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Kofi Owusu
MFS Modern Fiction Studies, Volume 37, Number 3, Fall 1991, pp. 459-470
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Kofi Owusu
Modern Fiction Studies, Volume 37, Number 3, Autumn 1991. Copyright by Purdue Research Founda-
tion. All rights to reproduction in any form reserved.
459
In the opening chapter of Achebe's third novel, Arrow of God, we find
the Chief Priest, Ezeulu, considering "the immensity of his power over
the years and the crops and, therefore, over the people [of Umuaro]"
(3). When the Chief Priest tests the limits of that power, he learns that
"no man however great [is] greater than his people" (230). The abuse
of a people's trust and the misuse of power lead to a coup in the next
novel, A Man of the People. And in his latest novel, Anthills of the Savannah,
Achebe suggests that postcolonial military dictatorships have the unen-
viable reputation for institutionalizing the abuse of power. Thus far, I
have been treading on familiar ground. References to the downfall of a
proud man (Okonkwo), a corruptible Civil Servant (Obi), a headstrong
Chief Priest (Ezeulu), a demagogue (Nanga), or a dictator (His Excellency)
feature prominently in books and essays on Achebe's "understanding of
the complexity of historical processes" (Ravenscroft, qtd. in McEwan 31),
his "theme . . . of tradition versus change" (Palmer 64), "the vivid pic-
ture" the novelist is said to provide "of I[g]bo society" (Carroll 36), and
the sensitive artist's indictment of postcolonial excesses. This paper focuses
attention on what has not always been obvious to criticsthat Achebe's
concern with the question of power, his fascination with both tradition
and change, and his rendition of religious and cultural conflicts have never
been divorced from his keen interest in the politics of literary interpreta-
tion. We note, in this connection, that Achebe's interest in interpretation
is shared by the older generation of African writers (like WoIe Soyinka,
with particular reference to The Interpreters) as well as the younger genera-
tion (like Ben Okri, author of The Landscapes Within).
A dramatic confrontation in the Twenty-Second chapter of Things Fall
Apart yields inferences that are relevant to our discussion. At an annual
ceremony held in honor of the earth goddess, Enoch, an overzealous con-
vert to the Christian faith, commits "one of the greatest crimes a man
could commit" against the clan, namely, "to unmask an egwugwu [a titl-
ed elder who impersonates an ancestral spirit] in public" (171). Having
reduced Enoch's "compound ... to a desolate heap" (173), a group of
egwugwu proceeds to the church to confront the Reverend James Smith
and his interpreter, Okeke:
Ajofia . . . the leading egwugwu of Umuofia . . . addressed Mr. Smith . . .
"Tell the white man that we will not do him any harm," he said to the
interpreter. . . . "But this shrine which he built must be destroyed. ... It has
bred untold abominations and we have come to put an end to it. . . ."
Mr. Smith said to his interpreter: "Tell them to go away from here. This
is the house of God and I will not live to see it desecrated."
Okeke interpreted wisely to the . . . leaders of Umuofia: "The white man
says he is happy you have come to him with your grievances, like friends. He
will be happy if you leave the matter in his hands." (174-175)
The egwugwu do not "leave the matter in [Mr. Smith's] hands"; they
destroy his church. Critics of African literature have reminded us again
460 MODERN FICTION STUDIES
and again that such incidents bring cultural and religious conflicts to a
head, but literary criticism should and need not end (t)here.
Achebe utilizes the missionary's exploration of uncharted territory as
a metaphor for his own attempt to write a different kind of fiction. Both
the missionary and the novelist rely on the mediation of interpreters and
count on their audience's willful suspension of disbelief. In the missionary's
encounter with the egwugwu, we learn that Okeke's role as interpreter
is seen in terms of a mediator and a text-maker. Okeke does not just
translate; he interprets "wisely," and his wise interpretation creates a
secondary text very much his own. The text of the missionary, James
Smith, is what Okeke, the interpreter, says it is. Indeed, without the in-
terpreter's secondary text, the primary text of either the egwugwu or
Reverend Smith is mute. It is also implied that the interpreter's media-
tion saves the Reverend from paying too high a price for his candor.
Intertwining the surface details of what we have come to refer to routinely
as cultural and religious conflicts in the Achebe world is a barely disguised
drama in which the missionary, whose faith enjoins him to believe what
he has not seen, plays the part of a writer of imaginative literature, the
interpreter plays his namesake, the critic, while the candidate for conver-
sion assumes the role of reader. It has always been clear to Achebe that
what is called "literature," what gets taught in literature courses the world
over, is fundamentally what criticsthe privileged community of interpre-
terscare to sponsor. Equally aware of the sort of criticism accorded
African writers,1 Achebe had hoped that critics of his first novel and of
the subsequent ones would not take their cue from a colonial District
Commissioner's anthropological interest in "primitive tribes."
