7.17.2009

yeh mere india!

It's funny how nature changes. Now, I could walk into the Indian High Commission in full glare, largely recognised at and smiled at by the security. Awesome! And even addressed as 'sir', even though it is appalling.

Just today, I was at the Indian embassy to pick my passport and I realised I have been given a 'special endorsement', my visa to expire next year. And I can safely walk round the Indian consul, smiling.

While I was there, I had a lively conversation with Moses (of Goge Africa), who had come to pick up his visa and Nneka's. They would be going to India too. Mr. Krishna Kumar, at the embassy enlivened the evening with his thoughtful observations. Reading broadens a man's thought, I said to myself.

I will be leaving for India soon. I will blog from there!

7.13.2009

writing and reading

I was at the Indian Language School, Ilupeju on Friday, 10th with Jude Dibia, to talk about writing and reading. Some structured questions were thrown at me and I'm presenting them here this way. This is my opinion, and please, don't think I'm teaching anyone how to write, basically. But just the way I approach writing.

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“For every reader that dies, a viewer is born”

Chump Change, David Eddie





What prompted me to become a writer?

I will start by saying that as soon as a reader is born, a writer is made. When you read a book, there’s certain scourge that purls into your mind that you can do this, even better. Or you could try and work out something. It was a progressive march from reading other people that the idea of putting down my own ideas came and poof! I grabbed that spirit and began to write. All the same, I should say that growing up as an introvert also prompted me to become a writer, believing that we have loads of my fellow introverts here who know what is to feel, ‘Please-I-want-to-be-left-alone’ all the time. But the truth is that there is an introvert in every artist, because art is a world of loneliness, where there is fold around your eyes that make you see singularly, but you are actually capturing the world broadly.



All the same, the first few authors I read grew up just like me – in the countryside. I felt that little connection with them. Chinua Achebe was born in a village as me, Wole Soyinka and a whole bunch of them, and these were the authors that first influenced me, although I gradually grew out of their claws when I became prescriptive of what a writer should write and what a reader should read. More so, I do not think I would have become a writer without those writers. They made me think, saying to myself, ‘Onyeka, you can actually write.’



What helped me make that decision?

First and foremost, my acute laziness made me make that decision. Laziness in the sense that I grew up having my mother do my laundry, clean my room and make my bed. Not that she was the one who rooted me to laziness; I was born lazy. So, I had the courage to ask myself so many serious questions relating to my future. Could I stay at a place as a banker? No. Could I become a lawyer? No. So, I stuck to my pathway of becoming a writer. I would just roll up in my bed and read and write. I was also a good painter back then, which I abandoned as soon as I felt that my writing was making headway.



The impediments I came across my way.

Someone so dear to me now told me a week ago that every writer needs support. And thank god that I’m paired with Jude Dibia today. A lot of challenges came my way and they are still here with me. At times I feel that I shouldn’t have taken this path – then, I would look back and say, ‘Shut up! You have a bright future.’ I mean, a lot of good things have come with The Abyssinian Boy. I wonder, if I had written a different story, would I be here today? Would I get the sort of attention I’m getting? Would I ever think of sending Shobhaa De a copy of my book? I wouldn’t have gone to India in the first place if I had not seen the impediments most writers in Nigeria go through trying to print their names on the hearts of people, by writing simple stories that do not really require the sort of research I had to embark on while in India.

The lucky thing, even though my family was supportive, was that I got to know Jude Dibia. He offered financial assistance from Nigeria which kept me alive in India. His kind words kept me keeping on. And the attention he paid to stuff I sent to him leveled the impediments I faced.



The techniques of writing a novel/short story.

Honestly enough, I have not seriously thought about these techniques until now, although I have always approached novel writing as a soap opera, sitcom. Something episodic, you know that cuts across all lives. When I write, try to write about every character that I can think of that exists in real life, but add a lot more salt to its taste, I mean, I try to exaggerate widely, that suddenly the reader will say, ‘Oh, this is so unreal.’ But when you come to think of it, the most improbable parts of stories are the real ones. Just that the reader has never experienced it, it becomes quite unbelievable. So, I should say that when I write, I try to see a different world.

