Huey Percy Newton. Revolutionary Suicide.

[BUMPED: I just re-read this joint and was reminded how good it was]

Updated: Here's an online copy, Huey P. Newton "Revolutionary Suicide" (download)

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Original Post 8/19/07: Anyone know: is this joint out of print? Cause I don't have $100 to spend on a book right about now... [amazon]

[continued...]

Interview with Chinua Achebe.

Achebe laments: We’ve lost our Africanism. Achebe’s verdict:Young African writers have done well.

To mark the Golden Jubilee anniversary (which begins this weekend) of the publication of the classic - Things Fall Apart – the quartet of Okey Ndibe, Joyce Ashuntantang, Sowore Omoyele, and Oyiza Adaba had a session with the author, Professor Chinua Achebe. It is vintage Achebe, the master story teller himself.

Congrats, Professor Achebe, on the 50th commemorative year of Things Fall Apart. Let’s begin with a somewhat predictable question. When Things Fall Apart was published fifty years ago, did you ever suspect that it would travel as much as it has throughout the world?

Of course not. There was nothing like it that I knew about. I did not know very much about writing or publishing. There was no plan. It happened, and thinking back now, I can theorize that the story wanted to be told at all costs, and why it chose me to tell the story, I don’t know. It could have been anybody else, the story would have been different, of course, because every person has his or her story. This is my story, and it wanted to be told.

It’s remarkable that you should make that point about the story choosing you. On the way here, I was telling Professor Abunaw that Things Fall Apart is the kind of novel one would expect a novelist in his 50s or 60s to write. It’s not the kind of novel you’d expect a young man at 28 to have written—and that’s exactly how she explained it, that the novel must have come to you. It’s intriguing that you speak about this mystical connection, that the story made itself a sort of gift to you. Could you talk about what inspired this novel?

Well, what you just said about my age; this is itself part of our story. What colonization did to us was to remove power from the elders and pass it over to children. This is what European education meant for us. I don’t know what other place had this experience of having children, because they went to school, giving them power over the elders to determine what was going to be what. And so that’s part of the reason why it was someone very young. My father could not have written it. There were things, many things that he knew that I didn’t know, but scribbling a story was not one of the things he knew. This is one of the major weapons with which, if you like, we were disorganized, or if you prefer, one of the weapons that enabled us to pick up the fight. The generation that should have done the fight had been disabled.

There’s a paradox in the fact that your generation was one of the first to be inducted, as it were, into Western education and Western letters. Part of the drama is that the British who colonized us said that Africans had no story, no history. It was conceivably possible for the colonialists to separate people like you from any form of interest in your history. Instead, what contact with Western ideas did in your case—and in the case of many other African writers—was to engender this hunger, this desire to tell your story. Could you speak to that tension between Europe’s impression that you had no history and your insistence that you had a story and you were going to tell it?

Yes, well I’ll tell you another story. James Baldwin and I were invited to speak at an African literature conference somewhere in the South, and what Baldwin said in talking about me to the audience is that “This is a brother I had not seen for 400 years,” and people laughed. And he said that it was not intended that he and I should ever meet. That’s what you asked me. Part of the center of the plan was that we should not know each other. So that’s why our task is, in my view, so very important: that in spite of that intention to keep us apart, there will be some people who would refuse and insist on knowing their brothers and sisters who had been sold away and lost. There are some people who knew that it was important to discover them, and I’m not talking in the past, because the problem remains. There are so many of us on both sides of the Atlantic who do not know the importance of that recognition, that this is my brother, this is my sister, that their story is the same as my story. Whatever variations, it is basically the same story.

TFA has become a story in itself, it’s in fact garnered many stories. Could you speak to some of the ways in which the novel has surprised you, some of the stories that it has brought to you since its publication 50 years ago?

Well, off the cuff, if you like, one of the first comments I had from children reading it, from students, came from students from a girls’ school in Korea. The whole class of 30 plus wrote a letter each to me and their teacher sent it all. I learned that my story was also the story of Korea, at least as these children saw it. Some of them were very angry that I killed Okonkwo and they thought Okonkwo should have been spared to succeed. They didn’t want him to fail. So that’s one sort of way out…I had never been to Korea, I didn’t know their history, it was these children who told me, “Oh, we were colonized by the Japanese.” And so that similar but different incident of colonization was the thing that held us together. And I’ve discovered that the whole life of the world is full of that kind of similarities and that people can use if they want to make themselves brothers and sisters of other people.

I do know that TFA has been translated into more than 50 different languages, so it’s clearly a novel that has resonated around the world. Have you been keeping count, do you know how many languages TFA has been set in now? I also understand that there is an Igbo translation that is in the works; could you speak to that as well?

Oh yeah, unfortunately I have not been very well treated by my original British publishers, especially after the first generation—the people I met—after they passed on or left or retired. The new generation came and took over. I remember my publisher, my old publisher, telling me that we had been taken over by accountants, and so relations have not been very good. This has to do with suspicion about how what I was being told, under-accounting, which they have admitted and made efforts to correct. But then you say well, if there was an error in this one that I saw, what about what I have not seen? Can I send an auditor to your place to go through and find out? Oh no, they will not allow this. So I don’t know [how many translations]. I can only say “They told me.” Or “This is what I heard.” The relationship has not been as good as it should be. In spite of the great success of the novel, which you’ve referred to—you, would think that the relation between the writer of that story and those who published it would be very close. Unfortunately, we live in a world of accountants.

Could you speak about the Igbo translation?

Well, the Igbo translation which you are talking about is probably the one I promised to do (laughter). Well, I understand that there have been translations and so on. So I expect that in the end there will be many translations. But the one I promised to do would be my own version, which I expect would justify itself when it comes out. The book is almost like a mysterious presence, and to be able to take back from English to the original language in which the events happened – the events happened in a language – to do that journey back—because I had sort of taken the story from its roots and created a language, a dialect of English. This was my own invention. This I can now see, because I kept worrying about what word would suit what, I kept worrying about how you translate a proverb so that its dignity would be maintained. I have worried about all those things and now I know why. It’s because I wanted English and Igbo to hold a conversation, and see how you can tell a story that happened in Igbo in this dialect of English. Now I want to go back and do it the other way and see what happens. Again like before I have no idea whether it would work or not.

Are you embarked on it, or is it, as it were, on your table of things to do?

I’ve started.

How long did it take you to actually write TFA?

Well, something like two years. Yeah, about two years.

And I take it you wrote everything by hand?

Yes.

Did you consider any other titles other than TFA?

Oh, I may have, but once I encountered the Yeats’ poem—“Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold;/Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,”—once I encountered that I knew that was it, I had to take it for the title of Things Fall Apart. It presented itself.

How many copies of the original written manuscript did you make, since it took you two years? Did you do two copies, or just one?

I did one copy. I made corrections and if I felt a page was too heavily changed, then I would change the page altogether.

How much editing did your manuscript receive from you? Do you remember any significant incident that you wrote in and edited out?

No, this is 50 years ago. I write very carefully. I wrote very, very carefully, particularly at that beginning of my career. I knew that the language was extremely, extraordinarily important. And if I wrote anything that didn’t quite fit, it told me so immediately. “This wouldn’t work.” You read it and if it’s not so suitable, you keep worrying it until it works. So it’s difficult to answer, you know, the specifics of what exactly did I edit out. But each time I included a word or a sentence or an idea that was contrary to the spirit of the story or to the meaning of the story, [the story] told me itself. I didn’t need an editor. I didn’t really learn anything about form from my teachers. And in a way, that was as it should be, because there was nobody who could have told me how to write Things Fall Apart. It was so peculiar to me.

Do you have any remnants at all of the process of writing TFA, any one paper that has survived 50 years, lying somewhere from that period?

Oh, there may be. There may be. One thing you must remember is that my history has been quite chaotic, for different reasons. The first chaos was the Biafran War, the civil war—and the coup before it actually. And there is the fact that we abandoned our homes. My ancestral home was destroyed, and now I am not at home, I operate from America. So I don’t know what is there, that’s what I am telling you. I don’t know what is available. It’s possible that someday, somewhere I’ll run into this manuscript that we are looking for.

