Saturday, November 21, 2009

"I Need to See Africa in The Future"--Nnedi Okorafor


Who is Nnedi Okorafor?
Nnedi Okorafor is a biological construct fused from the DNA of history’s and the future’s greatest witches and literary despots.

How and when did you develop the love for stories?
I loved stories even before I could read. I was born with a very big active imagination- I could do anything, see anything, make anything happen. Whenever I think back to my early childhood, it’s impossible to differentiate the magical stuff I made up in my head from the "real" stuff. On top of this, my father  who was a heart surgeon told tons of stories, and he told them really well with drama, suspense, characters, setting, and sensory details in place.

How does your upbringing affect your writing?
Despite my dealings with racism and many other “isms”, I had a very very happy childhood. And I think that “happiness” often comes out in my fiction. My father was obsessed with understanding how things worked. He made even the mundane (like a door knob) exciting by showing you how it worked. He loved science, math and animals and he moved through the world with a constant sense of wonder, even as he got older. I see in the same way and that comes out in my work too, especially when I ":world build". My mother has a PhD in health administration, is a registered nurse, midwife and a thousand other things. She’s brilliant and very strong. She taught me what it is to BE a feminist as opposed to having to proclaim it. And she was made the strong woman she is by her mother AND father.  Important lessons. On top of this, my father adored her strength and smarts, as opposed to feeling threatened by it. Another crucial lesson. I deal with issues of gender a lot in my work and the complexity of it. It all comes from my upbringing.

What was the first story you wrote about?
The first story I wrote was a short story titled “The House of Deformities”. It was set in Nigeria and based on something that really happened to my two sisters and me when we were kids. It involved bulldog puppies, a wizened old woman with a cleaver, fly-covered meat, vultures and pink ducklings (yep, all this was true). I added a deep black hole full of demons…to flesh out the story. So, from the start my stories were speculative. It’s the way I see the world.

What informs your fascination with Science Fiction?
Now you do you mean science fiction or fantasy? Those are two different things. Science fiction is when the strange things in the story happen because of science. SF involves things like time machines, robotics, nanotechnology, aliens, cyborgs, etc. Advanced technology and science. Fantasy is when the strange things that happen are due to magic, the mystical, the unexplained. Fantasy involves things like fairies, witches, ghosts, magical systems, etc.  For me, sf and fantasy are practically one of the same. As I said, I tend to see the world as a magical place. Nature is amazing. It’s earth’s greatest scientist. Also, I NEED to see Africa in the future. Too often, when I read about Africa in American fiction, it's an Africa of the past. It was often the place African Americans were forced to leave. Or it was “the pre-colonial place”. These representations didn’t fit well with my own experience of Nigeria. To me, Nigeria was very futuristic, and in a bizarre way. No plumbing in the house but you’ve got cell phones, for example. I was fascinated by that and no one was writing about it. Technology is consumed by and affects Africans in a unique way. Then I just took it further in my work and that’s when my fiction became science fiction.

What do you call your kind of writing? Unique.

You’ve won a couple of awards, how do you feel? I feel great. It’s always nice to be recognized.

Best advice you got as a writer
Keep writing. Writers write. And check your ego at the door. Few people are born awesome writers. And no great work is created 100 percent alone. The best writers are writers who know how to listen to criticism, feedback and direction when necessary.

How do you manage to write science fiction with images drawn from Nigerian folk and superstitious culture without playing to the stereotypes that give ‘us’ a bad image in the West? Simple answer: I’m Nigerian and I have a deep unconditional love for Nigeria. Some of the worst things in my life have happened to me in Nigeria. I have experienced true terror while there, terror that probably took days from my life. So don’t think I have some rosy view of the country. But some of the most wonderful things in my life have happened there, too. Most of my family is there.  And it’s beautiful. My parents have been taking my siblings and I back there since we were young. We also make the effort to stay connected, by any means necessary. I’m doing the same with my six year old daughter. She’s been back twice already.

Mind you, I’m very independent and many Igbo traditions just turn my stomach. You won’t see me adhering to certain traditions. And I’m not afraid to say that I won’t. This is me and always will be me. All the kidnappings, oil wars, fraud, theft, corrupt government shenanigans, family issues, among others will not keep me away. I always go back.  All these come out in my work. This is why I don’t fall into the stereotypes. I’m sincere.