Many writers claim they don’t follow rules, but we unconsciously do. We want to do better what the other writer couldn’t do. We want to tell our stories better. I’m not good at offering tips, but this is exactly the way I set out working on The Abyssinian Boy. Before I show you these tips, I would like to tell you that I approached the writing like an aerial view of the world, with an omniscient narrator who acted like the all-knowing and conscientious guy with a professor mind, a geographer’s mindscape and a psychologist’s brain.

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While the passion to write doubled, I set out to think of the novel writing heavily, weaving scenes by scenes. I wasn’t serious about the chaptering, which I think it’s the most essential thing when it comes to the architecture of a book. But then, I felt that writing itself is architecture, as Arundhati Roy would say.

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I had time to mentally plot out the roots I would take to ending the story, but the first chapter of my book I wrote at the end, because I feel that a storyteller should ramble and should not approach storytelling as an A-Z thing. You create scenes when you are moved to. A scene doesn’t have to be complete, which many critics have described as perpetual storytelling, though authors like Salman Rushdie and Okey Ndibe do that better. You can always push the mind of the reader back and forth and then forth and back. Musicologists definitely know that takes and notes in music work better this way and consider approaching novel writing from that dimension.

· I pay attention to details when I write. I remember staring at the painting of Shiva and describing it the way I saw it in one chapter of my book. It was so appealing to me that I had to be overly descriptive in that part.

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Don’t be shy to express yourself in short paragraphs. Most readers prefer short sentences and paragraphs. So, a writer should not be overly descriptive when it comes to novel writing, because wow, you’ve got loads of pages to fill up, unless you are writing a short story, which unlike novel writing is handled with some certain degree of time-frame, so it wouldn’t water down.

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So many people believe that short story writing is harder than novel writing. I tell them is a lie. Both are hard, because when you approach a short story writer to write a novel, he dies off on the third chapter. Loudly, you will hear him screaming, ‘I’m tired. I have writer’s block.’ Of course, short stories should be taut, but then, it does show that a novelist has a lot of work to do. In a situation where there’s consistency in the language of a character in a novel or the writer forgets that he’s actually mentioned something like this before and then goes on to goof in the next chapter, maybe at the end of book, contradicting himself, he makes the world cringe. But in a short story, you already have your facts in mind, your details are clear and you can really push the story out in few days, without messing any part of it up.

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Try not to sound smart in novel writing, by being verbose. You can be melodramatic, that’s forgivable, but when you try to widely tell the world that: “His smile jocundly bewildered the engraved chromes of his disjointed mind into the shadow of the twiddling girdle”, then you have lost a reader. The best writers in the world construct the simplest sentences (and even the shortest)

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Novel writing is something that should be handled consciously. A writer, who doesn’t understand his characters, is like a Deaf God who doesn’t hear the cry of his people. When I write, I listen to my characters, I know how they feel and I know what will make them sober. You become a psychiatrist, a psychologist and a Creator all packed in one. It is your duty then to make sure that these characters are well-fleshed out and one-two, you will hear people discussing your characters as though they are humans.

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The last thing a writer should know is the end of his book. Write and write and when you think it’s not flowing again, try to think of an end that will work well with the body of the entire work. This is just the way it works for me. A differing viewpoint is there and that’s why the point-of-views in my writing differ, because I take shades of opinion from different perspectives.



Message for the present/future generation of writers

Persistence matters so much in life. We should dream high, be ambitious. Once in a while, be desperate. Act like a king, you are not a beggar. Talk brightly and respond to whatever question about your writing that comes your way. And don’t act of your age. Let everyone around you know that you are a writer, because no one becomes a writer without reading and reading broadens the horizon of our thoughts.



Onyeka Nwelue

10/07/2009

7.10.2009

worry na hurry

I arrived the Indian Language School in Lagos today almost two hours late to the event, which I had been invited to. This is because I missed my 7.15 flight from Abuja where I had gone to read from my book, "The Abyssinian Boy" at the Yar'Adua Centre, which one of the attendants, an Israeli woman, described as 'so beautiful and fantastic'. The Abuja event had a small scale of attendance, but it was so interactive and enjoyable. I mean, I had a few people to read to, but at the end, I felt so fulfilled, on realising that almost all of the people that came are not writers, are not even writing, just people who feel they should support a growing young Nigerian writer. In the Israeli woman's words, 'Another Chimamanda'.

