Baskadia

I have in the past few days found myself deeply immersed in Chinua Achebe's 2012 memoir, There Was a Country: A Personal History of Biafra. While I won't attempt a comprehensive analysis or review of this work, one particular observation captured my attention amidst my reading journey.

During this period, an intense online debate pitting Achebe against Soyinka emerged. Opting to steer clear of these contentious 'online wars,' I chose instead to concentrate on Achebe's book. Deeper while I read, I realized that many Nigerian writers have profoundly shaped their nation's literary and cultural landscape, with their contributions leaving lasting impressions that continue to provoke heated debates long after their literary zeniths.

I will refrain from delving into the historical details upon which this book is based. Most readers, if not all, must have heard about the 1967-1970 Biafran War. Recalling this event is akin to reopening a healed wound, and I wish to avoid that. It remains the most tragic period in Nigerian history.

However, through this book, we witness the devastating impact of the Biafran War not just as a historical event, but as a deeply personal tragedy to the author. I am made to understand that Achebe died barely six months after the publication of this book. You can tell from his tone in this book that he felt a deep obligation to share his story of Biafra with the world. It must have required immense courage for him to write it.

Achebe’s childhood was quite remarkable, as it was at a time when Nigeria, and indeed Africa as a whole, was undergoing a cultural shift. It is captured, albeit briefly, in the early chapters of this book.

Born in Ogidi, Eastern Nigeria, he was raised in a devout Christian family, with his father serving as a catechist and teacher. He was educated at Government College, Umuahia, and later University College, Ibadan. I learned that it is from his father that Achebe first gained interest in literature, the old man having gifted him Shakespeare’s A Midsummer’s Night Dream and an Igbo translation of John Bunyan’s ‘The Pilgrim’s Progress’. This sparked a lifelong passion, leading him to explore other classics like Booker T. Washington’s Up from Slavery, Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels, Dickens’s David Copperfield, and Stevenson’s Treasure Island. Notably, he was an extraordinarily smart child, perhaps the best among his cohorts, for he emerged the best in the entire country in his secondary certificate to acquire a scholarship to Ibadan.

Umuahia, I read, had a transforming experience for most of the students of that contemporary. Achebe notes that the pioneers of modern literature, like Vincent Chukwuemeka Ike, Christopher Okigbo, Elechi Amadi, I.N C Aniebo, Chike Momah, Gabriel Okara, and later Ken Saro-Wiwa, were all educated and shaped at Umuahia. He recognizes Umuahia as the cradle of Nigeria’s early intellectuals. Though he was strictly averse to the atrocities and the impunity that the colonial system came with, Achebe acknowledges the well-structured colonial institutions of his time, which fostered a culture of excellence and diligence in education. He fondly refers to these years as fortunate for his generation.

One of the most fascinating insights from this book is Achebe's deep appreciation of a writer’s role in society. He invites us to reflect on an important question: what is the role of a writer in society? He suggests that a writer's role is not fixed but varies with the state and well-being of society. When a society is ailing, a writer's duty is to highlight its flaws, whereas, in a healthier society, the writer's role becomes different. He beautifully frames storytelling as an essential and creative aspect of human life, terming it "beneficent fiction."

Achebe puts, and I quote: ‘Some people flinch when you talk about art in the context of the needs of society, thinking you are introducing something far too common for a discussion of art. Why should art have a purpose and use? Art shouldn’t be concerned with purpose and reason and need, they say. These are improper. But from the very beginning, it seems to me, stories have indeed been meant to be enjoyed, to appeal to that part of us which enjoys good form and good shape and good sound. Still I think that behind it all is a desire to make our experience in the world better, to make our passage through life easier. Once you talk about making things better you are talking about politics.’

That observation by the author is indeed profound, for it might be ludicrous to say that writers do write simply out of passion and the love of it, or simply to entertain and expose that which is within them. Ultimately, we understand that all writing is aimed at the betterment of society in one way or another. Ignoring the critical events and issues within one's society, in my observation, disqualifies an individual from being considered a true writer.

It is this credence that Achebe underscores when he says that it is really impossible to write something in Africa without some kind of commitment, some kind of message. He defines this category of writers as protest writers. While there might not be any moral obligation to write in a particular way, Achebe posits that if a writer has to align with a particular side of society, then it should be on the side of the powerless. An artist should not take sides with the emperor against his powerless subjects.