Worst comment you heard about your work
Hmm, that’s a hard one. I did see someone say on his blog say that he wouldn’t read my two novels because they didn’t have any white people in it. Idiot.

Tell us more about Akata the Witch
Akata Witch is my third young adult novel (my forthcoming adult novel is titled Who Fears Death is scheduled for release in June 2010). It’s set in present day Nigeria. The main character is a 12 year old girl who confuses people. Her name is Sunny. She was born in New York to two Nigerian immigrant parents. When she was nine, she and her family moved back to Nigeria. She also happens to be albino. So she’s an American by birth and a Nigerian by blood, living in Nigeria, with skin and hair lighter than Caucasian skin but sensitive to the sun. Sunny's character is actually based on a family friend. One of Sunny’s favorite things to do is to stare into candles. One day while staring into a candle she witnesses something terrible. This turns out to be the first step into an adventure that changes her life. This novel’s got real masquerades, a wrestling match to match no other, a most excellent soccer match, the real reason for the face on Zuma Rock, shape shifters, and some serious juju.

You are Obama for a day, what will you do?
Hop on Air Force One and make a discreet visit to Nigeria to verbally brow beat the top government officials into treating their country with honor, respect and patriotism. Then later that day, I’d make a surprise visit to a few busy markets in Lagos, Jos, Abuja, Owerri, and yes Port Harcourt. Of course, my security would be air-tight.

What part of the process of writing do you enjoy most?
Editing. The “genesis” process is tough for me. This is when you create the initial story. But once I have a draft, ugly as it always is, I enjoy the polishing of it. I’ll edit a draft 15 to 20 times.

What book are you reading at the moment?
I’m always reading something. I just finished the latest installment in the Aya graphic novel series by Ivory Coast writer Marguerite Abouet and French illustrator Clement Oubrerie. This is an excellent series that shows Africa in a realistic and positive light for once.  Right now I’m rereading a science fiction novel set in South Africa called Otherland by American novelist Tad Williams. The main characters are Irene Sulaweyo and a Bushmen named !Xabbu (if you’re still sore about District 9, this novel is good therapy).I’m also reading Song of Lawino and Song of Ocol by Ugandan writer Okot p’Bitek.

Now Ginen is a land beautifully described that one feels it truly exists. How do you make your reader believe the reality of the world you create in your works? Ginen totally exists. It’s real place to me. Because I feel it’s real, I write about it as such. All my stories are real to me. If I didn’t believe they were real, how I could write them well?

Who are the writers that influence you?

  • Stephen King is the ultimate storyteller- the man is like one of Anansi’s sons. 
  • Octavia Butler’s sparse clean prose and realistic science fiction changed me forever. 
  • Ben Okri’s prose is haunted poetry and his Nigerian-flavored fantastical imagery is insane. 
  • Ngugi wa Thiongo wrote a Kenyan detective novel that was laced with some serious politics (Petals of Blood); utterly pioneering. 
  • Buchi Emecheta and Flora Nwapa’s “Kitchen Literature” was so necessary-these two writers reminded me that many (if not most) of life’s greatest battles are fought, won and lost on the domestic front.
Any plans to have your stories on the screen?
I always have plans. There are interests and possibilities. I have written a screenplay for Nollywood’s “ogbanje” director Tchidi Chikere. Right now it’s titled, “Wrapped in Magic”. He plans to shoot it soon. There was film interest in The Shadow Speaker but the production company, though they loved the book, found it too complex for film. That makes me laugh. Lastly, right now there are multiple film production companies interested in my forthcoming adult novel, Who Fears Death. We’ll see.

What do you think of the literary landscape in Nigeria?
It’s awesome, Diasporic and so alive. I’m proud of it: Chris Abani, Uwem Akpan, Sefi Atta, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Helon Habila, Helen Oyeyemi, Uzodimma Iweala, Bayo Ojikutu, etc. Look at all the diversity and success within this limited list. The Nigerian tradition of great literature is very alive.

