laws exist. There are several
Kingsleys and Paulinuses as well. The Augustinas are a bit rare.
:
Do you look forward to being able to do nothing
but write, or will you prefer to be plugged into life via some other
interface besides literature?
ATN: For me, writing is simply a means to an end. There’s
soooo much else to do. I don’t think I ever want to come
to the point where all I’m doing is just writing. Unless,
maybe, it’s just for a period.
:
What are these other interests - if they aren't
still confidential!
ATN: Haha. Let me just say that my other interests will
become very obvious to everyone as time goes on.
:
This is another quote from your novel, I Do Not Come
to You by Chance.
"Two days
ago, it was the allegation that one of the prominent senators
had falsified his educational qualifications. He had lived in
Canada for many years, quite all right, but the University of
Toronto had no record of his attendance."
It is supposed
to be a fictional report on the 7pm newscast at Kingsleys' home.
But it is not fiction, is it? This actually happened in the Nigerian
House of Assembly. Have you found - in writing this book - that
fact can be more unbelievable than fiction?
ATN: The only things fictional about my novel are the characters
and the plot. Since the Nigerian setting itself is real, naturally,
there is actual history in the background. But yes, many things
that happen in Nigeria are so unbelievable that they could very
easily be misconstrued as fiction. Recently, I heard about a house
that caught fire in Aba. Because the Fire Service arrived after
the house had been completely razed by the fire, an angry mob made
their way to the fire station and burnt the fire station down!
That is the sort of thing that happens only on the pages of novels
or in soap operas, but in Nigeria, those sorts of incidents happen
every day.
:
Nigerians sometimes approach everything with inflamed
ethnic nerves. In your novel, you treat your character's ethnicities (and
yours as well) with comic irreverence.
'Cash Daddy had the unmistakable thick head and chunky features
of the Igbos. Plus, a concrete Igbo accent. It did not matter whether
it was a three- letter word or a five- letter word, each came out
with its original number of syllables quadrupled, and with so much
emphasis on the consonants that it sounded as if he were banging
on them with a sledgehammer'
“What
essatly do you not understand? She has told you her mind and it’s
your business whether you assept it or not.” This tattling
termagant, like many of her compatriots from Edo in the Mid- West
region of Nigeria, had a mother tongue– induced speech deficiency
that prevented her from putting the required velar emphasis on
her X sounds. They always came out sounding like an S. I ignored
the idiot.
Are you worried
about its reception in some quarters? Do you think that Nigerians
need to laugh more at themselves?
ATN: I didn’t treat my characters’ ethnicities
with comic irreverence. I was simply being descriptive. Do the
Edo people have an S speech deficiency? Yes. Do the Igbos sledgehammer
their consonants? Yes. Case closed. Besides, having an Igbo accent
or a speech deficiency is certainly not a crime.
Nigerians do laugh at themselves a lot, though, never mind that
it hardly appears that way in our literature. Maybe we're afraid
that the foreign aid and grants will stop coming if the world catches
us laughing.
:
There is probably an inverse relationship between
the popularity of your novel and the pool of potential victims who
might be taken in by 419 scams.You must have done some intensive
research into the 419 phenomenon. Is it waxing or waning? What is
the future, do you think?
ATN: Asking about the future of 419 is like asking about
the future of the iPod. The scams have been metamorphosing along
with the times; you never know what else they might come up with
tomorrow. You would imagine that by now, everybody in the world
has heard about 419 and is wary, but no. I met a white American
man who had come to Nigeria for the first time in October 2008 for
a one-week consultancy assignment. He had never heard the term
419 ever before! Plus, new mugus are born every minute and the
419 industry thrives on the availability of mugus.
:
Have you started your next novel? Is the subject still
secret? What sort of material do you write most naturally?
ATN: Eureka! You’ve just provided me with the perfect
answer to those who keep asking about my next novel. Yes, the subject
is still a secret!
Interestingly, non-fiction comes most naturally to me. I consider
it my forte. Apart from stories I wrote as a child, it wasn’t
until 2005 that I turned my attention to fiction. That Coming to the UK piece was my first proper short story. I wrote it in April/May
2005.
