For many lovers of African literature, indeed, of African intellection, Pius Adesanmi does not need any introduction. Just google. But, well, he is my friend, and I was there in the audience when he delivered this superb keynote address at the recently concluded ALA conference in Dallas, Texas. Without much ado, please take time to read this beautiful piece. You'll be richly rewarded.
ENJOY
Face
Me, I Book You: Writing Africa’s Agency in the Age of the Netizen
Pius
Adesanmi
(Keynote
lecture delivered at the African Literature Association Dallas, April 2012.
Sponsored by the Graduate Students’ Caucus of the ALA)
I
owe the title of this lecture partly to the Nigerian poet, Amatoritsero Ede,
who recently “booked” a fellow Nigerian writer for “facing” him in a Facebook
spat and, partly, to my favorite palm wine tapper in Isanlu, my hometown in
Nigeria. Although Ede coined the brilliant expression, “Face Me, I Book You”, I
think the greater debt is owed to my tapper. I call him my tapper extremely
cautiously because he also tapped wine for my father for decades, becoming my
tapper only after Dad passed on in 2007.
My
palm wine tapper needs no introduction to you. You know him. He is an eponymous
subject, still very much part of whatever is left of the bucolic Africa “of
proud warriors in ancestral savannahs” which fired the imagination of David
Diop, Léopold Sédar Senghor, and others in the Négritude camp but irritated
Wole Soyinka, Es’kia Mpahlele, and other opponents of Négritude’s “poupées
noires” version of Africa to no end. You know him.
You
know him because his craft is ageless and has defied the frenzied and chaotic
wind of postmodernity blowing over Africa. Baba Elemu – that’s what we call a
palm wine tapper in Yoruba - is still alive and kicking in towns and villages
all over West Africa. Firoze Manji of Pambazuka once busted my West African
monopolist bubble by telling me that they also know the palm wine tapper in
East Africa. You know him.
You
know him because the fruit of his labour episodically irrigates your tongue
whenever summer research takes you to those parts of Africa where he still
plies his trade. His black and rusty Raleigh bicycle, the ageless gourds and
tired plastic containers attached to the rear end of the bicycle (carrier in
Nigeria), all bubbling and foaming in the mouth, and the dark brown belt of
reeds that has gathered mileage by taking his ilk up and down the trunk of palm
trees since Obatala got drunk in the mythic process of creation, are all
iconicities of a certain version of Africa that will just not go away. You know
him.
In
addition to this generic portrait, my own palmwine tapper is always a vital
source of reconnection with my roots during summer vacations in my hometown.
Connoisseurs of the matter at hand know only too well that nothing beats the
early morning harvest, especially if it comes undiluted with water. That is why
the palmwine tapper has to beat even the most auroral farmer to the belly of
the bush. The palm tree knows how to reward the tapper who sets forth at dawn.
Whenever
I’m home, the pact between my palmwine tapper and me ensures that he wakes me
up around 6 am on his way back from the bush with my own reserved portion of
“the usual”. I suspect that one of his kegs was named for me or I was named for
it as Achebe was named for Victoria, Queen of England. He filled it faithfully
every morning and his “akowe, mo ti gbe de o” (Book man, I’ve brought your
wine) was my muezzin’s call to prayer. My mum would grumble that I now wake up
to the call of palm wine. Whatever happened to the Pius she raised to wake up
to the Angelus and morning mass?
I
did not hear my tapper’s call to prayer on this particular day in the summer of
2008. The jarring clang of TuFace Idibia’s “African Queen” – I’m sure you all
know that song – was what woke me up. One of my nieces in the village had been
kind enough to set the said song as my ringtone. Ladies and gentlemen, please sing
with me: “You are my African queen/the girl of my dreams/you take me where I’ve
never been”. That was Idibia crooning in my cell phone. Who could be calling
that early in the morning? I concluded that it must be some silly friend back in
Canada or the US who’d forgotten the time difference between Nigeria and North
America. I hissed and fumbled for my phone in the greyish darkness of the early
morning and the voice that came from the other end made me jump up in bed.
“Akowe!”
“Akowe!”
That
was my palmwine tapper phoning me – wait for this – from the bush! As I later
found out when he returned from that morning’s sortie, he was calling me from
the neck of one of his trees. He wanted to let me know that delivery would be delayed
that morning and I may not get my regular quantity of “the usual”. Funny things
had happened to his gourds. I understood. In the village, strange spirits
disguised as villagers sometimes climbed trees to help themselves to the fruit
of another man’s labour. It was all part of the territory. I told him not to
worry. I would accept whatever he was able to supply.