Any plans to get more of your books published in Nigeria?
Zahrah the Windseeker is already published in Nigeria by Kachifo Ltd. They also own the African rights to The Shadow Speaker. Hopefully they’ll be able to also bring Akata Witch and Who Fears Death to Nigeria. Having my work available in Nigeria is extremely important to me.

What does it mean to be a writer?
It means solitude, which often becomes loneliness. It means hard work with little initial reward. Discipline. Distorted nakedness. And it means that you have a place to channel your fury and a place to create your dreams.

Visit Nnedi's blog here.

Friday, November 20, 2009

Mark your Calendar...

P.A.G.E.S and CCA,Lagos continue their innovative programme of bringing the Visual and Literary Arts into dialogue. This Saturday (November 21) is going to be an interesting one at the Centre for Contemporary Art, Lagos as Teju Cole  the author of Everyday is for the Thief - a novel set in Lagos, and Jumoke Verissimo, the author I am Memory - a poetry collection engage 12 artists in a video art exhibition at CCA,Lagos.

The writers' books will be available for sale at the CCA. This is equally an opportunity to see the current exhibition which is called Identity:An Imagined State, a video art exhibition featuring the works of Nigerian,African & South American artists. It was curated by Jude Anogwih and Oyinda Fakeye

Time: 2pm. 
So see you at CCA (9, McEwen Street, Sabo, Yaba, Lagos)

There's also Yoruba Romance
A new play titled Yoruba Romance by Tyrone Terrence-an adaptation of Anton Chekhov's A Marriage Proposal. 

Venue: The MUSON centre’s Agip Recital Hall
Date: Sunday, November 22
Time: 6pm
Gate: N5,000

Driver's Dexterity: an exhibition of photographs by George Osodi
The African Artists' Foundation (AAF) in collaboration with The Shell Petroleum Development Company (SPDC) presents: Driver's Dexterity an exhibition of photographs by George Osodi.
Venue: The Lagos Civic Centre, Ozumba Mbadiwe Avenue, Opp. 1004 Flats, Victoria Island, Lagos
Date and time: 26th November, 2009, 6pm

Who is George Oshodi?
George Osodi is a London-based photographer and artist who has spent most of his time traveling on Nigerian roads. He has captured images of the various landscapes and peoples living in different parts of Nigeria. George has also documented various social and topical issues using photography. Having trained as a photojournalist, George has an eye for a story. The story he tells now is one of intervention and faith. He captures the dramatic in an artistic, even romantic fashion. These are tales of hope and survival, bravery and bewildering actions, stereotypes and attitudes to life.

George explains: “Driver's Dexterity is a body of work, which takes on a more conceptual form than my previous documentary works. ...I explore the vulnerability of life as a contrast to the tragic beauty of the landscapes"

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Introducing Sentinel Nigeria&Call for Submissions

Sentinel Nigeria is an online magazine of contemporray Nigerian writing. Sentinel Literary Movement of Nigeria was established on November 15, 2009 as the Nigerian chapter of Sentinel Poetry Movement which was founded in December 2002 by Nnorom Azuonye. Read more here.


Submission Guidelines

  • Poems: Submit up to 6 poems on any subject of 60 lines or less, or a long poem up to 200 lines plus 2 shorter poems.
  •  Fiction: Submit Short Stories, or Excerpts from Novels on any subject or theme up to 8,000 words long.
  •  Essays: Academic essays may be up to 10,000 words long.
  •  Reviews and Interviews: These may be up to 3000 long.
  •  All materials submitted must be in English Language. We encourage poems written in Nigerian languages as long as they are sent together with appropriate translations.
  •  Previously Published Work:  Generally we discourage submissions of previously published work. If we feel strongly about a previously published work we may solicit it. If your work has been published elsewhere and you feel it has not been given the exposure it deserves, and you feel strongly about it, by all means submit it, but please mention where and when it was first published.

Read more here.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Till Death By Eghosa Imasuen

We featured Eghosa Imasuen in October. Here's a short story from him. Warning: it's quite long. Enjoy! 
  
     He stood in the doorway. Out of the dank tree-lined culvert where it was just starting to drizzle outside. Beads of water ran in rivulets down his jacket – an equally expensive accompaniment to the slightly more faded trousers he shook as he stepped out of brown horse-leather shoes. He toed the shoes to the corner of the doormat and spoke, “Is she ready?”

