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Three Reviews | Olúwatúnmiṣe Ọ̀tọ̀lórìn Akìgbógun

Three Reviews | Olúwatúnmiṣe Ọ̀tọ̀lórìn Akìgbógun

Three Reviews| Olúwatúnmiṣe Ọ̀tọ̀lórìn Akìgbógun| Afrocritik Prize for Criticism

Olúwatúnmiṣe Ọ̀tọ̀lórìn Akìgbógun is the first runner-up for the 2024 Afrocritik Prize for Criticism

His Only Wife by Peace Adzo Medie 

The opening line of Ghanaian Peace Adzo Medie’s 2020 novel His Only Wife: “Elikem married me in absentia; he did not come to our wedding”, is as arresting as they come. We are at once intrigued by what is to follow. Afi, our narrator, and Eli’s “only wife”, talks us through the peculiar nature, dynamics, and consequences of her arranged marriage with Elikem, the son of her mother’s benefactor, Aunty — whom Aunty is convinced has been put under some love jùjú by Muna (infamously known to them as “the other woman”). A spell she’s very much both optimistic and certain Afi’s devoted marriage to Elikem can break. We follow this union from its inception until it fractures and dissolves. 

One of the book’s saving graces is its language. Thanks to the prose’s style and lucidity, the reader gets the impression they’re seeing a drama. Occasionally, the narrative runs conversational courses, as though one’s listening to a stranger tell their life story. Only, this is one of the book’s weaknesses, too, as, unlike works that discipline themselves to employ and retain showing as a technique throughout their narrative courses, unchecked heart-to-heart accounts tend towards telling as a narrative technique, bugging the novel’s progression. Seldom does this stylistic choice do justice to the presentation of fully realised, complex characters, and there’s a slew of underdeveloped and undeveloped characters. 

Most of the characters read like caricatures, cliches, with no touch of personality in the least. Uncle Pious, for one, although plausible for readers in similar societies as Afi for whom the existence or knowledge of opportunistic relatives are no news, lacks a defined personality throughout the book. His actions, his speech, and his inactions are very much set, unsurprising but effective nonetheless in getting the reader to be perpetually cross with him, and these go on to show him to be a classic example of a staple character. 

There’s also Aunty, who we hear so much of but see so little. For instance, we are told by various characters that Aunty’s children greatly fear her, we are even told by Evelyn (another daughter-in-law) that Richard (her son) would get off her in the middle of copulation should his mother call for him. Yet we never really see her in action. We never see her compel any of her boys to follow through with something she wants for any of them.

Evelyn, who is supportive of Afi, and soon after they make each other’s acquittances become something of her sole solace, also falls partially into the Uncle Pious condition: her exchanges sound stock at times, lacking something vital that the author wouldn’t give or the character wouldn’t manifest. It is a fate shared, too, by Afi’s cousin, Mawusi, as a character. The idea of Evelyn’s character is nonetheless a very plausible one, a point proven occasionally by the warmth of her presence, so to speak.

Muna, whose character was placed at the periphery for almost all of the novel, yet who we never really get to meet as intimately as befitting a character of her repute. In fact, some readers, such as this writer, might have anticipated alternating viewpoints between Afi, Muna, and perhaps Eli  (if the author had wanted to be more ambitious with the narrative). Although the decision of unfolding the narrative through Afi’s viewpoint can be countenanced by a supposed desire on Medie’s part to explore a subject of this nature through the eyes of the aggrieved party so as to be better able to present the extent of wrongdoings suffered by Afi; it is ultimately an insufficient device for the novel’s possibilities. If the author had wanted to stretch the narrative power and stamina of the novel and the achievement of a richer, more complex tapestry of the interior and exterior lives of at least the major characters, the aforementioned three characters should all have taken the central stage. Afi’s mother even, who like Afi, had moments of ingenuity and dynamism, remained for a great part an underdeveloped character. 