Q: Why did Professor Thomas Melone [a late Cameroonian academic who borrowed the only existing complete manuscript of TFA and never returned it] request the manuscript, and did you know him personally?

A: Well he made himself very friendly. He came to see me because he was writing a book, which was about Yeats. And he was a very pleasant man, I must say. He asked me to loan this manuscript to him, and I must say I did not have very much respect for manuscripts then. I really had no sense of it…Once you finish writing something, it’s over. And I also do not like a lot of paper all over me, but now I know the value more than I did then. So anyway I did give this manuscript to Melone and then he just vanished. We were actually in [United] States at the same time, but he wouldn’t reply letters, and so it became clear to me that he wanted to hold on to it for whatever it was worth.

Q: If the manuscript were recovered today, where would you want it preserved?

A: You know, many of my manuscripts are held at Harvard now, but that’s probably part of my disenchantment with what happened to this manuscript. I think I would say, if it happens let’s look at it at that point—and not to say “Take it here or take it there.” But if I had my way, the manuscript should be in Nigeria. But to do that would be to burn it because people don’t know the value, the facilities would not be provided. So we’ve got a lot of work to do before we can put our house in order.

Q: If you had a chance at revising Things Fall Apart, where you would your ax fall?

A: I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t bother with revising.

Q: Not even the incident with Chielo that some of us think that maybe...

A: Well many of you may think whatever you like (general laughter). Yeah, I mean have been told that I was a chauvinist. So people have different readings, but I trust the book, that it has enough spiritual power that it took care of many things that people may not yet understand. So I would leave it exactly as it is.

Q: If you were to be a character in TFA, which one would you be?

A: There isn’t one that is fully me, because I want everyone to be different there. And so there are parts of me in different people. Perhaps the most moderate one, because moderation is important here. Okonkwo is a man of excess. I respect him as a hero, but a flawed hero. But very interesting, nevertheless; that’s why he is famous. Now, his friend, Obierika, is more moderate, the kind of person who would keep the house in order. And so if I had to be one person, if it’s not Ezinma it probably would be Obierika.

Q: One of the most important questions is about the influence of this book in terms of maintaining our culture and our language. Do you find that, as Africans, we are losing our touch with our language and culture?

A: Yes, obviously this is one of the major—maybe the top—problems that colonial rule has left for us. So, you have to learn somebody else’s language, and if you wanted to be educated then that was the language you were educated in. That story we know very well. There is no point in going over it now, or in fact weeping over it. I think we should just go to work, find a way to curtail some of the harm that has been done to us, and move on, as Americans would say.

Q: What are your views about the African diaspora, the Africans living abroad? Are we living up to our full potential, are we doing what we’re supposed to be doing?

A: Well, I referred to this issue earlier on. What we lack is a full understanding of who we are. And until that is absolutely right, until we understand that we are one person, that when we don’t talk about the diaspora, that wherever you find this diaspora, whether it is in America, in Brazil, in Africa itself, wherever—it is the same story that they have. It is the story of the Trans-Atlantic slave trade. So wherever you see an African diaspora person, you know this is a victim, like myself, of that event. Until we realize how thorough and complete it was planned to be—Baldwin said it was never intended that he and I should ever meet, not to talk about discussing anything. So we have a long way to go in the diaspora getting our story straight. If the story is not straight, then we will not be straight.

Q: What do you think of today’s writers, the young African writers coming up today?

A: Well, they are great, they’re good. There was a time when it seemed as if the thing was drying up. But anybody who knows about art would have known that it was waiting for something to happen. I don’t know what it is, but we seem to be back at work.

Q: Do you have any personal favorites?

A: Well I wouldn’t mention any, because I would forget my best friends…but since one of them is here, Okey Ndibe is here, that’s a member of this generation. In fact, there are now more than two or three generations since my time. I think this is something that will go on.

Q: What does Nigeria mean to you?

A: Nigeria is home. First of all, that’s what it means to me: it’s home. It’s a very frustrating home, a very annoying home, but it is my home. And if I had my way, that’s where this interview would be happening. But since it’s not gone that way, you know, I don’t believe in weeping over something. I think it’s more effective, more useful, to find what you can do rather than what you can’t do. So, Nigeria has such a wonderful possibility built into it, but it’s something it never uses. Talent. It would rather use a half-baked person rather than someone who is highly qualified. But that’s the country I’ve got.

Q: Any regrets about not receiving the national honors?

A: The reason I didn’t receive national honors is that I didn’t want to receive national honors from Nigeria as it was, and perhaps maybe still is today. I was tired of hoping that someone would come up who would understand the value of the position that we’ve earned because of our education, or leadership, or whatever, and to apply it to make our people happier and more prosperous.

Q: What kind of legacy would you like to leave behind? How would you like to be remembered?

A: Oh, just a nice guy. (Everyone laughs)

Q: Back to TFA, whose 50th anniversary we are celebrating in 2008. It seems to me that Okonkwo’s problem is also the predicament of his father, Unoka. We’re looking at a lack of balance, a lack of moderation—even though a man like Unoka has great wisdom. Could you speak about the place of balance in Igbo metaphysics, in Igbo understanding of the world?

A: Well, it is very, very important. It’s central to our thinking, and I think the Igbo convey it in many different ways. But the one that springs to my mind immediately is the statement that wherever one thing stands, another thing will stand beside it. That’s one thing and another thing, you see. Nothing stands alone. If you see something that stands alone, the Igbo people say “Run away,” because that’s the worst possible danger—this thing that doesn’t have anything near it, not even a necklace to keep it company. By itself: that’s the Igbo idea of evil. Alone, you see. So, it’s from there that the idea of balance comes. One thing is good but something else is also good. It says: become familiar with your home, but know also about your neighbors. The young man who never went anywhere thinks his mother is the greatest cook. That’s one thing they tell us. So balance is at the center of our idea of the good life; the good world is a world in which there are many kinds.

Q: The other thing is: you’ve been accused by some critics of harboring an unflattering view of women in your novels. But to go back to again the concept of balance, reading through TFA one sees the concept of spaces. We have male crop and female crop, male functions and female functions, ceremonies that are exclusive to women as well as ceremonies that are exclusive to men. And so it seems to me that there is a very intricate sense of balance in those arrangements. How do you see the place of women within the society you depict?

A: There is a misreading of my fiction in that complaint. I think many people think that what I’m doing is praising the position of women. It’s not; in fact, it’s very opposite. What I was doing was pointing out how unjust the Igbo society is to women. And how better to explore it than to make the hero of this story, Okonkwo…all his problems are problems to do with the feminine. There’s nothing else wrong with Okonkwo except his failure to understand that the gentleness, the compassion that we associate with women is even more important than strength. Now, people don’t understand why I am showing these women who are not in charge. I’m showing them that way because that’s how it is in this society I want to change. And that’s what Okonkwo was not able to learn, and I want others after him to learn it: that women, compassion, music…these things are as valuable—more valuable—than war and violence.

Q: One of the ironies is that Okonkwo the warrior misses out on two points. One is that the most important deity in this society, the earth goddess, is a female goddess. The other is that Agbala, the Oracle of the Hills and Caves which has supervisory powers over wars again has a female principle at its core. Okonkwo, who is an extraordinary warrior, doesn’t get that particular point and so continues to live under the illusion that the only thing that is important is the male and masculinity. Could you then talk about Unoka’s importance in TFA?

A: Well Unoka, if you like, you like you can place him with the women in the society. This is how Okonkwo saw him. But he’s a very decent and nice person. Not successful in the sense of wealth and resources, or ability to look after his family and live big. All these things didn’t work for him. One thing that worked for him was his flute, so in the view of the Igbo people he was a failure. And this is in fact where Okonkwo makes his biggest mistake, and Igbo culture is partly responsible because Igbo culture makes a lot of strength and power and success—and Okonkwo heard this from his society.

He heard it all the time, you know, this importance of strength and being manly and so on. Now Igbo society does not talk so loudly about the other side, but it talks gently. It’s there, but you’ve got to make an effort to listen to hear it. If you are wearing all these heavy things people wear in their ears nowadays, you probably won’t hear it. But in a gentle voice the society is saying, “But also remember your children, but also remember the women, but also remember compassion.” Why does it say, “Well if the gods have decided that this boy (Ikemefuna] should die, we can’t stop them but I won’t be there”? So cowardice is even a value. The Igbo society is saying that to Okonkwo. It is not only in the machete that there is virtue. There is virtue in sitting down quietly and contemplating.