In the concluding chapter of Things Fall Apart, the District
Commissioner and his entourage are led by Obierika to "the tree from
which Okonkwo's body was dangling":
"Perhaps your men can help us bring him down and bury him," said
Obierika. . . .
The District Commissioner changed instantaneously. The resolute ad-
ministrator in him gave way to the student of primitive customs.
"Why can't you take him down yourselves?" he asked.
"It is against our custom," said one of the men. (190)
'"We are not opposed to criticism," writes Achebe in Morning Yet On Creation Day,
' 'but we are getting a little weary of . . . the special types of criticism which have been
designed for us by people whose knowledge of us is very limited" (61).
OWUSU 461
One could . . . write a whole chapter on him. . . . He had already chosen the
title of the book, after much thought: The Pacification of the Primitive Tribes of the
Lower Niger. (191)
And with that Achebe concludes Things Fall Apart. This first novel, then,
anticipates a book that arises out of the novel and, in part, retraces the
novel's storyline ("a whole chapter" could be written on Okonkwo). But
this book's journalistic mode ("every day brought [the author] some new
material"), pronounced anthropological bias (the author is a "student
of primitive customs"), viewpoint, and proprietary air ("The Pacification
of Primitive Tribes . . .") are at odds with Achebe's (re)creation of Igbo
society. The District Commissioner is prone to falsifying events he hardly
understands, while Achebe provides the illusion of reality carefully studied.
In this way, the novelist incorporates into his action and plot, first, what
Things Fall Apart is not and, second, the mistaken readings it can do without.
The implications of the foregoing for the interpretation of Achebe's
and, by extension, Africanfiction are brought to the fore in the second
novel.
In No Longer at Ease, Achebe presents the reader with a portrait of
the critic as a student of literature. Brought up on Shakespeare and T.
S. Eliot (2O)2 among others, Obi is a graduate in English who read
"Conrad . . . for his degree" (103). He feels extremely comfortable talk-
ing to the Chairman of the Public Service Commission on "modern
poetry," "the modern novel," and, specifically, on novelists ranging "from
Graham Greene to Tutuola" (42-43). It is not surprising, therefore, that
Obi brings the sensibility of a student of literature to bear on the action
of No Longer At Ease. When the traders with whom Obi is traveling to
Umuofia
burst into song again . . . Obi . . . tried to translate it into English, and for the
first time its real meaning dawned on him. . . .
2Achebe goes to great lengths to suggest that his protagonist, Obi, functions within
a literary (con)text. The novel's title and epigraph are taken from T. S. Eliot's "The Journey
of the Magi": "We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, / But no longer at ease here,
in the old dispensation. . . ." ([6]). Obi is cast in the mold of a Magi-figure singled out
of the privileged "caste" of aspiring scholars from the EastEastern Nigeria, that isto
undertake a journey to the West and return bearing the gift of education for Nigeria, the
infant-nation. Obi also feels a certain emotional affinity with Shakespeare's Hamlet. When
he asks the rhetorical question "What was Hitler to me or I to Hitler?" (41), he provides
a variation on Hamlet's "What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, / That he should weep
for her?" {Hamlet II.ii. 752). Hamlet and Obi both feel "no longer at ease" in societies
that are corrupt and corrupting. Thus, Achebe, the novelist-as-teacher, "teaches" the reader
that Okonkwo's grandson, Obi, may be recognizable on the pavements of the Lagos of
the 1950s, but he belongs primarily to literature. For a discussion of how Hamlet's functional
madness can be related to Ayi Kwei Armah's craft, see my "Armah's F-R-A-G-M-E-N-T-S."
OWUSU 463
Africa. Depending on one's affiliations, Achebe is seen either as a prophet
of doom or a subversive political commentator. The novelist is discussed
in terms that make him anything but a novelist.3 Against such a
background, the need to reread and relearn Achebe appears to me to
be both necessary and overdue. In the rest of this paper, I will argue
that Anthills of the Savannah is a timely novel that facilitates the twin processes
of rereading and relearning Achebe.
Chinua Achebe returns to the question of power in his latest novel.
Nuruddin Farah, for example, sees a special link between A Man of the
People and Anthills of the Savannah. He says of the latter novel that we are
"back to where the story of A Man of the People was interrupted, in 1966,
by the army takeover of power in Nigeria. Only we are not in Nigeria,
but in a fictitious country called Kangan Republic" (1828). The minor
issue as to whether there is much, if anything, to choose between the
fictional "Nigeria" of A Man of the People and the equally fictional "Kangan
Republic" in Anthills need not detain us, but the suggestion that Anthills
takes us "back to where the story of A Man of the People was interrupted"
certainly needs qualification. The reader learns from Anthills that there
had been "nine years of civilian administration" (135) before Sam, the
Army Commander and current head of state, came to power through
a coup. In fact, at the beginning of the novel we are already three years
into Sam'sHis Excellency'srule. We learn through flashback that a
3"Sometimes," Achebe admits, "I want to say things and I can't wait until I've written
340 pages of fiction. The novel can deal with the direct statement, but I think it is better
to deal with it in essays. Many novelists . . . have come to this decision" (Moss 1677).