The prose had the potential to be a genuinely good novel, solid examples are the book’s opening line and occasional bursts of graceful sentences scattered throughout the novel’s breadth. But this potential seems to have been stifled for the most part, either by Medie’s or the novel’s dynamics. Take sentences like this, where Afi has been forced (more or less) by Yaya, her sister-in-law, to a party ‘with her posh friends’ and Afi is in the middle of drawing mental comparisons of the parties she had been to in Ho, her village and ‘this rich-people party’ that lacked all the essentials for making a party great: “But our parties had a lot of dancing… Dancing until fatigue set in, or inebriation took over, the kind that caused people to stagger to the music and wake up from deep sleep the next morning, still on the dance floor.” There’s a tenderness and authenticity in this passage that strikes the reader not with the presentation of insight but with an instance of the author and the novel simply bearing witness to an occasion of human camaraderie and that in itself being sufficient.

There are stabs at humour, too, in His Only Wife, such as the exchanges between Afi and her husband: 

‘‘‘I’m fine.’ he would usually say without lifting his eyes from his work, ‘don’t worry yourself, get some rest.’ 

But how could I rest? Resting would cost me my marriage, my husband. There could be no rest.” 

Afi’s weighing of what lies at stake in this scene, as she does often in the book, and her precise conclusion makes one either smile wryly in something of a quiet solidarity with her plight or simply laugh at it, at her, and at the futility of her endeavours to please the man who does not know what he wants to want. 

There are occasional bursts of brilliance in the dialogue, too, especially after the book’s first half. Particularly the scene where Afi calls her mother to inform her of Eli’s departure: 

“He has left.” 

“What do you mean he has left?” 

“He’s gone back to the woman.”

“Afi, you don’t listen! What did you do?” 

That entire exchange brims with life. It’s ridden with tensions that won’t rest or go away. One reads through it either patiently, savouring each response because it’s carefully and excellently crafted or with that electric greed at reading something so effortless, striving to relish the passage as best as possible. I doubt there’s another in the book that rivals its brilliance. Most of the others either fall into pathos, read like a stifled exchange, or ring artificial at some point. 

I would’ve said the last 3 chapters of the book were unnecessary: Afi is thriving in all regards, except that convenient placing of Muna’s encounter with Afi for the last chapter. Afi’s myths of Muna’s ugliness and perversity, and  Eli’s new faithfulness to her are shattered here; however, that encounter is insufficient to justify the extra length. This convenient appending is another serious undoing of the novel. Because it is unclear why the writer should delay this for so long when we could’ve had it earlier, better utilised and executed. We witness, towards the end, double disintegrations: of the charade Afi has put up with for so long, as well as of the prose (either under the strain of the narrative’s propensities or as an intentional metaphor for the aforementioned collapse). 

For want of a better word, His Only Wife indeed sheds light on its topic to an extent. Although partially achieved by Afi’s detailed narration, Medie’s meagre insights on marriage, dynamics between men and women, benefactors and beneficiaries, and friends and lovers, all within the Ghanaian context, amidst other things, were made manifest through the trajectory and handling of the narrative for one, the frankness of the narration and Afi’s considerable growth which tempts comparison to Enitan in Sefi Atta’s 2005 novel, Everything Good Will Come. While not as radical as Enitan’s, Afi’s development and final decisions are nonetheless radical in themselves. Late? Perhaps. However one must remember that even the growth of everyday people takes considerable periods. All these were, as I mentioned earlier, manifested to an extent in her work. 

Medie’s keen examination of the domestic politics of particularised misogyny, the guises it assumes in societal mores and dynamics of it in societies, the socioeconomic realities that force one to settle for marriages that provide that much sought-after economic security that shapes the lives of some Ghanaian women: their friendships, their love lives, and marriages is punctuated with instances of brilliant executions and slobbering failure. Had the novel taken the time necessary to develop the bulk of its characters, invested more in the quality of these characters’ exchanges, and wielded telling alongside a balanced dose of showing, amidst other issues, then more justice would’ve been done to Afi’s story, elevating the novel from being a decent attempt, to something near a great novel. 