Q: Unoka is something of a poet in a sense, certainly in his use of language. He is also a dramatist in the way he dismisses Okoye, his creditor. And there is something of a philosopher in him as well. In a sense, you’ve created an artist figure in him, a man who in a different time and society would sit down and write witty and interesting books—and be successful. But he lived in a society that required that, in addition to being a good artist, being good at your flute and music, you must also be a good farmer and brave warrior. Did you deliberately want Unoka to be that artist figure within this society, maybe a wise man, but wise in his own wretched way?

A: Obviously, yes. I mean that’s why he’s there, I guess. The way I write is not to say, “Okay, where is an artist figure to put in here?” The story dictates all that. Even what we call it, which is a way of defining in a precise way what is perhaps loose and vague and so on, about a character—all that is part of your story, your story-making. And I think one learns how to include them without even talking about them as if they were abstractions. This is what you find in a complete life, the life of a society that is truly alive.

Q: TFA has become the most widely read, most widely translated novel in African literature. Have you reflected at all on the impact that TFA specifically but also your total oeuvre have had on other African writers?

A: Yes. I haven’t given much thought in the sense of writing anything about it. For one thing, it’s a little risky, you know. Some people started talking about the Achebe generation. It’s not everybody who wants to be in the school of Achebe.
Some of my best friends became writers. I’m thinking particularly, for instance, now of John Munonye, who was my classmate. Now there’s a joke that was told me by another friend, Francis Ellah—about himself and John Munonye. Francis said they thought, after the publication of TFA, “Why can’t we be writing a novel, be novelists?” So they decided they were going to begin. So they bought lots of pencils and paper and they were to begin this weekend. And so John went into one room, Francis to the other, and they started writing. The way Francis put it, probably not exactly, was that by the end of the day he gave up and John continued.

Q: Interesting anecdote...

A: So it wasn’t even the younger generation. These were people of my own age. And many of them, quite a number, did take up writing, but of course they would write differently. And by the way, the generation of Cyprian Ekwensi was then the background, the older generation than ourselves. He had followed a different path in writing, but he was there. So it wasn’t altogether an accident. Amos Tutuola was there; again a different path. Some pundits said, “Oh that’s how African literature will be,” but no single person has ever copied Tutuola because there is just no way you can get it. That is his own. So we are lucky. There is really talent in our culture, a lot of talent, and it’s not an accident that Nigeria, in the past, has all these traditions – the Nok culture, the Igbo-Ukwu culture, the Ife culture, the Benin culture and all of them very rich. And all we need is to sit down quietly and make something of it.

Q: TFA and Okonkwo have been with us for 50 years. Has Okonkwo been living with you these 50 years, has he been with you, and how is he doing?

A: Yeah, it’s interesting how you put it. He has, and what I feel towards him is a sense of wonder and pity. Pity is probably not a good word because Okonkwo is a very dignified and proud person and would not like anyone to pity him. But I am sort of concerned that a major aspect of our human experience has to be suffering and failing to reach where you set out to go because of all kinds of things on the way. One day somebody came to me in the hospital after I had this accident, and the question he asked me was, “Why you? Why would this happen to you?” So I said—I didn’t think twice—I said to him, “Do you have an idea of somebody else to whom it should have happened?” What I was saying is that the world is tragic by nature. And that’s why tragic stories appeal to me, far more than happy and comic stories. Both the tragic and the comic are there in our lives, but somehow the tragic one, the Okonkwo kind of story, is the one that speaks most to us.

Q: You’ve made a personal effort to make sure we don’t forget the late poet, Christopher Okigbo, who was your close friend. Does Okigbo live on because of your efforts or because he left behind works that still speak to us?

A: My son was two years or three years old when Okigbo died, and when I came back – this is during the Biafran war – I just traveled from Enugu to my home to announce to my family that I heard on the radio that Okigbo had been killed. My son, Ike, said, “Daddy, don’t let him die!” The reason was that Okigbo had made friends with him. Okigbo had friends everywhere, children, old people. I remember that whenever he came to visit us, this little boy would hold his hand and try to break it and Okigbo would be pretending to be in pain crying. They would be struggling this way and Okigbo would say over his head, “Children are so wicked.” And so that’s the boy who said, “Don’t let him die.” I then decided to publish something called Don’t Let Him Die, an anthology of poetry by friends of Okigbo—or anyone who wanted to contribute. There was no plan which would work unless the subject, in this case Okigbo, had something of interest to say. His life was so romantic in a way, his life and death was so extraordinary. It just seemed so unlike anybody else you knew. So that’s the material for the kind of history that we have of him. But there is also the profound nature of his poetry. So it is both his life and his works.

Q: There’s the moment in TFA when the District Commissioner says the story of Okonkwo is interesting, but he wants to give it perhaps a paragraph in his own book. Did you consciously write that as irony…?

A: Yeah, I think so. I mean it’s clearly…it’s not very fine irony, it’s so crude.

Q: You think it’s crude?

A: Yeah, for the man who said it. But that’s how they figured out the colonial subject.

Q: I read your bio and you were a very savvy young man, the way they described you in those days in the 70s, the way you dressed, and all that. When I heard of this accident, it’s been worrying me, and I’m sure it’s worried a lot of your fans: What exactly has this accident meant to you as a writer and person? Do you think you could have produced more than you’ve done…?

A: Well, it’s done those things you’ve just indicated. I was telling you the story of the fellow who said, Why should it happen to me? And my answer is “Why not?” And that’s really what I believe. Look at my fiction. Okonkwo is strong-headed, and wouldn’t listen to advice, and it’s a trap. And what happens? He comes to a sticky end. Then I say, okay, let me try a different kind of African, an intellectual kind of person. So I go to Ezeulu in Arrow of God. He is a priest, a philosopher, and what happens to him? He comes to a sticky end. So there’s no way out. What came to us—in Igbo they say that what came to Nte—Nte is a small insect—the Igbo say that what came to it is bigger than it. What was caught in his trap – Nte went and set a trap – and something bigger than himself was caught in that trap. So what does Nte do? So there is no way, there is no short answer to the problem posed to us from the moment the initiative was taken from us and we lost our freedom and independence.

Q: How can literature illuminate the African—even human—crisis?

A: Oh, there were people who had a very, very rough treatment in the world. They are known as black people. And they were fighting or struggling to make sense of what happened to them. Someone said to them, “Why should this happen to you, why you?” And they said, “Well, that’s the way the world is.” We must find a way out, we must face this problem, face our history. When a people have a history that is embittered—Anthills of the Savannah—an embittered history, we’ve got a task on our hands. We’ve got a big task. And even Nigeria, impossible as it seems, we’ll someday get under control. We won’t keep having retired generals and so on much longer. The thing is not to lose hope. Despair is the worst possible suggestion. I think we must struggle and keep fighting.

Q: Over the next fifty years, will TFA continue to speak to us about this struggle?

A: Well if it does—I mean if you find it useful, but it’s not because I said so—it is simply that people found that it was speaking to them. If it stops speaking to people then people will stop reading it.

Q: When you were writing TFA, which was the day you felt, yes, this was a book and I trust it?

A: Well, I think it was the day I finished. But you see, the thing with writing, my kind of writing, is that you never really finish. When I thought I had finished, Bisi Onabanjo, with whom I was sharing accommodation in London—we both went to the BBC—and a friend—he knew I had this manuscript, and he said to me, “Why don’t you show it to this?” The man was a BBC producer who was a novelist, Gilbert Phelps. I was very shy, but Bisi kept saying, “Show him.” So after a while I took this manuscript and I told him I was writing. And he looked as writers look if you bring them a manuscript. He wasn’t hostile, but he wasn’t exactly impressive. But he accepted—very polite. Then Bisi and I, we went on some British Council tour of three or four days.