In The Trouble With Nigeria, Achebe makes his "direct statements]" about Nigeria in non-
fictional prose at once lucid and passionate: "The trouble with Nigeria is simply and squarely
a failure of leadership. . . . What I am saying is that Nigeria is not beyond change. I am
saying that Nigeria can change ... if she discovers leaders who have . . . ability and . . .
vision" (1). "What I am saying" underlines the mode of "direct statement." The "I"
is Achebe the essayist, the political commentator. Achebe, the novelist, allows himself the
luxury of ambiguity. This, for example, is how "the trouble with Nigeria" is handled in
A Man of the People:
We ignore man's basic nature if we say . . . that because a man like Nanga has risen over-
night from poverty and insignificance to his present opulence he could be persuaded without
much trouble to give it up . . . and return to his original state.
A man who has just come in from the rain and dried his body and put on dry clothes
is more reluctant to go out again than another who has been indoors all the time. The trouble
with our new nation . . . was that none of us had been indoors long enough to be able to
say "To hell with it." We had all been in the rain together until yesterday. Then a handful
of usthe smart and the lucky and hardly ever the besthad scrambled for the one shelter
our former rulers left, and had taken it over and barricaded themselves in. (34; emphasis added)
Here, in fiction, "the trouble with Nigeria," "our new nation," is rooted in "man's basic
nature" and compounded by chance ("the lucky and hardly ever the best . . ."). In this
way, a new nation's troubles are universalized. By the same token, an individual's problem
begins to have implications for every (wo)man who has "just come in from the [metaphoric
or symbolic] rain."
"Does the blind man own his escort? No, neither do we the story; rather it is
the story that owns us and directs us. . . ."
"So the arrogant fool who sits astride the story as though it were a bowl
of foo-foo set before him . . . understands little about the world. The story will
. . . swallow him first. ..."
"When we are young and without experience we all imagine that the story
of the land is easy [to tell], that every one of us can get up and tell it ... .
True, we all have our little scraps of tale bubbling in us. But what we tell is
like the middle of a mighty boa which a foolish forester mistakes for a tree trunk
and settles upon it to take his snuff." (114)
OWUSU 465
We note that the old man's account of the story and its telling merges
with a critique of the storyteller and storytelling. The storyteller or novelist
who, like an "arrogant fool," "sits astride [his] story," is being taught
to do better. The "forester" who mistakes "the middle of a mighty boa
. . . for a tree trunk" represents a novelist or critic who is both inex-
perienced and presumptuous. When a critic like John Callahan notes that
"[e]veryone has ... a story to tell, but not necessarily a narrative to
write[;] [t]he last depends on craft" (182), he echoes the old man's con-
tention that not everyone, certainly not the young and inexperienced, "can
get up and tell" "the story of the land." What the old man calls "ex-
perience" complements what Callahan refers to as "craft." Thus, when
Achebe charges his narrative with the old man's eloquence, he "reoralizes
the written word with the . . . immediacy of oral story-telling" (Callahan
190). The novelist, in effect, "declares allegiance to both language and
action, and calls for collaboration between writer, narrator, and reader,
between oral and literary techniques and traditions, between performance
and composition" (Callahan 184).
The "collaboration between writer, narrator, and reader, between
oral and literary techniques and traditions," is observable in Achebe's
novels since Things Fall Apart. We recall how in No Longer at Ease, for
example, a local song is made, first, to carry "the burden" of the novel's
concerns and, second, to sensitize readers to the novel's "wealth of associa-
tion." Twenty-seven years later, in Anthills, we observe how a traditional
storyteller's account and critique of storytelling bristle with apposite im-
plications for our appreciation of Achebe's novels. Moreover, the interplay
between the old man's (intra)text and Achebe's (meta)text demonstrates
the "collaboration between . . . oral and literary techniques and tradi-
tions" in an effort to remind the reader that fiction is, after all, a tissue
of "lies" given apparent reality by the manner of presentation ("the tell-
ing").4 The old man invokes Agwu, the local tutelary spirit of artists, the
better to make the point that the gifted storytellerAgwu's "disciple"
(115)is always conscious of the fictionality of his fiction and the supreme
importance of "the telling." Such a storyteller
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OWUSU 469
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