The Varieties of Blackness

An Interview with Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie



AB: Are you thinking about your next project? The next thing that you’re going to write?

CA: No. I can’t say. This is where I do the mysterious yogi look. [She does mysterious yogi look.] I’m reading and I’m thinking and I’m absorbing. When you’re traveling for a book, when you’re doing this sort of singing and dancing . . . on one hand it’s gratitude that the book is out, that I even get to go on a book tour. So many writers don’t. On the other hand it’s very disorienting. Sometimes I feel as though I’m disconnected from my love of story and language. It’s a very strange place to be.
[b]
AB: I would love to ask you about the Caine Prize. I find it interesting that so many Nigerians are on the short list this year—that it’s four Nigerians out of five . . .

CA: Umm, why is that a problem? Watch it.

AB: Well, none of them are you!

CA: Elnathan was one of my boys in my workshop. But what’s all this over-privileging of the Caine Prize, anyway? I don’t want to talk about the Caine Prize, really. I suppose it’s a good thing, but for me it’s not the arbiter of the best fiction in Africa. It’s never been. I know that Chinelo is on the short list, too. But I haven’t even read the stories—I’m just not very interested. I don’t go the Caine Prize to look for the best in African fiction.

AB: Where do you go?

CA: I go to my mailbox, where my workshop people send me their stories. I could give you a list of ten—mostly in Nigeria—writers who I think are very good. They’re not on the Caine Prize short list.

Also, you do realize that Nigeria is the most populous country, and we have a crazy, chauvinistic nationalism. So when you say anything bad about Nigeria, we attack you, but when we all go back to Nigeria, we attack each other. That’s how it works. We’re very happy that there are four. Actually, we think all the people on the short list should be Nigerians, because we are born with the natural arrogance of the Nigerians. Of course, what’s wonderful is that there’s nothing to be arrogant about. Nigerians feel very superior to Ghana, for example, but then you go to Accra, and Accra actually works [laughs].

Who’s the other Nigerian on the short list? There’s Chinelo and Elnathan but I don’t know who the others are.

AB: Well, there are four: Elnathan [John], Chinelo [Okparanta], Tope [Folarin] . . . [Note: The fourth is Abubakar Adam Ibrahim] This is where I remember that my brain is extremely American; I mispronounce names left and right.
[/b]
CA: Why is that American?

AB: Well, Yoruba and Igbo names don’t spell the way I expect. I get it when I’m teaching African literature and my students complain that every character has an impossible name. It’s kind of embarrassing, then, when I’m doing it, too, and I know I’m doing it.

CA: Why is it embarrassing? When I used to read these Russian novels when I was growing up, I had no idea how to pronounce the names, so I used to think, ok, this is character whose name starts with an I—you know how they have the Ivan, Ivanovich sorts of things—so I would just say, ok, this is the 'I' character. That’s actually very American, your reaction, being embarrassed. Why should you be? No, it’s very liberal. To be embarrassed that you think that Igbo and Yoruba names are confusing—but wouldn’t they be? You’re not a Yoruba or Igbo speaker. I think Polish names are confusing. The Cs and Ss, and the Cs and the Ws come too close together—it throws me off. It’s a very liberal thing.

Of course, I say this as kind of a pseudo-member of the tribe. That’s the other thing, since that part of the book is also— well, there’s a lot of self-mockery, a lot of poking fun at my own tribe. My American tribe is a left-leaning tribe that occupies a place of immense privilege. Most of my friends are people who care about organic food. And I care about organic food, but I’m also amused by it, and I laugh at it. Because, you know, there’s a vast, vast world out there that doesn’t care about locally sourced chicken, right? It’s one of the things that I want to poke pins in.


Comments
Mon, 2013-07-15 05:14 — Ekene

Nothing else matters when I'm reading anything written by Chimamanda or about Chimamanda.
I grew up in Nsukka too and having been in America, it was easy to enjoy, feel and understand the novel AMERICANAH.
When I was in Junior Secondary 1 at the secondary school in UNN, I used Kene Adichie's desk for awhile (Chimamanda's brother).
Even though she hadn't published any of her works then, there was something about the Adichie's "we were all proud about".

I enjoyed this part of this interview: "when you say anything bad about Nigeria, we attack you, but when we all go back to Nigeria, we attack each other. That’s how it works"... I laughed so hard, everyone in my office turned their necks to my desk.
God Bless you Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

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Mon, 2013-07-15 09:35 — Mogbekeloluwa

Overall, this is a very nice interview. However, I take exception to Chimamanda calling Elnathan her boy. I also take exception to her implying that there is a mother-child relationship between herself and attendees at her workshop. Chimamanda is a great writer and a role model for many, but even Achebe sometimes refused the tag of "father".