One day I came back from an outing and there was a message for me that said one Gilbert Phelps called and left his number. So I said, well, if he doesn’t like the book, would he make a phone call? Wouldn’t he wait for me to return? So maybe he likes it. So I would call him. That was the first response I had—and to cut a long story short, he liked the book. He recommended his publishers to see it. Meanwhile, his publishers saw it and they were ready to start. I said, “No, the book is not ready.” I had made a mistake in thinking that I could have three generations in one book. And yet it’s not a big book. So it is too thin to carry this weight. That version of TFA had Okonkwo, Okonkwo’s children’s generation, and a third generation—so bringing it to today. And now I realized just so suddenly that there are three books. The first part is Okonkwo. So that’s what I’m going to do. And then after that I’ll see what happens. And so I rewrote the book with this emphasis on Okonkwo’s generation, not his son. Eventually I wrote No Longer At Ease, the story of Okonkwo’s son. But what about my father’s generation? That one is still waiting to be done. So, see, there is no quick answer to your question. If it’s working, go on. If it’s not, then try something else.

Q: Of all your books, which one got you into the most struggle?

A: I think it’s A Man of the People. One day I came home – I think it was a Sunday actually, I went out and came back – I was then director of broadcasting. My staff, two young fellows from the North who were in charge of the Hausa Programs—they called me and they said, “Soldiers are looking for you. They said they want to see which is stronger, your pen or their gun.” So I picked up the phone and dialed Victor Badejo who was the director general. I said “Victor, what is this story?” He said, “Where are you?” I said, “I’m at home.” He said, “Take Christie and children and leave.” So I took my family, Christie

Why did Professor Thomas Melone [a late Cameroonian academic who borrowed the only existing complete manuscript of TFA and never returned it] request the manuscript, and did you know him personally?

Well he made himself very friendly. He came to see me because he was writing a book, which was about Yeats. And he was a very pleasant man, I must say. He asked me to loan this manuscript to him, and I must say I did not have very much respect for manuscripts then. I really had no sense of it…Once you finish writing something, it’s over. And I also do not like a lot of paper all over me, but now I know the value more than I did then. So anyway I did give this manuscript to Melone and then he just vanished. We were actually in [United] States at the same time, but he wouldn’t reply letters, and so it became clear to me that he wanted to hold on to it for whatever it was worth.

If the manuscript were recovered today, where would you want it preserved?

You know, many of my manuscripts are held at Harvard now, but that’s probably part of my disenchantment with what happened to this manuscript. I think I would say, if it happens let’s look at it at that point—and not to say “Take it here or take it there.” But if I had my way, the manuscript should be in Nigeria. But to do that would be to burn it because people don’t know the value, the facilities would not be provided. So we’ve got a lot of work to do before we can put our house in order.

If you had a chance at revising Things Fall Apart, where you would your ax fall?

I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t bother with revising. Not even the incident with Chielo that some of us think that maybe… Well many of you may think whatever you like (general laughter). Yeah, I mean have been told that I was a chauvinist. So people have different readings, but I trust the book, that it has enough spiritual power that it took care of many things that people may not yet understand. So I would leave it exactly as it is.

If you were to be a character in TFA, which one would you be?

There isn’t one that is fully me, because I want everyone to be different there. And so there are parts of me in different people. Perhaps the most moderate one, because moderation is important here. Okonkwo is a man of excess. I respect him as a hero, but a flawed hero. But very interesting, nevertheless; that’s why he is famous. Now, his friend, Obierika, is more moderate, the kind of person who would keep the house in order. And so if I had to be one person, if it’s not Ezinma it probably would be Obierika.

One of the most important questions is about the influence of this book in terms of maintaining our culture and our language. Do you find that, as Africans, we are losing our touch with our language and culture?

Yes, obviously this is one of the major—maybe the top—problems that colonial rule has left for us. So, you have to learn somebody else’s language, and if you wanted to be educated then that was the language you were educated in. That story we know very well. There is no point in going over it now, or in fact weeping over it. I think we should just go to work, find a way to curtail some of the harm that has been done to us, and move on, as Americans would say.

What are your views about the African diaspora, the Africans living abroad? Are we living up to our full potential, are we doing what we’re supposed to be doing?

Well, I referred to this issue earlier on. What we lack is a full understanding of who we are. And until that is absolutely right, until we understand that we are one person, that when we don’t talk about the diaspora, that wherever you find this diaspora, whether it is in America, in Brazil, in Africa itself, wherever it is the same story that they have. It is the story of the Trans-Atlantic slave trade. So wherever you see an African diaspora person, you know this is a victim, like myself, of that event. Until we realize how thorough and complete it was planned to be. Baldwin said it was never intended that he and I should ever meet, not to talk about discussing anything. So we have a long way to go in the diaspora getting our story straight. If the story is not straight, then we will not be straight.

What do you think of today’s writers, the young African writers coming up today?

Well, they are great, they’re good. There was a time when it seemed as if the thing was drying up. But anybody who knows about art would have known that it was waiting for something to happen. I don’t know what it is, but we seem to be back at work.

Do you have any personal favorites?

Well I wouldn’t mention any, because I would forget my best friends…but since one of them is here, Okey Ndibe is here, that’s a member of this generation. In fact, there are now more than two or three generations since my time. I think this is something that will go on.

What does Nigeria mean to you?

Nigeria is home. First of all, that’s what it means to me: it’s home. It’s a very frustrating home, a very annoying home, but it is my home. And if I had my way, that’s where this interview would be happening. But since it’s not gone that way, you know, I don’t believe in weeping over something. I think it’s more effective, more useful, to find what you can do rather than what you can’t do. So, Nigeria has such a wonderful possibility built into it, but it’s something it never uses. Talent. It would rather use a half-baked person rather than someone who is highly qualified. But that’s the country I’ve got.

Any regrets about not receiving the national honors?

The reason I didn’t receive national honors is that I didn’t want to receive national honors from Nigeria as it was, and perhaps maybe still is today. I was tired of hoping that someone would come up who would understand the value of the position that we’ve earned because of our education, or leadership, or whatever, and to apply it to make our people happier and more prosperous.

What kind of legacy would you like to leave behind? How would you like to be remembered?

Oh, just a nice guy. (Everyone laughs) Back to TFA, whose 50th anniversary we are celebrating in 2008. It seems to me that Okonkwo’s problem is also the predicament of his father, Unoka. We’re looking at a lack of balance, a lack of moderation—even though a man like Unoka has great wisdom. Could you speak about the place of balance in Igbo metaphysics, in Igbo understanding of the world?

Well, it is very, very important. It’s central to our thinking, and I think the Igbo convey it in many different ways. But the one that springs to my mind immediately is the statement that wherever one thing stands, another thing will stand beside it. That’s one thing and another thing, you see. Nothing stands alone. If you see something that stands alone, the Igbo people say “Run away,” because that’s the worst possible danger—this thing that doesn’t have anything near it, not even a necklace to keep it company. By itself: that’s the Igbo idea of evil. Alone, you see. So, it’s from there that the idea of balance comes. One thing is good but something else is also good. It says: become familiar with your home, but know also about your neighbors. The young man who never went anywhere thinks his mother is the greatest cook. That’s one thing they tell us. So balance is at the center of our idea of the good life; the good world is a world in which there are many kinds.

The other thing is: you’ve been accused by some critics of harboring an unflattering view of women in your novels. But to go back to again the concept of balance, reading through TFA one sees the concept of spaces. We have male crop and female crop, male functions and female functions, ceremonies that are exclusive to women as well as ceremonies that are exclusive to men. And so it seems to me that there is a very intricate sense of balance in those arrangements. How do you see the place of women within the society you depict?

There is a misreading of my fiction in that complaint. I think many people think that what I’m doing is praising the position of women. It’s not; in fact, it’s very opposite. What I was doing was pointing out how unjust the Igbo society is to women. And how better to explore it than to make the hero of this story, Okonkwo…all his problems are problems to do with the feminine. There’s nothing else wrong with Okonkwo except his failure to understand that the gentleness, the compassion that we associate with women is even more important than strength.

Now, people don’t understand why I am showing these women who are not in charge. I’m showing them that way because that’s how it is in this society I want to change. And that’s what Okonkwo was not able to learn, and I want others after him to learn it: that women, compassion, music…these things are as valuable—more valuable—than war and violence.