 ***

Dreaming of Ways to Understand You by Jerry Chiemeke 

Just pages into the short story collection, Dreaming of Ways to Understand You, we are confronted with a jarring scene, as though the author, Jerry Chiemeke, was declaring with both his twist and story that there is neither sweetness nor safety here. To borrow partially from writer and reviewer, Dylan Thomas’ comment on Amos Tutuola’s The Palmwine Drinkard, the first story in the collection, “Not For Long”, about an unhinged man who turns his online hookup date into something so horrendous the reader’s shock catches in the throat, suspended, is brief, grisly, and devastating. 

The narrator’s episodes of stream of consciousness in “What Am I Supposed to Say To You?”, a story about another young man in Lagos caught as a third wheel in a toxic relationship, crackle with effortless authenticity. It’s a wonder, and with narrow luck that Chiemeke can contain Nigerian realities in its variety in this story without straining the narrative and turning it into a column diatribe. The language is conscious and insightful. “Memories Floating on a Glass of Whiskey”, with its matter-of-fact tone, hints at the plenitude of the danger foreshadowed. Only here, the danger is rationed — we’re fed decent mouthfuls so we don’t gag. But even that is no guarantee for safety in this arena of serpentine prose, where a young man must confront his turbulent years of sexual assault and persistent abuse in boarding school when he returns there for a reunion.

“Pining For the Hands That Tied Me” reads as infantile and detached. The story is a couple of vignettes of a critical situation: Jessica, Justice R. A Smith’s only daughter, has been kidnapped before the story begins. Yet steps are underway, as they mostly are, to settle her captors. Only, the story’s wriggling towards its central subject matter of Stockholm’s Syndrome is an awkward one indeed. The diction is melodramatic at every turn: banal sentences are scattered throughout, the narrative voice strikes this writer as stiff, the characters unconvincing and reads like an early, unpolished endeavour of his. The rendering of the criminals’ motives is dull and cliched. Is this a pressing, plausible problem in Nigeria? Yes. Does his story present this to us via his characters and narration, convincingly? A definite no. Telling as a narrative technique plagues it, perplexing the reader as to why a story of this quality is in a collection like this. Jessica’s ululation at Austin’s death is a touchstone in cringe monologues. Empathy for her is non-existent in the reader. Ultimately, it’s a story beneath a writer of Chiemeke’s (whose some of his other undertakings in this collection stuns) talent.

In the title story, our unnamed narrator encounters a headline on Nairaland at once apt, sadder because it happens, and even funny for its absurdity: “Policeman shoots two fresh graduates returning from a party because their shirts looked too new…” At the heart of the story is our narrator’s erstwhile troubled relationship with Martha, a bipolar patient. For the most part, the story’s prose shines. We could feel in Martha’s moments of indecision and outbursts and empathy only real people and fully realised characters whose authenticity convinces us elicits from us. 

It’s a refreshing break that, unlike the previous stories, Chiemeke experiments with alternate viewpoints in an attempt to enrich the story in “The Road Gets Thirsty, Too”. The characters, themselves on the verge of a bus trip, carefully introduced to us in this cautionary tale that bespeaks yet another of the numerous failures of the Nigerian society, are chatty and frank in their confessions about the random events in their lives, desires of their hearts, and secrets they would rather not share. The concluding part of the story falters largely in the face of its subject and reads as a preachy epilogue. It fails as quality prose, for at this point in the narrative one can almost feel the story’s tone transform into a decidedly missionary tenor, demanding social change subtly, by means of solemn satire. Yet, it succeeds as true state of affairs polemics that are tricky to present without falling into triteness. 

