If you write political fiction then you must expect complete strangers to grill you on any subject that crosses the collective transom. And if you’re carrying any African DNA, you’re doomed to read newspapers on a daily basis.
I noted this with the sad life of Wole Soyinka, Nigeria’s 1986 Nobel Prize-winning writer. His eyes are hooded with fatigue. For any incident on which every vital and important person in Nigeria has already commented, the media hurries off to Wole for a quick quote. He is the voice of progressive Africa, whether or not progressive Africans agree with him.
In my own community – i.e. amongst my circle of three or so friends and their extended network of two others – I have become Female Wole.
Two months ago, I got a concerned nose in my face, so close its owner’s features blurred right out of focus. “How do you feel about the deaths in Zot?”
One eyebrow up in amazement. I’m impressed that she knows of this small village on the outskirts of Jos, Nigeria. Now, unfortunately I’ll have to look it up. “It’s an utterly perplexing situation involving very complex conflicting interests.”
Doing Dangerously Well, by Carole Enahoro, Random House Canada, 480 pages, $32
With The Blur’s facial muscles looking ready to reengage, I throw in some risk prevention. “I’d be interested to hear an outsider’s opinion, however.”
“It’s heartbreaking. I heard Jos was a lovely city but now… I mean, hundreds dead in outlying villages!”
Good information. I used to live in Jos. It’s my favourite city. This is devastating news. “Well, let’s be accurate. Reported dead.”
“Ah, yes. Of course. Could be many more. Tell me, why there is so much religious conflict in that area?”
“It’s a question of politics and economics, not religion.”
“Ah. Point taken.”
“But please, let me not interrupt.”
“I suppose I’m just shocked at the carnage! Why?” Direct look at Female Wole.
I move to axioms. “Simple problems are like fresh weeds – easily uprooted. But the roots of violence are deep and densely entwined.”
A frisson of collective fascination.
“I feared as much,” The Blur whispers in a despairing hush.
I glide over to the egg cress.
The trouble with Nigeria, a country with over 150 million people and 500 languages, is that news never stops.
“What do you think of good luck?”
An innocent enough question. But my inquisitor’s enlarged pupils and shallow breathing warn me of trouble.
“I believe that fresh plants are easily uprooted.”
My interrogator’s shoulders slump. “He won’t make a good president, huh?”
I throw my head back in a roar of extended, unsettling laughter. It’s a delaying tactic as I’m nowhere near Wikipedia.
A gasp. “Oh, you think because Goodluck Jonathan’s from the Delta area, he won’t last? I didn’t consider that!”
I glide over to the egg cress.
Most unfortunately, I have a friend who reads about seven newspapers daily, any number of specialist websites and a carload of weekly journals. She considers me her most intimate source on any issue faced by any nation, town or tiny village in the 53 or so countries that make up the entire continent of Africa, all questions concerning water politics, as well as a host of other concerns I can’t even pronounce. I haven’t really bothered to disabuse her on any account.
She always starts with an “I’m sure you’ve heard…”
“I’m sure you’ve heard about the Nile crisis.”
“An utterly perplexing situation involving complex conflicting interests.”
“Where do you think it’ll all end?”
“What do you think? As an outsider, I mean?”
“It’s unbelievable because it’s all in your book!” She also said this about string theory. “But in this case…”
Sentence ends. Why has she stopped speaking after saying nothing? She searches Female Wole’s eyes for an answer.
I whip out a generalization. “The situation seems beyond resolution…”
“No it isn’t!”
A daring contradiction! Pitiful smile. Knowing nod.
She softens. “Sorry. Joke, right? I guess I’m overreacting. It’s just that I can’t see why Egypt and Sudan still expect eight upstream nations to beg permission to use the Nile. I mean, they only own those waters because of some ancient colonial pact!” Oh, finally, she’s got some information for me. Now that I can’t use it.
“The roots of the colonial past are deep and densely entwined. They can’t be uprooted like fresh weeds.”
“So you think that there will be conflict over the Nile? I too worry about war.”
Long, rich laughter. I almost choke. “Africa is a continent. Not a country. We have to start from the basics.”
She grabs my arm to stabilize herself, overwrought with emotion. “You express the truth so succinctly.”
“It’s my job. To make sense of facts. That’s what writers do.” I squeeze her hand.
Eyes hooded with fatigue, I glide over to the egg cress. In my next novel, I plan to relinquish political themes in favour of the more demanding topic of sandwich choice within the catering industry.
Carole Enahoro’s debut novel, Doing Dangerously Well, is in stores now.