One of the ironies is that Okonkwo the warrior misses out on two points. One is that the most important deity in this society, the earth goddess, is a female goddess. The other is that Agbala, the Oracle of the Hills and Caves which has supervisory powers over wars again has a female principle at its core. Okonkwo, who is an extraordinary warrior, doesn’t get that particular point and so continues to live under the illusion that the only thing that is important is the male and masculinity. Could you then talk about Unoka’s importance in TFA?

Well Unoka, if you like, you like you can place him with the women in the society. This is how Okonkwo saw him. But he’s a very decent and nice person. Not successful in the sense of wealth and resources, or ability to look after his family and live big. All these things didn’t work for him. One thing that worked for him was his flute, so in the view of the Igbo people he was a failure. And this is in fact where Okonkwo makes his biggest mistake, and Igbo culture is partly responsible because Igbo culture makes a lot of strength and power and success and Okonkwo heard this from his society. He heard it all the time, you know, this importance of strength and being manly and so on.

Now Igbo society does not talk so loudly about the other side, but it talks gently. It’s there, but you’ve got to make an effort to listen to hear it. If you are wearing all these heavy things people wear in their ears nowadays, you probably won’t hear it. But in a gentle voice the society is saying, “But also remember your children, but also remember the women, but also remember compassion.” Why does it say, “Well if the gods have decided that this boy (Ikemefuna] should die, we can’t stop them but I won’t be there”? So cowardice is even a value. The Igbo society is saying that to Okonkwo. It is not only in the machete that there is virtue. There is virtue in sitting down quietly and contemplating.

Unoka is something of a poet in a sense, certainly in his use of language. He is also a dramatist in the way he dismisses Okoye, his creditor. And there is something of a philosopher in him as well. In a sense, you’ve created an artist figure in him, a man who in a different time and society would sit down and write witty and interesting books—and be successful. But he lived in a society that required that, in addition to being a good artist, being good at your flute and music, you must also be a good farmer and brave warrior. Did you deliberately want Unoka to be that artist figure within this society, maybe a wise man, but wise in his own wretched way?

Obviously, yes. I mean that’s why he’s there, I guess. The way I write is not to say, “Okay, where is an artist figure to put in here?” The story dictates all that. Even what we call it, which is a way of defining in a precise way what is perhaps loose and vague and so on, about a character—all that is part of your story, your story-making. And I think one learns how to include them without even talking about them as if they were abstractions. This is what you find in a complete life, the life of a society that is truly alive.
TFA has become the most widely read, most widely translated novel in African literature. Have you reflected at all on the impact that TFA specifically but also your total oeuvre have had on other African writers?

Yes. I haven’t given much thought in the sense of writing anything about it. For one thing, it’s a little risky, you know. Some people started talking about the Achebe generation. It’s not everybody who wants to be in the school of Achebe.
Some of my best friends became writers. I’m thinking particularly, for instance, now of John Munonye, who was my classmate. Now there’s a joke that was told me by another friend, Francis Ellah—about himself and John Munonye. Francis said they thought, after the publication of TFA, “Why can’t we be writing a novel, be novelists?” So they decided they were going to begin. So they bought lots of pencils and paper and they were to begin this weekend. And so John went into one room, Francis to the other, and they started writing. The way Francis put it, probably not exactly, was that by the end of the day he gave up and John continued.

Interesting anecdote...

So it wasn’t even the younger generation. These were people of my own age. And many of them, quite a number, did take up writing, but of course they would write differently. And by the way, the generation of Cyprian Ekwensi was then the background, the older generation than ourselves. He had followed a different path in writing, but he was there. So it wasn’t altogether an accident. Amos Tutuola was there; again a different path. Some pundits said, “Oh that’s how African literature will be,” but no single person has ever copied Tutuola because there is just no way you can get it. That is his own. So we are lucky. There is really talent in our culture, a lot of talent, and it’s not an accident that Nigeria, in the past, has all these traditions – the Nok culture, the Igbo-Ukwu culture, the Ife culture, the Benin culture – and all of them very rich. And all we need is to sit down quietly and make something of it.

TFA and Okonkwo have been with us for 50 years. Has Okonkwo been living with you these 50 years, has he been with you, and how is he doing?

Yeah, it’s interesting how you put it. He has, and what I feel towards him is a sense of wonder and pity. Pity is probably not a good word because Okonkwo is a very dignified and proud person and would not like anyone to pity him. But I am sort of concerned that a major aspect of our human experience has to be suffering and failing to reach where you set out to go because of all kinds of things on the way. One day somebody came to me in the hospital after I had this accident, and the question he asked me was, “Why you? Why would this happen to you?” So I said—I didn’t think twice—I said to him, “Do you have an idea of somebody else to whom it should have happened?” What I was saying is that the world is tragic by nature. And that’s why tragic stories appeal to me, far more than happy and comic stories. Both the tragic and the comic are there in our lives, but somehow the tragic one, the Okonkwo kind of story, is the one that speaks most to us.

You’ve made a personal effort to make sure we don’t forget the late poet, Christopher Okigbo, who was your close friend. Does Okigbo live on because of your efforts or because he left behind works that still speak to us?

My son was two years or three years old when Okigbo died, and when I came back – this is during the Biafran war – I just traveled from Enugu to my home to announce to my family that I heard on the radio that Okigbo had been killed. My son, Ike, said, “Daddy, don’t let him die!” The reason was that Okigbo had made friends with him. Okigbo had friends everywhere, children, old people. I remember that whenever he came to visit us, this little boy would hold his hand and try to break it and Okigbo would be pretending to be in pain crying. They would be struggling this way and Okigbo would say over his head, “Children are so wicked.” And so that’s the boy who said, “Don’t let him die.” I then decided to publish something called Don’t Let Him Die, an anthology of poetry by friends of Okigbo—or anyone who wanted to contribute.

There was no plan which would work unless the subject, in this case Okigbo, had something of interest to say. His life was so romantic in a way, his life and death was so extraordinary. It just seemed so unlike anybody else you knew. So that’s the material for the kind of history that we have of him. But there is also the profound nature of his poetry. So it is both his life and his works.

There’s the moment in TFA when the District Commissioner says the story of Okonkwo is interesting, but he wants to give it perhaps a paragraph in his own book. Did you consciously write that as irony…?

Yeah, I think so. I mean it’s clearly…it’s not very fine irony, it’s so crude.

You think it’s crude?

_Yeah, for the man who said it. But that’s how they figured out the colonial subject.

I read your bio and you were a very savvy young man, the way they described you in those days in the 70s, the way you dressed, and all that. When I heard of this accident, it’s been worrying me, and I’m sure it’s worried a lot of your fans: What exactly has this accident meant to you as a writer and person?

Do you think you could have produced more than you’ve done…?

Well, it’s done those things you’ve just indicated. I was telling you the story of the fellow who said, Why should it happen to me? And my answer is “Why not?” And that’s really what I believe. Look at my fiction. Okonkwo is strong-headed, and wouldn’t listen to advice, and it’s a trap. And what happens? He comes to a sticky end. Then I say, okay, let me try a different kind of African, an intellectual kind of person. So I go to Ezeulu in Arrow of God. He is a priest, a philosopher, and what happens to him? He comes to a sticky end. So there’s no way out. What came to us—in Igbo they say that what came to Nte—Nte is a small insect—the Igbo say that what came to it is bigger than it. What was caught in his trap – Nte went and set a trap – and something bigger than himself was caught in that trap. So what does Nte do? So there is no way, there is no short answer to the problem posed to us from the moment the initiative was taken from us and we lost our freedom and independence.

How can literature illuminate the African even human crisis?

Oh, there were people who had a very, very rough treatment in the world. They are known as black people. And they were fighting or struggling to make sense of what happened to them. Someone said to them, “Why should this happen to you, why you?” And they said, “Well, that’s the way the world is.” We must find a way out, we must face this problem, face our history. When a people have a history that is embittered—Anthills of the Savannah—an embittered history, we’ve got a task on our hands. We’ve got a big task. And even Nigeria, impossible as it seems, we’ll someday get under control. We won’t keep having retired generals and so on much longer. The thing is not to lose hope. Despair is the worst possible suggestion. I think we must struggle and keep fighting.

Over the next fifty years, will TFA continue to speak to us about this struggle?