:
Are you a compulsive writer?
ATN: Apart from loads and loads of emails, I don’t
normally ‘write’ every day unless I have a major writing
project so I’m certainly not a “compulsive writer”.
When working on I Do Not Come to You By Chance, for example,
I wrote almost all the time. And with the horrific state of power
supply in Nigeria, I often woke up hoping that there would be electricity
for long enough to get some serious writing done that day. The
laptop on which I wrote my first draft had a battery life of only
20 minutes (It’s a long story; I got it for £100 in 2004).
The laptop on which I edited my manuscript had a battery life of
two and half hours. So whenever these ran out, I had to pack my
inspiration into a cooler and wait—either for the power authority
to ‘bring back the light,’ or for the standby generator
to come on. Good thing that I usually do most of my writing in
my head and just spit it out through my fingers whenever the time
is convenient.
:
Your characters call themselves by the most outlandish
names: Cash Daddy, World Bank,
ATN: At the peak of the 419 era in the nineties, almost
every 419er took on an outlandish nickname as soon as he hit it
big. Their nicknames usually reflected their perceptions of their
skills or their wealth. But the 419ers of these days go by more
civilized nicknames, like CEO, Chairman, Director, etc. For some
reason, their christened names suddenly become inadequate once the
dollars start rolling in.
:
There is a cultural parallel, isn't there? Traditionally,
chiefs lose their own given names as well, moving - for instance - from 'Emeka'
to 'The Moon that Shines for the Town'.
ATN: Thou art right! In fact, there is a cultural parallel
in other aspects of the 419 lifestyle. Like the otimkpu,
the group of men who follow them around heralding their masters’
presence and making sure that they are well noticed. The otimkpu
can be likened to the praise singers of our culture who offer the
same services to dignitaries, even composing songs for them or slotting
their names into already existing songs.
:
You live in Abuja, and still travel through many of the
towns and cities you write about. Did you ever have a flutter in
the gut about writing an expose this candid?
ATN: There was no need for me to have a flutter in the gut.
Every honest Nigerian who reads the pages of my book will instantly
recognise our society AS IT IS. Once in a while, though, I did
wonder about the Nigerians in the Diaspora. Many of them seem so
obsessed with our country’s foreign image, almost to the point
of neurosis. However, the lust for a pristine foreign image should
not prevent us from telling the truth about our society. I’d
rather we spent all that energy tending to the decay inside.
Most of the scenes
in my story are fictitious, but some mirror actual events. For
example, I have watched friends torn between the choice of a struggling
man whom they love and a ready-made man who will wipe away their
economic sorrows. For example, I have listened to 419ers having
loud conversations with ‘foreign partners’, not bothering
that anyone might be eavesdropping. For example, my mother’s
sister lost a friend and the proper use of her legs after their
car was swept off the road by a state governor’s convoy.
It was that governor’s third ghastly crash. He blamed it
on his enemies’ juju.
:
One of the themes you explore in your novel is
the transition from '419 kingpin' to 'political bigwig'. Is this
a viable prospect in real life? Is the 'industry' a factor in Nigeria's
political life?
ATN: The smarter 419ers are always looking for ways to “clean
out” their money. Many of them eventually metamorphose into
business magnates, philanthropists, politicians... After reading
a copy of my book, a friend who’s a top official in the Nigerian
ministry of justice, confessed to me that his first job offer, right
after graduating from university in the 80s, was as a letter-writer
for a 419 kingpin. That kingpin who employed him is now doing a
third term in the Nigerian House of Representatives.
The Nigerian government is fraught with different brands of thieves,
anyway, so there’s certainly nothing odd about a 419er running
for public office. And unfortunately, in our slightly modified
version of democracy, whoever dispenses the most cash into the right
hands wins the ballot.
:
You touched the tension between the two Nigerians
in your book. Poor Andrew:
He convulsed
through his pockets again. Still, no passport. “It’s
gone!” he announced three times. “I had it in this
pocket,” he cried two times. “I’m quite certain
of that.”
“You’d better go and report it immediately,”
I advised. If not, a desperate immigrant could be out of the country
with that passport on the next flight to the U.S.