In “On Getting Around to Confidently Taking My Shirt Off”, Chiemeke explores gynecomastia and the fragile dynamisms determining mainstream masculinity in Nigerian society. It manages to be casual, mischievous, and perceptive.  The writer’s artistic ambitions happen upon the language-defying subject of slavery and its legacies in “The River Brought Us Here”, and whilst it could’ve been better executed (considering the enormity of danger of the subject), it is a decent attempt at reimagining the lives of dead slaves who perished during the Middle Passage and how the times have been for them.  In “Ugborikoko” we see Chiemeke at his most relaxed. Our narrator is as laid-back as the nature & dynamics of the story. With a breeziness that never undermines the story’s impact, our narrator reminisces on the rough life and street politics from his childhood as he contemplates his childhood crush. The Pidgin English employed is simply delicious to read: roving, effortless, gorgeous and something more. This is easily one of the collection’s best works.

See Also
Three Reviews| Daniella Oluwatomisin Kolade| Afrocritik Prize for Criticism

There’s Nigerianness in the characters’ language in each story in the collection. It sometimes rings artificial, such as the exchange between Melvin & the old woman, the dialogue in “Pining for the Hands…” But sometimes it is as effortless as they come: The third story where we encounter, in our character’s mischievous reverie, a couple making love banter in Igbo. The first is where our narrator comments “It’s actually club, not crub, but I hear you.”

As a work, Dreaming of Ways to Understand You is a coherent and near-superb collection. Chiemeke’s characters are richly varied. There are stories that are dispensable to the collection: (“Coming to Terms” and “Pining for the Hands…”). There’s a considerable amount of the stories that lapsed between decent prose and stabs at brilliance (“Not For Long”, “City on Fastforward”, “It’s All Periwinkles, Really”, amidst others). And there’s a considerable amount of stories here that were downright brilliant (“What Am I Supposed to Say…”, “Memories Floating…”, “On Mosalasi Street”, “Dreaming of Ways…”, “The Blankness I Wouldn’t Let You See”, and “Ugborikoko”). On the whole, the author is exploring the Nigerian context for instances with which to gain further clarity into the human condition. He has for the most part achieved vignettes, sometimes convincingly depicted, sometimes faltering, struggling to retain quality in prose and make incisive commentaries on the state of the nation, and sometimes stale like bad bread. If Chiemeke’s mission had been to write about Nigerians for Nigerians, Dreaming of Ways to Understand You achieved that to a significant extent. 

***

Affection and Other Accidents by Dami Ajayi 

“Introit” is brief, cryptic; a solemn opener into Dámì Àjàyí’s 2022 poetry collection, Affection and Other Accidents. We are, upon turning the page, thrust, without further preparations, into the title prose-poem. In five parts, Àjàyí presents us with an autopsy delivered in retrospect of an affection sinking. Fitting concise dissection of a relationship that it is, the language is lean, supple, and cuts to the quick whenever it chooses to do so. There’s something in these passages that impresses the writer, an assured master at the economy of his words: the intricacies of the diction, the casual incidents recounted with a kind of grace, the quality of the poetry in fruitful marriage with prose. Teased by these passages, we’re upon the first of five Interlogues: Interlogue I. 

In “Aubade to My Greying”, the poet’s persona’s tone hovers between mischief, frankness, and existentialism. It very much foreshadows the tendencies of the poems that are to follow. Towing similar routes, whilst exploring the fleeting glory of youth and escapades enjoyed in it, the workings of the persona’s strained affection with his beloved, the devastating intrusion and impact of the Covid-19 pandemic on personal and global levels, amidst other subjects dominate the subsequent poems.

In Interlogue II, there’s more reckoning from the persona about the souring love relationship. The interlogue’s contents confirm any assumptions one might have had in regard to the interlogue’s epigraph: “It is still surreal/ that you did me dirty/ in five cities.” In “Mary’s in India”, wrath is our persona’s first resort: “Mary/ the sun will rise & set on you alone today.” Repeated three times, a chant, it closes with something similar: “Mary,/ the sun will rise &/ set on you alone always.” The vulnerability and fury in the poem that gives this poem its very pulse, exposes something of the poet’s persona as an aggrieved “victim”, which he alternates between throughout the collection’s course and from which he regards more than half of the poems, in the accidents presaged by the collection’s title and somewhat implicates its readers as probable culprits to the same vice. It finds its place early in the collection, as though, to make a written document and version of the persona’s internal stages of grief, of the turmoil which he tries wrestling with at many turns in the collection, striving for clarity, closure on the affair that just ended. 