Well if it does I mean if you find it useful, but it’s not because I said so it is simply that people found that it was speaking to them. If it stops speaking to people then people will stop reading it.

When you were writing TFA, which was the day you felt, yes, this was a book and I trust it?

Well, I think it was the day I finished. But you see, the thing with writing, my kind of writing, is that you never really finish. When I thought I had finished, Bisi Onabanjo, with whom I was sharing accommodation in London we both went to the BBC and a friend he knew I had this manuscript, and he said to me, “Why don’t you show it to this?” The man was a BBC producer who was a novelist, Gilbert Phelps. I was very shy, but Bisi kept saying, “Show him.” So after a while I took this manuscript and I told him I was writing. And he looked as writers look if you bring them a manuscript. He wasn’t hostile, but he wasn’t exactly impressive.

But he accepted very polite. Then Bisi and I, we went on some British Council tour of three or four days. One day I came back from an outing and there was a message for me that said one Gilbert Phelps called and left his number. So I said, well, if he doesn’t like the book, would he make a phone call? Wouldn’t he wait for me to return? So maybe he likes it. So I would call him. That was the first response I had and to cut a long story short, he liked the book. He recommended his publishers to see it.

Meanwhile, his publishers saw it and they were ready to start. I said, “No, the book is not ready.” I had made a mistake in thinking that I could have three generations in one book. And yet it’s not a big book. So it is too thin to carry this weight. That version of TFA had Okonkwo, Okonkwo’s children’s generation, and a third generation so bringing it to today. And now I realized just so suddenly that there are three books. The first part is Okonkwo. So that’s what I’m going to do. And then after that I’ll see what happens. And so I rewrote the book with this emphasis on Okonkwo’s generation, not his son. Eventually I wrote No Longer At Ease, the story of Okonkwo’s son. But what about my father’s generation? That one is still waiting to be done. So, see, there is no quick answer to your question. If it’s working, go on. If it’s not, then try something else.

Of all your books, which one got you into the most struggle?

I think it’s A Man of the People. One day I came home, I think it was a Sunday actually, I went out and came back – I was then director of broadcasting. My staff, two young fellows from the North who were in charge of the Hausa Programs—they called me and they said, “Soldiers are looking for you. They said they want to see which is stronger, your pen or their gun.” So I picked up the phone and dialed Victor Badejo who was the director general. I said “Victor, what is this story?” He said, “Where are you?” I said, “I’m at home.” He said, “Take Christie and children and leave.” So I took my family, Christie and the two children, got into the car and began to look for somewhere where we could hide. So that was A Man of the People. That was the closest.

Would you ever return to Nigeria? If yes, under what conditions?

Well, the conditions, I don’t really ask very much. What I would like to see is a situation in which if I wanted to buy an antibiotic or something, and I went to the pharmacy, it would be an antibiotic that you buy. And that all the doctors we train will not be leaving Nigeria and practicing in America and Britain and so on, but some would stay in Nigeria. Including my son, his whole class in medical school is here the entire class—there is not one in Nigeria.

If it were possible to return to life again, in what form would you want to return?

The same. [Laughter]. This is the one I know.

What do you think about Fela who had almost the same impact in terms of music as you’ve had in literature?

You know, he once said I was the only genuine professor. [Laughter]. Well I thought very highly of him. It’s a pity his life was so rough that he just couldn’t survive. But he delivered the message he came to deliver with his music. Like Okigbo, it wasn’t that he didn’t know that what he was going to do was very dangerous. He knew, and tried very hard this is very interesting for me to deceive me about where he was going. He told me he was going to Europe, because we were working together on publishing. If he had told me he was going to join the army, I would have said, “Well, have you thought about it, and what about our publishing?” So he told me he was going to Europe, and it was later I heard. By then he was already in uniform. I am not saying I would stop anybody from what they want to do, but I would say let’s discuss it.

You have people who influenced you in literature you’ve talked about Yeats’ poem. Who influenced you in your town of Ogidi? Who was the one trusted adult, or uncle, or friend you confided in? Or asked questions?

No, I didn’t have one adult that I confided in. The whole village was set up to be an institution. So that if you were just listening like children – you were not supposed to join in the conversation, but you would be around – and you would hear people, many of them. The people who impressed me were those who could just deflate a problem by their words, you know. I saw that several times. At one of the procedures for engaging a girl and then paying the dowry and all of that, if you listened to that…One day I heard a mischievous man say about a girl who was just about to be married—and he was telling those who were coming to marry her—that she has not been trained. “So when you go home you will start training her.” This was to harm the girl and her father. But an old man from the other side wouldn’t wait for the girl’s father to answer. The old man from the side that had come to marry the girl said, “Don’t worry, we have not been trained ourselves. Marriage is each one trains the other.”

When last did you read TFA, and did it surprise you in any way? Did you learn something from reading it?

A: I haven’t read it all that lately. What I’m doing now is not reading it really; it’s translating, which takes the joy out of reading. But when I dipped into it I dip into it I feel it’s all right. I think it said what it wants to say. If I make up my mind that I want to change it or to edit it, of course you would find something to do. You can change is to was. (Laughter). But it’s not in that caliber now. If there is any spelling mistake, it can stay. (Laughter).

(source | via Kintespace)

[continued...]

On: Afrocentricity, Diop, Egypt + scholarship.

[BUMPED: due to great comments]

A close friend of mine shared with me some of his thoughts on the recent post "The Fallacies Of Afrocentrism" and the response post from Kintespace, "Flippant Remarks about 'The fallacies of Afrocentrism'". His insight is both profound and invaluable. Hopefully we can encourage him to expand these thoughts into an article for the magazine. For me this conversation is important because identity is vital. I know and love too many folks who struggle with finding theirs and often get muddled in pseudo-science in trying to find themselves. We have a responsibility to make things clear. His thoughts gave me a greater understanding of my own identity in the context of ancient African civilization and reminded me that scholarship is a process to be engaged and built upon, not a dogma:

On Diop, his imperfections and continuing his work:
My opinion (w/ some disclaimers) is this: 1) I've not honestly read Asante or Karenga yet and,
2) Diop was Diop. He did his own research and worked and challenged scholars in the field during that day. Fact of the matter is though is that M. Diop made his transition in 1986. His students are Theophile Obenga (Congo), Aboubacry Moussa Lam and Babacar Sall (both Senegal). Obenga was with him in Cairo in 1974 (UNESCO "Peopling..."), and Lam wrote his dissertation on the migrations of the Peul from Kmt [Kemet/Egypt]. Also, Cameroon has an Egyptology program at the University out there at Yaoude.

His work was profound, largely true (though he made some mistakes) and seminal; but not expert. Diop had the equivalent of 2 PhD's (one in physics and one is history). He was an eclectic scholar. But, to my knowledge, he didn't start learning glyphs until the 1970s and there is never one instance in which he cites a text which he himself translated.

Diop's work (and he hinted at this by telling Obenga that he'd never write again the topic of Egypt as an African civilization if he felt he'd "won" in Cairo) was meant as a springboard. That's exactly what folk on the continent are starting to do now. It's exactly what we need. It's easy to take shots at Diop's work 50/60 years later when 1) That's not even the whole of his first work folk are reading in English and 2) It's his first work.

On Afrocentricity as "fallacy", ancient Egypt, humanity + scholarship:
Molefi Asante and others are irrelevant. If you're not doing research with primary sources, no right to speak. Of course, Africa is characterized by much, much more than Kmt, but Kmt was a part of it: and whether black folk came from there or not -- and there's not reason why African's on the continent would, as Ann Macy Roth states look to Kmt, because it's respected by the West, when they have little to no contact with the West (i.e. It shouldn't be in their oral histories, see Peul, Songhay, Baasaa, Wolof) -- we're still who we are (that is, human).

The point of reclaiming history is to know who we are and frame our existence (Furr's point about not taking pride in our ancestors was obviously asinine). If we don't expand the discourse about African history in a meaningful way; that is learning Arabic, saving those documents and researching Kmt, oral histories, meanings behind symbols, anthropological work on pre-colonial religious practices, etc, then we've missed the boat. The truth is always better than any fantasy we could ever kick up: we owe it to our children, ourselves and our ancestors to get it right.