Suddenly, his patriotism changed color. “This country is
unbelievable! I haven’t even come in yet and they’ve
already stolen my passport!”
His American accent had also vamoosed.
“Someone probably saw you putting it back in your pocket,”
I said.
“I just don’t believe this! I’ve been looking
forward to coming back home after all these years. I haven’t
even been here up to an hour already, and now this!”
As love-hate
relationships go, would you say that Nigerians at home look more
indulgently at '419ners' than the Diasporans - who may experience
more regularly the sharp edge of the stereotyping?
ATN: Oops! I’d better watch my tongue. You’re
one of the Diasporans, aren’t you?
:
Be my guest!
ATN: Andrew in my story is a typical example of many Nigerians
in the Diaspora who are so full of looooove for Nigeria when they
are away, but when they visit “home” and things start
going awry, their love quickly changes colour. The best place to
see them in action is at the airport, especially around Christmas.
If there’s one place where things are bound to go wrong in
Nigeria, it is at our airports. And the Diasporeans are always
the first and LOUDEST to start scolding and groaning on about “This
country!”.
With the Nigerians “at home” and those in the Diaspora,
it’s simply a case of the Igbo proverb which says: it is the
well-fed spirit that spoils the song for those who haven’t
eaten. The two groups face different sets of challenges; hence,
their focuses and concerns are different. Nigerians at home may
look more indulgently at 419ers. At the same time, they may not
look as indulgently on a man in the Diaspora will abandon his fiancé
in Nigeria to marry a white woman—for the sake of a British
or American or German passport.
:
One of the 419 scams in your novel concerns a Nigerian
cosmonaut who went to space on a secret Nigerian/USSR space shuttle.
The USSR was dissolved and the Nigerian was stranded in space because
his fellow Russians decided to cargo precious spare parts back to
earth in his place. The Nigerian cosmonaut's salary has been run
for years, is now US$35 million and a mark was required to liberate
it...
Is this a real life scam? From
the inventiveness of some of the scams floating about cyberspace,
do you get the impression that some of Nigeria's best writers of
fiction are currently in another profession?
ATN: All the scams in my book are “real“!
Nigeria’s best writers of fiction are definitely doing everything
else except writing. Who can blame them when they are so busy looking
for what to put inside their stomachs? As William Shakespeare famously
said, “I’m not writing any f******* romance until I
get some jollof rice!” Mrs. Shakespeare quickly obliged
(in less than an hour), and as a result, Romeo and Juliet
was born!
Truly, the best of Nigerian writing is yet to emerge. Right now
in Nigeria, literature is perceived as being in the realm of academics,
as if you have to have been an excellent student (and maybe bagged
a degree or three) to be able to write a novel. Can you imagine
what will happen when Nigerians finally realise that many more of
us can write? Whether or not you’ve been to university or
even to school; whether or not you are good at exams or can recite
poetry or remember the full list of Euripides’ plays. When
they realise that you can do it however and whenever you want.
You can take four months, you can take four years, you can give
up everything for it, you can do it on the side. The marketability
of the final finished work is all that counts. Can you imagine
the diversity of writing styles (not just stories) that will emerge
from Nigeria? Believe me, the best is yet to come. And the next
ten years are definitely a period to watch.
:
If you were ever going to start or join a crusade
in future against any social ills, what would they be?
ATN: I wonder. Right now, I’m more concerned about influencing
young people, especially in my country and in Africa, to think differently.
We must not continue with the same thought patterns that have kept
our continent so far behind the rest of humanity in many ways.
Preserving and projecting our cultures is wonderful, but a deeper
form of love for our people and for the places we come from, is
demanding change when it will move us forward.
:
I see you compose directly to wordprocessor. I once lost
a hundred pages of a novel to a dead computer - couldn't write for
months afterwards. I hope you don't have any comparable horror stories
on writing and new-fangled technology?
ATN: Thankfully, apart from one or two vanished emails,
I haven't had any major technological disasters.
:
And so may it remain, Adaobi. All the best with I Do
Not Come to You by Chance, and thank you for speaking with us.
ATN: My pleasure. |
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