Then
it hit me like a thunderbolt! The familiar and the strange. The uncanny. Try to
imagine an elderly palm wine tapper atop a palm tree in the village, reaching
for his pocket to fish out his blackberry in order to discuss the laws of
supply and demand with a customer whose father he had also served decades
earlier under a totally different economy of meanings and you will understand
why that event, in the summer of 2008, marked a turning point in my attempts to
fashion new ways of listening to so many new things Africa seems to be saying
about her historical quest for agency – a quest that has lasted the better part
of the last five centuries .
I
also began to think seriously about how the new economies of agency emanating
from Africa pose serious challenges to the work of the imagination in the
postmodern age of social media and immediate communication. In thinking along
these lines, I haven’t been too far away from the epistemological challenges
which confronted another thinker, another place, another time. I am talking of
Walter Benjamin’s attempt to grapple with the rise of the image – film and
photography – and its impact on the work of art in his famous essay, “The Work
of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction”.
The
Age of Mechanical Reproduction? That’s so dinosaur now! Perhaps you will agree
with me that until a blackberry joined the arsenal of tools and implements that
my palm wine tapper took atop his trees every morning in Isanlu, he belonged in
a habitus of tradition governed by those mytho-ritualisms of existence which
has led to tensions in the arena of historical discourses and
counter-discourses about Africa’s agency. My palm wine tapper sans his blackberry comes from the world
we have come to associate with Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart -
especially the world as the people of Umuofia knew it before Obierika’s famous
metaphor of the rope and the knife - or Birago Diop’s Breath – where we must “listen
to things more often than beings” in order to hear the voice of fire,
water, wind, and bush.
This
is the world of cosmic equilibrium to which the poet persona in Abioseh Nicol’s
poem, “The Meaning of Africa”, returns after ironically escaping the world of
the cold northern sun which gave my palm wine tapper his blackberry. You will
recall that after loving the sophistication of Dakar, Accra, Cotonou, Lagos,
Bathurst, Bissau, Freetown, and Libreville, Abioseh Nicol’s poet persona was
advised to:
Go
up-country, so they said,
To
see the real Africa.
For
whomsoever you may be,
That
is where you come from,
Go
for bush, inside the bush,
You
will find your hidden heart,
Your
mute ancestral spirit.
The
story of agency as it relates historically to Africa is easy to narrate from
this point. Europe encountered this Africa of “mute ancestral spirits” and
“hidden hearts”, called her horrible Conradianly dark names, and proceeded to
deny her agency through a series of historical violations and epistemic
violence, which bear no rehashing here. As disparate and contested as they have
been, Africa’s and her diaspora’s epistemological responses to these violations
have been fundamentally about the recovery of agency.
We
named these responses Négritude, pan-Africanism, cultural nationalism, decolonization,
just to mention those. In the process of articulating these robust responses,
Wole Soyinka and Eskia Mpahlele may have gone after Senghor; Ali Mazrui and the
Bolekaja troika may have gone after Wole Soyinka who, in turn, went after some
of them as neo-Tarzanists; Mongo Beti may have gone after Camara Laye for publication
of work not sufficiently anti-colonialist; and Obi Wali may have gone after
English-language dead-enders, opening the door for Ngugi wa Thiong’o’s
decades-long crusade against Europhonists, I don’t think that anybody would
quarrel with my submission that these tensions and disagreements are more or
less what the Yoruba would call the multiple roads leading to the same market.
That market is the recovery of the self, recovery of agency.
In
the stretch of essays and books from “Dimensions of African Discourse” to The African Imagination and, lately, The Négritude Moment, Abiola Irele has
done remarkable work mapping the evolution of and the tensions inherent in
Africa’s counterdiscourses of self-recovery. Writing from a different
philosophical perspective in the essay, “African Modes of Self Writing”, Achille
Mbembe takes a somewhat dismissive tack absent from Irele’s work but
nonetheless identifies three historical events – slavery, colonization,
apartheid – as fundamental to the two currents of discourses and processes of
self-recovery that he identifies as central to the question of agency:
Afro-radicalism and nativism.