Romanticizing about anything is backwards. Too many of us get caught up in focusing on white folk to the point that we lose ourselves and feel that we have to evoke civilization in order to feel human. White folk ain't that important; our children are. Asante needs to feel himself relevant, so he writes his own holiday into the historical narrative. Where's the scholarship in that?

Fact is though, if we don't do the work, then cats like him get to speak 1) because he is speaking, 2) because white folk like seeing it and, 3) because it's easy for white folk to beat down. Hence we get the short end of the stick by not hittin' these cats up -- intellectually. Just prove his points wrong and move on. Or don't bother and move on anyway. Asante will always find an audience though, even among black folks because there are people who need to feel -- there's a void there. Our responsibility is to take care of that -- it's what we've been trained to do.

We have to move beyond the discourse on Afrocentrism in our work. We can point it out as fallacious, but the work has to be geared to another frontier. Otherwise folks are speaking for "us" who are really in the end only speaking for themselves. It also gives white folk the tools to beat down our self concept in front of those among us who don't have the acumen to know better, which is the true shame in all of this.

On rural living and the need for direct identity:
As Diop continually reiterates, the point of historical research is the reconstruction of historical consciousness. Example: my most profound experiences in Senegal were in the village. If anyone wants to know how African we are, just talk so someone rural. It's seriously eery to hear something and literally feel like you're amongst family members. I can't explain it. My friend just got back from Guinea and was mentioning to me how folks there did the same song and dance (i.e. catch the spirit, fall out and be covered with cloths) rituals there as black folks here do in church. I think the ultimate point of understanding where you come from is to be, historically, but really through that, spiritually grounded. Not knowing where we're from creates a serious void. Folk can chose their own paths as they please, but it's the feeling connected to something that's key. Right now we're connected to a thing we don't want to be associated with, and that's a dangerous/suicidal combination.

[continued...]

An informal talk with Black Americans.

An informal talk with Black Americans (read/download)

[continued...]

Whiteness as property.

Whiteness as property (read/download)

[continued...]

The fallacy of "The Fallacies of Afrocentrism".

The brother at Kintespace spent good time and put together a concise piece breaking down the article posted the other day called "The Fallacies of Afrocentrism". He even called us (meaning me, since I don't represent everyone who blogs here and certainly not everyone who writes for the magazine) meddling for giving it space on the site -- which I take as the love of an older brother, especially since he took the time to break it down. And break it down, he did.

The reason I posted it in the first place is because I genuinely have "rough edges" on how I understand Egypt. Also, my experiences with the "theory of Afrocentricity" are bad ones that always come off as romanticized and cult-ish or fad-ish, which might render me reactionary in this area -- I admit. What adds to that, a "whole, half" of my direct family resides in Africa today and ironically they are the ones from who I get the least amount of "Afrocentricity" in the trademarked meaning of the term. Meanwhile, I definitely am reading as much as I can read and am admittedly still far behind. In that respect, articles like the one Grover Furr wrote do serve as a bit of mental sparring for me, because I want to feel accurate about my understanding of ancient African civilization, rather than romantic.

While I tend to ignore blatant attacks, I felt this brief perspective (I'll stop calling it an argument) had some genuine intention and function behind it because it seemed directed more towards the "theory of Afrocentriciy" then an attack on black Egypt. And I'm not too sweet on the theory of Afrocentricty myself, largely because I disagree with Molefi Asante that black people can't be free until they adopt this conscious theory, or rather this theory, consciously. I don't get how he claims to have founded afrocentricity and it annoys me to no end. I watched him disrespectfully debate Kwame Ture on this point over and over again. Ture, and since, I, maintain that being black and free, in many ways, only requires one thing, being... black.

I don't run from romanticism but I run from being imbalanced (within myself, not in my appearance to others) and I am admittedly leery of cultish atmospheres. I sense many of my peers feel the same way. (Do yall?) And this is a serious issue for this generation I'm of, as I feel it hinders any type of serious consistent collective organization -- lest we become a cult or (gasp) just another Africa medallion cliche/fad. Consider that posting an outgrowth of that dilemma.

I think I just ignored the outrageousness of the perspective and paid attention to the pieces or intention that I wanted to pay attention to, mainly the attack on the theory of Afrocentricty, which I have a personal problem with. Thanks so much Kintespace, for taking the time to engage. I think you helped provide balance and clarity while still being open. I really really appreciate it and was definitely not merely trying to get a rise out of anyone. Apologies if that was the perception. If our generation could have such a fluid understanding and integration of knowledge as you outlined below I think it'd serve us some good. Small things, like the reminder that Nefertiti or Cleopatra are more akin to a modern-day Beyonce, or the Michael Jackson reference you use -- "it is like arguing that Michael Jackson is not Black by studying his children instead of his grandparents and old Jackson 5 footage" -- those things are exactly the type of relevant points that strike a chord with me and empower me to be confident in my knowledge.

(Kintespace/Rasx) Flippant Remarks about “The fallacies of Afrocentrism”: I would not even bother recognizing this stale shit coming from some dude named Grover Furr, but those meddling kids at liberatormagazine.com took this stray cat in. So for their sake—nay, even their souls—let me run through this shit in my typical, Black, “half-assed” manner:

1. Afrocentrism seriously distorts Egyptian history. Egyptians were not “black” (Negroid) on the whole, though a few dynasties of rulers were. But Egyptians were also not racists, it seems, and people of different colors intermarried. We could do well to follow their lead in this!

There is no evidence that Nefertiti or Cleopatra were ‘black’, for example. Nefertiti was not “white” (i.e. European) either (Cleopatra was either 3/4 Greek or, perhaps, entirely so, not Egyptian at all).

Whenever some dude (and I use the Texan word “dude” deliberately) says the “Egyptians were not black,” this is the first sign of typical white-liberal, Pollyanna, American insulting laziness. So, yes, the ancient Egyptians were not wearing sagging pants and sporting huge Afros. Got it. Check. This also means that the Egyptians were not sporting Shirley Temple curls and other European recessive traits.

I am now old enough to understand that it is now the burden on the dude talking this shit to systematically reduce the life’s work of the scholar and scientist Cheikh Anta Diop to the absurd instead of making sweeping statements and depending on the ignorance of gullible modern Black people (which is something one can actually depend on these days—but not forever)…

The biggest reddest flag that tells me that I am dealing with an idiot is when they fail to follow the basic European rules of Egyptology and divide the Nile Valley cultures into “kingdoms”—the Old Kingdom, the Middle Kingdom etc. Whenever a Eurocentric appeal for “reason” is made they will often resort to skin color studies of Middle and New Kingdom specimens. To put this in American pop culture terms, it is like arguing that Michael Jackson is not Black by studying his children instead of his grandparents and old Jackson 5 footage.

Both Nefertiti and Cleopatra are not from the Old Kingdom. These are ‘modern’ Egyptians by my measure of Black time—the generations of Egyptians so reviled in the Book of Ezekiel. A rule of thumb is to take caution whenever you see a figure representing an Egyptian leader riding a chariot—this is equivalent of Anwar El Sadat stepping on an F-15 fighter. It is best to think of Nefertiti and Cleopatra as Beyonce or Paula Abdul. Me wasting my time trying to “prove” that these people were Black is falling into a typical trap (like the trap I am in right now) draining resources away from the vital activity of studying the Old Kingdom.

2. Greeks did not “steal” their culture from Egypt. In the ancient Mediterranean world, cultural influences moved around a lot.

This statement is absolutely true but, again, depends on the nubile breeding ignorance of the super-fine, young, brown, college girl seduced by this distraction. The Greeks were in awe of ancient African people. Their concept of divinity, “Zeus,” dined with the “excellent Ethiopians” in Homer’s Iliad. It is the largely Teutonic-descending, modern Europeans peaking in the 1800s that erroneously, strategically and deliberately credited the Greeks for everything useful in civilization.

This lie was essential to hold their imperial/colonial system together. The “honor” in this lie (that is still told to this day) is that it can be used to protect European children. It maintains their cultural/intellectual self-esteem at the expense of African children. I am quite aware just how strange that last sentence sounds to properly assimilated people of all skin colors—so do laugh when you must but this is very serious. It is important that so-called “Afrocentric” Blacks understand this. So the next time they get into a situation like the one Dr. Leonard Jeffries got himself in, they should know that they are asking Euro-Americans to ‘sacrifice’ their own children for the sake of African truth. To expect this from Euro-Americans is to completely non-comprehend the collective history of Europeans in the Americas.