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Mon, 2013-07-15 10:42 — Adaugochukwu

My sentiments precisely. I think she's a brilliant writer and I also know she was mentored by someone who could have made condescending statements like she just did but didn't. Maturity is thinking something scathing to say and not saying it. She hurt a lot of people and that's not acceptable on any grounds.

http://bostonreview.net/fiction/varieties-blackness

ELNATHAN JOHN's response

THE CONSEQUENCES OF LOVING NGOZI



It is the Americans you blame as you struggle to craft a response to Ngozi that sounds neither bitter nor desperate; ‘something funny’ your friend said, so people would be left with no doubt about your maturity and sense of humour. You blame the Americans for organizing that workshop and putting you on the guest list where you first met Ngozi. This is what the Americans have often been guilty of: causing wars through third parties and standing back, claiming ignorance of roots and beginnings. They made you meet Ngozi. They made you love Ngozi.

This is what the love of Ngozi meant: that you ignored pride and your status as a local champion from a small town who had been told by some well meaning but not so literary friends that you didn’t need any workshop- you applied for her ten day workshop. Ten days where you could listen to her speak and stare into her big brown glassy eyes, her skin smooth like flat milk chocolate. Where you could see a shimmer as light bounced off her forehead, a sparkle as light bounced off her eyes. You imagined her skin in terms of taste. You thought it would have the consistency of small cocoyams, the ones that overcook a little in between the big hard ones, the ones that slide out of their skins when held with a little pressure with the tips of one’s fingers. It is not something you would have admitted to anyone, especially not after you discovered she was married to a handsome doctor-man. You imagined he did sixty push-ups every morning and spent an hour after work every day at the gym. Your man boobs would not even let you entertain the thought of eating small cocoyams. Not around this hunk of a husband.

This is what the love of Ngozi meant: that even when she sent you a nasty manhood-shrinking email about you tweeting negative things about natural hair –an email that shocked you because you did not read or realize she had just announced to the world that hair was political- you sent her three even more manhood-shrinking replies, first denials, then explanations, then begging and groveling in ways you would never admit to anyone whose respect you still desired. She ignored it all. The cocoyam’s skin would not come off. Not with the hot boiling water of manhood-shrinking pleas. Not with requests for intercession to a mutual friend who simply laughed at you on twitter.

This is what the love of Ngozi meant: that you remembered that she passed your stories to someone who thought they were good in New York and wanted to speak further, to see if you could make those stories into a novel. You remembered that and let it re-inflate your manhood. You erased words like: I am disappointed in you. It didn’t matter anymore. She was a small cooked cocoyam again, even if she wasn’t talking to you anymore. The love of Ngozi meant you swallowed your cocoyam in silence and didn’t send back an email saying, Ngozi, you are too big for this, this is beneath you.

She sends you a two line mail many weeks after you are nominated for a literary prize. It makes you sad instead of happy: it dries out the cocoyam in your mouth instead of adding palm oil to it. You cannot swallow. The second line is a phrase: ‘Very well deserved’. This is not how she speaks to you, not in brief impersonal phrases that could have been sent by a secretary. Not phrases that you later found out were sent to another person who was shortlisted, without editing. It brought back that manhood-shrinking feeling when you learnt. Some words of congratulations feel like warm spit in the face instead of a gentle pat on the back. Still, this is what the love of Ngozi meant: that you found your own palm oil to lubricate the drying cocoyam in your mouth and only complained to a few friends you thought could understand.

Your name ends up in the Boston Review where she gives an interview about race and her new book- the first page of which you have read and like very much. She sounds irritated when they ask her about the prize you were shortlisted for, which she too was once shortlisted for. She calls the prize over-privileged. She mentions your name and says that although you are her boy, and she has not quite bothered to read your work, you have not made the shortlist of ten best African fiction writers domiciled in her mailbox. You would have sent her an email to ask why. Or even joked about it. But she no longer reads or replies your emails. There is no palm oil left for this cocoyam. The cocoyam dries in your mouth. This is the first time you think of it- how silly this cocoyam analogy is. You spit it out, the cocoyam. This is the consequence of loving Ngozi: you get free publicity in the Boston Review.

Hmmmmmmmmmm.....

Humility is so needed in this generation!!!...

Congrats to the authors on Caine Prize shortlist....... no be yam!!!