Even before I boarded my flight from Abuja, I got a call from the driver who later picked me up from the airport from the school, that they were already waiting for me in Lagos at the Murtala Muhammad airport. I felt for them. Finally, I made it in one piece and we headed to the school, talking. There were the two of them, two elderly men who kept answering me, 'sir, sir, sir', when I spoke to them. I hated myself, actually. The whole sir, sir, sir. The one, who wasn't driving, said that when they asked him to come and pick up Onyeka Nwelue from the airport, the first name that came to his mind was Onyeka Onwenu, the musician. Then, he realised this one is the writer. He began to narrate how recently he had watched on Who Wants To Be a Millionaire, one of the participants was asked a question, 'Who wrote The Abyssinian Boy?' with optional names like Onyeka Nwelue and Onyeka Onwenu and the person failed. Wow, I was puzzled. I didn't watch that, so I don't know how true.

I got into the hall and Jude Dibia was already talking to the students. It was fun, really. Parents were even there. You know, I had swell time with them. It was fun. It's a day I will never forget. Even Latifa Ayoola, who just came into the country recently was there...

If I get the pictures, I will upload them for you.

7.07.2009

farewell to michael jackson

It's ok that Michael Jackson is dead. It's ok that we have killed him. It's ok that we are burying him today. It's ok that some of us here in Nigeria are laughing and saying, 'He died long ago. A man who changed his identity is dead.' It's ok that we are heartless to a point. It's ok that an Igbo adage says that when a neighbour's corpse is carried past you, you feel it's a log of wood, till Death comes to your doorstep. Now, it's ok that we are staring at the tvs, enjoying the songs being rendered by celebrities like Mariah Carey, Lionel Richie and tributes from people like Queen Latifa. It's ok.

But let's face the fact: Michael Jackson had the right to live the way he wanted. That 'he changed his skin colour' became the concern of many. People who didn't even know him. Yes, because he was a role model to many. But I grab every authority to question anyone who judged and still judge the change of his skin nature. I mean, why can't we just see the genius in him and let him rest. Well, he's resting now, for real, now that he's dead, but truth be told, we are still judging him. I mean, nobody wants to question his colour change, all people care about is that he was not proud of his skin colour. How did they know? How come everyone jumped to that conclusion? How ridiculous!

I'm not going to win any accolade for unashamedly saying that I'm practically obsessed with MJ. Now, I'm in tears...I can't remember the last time I ever cried. But watching the funeral service of MJ brings me to tears. I feel that there's no need repeating the rambles people have been pouring out, in the name of tributes: "He was a great man, an icon". Crap. Cliche! We will keep saying that till...

Bottomline: Michael Jackson will forever rest in peace, because he healed many wounds with his voice, he soothed many cuts with his songs and he changed lives with his Life...

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While I'm crying, I'm also basking in deep happiness that Shobhaa Dee finally got a copy of 'The Abyssinian Boy' and is on her way to Poland with the book. She thinks the book is 'promising'.

I will be reading at the Yar'Adua Centre, Abuja on Thursday, 9 by 4pm. You are invited.

7.06.2009

from the church to the ashram

Yesterday was Sunday.

I woke up with two books on my bed: David Eddie's David Henry's story, Chump Change and Manju Kapur's The Immigrant, half-read and waiting to be completed. It's not that I take this long to finish a novel, the truth is that I can't concentrate in a city like Lagos. I'm not the only reader here in this big and wide city; so many people have been living (and reading) here before I came. I'm from the countryside, no doubt, so I will take time to get used to it. To tell the truth, I find Lagos appalling and irritating (Forgive me, oh Lagosians).

So, yesterday, even while I promised myself to finish at least, Kapur's book, I found myself getting distracted unnecessarily: churches were already suffused by people who were screaming and clapping, screaming and drumming, in the name of worship and prayer to their God. I mean, if God really exists, do you have to shout for him to know what you want from him? I read somewhere in Matthew (can't bear to remember the exact part) that people should not pray like the hypocrites who come out to scream in the public.

I decided to try out something: I went to a church nearby and stayed for about twenty minutes. I hated myself, because the pastor was just screaming and making swoosh-swoosh noise.

I left immediately, unsettled.

And went to the Geeta Mandir, the Hindu temple at Cappa Avenue in Palmgrove. There, I found solitude. And after the puja (I didn't participate); I just had to do meditation, we were offered deliciously made food and bottled water.

I had given 'alm' (or offering) at the church and then in the ashram, I didn't give a dime, but I was given food.