     The undertaker was worried for the man. The things he had asked for on his first visit, they made no sense. But they did make sense. The more the undertaker had dwelt on them over the last week; the demands had become easier to understand.

     The man did not want his wife buried. He had said so in a quiet voice when the hearse had dropped the corpse off a week ago. He had repeated the demand after the undertaker asked him what he had just said.

     “But sir, this is most unusual,” the undertaker had said.

     “There must be something you can do, undertaker. There must be some chemical or machine or something.”

     “I don’t know . . .” The undertaker had felt uncomfortable under the glare of the man’s eyes. They were big and doe-like. The earnest stare irresistible.

     The man mistook the undertaker’s shiftiness for an imminent refusal, “See, mister. Her people will not know. She died four days ago and I have already insisted on a small ceremony. I don’t care what they say about burying their own in the village . . . So you see nothing can go wrong. This casket will be buried in a private mausoleum in my compound.”

     If it wasn’t so sad it would have been funny. Both men had circled each other around the coffin that first visit a week ago. As though the man wanted to touch the undertaker and as though the undertaker didn’t want to be touched. But watching their eyes you knew they were doing something different. They both stared at the figure in the open coffin. Only God knew what was going on in the man’s mind but on the undertaker’s was how beautiful she looked in repose. How her fair complexion made her look pale in death and not grey like . . . How much she reminded him of . . .

     “I will help you,” the undertaker said.

     The earnestness on the man’s face slowly cleared and morphed into, first, thankfulness, and then, incredulity. He looked up from his wife, the light reflected off her white lace dress making his big eyes look like they had disappeared into mammoth-sized sockets. “But how?” he asked. “You must know that what I want will not be easy to accomplish. I do not want my house stinking like in here . . .”

     While the man spoke, the undertaker allowed himself a moment of self-pride. About what he had achieved, about what he could do for the man. He interrupted the man in a slow and even voice that became more and more excited as he dove deeper into his exposition: “You do not understand, sir. I can help you. Everything you need, I can help you.”

     They slowly resumed their dance around the coffin, this time with their eyes never leaving the other.

     “You see, I have invented this chemical. It’s nothing new, just a new mix of the same old constituents. You might think the reason for this new mix is that it preserves better, no? Ah, but that’s not the reason. My new mix is slightly less efficient than the old one. You stare at me like I’ve gone mad. I’ll tell you, sir, the reason for this. The problems with keeping a body looking alive and fresh are not with the chemicals. It’s with getting the chemicals deep within the body. For that I have constructed a machine. A new machine that will make your wife forever young. Just like she looks now. That’s the reason why my new mix is so light. I do not need it concentrated.”

     He searched the man’s eyes for understanding that day, but only saw the big eyes unblinking under the glare of the overhead, dangling, swinging light bulb, the shadows of both cheekbones lit up from below by the sheen-like reflection off the wife’s dress.
  
     Is she ready?
  
    He searched the man’s eyes for understanding today and still came up blank. The honk-o-tonk of the raindrops on the roof’s corrugated sheets increased in tempo and became a blur, a constant drone that, intriguingly, receded into background silence like that of office air-conditioning. He wanted to tell the man not to bother taking his shoes off but instead replied the question, “Yes, she’s ready.”

     On the man’s second visit the undertaker had shown him the machine. It sat in his basement, a not-so-secret subterranean extension he had dug up when his wife, God rest her soul, complained that his business was making the neighbours uncomfortable. That just the other day Mrs. Ogbomo had smirked at her, asking what her husband prayed for during church service; whether they prayed for business to be good. He had to admit he had found it incredibly funny. On that visit he led the man down the short flight of steps, unconsciously sweeping at the now absent cobwebs he had swept soon after the man’s first visit.

     “There it is.”

     The man took a step forward and leaned into the upright, redlined box of gleaming masonia wood. “How does it work?”

     “It’s a pump. It pumps, through those needles you see at the bottom, my special chemical around the body constantly replenishing and changing the fluids. And that bottle of reddish goo, that’s the chemical mix. I’ve coloured it red so that the subject retains his, sorry, her complexion as it was in life.”