Disclaimer: excerpts to conversation are subject to prejudice.

More Reactions

MOLARA WOOD
Concerning Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's use of "one of my boys" and the debates surrounding. I woke up this morning and remembered something from my days as Arts & Culture Editor of NEXT and, all things considered, I wish to share it.

Ms Adichie graced the cover of the 16-page weekly supplement I edited at least three or four times, looking stunning on each one - and featured on countless side boxes, top banners, etcetera. On one of the covers, I wrote a banner along these lines: 'The Glamour Girl of Nigerian Writing'. Myself and my team meant this as a compliment, but the author did not share that view. I had known her personally for several years, with emails and telephone numbers for two continents, yet Ms Adichie lodged a complaint directly with my bosses at NEXT, who in turn communicated her displeasure to me.

It was not so much the word "Glamour". The author objected to the use of the word "Girl", especially as she was now over 30. I sent an email to Ms Adichie, copied to my bosses, in which I offered the author my unreserved apologies.

The Pen Whisperer ‏@haroldwrites
@molarawood @ikhide Wit due rspect2our glamour girl,if dis isnt d height of hypocrisy,I wonda wat is.Well,we're all hypocrites 1way or anoda

Funmi Iyanda ‏@Funmilola
yes Chimamanda is my friend and perhaps l am biased but l genuinely like El Nathan's work and think writers' spats are great, no fakery

Of all the reactions to Adichie’s statement, Abubakar Ibrahim’s tweets seem the most interesting to me. It’s harsh but also clearly comes from a place of honesty. The fact that he is one of the shortlistees of the 2013 Caine Prize meant that Adichie’s statement came across as a personal attack.




What do you think after reading the interview and Ibrahim’s tweets? Is the anger towards Adichie justified? Or has she been completely misunderstood?
Tags: aaron brady, Abubakar Ibrahim, boston review interview, chimamanda adichie,elnathan
Abubakar A. Ibrahim @Abubakr_khalifa
So the best African fiction is in Chimamanda Adichie's inbox? I hail thee, queen-god mother. Go Bleep yourself, Chimamanda. Nonsense!

6 Responses to “African Literary Feud | Adichie: The Best African Fiction Is in My Mailbox | Ibrahim: “Go Bleep Yourself, Chimamanda”” Subscribe
1. girl 2013/07/15 at 1:42 pm #

o
Wow the anger was definitely justified. That was amazing arrogant of Chimamanda.
2. Ifey 2013/07/15 at 4:54 pm #

Adichie is only having a diva’s attitude because writing (literary fiction) is now commercialised. In the era, when writers were paupers and the monied prizes were few and far in between, writing seemed more of a calling than a vocation ‘everyone’ is called to. Adichie was a 2002 shorlisted writer of the Caine prize, so that implies once upon a time she reckoned with it. If Elnathan is her ‘boy’, then I see no reason why she’d strongly refute being Achebe’s girl. She even took pains to elaborate how many times she met Achebe and how impersonal their contact was, more like she was trying to prove she just started writing, out of the blue and had never read Achebe all her life. If she could take such pains to remove herself from under the shadow (a laudable one, in my opinion) of Achebe, why is she so fast to draw another one under her?
So, I may attend one of her ‘celebrated’ workshops, but that doesn’t make me her girl! Because writing workshops & MFAs may widen your exposure & outlook but they don’t teach you how to write! In fact they may ensconce u in a formula.
3. Kunbi | Aisle Perfect 2013/07/15 at 5:30 pm #


Definitely justified. Adichie’s arrogance is so blatant. I’m over her *as I run to read Americanah*
4. Aderonke 2013/07/15 at 6:03 pm #


Lol she forgot Abubakar’s name in the interview… e dey pain well well! Lol
5. Ifey 2013/07/15 at 6:15 pm #

I forgot to mention that Abukakar’s “f-worded’ reply is so not classy. He could have expressed his grievance in a better way. I love Elnathan’s creative response.
6. tosin 2013/07/15 at 7:33 pm #


CA should grow up.am disappointed.Wow.

Tweets Top / All / People you follow
1. Binyavanga Wainaina ‏@BinyavangaW 2m
@elnathan "I blame Chimamanda Adichie for undercutting my manhood, & the world must know because my manhood seemed unable to stand 4 itself"
Followed by 'Seun Fakuade

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2. Madame .A. ‏@The7eventhDigit 5m
Chimamanda's flippant dismissal of the Caine Prize nominees left a sour taste in the mouth....
Followed by ALIBABA AKPOROBOME..
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