What
is interesting for me – and I believe for numerous readers, critics, and
followers of Mbembe – are the weaknesses he ascribes to both traditions of
discourse in his attempts to problematize them. To Afro-radicalism, he ascribes
a “baggage of instrumentalism and political opportunism” and to nativism he
ascribes a “burden of the metaphysics of difference”. I wonder what my brother,
Adeleke Adeeko, thinks of that particular critique nativism but I digress.
My
reading of Mbembe’s essay has shifted over the years from a fundamental
disagreement with his characterization and insufficient contextualization of
Afro-radicalism and nativism to what I am beginning to think are gaps and
silences in his critique of the African imagination. These gaps and silences
pertain to the very nature of Africa’s agency even within the ideological
politics and the economies of self-recovery in the African text. For we must
ask: what sort of agency does Africa really acquire in Négritude and cultural
nationalism? I am talking about the version of Africa which Chinua Achebe,
Senghor, Birago Diop, Mongo Beti, Ferdinand Oyono, and Abioseh Nicol rescued
from Europe’s post-Enlightenment philosophers and colonialist writers. Which
agency does Africa acquire in the texts of these shons of the shoil?
Which
agency does my palm wine tapper acquire as he moved from Conrad to Achebe? I
think his transition is a move from being silent and unspeaking in one textual
world to being rescued but spoken for in another textual world. One world gives
him to us in body parts, capable only of dialects or incomprehensive babble,
tapping a horrible alcoholic brew consumed by lazy natives in irrational
quantities, an activity he gets to perform only if he escapes poisonous snakes,
lions, and hyenas. Another textual approach restores the cosmic harmony of his
world, the ancestral dignity of his work, and treats his product, palm wine, as
worthy of the elevated cultural registers and aesthetic apprehension that
Africa’s violators would normally reserve for merlot, cabernet sauvignon, or
pinot noir.
The
flora, fauna, and seasons of his world, especially the palm tree, also become
subjects of elevated aesthetic treatment. If, as Adam Gopnik, the Canadian
essayist for The New Yorker, assures
us in his Massey lectures, the Romantic imagination elevated winter and ice to
art and aesthetics, Achebe and his contemporaries would do much more for the
world of the palm wine tapper in their attempt to fully restore his agency.
Don’t forget that harmattan and even the white froth and foam of palm wine
became worthy elements of metaphorical constructions.
But
the tapper is still spoken for in and by these texts. In at least one instance,
he is upbraided for killing trees in his youthful exuberance. I am thinking
here of a different version of the problematic that Linda Alcoff evinces in her
well-known essay, “The Problem of Speaking for Others”. Race and gender are weighty
dimensions in Alcoff’s treatise on the pitfalls of speaking for the native, the
oppressed, or the gendered subject. What happens if Africa is the subject that is
spoken for or represented, albeit in the ideological resistance mode of
Afro-radicalism and nativism, by the privileged African intellectual,
especially the writer?
African
feminism’s critique of Négritude’s treatment of African woman and African womanhood
provides part of the answer. We must all remember that Mariama Ba and her
contempories, writers and critics alike, got tired of Négritude’s constant
conflation of Mother Africa and the mothers of Africa. Yet, in the beautiful
and memorable lines such as “Négresse, ma chaude rumeur de l’Afrique” and
“Femme noire, femme nue”, the Négritude poet actually believed that he was
conferring agency on his subject.
In
his earlier cited essay, Mbembe approaches this part of the agency question in
a manner which allows me to offer possible windows into the dilemmas of
representing Africa’s agency by writers in my generation. “Over the past two
centuries,” writes Mbembe, “intellectual currents have emerged whose goal has
been to confer authority on certain symbolic elements integrated into the
African collective imaginary.”
I
think my problem as an intellectual arose that morning in Isanlu when a
momentary cognitive scission occurred and denied me the ability to “confer
authority” on the intrusion of a symbolic element such as a blackberry into the
imaginary of palmwine as I used to know it. It was immediately obvious to me
that what was happening was beyond what could be explained by the usual
recourse to the tradition-modernity binary, with the attendant intimations of
how Africa negotiates modernity by gradually appropriating, domesticating, or
integrating it within her own orders of experience.
From
the top of his palm tree, my palmwine tapper was articulating his own agency and
self-representing in ways that are miles ahead of the imaginaries which
underwrite my work as a writer and critic. That, I posit, is the problem of
African art in the current age of social media and MAC, my acronym for mutually
assured communication. The fact that he phoned me from the top of a tree in the
bush rattled and unsettled me. What if, God forbid, my Baba Elemu had also
recorded videos of himself at work and posted it on youtube as these new
possibilities of agency now afford him? What if he tweets his conversation with
me from the top of that tree? What if he makes a photo of himself at work the
cover of a Facebook page dedicated to tapping? What if… questions, questions,
questions.