3. The Egyptian rulers and their acolytes (like all the “-hoteps”, Imhotep, Ptahhotep, et al.) were an oppressive and exploitative aristocracy. Cheikh Anta Diop, whom Afrocentrists admire but, it seems, seldom read, has a very interesting review of Jacques Pirenne’s History of Ancient Egypt in one of his books. Diop comments favorably about Pirenne’s description of revolutions against the Egyptian rulers by lower-class Egyptians—something one would expect in an exploitative society. But the Afrocentrists who so admire Diop never mention this aspect of Ancient Egypt! In short, what they admire is the aristocratic, exploitative aspect of it.

First of all, Cheikh Anta Diop—whom I so greatly admire—married a European French woman. It is important to mention this in the current context. People are complex and multi-faceted. It is my task to actually find this “interesting review of Jacques Pirenne’s History of Ancient Egypt” since the source is not supplied.

But what may help the author is for me to mention this report from J.E. Manchip White, his book, Ancient Egypt: Its Culture and History:

The lot of the peasantry, the third class of commoner to be considered, was a hard one. In ancient Egypt the rich were very rich and the poor very poor. The condition of the peasant under the absolute monarchy of the Old Kingdom was particularly burdensome, so much so that a savage social cataclysm was provoked. A tiny oligarchy commanded the physical resources of a vast labor force, organized in permanent battalions of fifty or a hundred men. …The gangs may have represented family units. The Old Kingdom peasant was bound to the soil. He was transferred from one owner to another as part of the estate to which he belonged.

Now, based on my earlier representation of the Old Kingdom, it seems that I have a little problem here. But, then, reading on in the same European chapter we have this:

If the Cotswold labourer of a century and a half ago received a shilling a day for his services, it is unlikely that the wages in kind of the Egyptian peasant were more substantial. Yet the soil of the Black Land was not the most heartbreaking soil in the world to farm, the bad years were not harder to bear than they were elsewhere, the Egyptian landowner was not notorious as a cruel taskmaster. The peasant was in general a cheerful, indeed a gay person, not commonly stupefied by fatigue and brutalized by apprehensive fear. He had his songs, his pastimes, his children. Above all, he had the sun. The obligation which he owed his master was a reciprocal one, and he was sustained by the knowledge that he was a member of a sound and generally stable social organization. The tomb paintings which have immortalized his activities were not the expression of an arrogant and domineering power bent upon the subjugation of the lower classes. …The history of the Egyptian peasantry in its warm and sunlit retreat is singularly free from the brooding terror which oppressed the poorest classes of the neighbor countries of the ancient Near East.

Whenever a self-described “Black,” “Afrocentric” scholar depends solely on historical reports from Europeans about Africans, that scholar is in trouble—even when the scholar is Cheikh Anta Diop. This is why any interested person must make attempts to study the native language that the Africans wrote and spoke. Even when you do this you often have to depend on European sources. So, for me, it ultimately comes down to the memory of my soul. (Cynical people may bark here.) This is a subject that is beyond the scope of this Blog or the entire Internet so let’s move on…

My study of exactly how the Old Kingdom of ancient Egypt came to an end remains. The assertion that it fell under revolt for it own greed sounds like the end of central authority in pre-Napoleonic France. One area of investigation is the possibility that the fall came as a symptom that eventually led to the illness of the invading Hyksos.

4. “African culture” is not a unity: there are many, many cultures in Africa. Ancient Egyptians are not the ancestors, either culturally or genetically, of the peoples of West Africa or of the American black population.

-Moon-This statement is direct attack on Cheikh Anta Diop’s Pan-African theories leading to the Nile Valley Root. What is insulting and ignorant is that no time is taken to recognize Diop (here) and then make the respectful attempt to dismantle his theory—a great deal of it depends on “annoying” scientific evidence. What would have been creative and generous is to assert as well that the famous Greek intellectual root of “Western Civilization” is just like this supposed Ancient Egyptian one. This statement has the same seductive design as #2.

The last two assertions are not worth my time. They are not related to ancient Egypt or Cheikh Anta Diop. You are free to read the rest at liberatormagazine.com. I must admit that I am surprised that these remarks were given even 1 byte of space at liberatormagazine.com but now it renders clear to me what those meddling kids are aesthetically capable of… It looks like a typical attempt to appear to be “fair” and “balanced”—or perhaps “controversial.” It certainly worked on me… But, for me, only once… Now fade out this scene to the Scooby Doo theme song… Zoinks!

Whatever the nuance and finery we may have about “debating” this shit. The bottom line for me is that I would rather live in the “fantasy world” that has me descending from peoples of the ancient Nile Valley than the fantasy world designed for me by the collective European imagination—which is actually and literally for too, too many Black males a motherfucking prison cell at best and then the gallows pole…

So let’s run a little experiment to try to reduce me to absurd: let’s raise just three generations of African American girls and boys to “believe” the “false” assertion that they descend from the greatest civilization ever to exist on Earth. Let’s see what happens to these “unfortunate children”—let’s see what happens to the balance of world power… You wanna go for it? Hey! No cheating!
(source)

[continued...]

The fallacies of Afrocentrism.

Interesting. A Marxist/Labor-ist opinion on Afrocentrism. Pictured above is Molefi Asante, the self-proclaimed founder of the "theory of Afrocentricity".

The Fallacies of Afrocentrism: (Montclair State University | by Grover Furr)
A few days ago I posted an article I wrote back in '91 when the college's black student org. invited Leonard Jeffries to come to speak. In it I ran through, though very briefly (for space), some of the fallacies of Afrocentrism. Here is a little more about them, in no special order.

1. Afrocentrism seriously distorts Egyptian history. Egyptians were not "black" (Negroid) on the whole, though a few dynasties of rulers were. But Egyptians were also not racists, it seems, and people of different colors intermarried. We could do well to follow their lead in this!

There is no evidence that Nefertiti or Cleopatra were 'black', for example. Nefertiti was not "white" (i.e. European) either (Cleopatra was either 3/4 Greek or, perhaps, entirely so, not Egyptian at all).

2. Greeks did not "steal" their culture from Egypt. In the ancient Mediterranean world, cultural influences moved around a lot.

3. The Egyptian rulers and their acolytes (like all the "-hoteps", Imhotep, Ptahhotep, et al.) were an oppressive and expoitative aristocracy. Cheikh Anta Diop, whom Afrocentrists admire but, it seems, seldom read, has a very interesting review of Jacques Pirenne's History of Ancient Egypt in one of his books. Diop comments favorably about Pirenne's description of revolutions against the Egyptian rulers by lower-class Egyptians -- something one would expect in an exploitative society. But the Afrocentrists who so admire Diop never mention this aspect of Ancient Egypt! In short, what they admire is the aristocratic, exploitative aspect of it.

4. "African culture" is not a unity: there are many, many cultures in Africa. Ancient Egyptians are not the ancestors, either culturally or genetically, of the peoples of West Africa or of the American black population.

5. The whole "ice man-sun man" thesis of Francis Welsing is racist crap, without a shred of evidence to support it. Welsing seldom publishes her 'research'; same with Jeffries. I know: I've tried to get it; with lots of effort, I've gotten a very little bit. The infamous "Melanin" Conferences at which these ideas are promoted are virtually secret, their 'proceedings', if any, not available to anyone.

6. The premises of Afrocentrism are false and racist against blacks, among others.
* it is false and racist that anyone has any business taking "pride" in the "achievements" of one's distant ancestors, since intelligence, creativity, etc., are not inherited, and furthermore no one can take any credit for anything they have not achieved themselves. This is the case even if modern blacks were the descendants of ancient Egyptians, which they are not. Besides, if one takes credit for the "achievements" of one's distant ancestors, why not also assume the blame for the atrocities committed by the same ancestors?

* it is false and racist to say that "blackness", "melanin" (or "whiteness", etc.) confers intelligence, or any characteristics at all. If it were true, all blacks with any degree of white ancestry would be "sub-human" just as the "ice person" thesis claims