     “Have you ever tested it?” the man asked.

     “This is the second one I have built. The first was for my wife. After her suicide . . .”

     In grief it seemed both men understood themselves perfectly. The undertaker saw, or thought he saw, understanding in a slight movement of the man’s shoulders. He saw the man’s eyes turn away from the red inner lining of his brand new eterno-meter (yes, people, that’s the name of the machine) and flicker back at the machine. Yes, the man understood grief.

     Yes, she’s ready.

     The man came into the light. The centre of the room where they had first met eight days ago. He looked worse. The rivulets of rain slowly sunk into the fabric of his expensive wool jacket. What would have otherwise been his big hazel eyes had taken on an air of death, eyelids halfway down, the irises red-rimmed.

     “How was the funeral?” the undertaker asked.

     “Like I said, the family had no idea the casket was empty. The funeral went well.”

     A moment of silence passed. Both men stared at the unopened six foot long box in front of them.

     The man nodded and the undertaker understood. He opened the lid of the coffin.

     The man gasped. He leaned forward into the light and said, “She’s so beautiful . . .”

     She was. Her pale skin pulsed in time with the small droning pump just on the other side of the red lining. Imperceptible changes in colour that the unconscious human mind registers as signs of life. Her eyes were open and fixed. The whites impossibly white, the irises . . . A deeper shade of brown than they had been in life.

     “Did the chemical do that too?” the man asked.

     “No. I tried but preserving the eyes is extremely difficult. Those are glass. Actually it’s impossible to preserve the eyes to the standard you wanted. There’s a reason why market women pricing fresh fish always check the eyes for milkiness.” The undertaker had this irritating habit of rambling into trivia whenever he felt nervous. “I hope it is to your satisfaction.”

     The man nodded and replied with the question, “Was the money you received to yours?”

     “Very much so, sir. Thank you.”

     But the undertaker knew the man had stopped listening to him. The undertaker watched as the man leaned into the coffin.

     A kiss.

     A kiss on warm pulsating lips. The undertaker could hear the man gasp. For joy. It was good that the undertaker used the body as the heat dissipater – the radiator, so to speak – for the machine. The eterno-meter was a wonderful machine.

     A blur of motion.

     Warm goo splashing on the undertaker face, breaking his thoughts. He refocused his eyes and saw what the man was doing. What the man was saying.

     The man had a long suya knife in his right hand. And with each slash and each stab the man spoke.

     You think say you smart?
     You thought you could take this easy way out!
     Bitch. Whore. Twenty years of torment and then you die in you sleep?
     No, you’ll suffer every week, every visit, until I die.
     For what you did to me. For what you did to her.

     The undertaker screamed; for his work, and jumped at the man’s shoulders grabbing his right arm from behind.

     The man struck him across the face with the back of his left hand and threw the undertaker to the ground with such force that the poor grey-suited fellow slid across the floor on his wash-and-wear clad bottom and bumped his head against a wall.

     He came to exactly four seconds later. The man flashed the blade, dripping goo, across the undertaker face. The man’s eyes were dead now, sunken and dead. His breadth smelt like tobacco and a brothel’s spittoon.

     “You are going to fix her? Nod if you understand. Yes, you’re going to fix her every week. A visit a week. You’ll be paid well. Just like this time. Nod if you understand.”

     The undertaker felt his head shaking up and down. But he froze when he heard what the man said next.

     “You said you built the first machine for your wife. Take me to her, now.”

     The undertaker whimpered as he was pulled up and dragged down to the basement. He pointed at a corner to the man and slumped down when the man dropped him. His head hurt. He stared as the man went over to the box that contained his wife, the cream-lined one.

     The undertaker’s heart broke when he heard what the man whispered, what he said as he took the undertaker’s wife’s face in his hands, hands that were dripping with the red goo, “You should have waited. You should have waited. Now she’s dead and it’s too late. You should have told me about that phone call. What did she say to you, Martha? That I wouldn’t leave her because you were pregnant? (The man was crying uncontrollably now.) You should have waited, Martha. We would have left both of them together.”