You know what, I want to ask a simple question: is GOD really unintelligent enough to know the heartbeat of his CREATURES?

7.03.2009

from ijebu ode to terrakulture

I'm posting this from TerraKulture. Just came in from Ijebu Ode, where I had gone, to find peace and read Manju Kapur's The Immigrant, which my editor gave me recently. It's not funny, but the truth is that once I'm in Lagos, the noise in the city doesn't allow me to do anything. Now, I thought of what to do, since I had no money, no time to return to my peaceful Owerri or village to read and write, I decided to take some time off to this beautiful town, Ijebu Ode.

It was raining when I got there yesterday around 5.19 pm.

I lodged into a cheap hotel, Little Venice. What a world! There's Little Venice in Delhi too, which I have written about in my book. Inside Little Venice at Connaught Place, one of my characters, Vimala had gone to ease herself of the pain of the death of David. Now, I found myself in another Little Venice easing myself of depression and noise. The solitude I found in that hotel room skyrated my reading speed. I found myself on page 60 of this beautiful novel of an Indian couple in Canada.

Now, I think I have scaled through to upto the 107th page.

I'm now in Lagos. Rarely do I read while on buses, but I read this book from Ijebu Ode to Lagos.

As in I got into Lagos, my bus stopped me at Alapere Estate, I took a BRT bus to Obalende and from Obalende to TerraKulture, where I'm writing from now to see someone so special to my heart, someone who wants me to smile all the time, even though...I will end there.

After she left, I was eating when Omowunmi Segun, writer and daughter of the celebrated children's writer, Mabel Segun, walked in. She was in the bookstore buying some books and I went to her, as polite as I could, to tell her that I wanted to have a chat with her. You know what, she asked me to go back and face my food, that when she was done, she would come and meet me. And see, she did as she said and sat with me for so long. My god! I was so moved. I mean, who would have thought she would find time out of her busy schedule to have a long chat with ME! We didn't even know each other.

Our discussion was mostly on why Nigerian writers should start writing about the immigrant experience in Nigeria. This, she said, we have not done. A lot of Brazilians are here, Togolese, Liberians came and went. These people faced a lot of things, experienced a lot of things and no one wrote about them. I agreed with her on all the things she said, because I also champion such. To me, the Nigerian writer is just interested in writing about himself, about his politics and no one thinks about the foreigners who had lived here with us, who have mixed up with us, even through marriages and whatnot.

For Ms Omowunmi Segun, she thinks that the Nigerian writer is not doing so, 'because Nigerians are naturally arrogant and don't care about other people'.

I agree too. But the good thing about her is that she accepted the fact that she is also guilty of this and want people to start writing about the foreigners here.

7.02.2009

is denrele edun an incarnate of michael jackson?

On the 24th of June, I was at the REDSTRAT's Red Reception for writer, Tolu Ogunlesi where I met Denrele Edun. That was not the first time we were meeting. But this time we had time to talk and he actually interviewed me for his SoundCity Show; just a little chat over music, movie and fashion. But it's just a clip, I know. But then, before the kid came into the hall, everyone was quiet and Chude Jideoonwu was actually reading a 'sex story' and the next thing we heard was Denrele's voice. He was screaming in the backdrop. You can imagine! Just then everyone knew it was him. What a crazy guy! You know, I kept thinking to myself, 'Who's this kid that has just drawn the whole attention to himself?' The hair...fashionable, but shabby; the dressing, mesmerizing, but appalling. And the walking gait...dat one na mad man o! But to be honest with you, this makes Denrele Edun quite unique and so different from the whole bunch of artistes in Nigeria. And if you can't take a blow as a celebrity, Denrele has taken a lot of blow from people, who keep nosing around him. People have gone on to write so much about him, say so much about his personal life, but come on, it doesn't stop this fine kid from living his life and breathing like anyone else.

Now, I try to liken him to Michael Jackson, whom we have all loved to death: Michael this, Michael that. Everyone blames him for the change of his skin colour. Crap! I think Michael Jackson lived a life we are so jealous of, a life we know we will never have. So, skeptics and critics should just sharrap and honour him while they pull him six-feet under the ground.

Now, biko, people should stop hating Denrele's lifestyle, because if he has not chosen to tread this path, no one would know. Charly Boy has had his own bite, so let's keep track of this kid and always support his craziness when we can.