In
a way, I think the writers of Négritude and cultural nationalism, escaped these
dilemmas not because they shared coevality – or restored it where it was denied
– with the palm wine tapper but because they operated as artists in the age of
mechanical reproduction which, as revolutionary as it was, still allowed the
possibility of a certain “inert” version of Africa that could be “rescued”,
“re-represented”, and “spoken for” in
their texts. My second submission is
that this inert version of Africa, on behalf of whom Afro-radical and nativist
discourses and praxes were articulated, now speaks for itself in ways that
perpetually confound art and the imagination. Coping with an Africa which no
longer needs your powers of metaphorical mediation to articulate novel forms of
agency which have the added power of immediate global circulation is one of the
most formidable dilemmas facing the generation of African writers, artists, and
intellectuals to which I belong.
Chris
Dunton and I have edited some special issues of journals in which we described
these new writers, in the case of Nigeria, as the third generation. That
description of convenience has been vigorously challenged. My good friend, Abdourahman Ali Waberi, also
a keynote speaker in this conference, has famously described that generation of
writers as “les enfants de la postcolonie” in the case of our Francophone
counterparts. Jacques Chevrier at some point was moving the idea of “migritude
writers” but I haven’t followed the critical fortunes of that concept. Thanks
mostly to the Nigerian members of this generation who have been winning bucket
loads of international literary prizes – I am almost blushing with
nationalistic pride here – the work produced by the children of the postcolony
is now globally known and is the subject of numerous panels in conferences such
as the ALA.
I
am thinking of Helon Habila, EC Osondu, and my maternal cousin, Segun Afolabi,
who have all won the Caine Prize. There is Chimamanda Adichie and, also, Tricia
Adaobi Nwaubani, who did well in the Commowealth competitions. There is Teju
Cole, who recently won the Hemingway Prize here in the US. Oprah made the fame
of Uwem Akpan and hefty manuscript cheque confirmed Helen Oyeyemi’s arrival on
the global literary scene. To these we must add other bright representations of
new African writing, especially the novel, such as Binyavanga Wainaina, Monica
Arac de Nyeko, Petina Gappah, Leonora Miano, Alain Mabanckou, Abdourahman
Waberi, Dinaw Mengestu, Hisham Matar, and Ellen Banda-Aaku, my co-winner of the
Penguin Prize for African Writing.
So,
we have a cast of writers and a new writing that now whets critical appetites
in international conferences. My concern is whether we are paying sufficient
attention to the extraordinary dilemmas that these writers face in their
attempts to write a continent which now possesses the ability to self-write,
self-inscribe, and self-globalize even before the first sentence of your novel,
poem, or short story takes shape in your head. How do you write a continent which
no longer lies inert to be rescued from misrepresentation? I saw hundreds of
responses and counter-discourses from the African street to the Kony 2012 video
before Teju Cole and Mahmoud Mamdani offered their famous responses. In Twitter
and Facebook years, the writer and the scholar were light years behind the
African street. To bring this dilemma back to my point of departure, how should
this generation write my blackberry-wielding, self-inscribing palmwine tapper?
Reduce palmwine and blackberries to conflicting metaphors and inscribe that
conflict in flowery prose? That would be too simplistic.
Besides,
there is a second problem. Those who wrote Africa’s agency in the age of
mechanical reproduction never really had to deal with new forms of art that
competed with and challenged the ontology of their respective mediums of
expression. The novel, the short story, the poem, the play, and the painting
didn’t have to worry too much about other forms of generic expression emerging
at once as evidence of Africa’s new ability to self-represent and also as
contending and competing forms of art. This lack of competition, if you ask me,
partly accounts for why the scribal form of the African imagination, enjoyed an
imperializing prestige over oral forms much to the consternation of colleagues
like Karin Barber and Thomas Hale.