"Till Death" was first published by African Writers here.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Enthusiastic Copywriter Wanted

Karl Moore, CEO of The WCCL Network  is looking for a copywriter. Here is what he wrote in a popular writing blog's forum.

You will need to have a lot of initiative, and be able to go running with a very lightweight specification! We need around 90 promotional messages created (30 over three months), to be sent out to our various mailing lists -- containing special offers and other information. We will provide some of the basic information, and you will be required to fill in the blanks and produce a (short) work of art!

Required: Casual writing style, intelligence, initiative. Not required: Divas.

Drop me a line with samples at karl@karlmoore.com if you're interested!

For more info, click here.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Invisible Borders...

“Invisible Borders” is a reference to the non-geographical demarcation, but rather that which could be easily missed especially if looking at the lines in the map, or flying over by air. The most essential aspect of the project is not the final destination, but the journey; therefore the participating photographers will produce works in form of photography and video while on the go which will be exhibited during the main events of the Festival in Bamako. The project was initiated by Emeka Okereke.

Participants include: Uche James Iroha, Lucy Azubuike, Emeka Okereke, Amaize Ojiekere, Uche Okpa Iroha, Ray Daniels Okeugo, Unoma Geise, Chris Nwobu, Nike Ojeikere and Charles Okereke.

Borders Involved: Nigeria/Benin (Seme), Benin/Togo (Hillacondji), Togo/Ghana (Aflao), Ghana /Burkina fasso (Hamele), Burkina Fasso/ Mali.

Follow the progress of the Travels here. Also join the Facebook group "Invisible Borders 2009" to have a glimpse of images.

Inspiration: project was Inspired by the 8th edition of the Bamako Photography Encounters 2009, 10 Nigerians made up of photographers and writers decided to make a road trip to Bamako from Lagos: in a black Volks Wagen Mini bus rented from Photo Garage in Lagos. This project arose as a result of an urgent need to address the notion of dividing borders between countries in the African continent. It might sound paradoxical that while travelling by air might seem a lot faster and much more stress-free, it indeed suggests a feeling of immense “distance” between places, given that one might call the singular borders suggested by the airport terminals as “virtual”, not tangible, providing a rather fictitious notion of displacement in real time; more so due to the absence of land scapes and other elements which serves as visual testimony to distance covered. Therefore this project is an attempt to acquire a much realistic sense of the similarities and difference between peoples suggested by cultural and geographical lines.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

11th Lagos Book and Art Festival

The 11th Lagos Book and Art Festival is holding November 13 – 15, 2009 at the National Theatre Complex, Iganmu Lagos.

The Festival will feature exhibition by Bookshops, Publishers, Libraries and "freelance" individual exhibitors; a huge Art Fair featuring a variety of works by galleries, art-dealers and individual artists; live music, dance, drama and live performances.

FRIDAY, November 13 will feature events such as Mentoring Kids by Eugenia Abu at 11 am, followed by Children Craft Workshops, Play Groups and Performances. The final stage of the Book Trek: the Quest for the Most Literate Student holds at 2pm and will involve the review and the discussion of various books.

SATURDAY, November 14 will kickoff with Conversation: Lagos in the Imagination (3) with extensive references to Isi Joy Bewaji’s Eko Dialogue, Tejo Cole’s One Day is For The Thief, Odia Ofeimun’s Lagos of the Poets and Sefi Atta’s Swallow. There will be a Publishers Roundtable: Why I Publish What I Publish from 2pm to 4pm. Festival Party celebrating Segun Sofowote@70, Frank Okonta@70, Sammy Olagbaju@70, Tunji Oyelana@70, Mahmoud Ali Balogun@50, Nobert Young@50, Afolabi Adesanya@50, George Uffot@50, Edmund Enaibe@50, Kunle Adeyemi@50 will start at 5pm with music by Fatai Rolling Dollar.

SUNDAY, November 15 will open with a Youth Conference: Creativity and Empowerment, featuring a panel of young creative artists and art managers; convened by Positive Development Foundation and Youth Bank. Art Stampede will come up at 1pm.

Telephone: Toyin Akinosho 08057622415 and Kafayat Quadri 07029025583

Email: stampedecorang@gmail.com

Click here and here for more information.