This motivation is perhaps what inspired Achebe to write his debut novel, Things Fall Apart. As someone challenging the dominance of Western literature at the time, it could be suggested that he hoped for an audience. However, his true motivation lay in the quality of his craft—the desire to narrate his story in a way that he comprehended and valued. He admits that he was highly skeptical about its chances of being published, let alone read.

Deeper down in this book, when the war had begun and with Achebe as an already known prolific writer, we get to know why it is important for writers to take sides, and the substantial impact their contributions can have on society. Many intellectuals played an active role during the war years in Nigeria. Achebe points out many writers who stood against oppression and decided to use their tools of intellectualism to condemn the atrocities that were done by the oppressor of the moment, the Nigerian government.

One of these intellectuals was Cyprian Ekwensi,  whom Achebe dubs the pioneer of the West African literary renaissance of the twentieth century. During the war years, Achebe traveled with Ekwensi on several diplomatic voyages on behalf of the people of Biafra.

The story of Wole Soyinka is even a compelling one. A distinguished writer from Northern Nigeria, Soyinka might have been expected to align with his regional allies in the Nigerian government. However, he was profoundly moved by the atrocities committed against the people of Biafra and sought to intervene. He endeavored to negotiate with key military generals to end the conflict. When these efforts failed, he proposed an antiwar delegation composed of intellectuals, artists, and writers from both sides of the conflict and beyond. This bold initiative led to his arrest and imprisonment without bail by the Nigerian government.

Chinua Achebe held Soyinka in high esteem, referring to him as Africa’s foremost dramatist and a pioneer in many fields.

This recognition is particularly striking given the recent online debates pitting Achebe against Soyinka, often colored by the historical North-South rivalry in Nigeria. Amidst these often humorous arguments about the greatness of the two literary giants, Soyinka's stature in the literary circle stands brightly.  

There is one writer I would have loved to write about here a lot, his name is Christopher Okigbo. In the pages of this book, it becomes evident that Christopher was not only Achebe’s closest companion but also a prodigious poet of unmatched intellect. Okigbo forfeited everything, including the poetic pen he had embraced all these times, to enlist as a volunteer in the  Biafran army. Tragically, he lost his life in the war in the August of 1967. It is clear that this loss left an irrevocable void in Achebe's life, a wound that remained unhealed. He writes:

‘I was only half listening to the radio now when suddenly Christopher Okigbo’s name stabbed my slack consciousness into panic life… I pulled up at the roadside…other cars came and passed. Had no one else heard the terrible news?’

The impact of Okigbo on Achebe resonates deeply throughout this book. Having had the privilege of exploring Okigbo’s poetry in the past, I found his work to embody a profound commitment to capturing and illuminating the world through the exquisite beauty of language. One might question why such a celebrated poet would relinquish all he possessed in service to his people.

In Ali Mazrui's novel, The Trial of Christopher Okigbo, this question emerges: why would someone of Okigbo's caliber squander his immense talent on a cause of questionable merit? Mazrui asks whether an artist of Okigbo's stature should prioritize societal concerns over artistic expression, suggesting, 'no great artist should sacrifice their creative potential in the name of patriotism.'

Achebe, however, asserts that both he and Okigbo shared a fundamental belief in the inseparable connection between art and community in Africa. African art, unlike its counterparts in more developed societies or academic traditions, retains a vital connection to everyday life and the vitality of the streets. Rather than being distilled or refined to the point of sterility, African art thrives on its continuous engagement with the people it serves.

In our roles as artists in today's world, we are entrusted not merely with the task of telling our stories, but with the profound responsibility of understanding their essence.

Is our storytelling driven solely by the gratification of expression and readership, or is it steered by pecuniary pursuits, or perhaps a loftier cause? These serious questions resonated deeply within me as I dug into the chapters of this memoir penned by one of the writers whom I have long revered.

I believe, with a hopeful heart, that our creative endeavors must be harnessed for the greater good of society. In times of necessity, we must create our narratives as potent tools of advocacy or even as instruments of conflict, mindful of the immense historical and transformative power they carry.

Or, we can aspire further still—to relinquish our art entirely in service to humanity, just like the celebrated poet Christopher Okigbo. Ultimately, are we not bound by our shared humanity, with its vulnerabilities and strengths alike?

For art, in its purest form, possesses the ability to articulate the unspeakable and illuminate the obscured paths of our collective journey. It is in this pursuit of truth and service that we find our most profound purpose as artists, storytellers, and guardians of the human experience.

I am speaking to you, fellow artist!