A striking portrait makes up “The Waiting Room” (the only exception in the part of sometimes furious, sometimes morose polemics at the beloved), and here the poet presents premature grief, contorting the mind and its own form before the occasion has risen. In Interlogue III, there’s even more reckoning to do. This time, not only in the disturbed affection but in childhood “innocence veiled by a gossamer of ignorance” as well, as in “A Ghazal For My Innocence.” There’s an ode to Nigerian poet, Gabriel Okara as well, with that repeated feral line, suggesting a pun: “Where beauty is song”.

There are snatches of sly humour in the collection as a whole, but this Interlogue in particular bares itself to belie the gravity of the subject at hand. Take the second stanza of “Funeral Dressings” for instance: “My nan is dressed/ like an English bride with white platform shoes,/ perhaps to irk her long-gone husband/ at her second & final wedding”. Humourous because of the structuring of the language, the slight hesitation in drawing the conclusion and the comparison between the poet’s persona’s grandmother’s funeral and something of a grand wedding ceremony is effective in its mission of marrying precision with impact. And often than not, such is its impact, that it’s either the case that the reader sighs long and hard in resignation at the recognition of the condition treated in this poem; or the reader nods in response to the sealed statements, amused at the comparison and generally wondering what it’s about death and dealing with it that sly humour, as is the case here, seems to be one of the few resorts available to the grieving. Subsequent stanzas of the same poem ply similar paths in their delivery. Humour, it strikes the reader, contains the impact of grief and its reckoning personally.

“Acne Vulgaris” reads as a lapse (either intentional or not) by the poet from the cutting, glorious poems that proceed it into something of an insipid piece. “Epitaph” in the nature of epitaphs, employs detached and faux philosophical language. Mundane statements are, for the most part, passed as the final word. Interlogue IV, like its direct predecessor, diverges into a scorned lover’s wrath, an intimate requiem, and a musing piece on the ways of the world. 

One of the things Àjàyí does well is how he can reinvent his influences’ influence (so to speak) in his poetry. He acknowledges it, then audits it to serve his purposes, so effortlessly it might as well have been his originally. He polishes the influences and articulates what he has to say in novel ways.

With Interlogue V, the poet starts to bring the collection to a close, and yet the ghost of affection haunts the poems. All poems here, with the exception of “The Twins of Wembley”, regard and interrogate what has become of the relationship in its collapse, and that which has become of the poet’s persona. In “This Academy Called Life”, the poet’s persona delivers the final word, after contemplating on the intricacies of time, on the troubled affection whose legacy has smeared/influenced a good bulk of the poems that people the collection: “and I pray to time: please be kind this time/ keep the ease of this affection,/ make it endure the ennui of a lifetime.” 

Àjàyí’s mission with Affection & Other Accidents, if the blurb’s contents are anything to go by, is to present an unravelling relationship, through lyrical poems and something more. This, he succeeds greatly at, with very minute exceptions. One of his saving grace is that he wields his poetry like a master butcher does his prized dagger. His form, his diction, and his final words (pardon my overuse of the word) occasionally rupture something in the reading heart of the reader and then suture it just with the same adroitness. Like a book of prayers with each prayer carefully structured, Àjàyí’s collection understands the hallowedness of the subjects he treats and administers it with great care, expertise, and justice.

Olúwatúnmiṣe Ọ̀tọ̀lórìn Akìgbógun writes in English and Yorùbá. He is a German major at the University of Ibadan. He lives with his family in Ìbàdàn. He is currently brainstorming novel ideas. In his leisure, he can be found dreaming of visiting bookstores to indulge himself with masterpieces or listening to Nina Simone like no one’s business, all the while wishing he could be raptured on some obscure isle. He admires Toni Morrison and Ben Okri as a side hustle. His writing has been published in Efiko Magazine.

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