Tricia
Nwaubani’s excellent novel, I do not Come
to you by Chance, sadly, does not enjoy the luxury of not worrying about
competition for its ontology as a form of art which seeks to represent a
particular reality of post-SAP Nigeria in terms of its local and international
dimensions. What do you do if you are writing a novel about what, for want of a
better description, we must call Nigeria’s 419 letters and the imaginaries that
have now come to be associated with it, only to discover that those letters
themselves are now being discoursed and critiqued as art forms on their own
terms? Where the 419 letter now stakes a vigorous claim to an ontological
identity as art, does a novel which ventures into its territory even merit the
description of simulacrum? Which is the art representing what? It is almost now
possible to claim that the 419 letter waiting in your mailbox as you listen to
my lecture here is art representing the reality that is Nwaubani’s novel. If
your head is not spinning yet, please remember that some actors in Africanist
scholarship here in North America have been very active in making a case for
419 emails as an art form worthy of critical reflection. I have received at
least one solicitation in the past to help evaluate submissions to a planned
special issue of a scholarly journal on 419 letters as a literary genre.
As
I speak, the same argument is being made for the literary quality and generic
integrity of tweets. In Canada, where I am based, the literary establishment
seems to have made up its mind that the tweet is a literary work. Now, that’s
tricky because it makes every tweeter a potential writer just as a collection
of somebody’s Facebook status updates or 419 letters could give us a Nobel
Prize for Literature down the road. If you look at the website of Canada Writes
where the CBC organizes the prestigious CBC Literary Prizes, you’ll be able to
assess the considerable energy devoted to tweets and tweet challenges. Tweet is
literature as far as Canada Writes is concerned.
The
Nigerian writer, fiery critic, columnist, and cultural commentator, Ikhide
Ikheloa, has been screaming himself hoarse about the need for African writing
to face these new realities. Like Obi Wali, decades ago, Mr Ikheloa has been
making very weighty pronouncements on the future of African writing. And he is
arguing, among many pro-social media arguments, that tweets, Facebook updates,
and the associated genres of the social media age, would leave African writers
behind if we don’t come up with imaginative ways to engage the forms of
continental agency which they throw up. The way he sees it, social media is a
significant part of the future of African writing and he has been warning that
writers in my generation, especially those who remain social media stone agers,
are in danger of extinction.
I
take Mr. Ikhide’s work extremely seriously and follow him religiously online.
You should google him, follow him on twitter, and add his blog to your daily
reading. When he is not upbraiding African writers in the new generation for
not taking the full measure of the possibilities of the social media revolution
for our work, he is making very valid points in terms of the contributions of
social media to even our own agency as writers.
Let
me explain my understanding of Ikhide’s position. Errors of interpretation
would be mine. I think the debate about which audience the African writer
ultimately writes for is further complicated for my generation by the mediators
who stand between our work and our audiences. A measure of that is how much of
Africa we still literally translate or italicize in the actual process of
writing. Go to any Nigerian novel and see what happens with registers and
diction depicting the actualities of youth experience, counterculture, and
postmodern citiness for instance.
Paraga,
mugu, maga, yahoozee, aristo, shepe, etc, all capture experiences which the
Nigerian writer in my generation italicizes to mark their strangeness and
otherness. Yet, Western writers using other Englishes in Britain, Canada, New
Zealand, Australia, and the United States, don’t always feel compelled to
capture local experiences in italics. Just last month, Elizabeth Renzetti, a
Canadian columnist writing for the Globe
and Mail, had this to say about the extensive registers of drunkenness in
England:
"The
English have more words for drunk than the Inuit have for snow, perhaps because
it is as much part of the landscape. On a given night, you might be bladdered,
legless, paralytic or rotten with drink...I thought I'd heard them all until
British Home Secretary Theresa May used the phrase "preloaded" on
Friday to announce her government's war on binge drinking. Preloading refers to
the act of getting hammered before you go out to get hammered - that is
stocking up on cheap booze from the grocery store in order to be good and
wobbly by the time you hit the bars." - Elizabeth Renzetti
“Bladdered,
legless, preloaded – all registers of English drunkenness. Would a British
writer in my generation Italicize these experiences specific to his own people
in a creative work? You guess is as good as mine. “Stop Italicizing Africa!”
Ikhide screams at writers in my generation all the time on Facebook. “Stop
writing Africa for your literary agents, publishers, editors, marketers, and
Western liberals”, Ikhide screams. Perhaps Ikhide already suspects that there
is a reason why Salman Rushdie and Paulo Coelho – more international writers
are following their example – have quietly migrated a great deal of their art,
celebrity, and mystique to Facebook. “If your handlers insist on an Italicized
Africa, take your agency to social media and engage the world freely”, Ikhide
screams at African writers.
I
hope I am not the only one who takes Ikhide extremely seriously.
I
thank you for your time.
