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Sentinel Poetry
(Online) #39 The International Journal of Poetry
& Graphics February
2006. ISSN 1479-425X. Editor: Amatoritsero Ede |
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The
Self-Reflexive Imagination Interview with Guest Poet, Chijioke Amu-Nnadi By Amatoritsero Ede Amatoritsero Ede: Your first formal and permanent
introduction to the public was in Voices from the Fringe, edited by
Harry Garuba and published by Malthouse
Press in 1987. How has the literary journey been so far? How does your
literary biography read since then? Chiji Amu-Nnadi: That first outing came as a
complete surprise, because I didn’t know the anthology was being
prepared. But, as you may know, it was an absolutely exhilarating experience;
to see your work in print, bound in a book. Of course, before then I had
published some poems in The Guardian Newspapers, which at the time ran a
robust arts section and that was equally exciting. Yet, Voices from the Fringe seemed to take it to another level. Unfortunately, rather than stoke the fire of what ought
to follow, it frightened me. I began to ask too many questions of the poems I
wrote and I discovered it became increasingly difficult to write. The truth
is, because poetry came to me late in life, in response to a challenge from a
friend, rather than gift and learning, I’d never really stopped seeing
myself as an impostor. Having not studied literature, even in the secondary
school, there was nothing to found these new experiences upon, and no teacher
to help you hone the craft. So, besides the books I now began to read, mostly
in my spare time, there was nothing else to learn with. As a result, I stuttered where I should have been
eloquent and crawled where I ought to have been inspired, by Voices, to gallop. You see, if I had
been invited to submit a poem to that book, I may not have submitted ‘poetry’,
neither, I presume, would I have had the courage to submit any at all. Such
was my lack of confidence, that for years after that, I wrote sparingly and
secretly. My fertile period turned out to be the June 12 era, when ‘the
abiola manuscript’ was compiled. These were
poems which were written to express the anger of those days, and to express
what I figured were “the abiola thoughts”.
For instance, when Ken Saro-Wiwa was killed in 1995, I had written “suspended”
as a form of letter from Abiola to Saro-Wiwa,
lamenting that they were being “consumed/
by fires that never come”. Abiola was
in almost similar circumstances, fighting against the same adversary, perhaps
awaiting the same fate. Some of the lines in the poem read: these days i gather my anecdotes in woven
wickers the shards of broken kernels that tarmac our fattening rooms and i am a hostage to dreams that drip down and are eaten by our hard soil Yet, I filed them away and forgot many of them. I also
lost quite a bit too. But, when in 1994 I met the woman who would become my
wife (a lawyer, she was reading one of those rare classics, Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy), and I
needed to impress her, I showed her some of those poems and her reaction
turned out to be the shot in the arm I needed. Indeed, when I published the fire within in 2002, my
acknowledgement to her was to the fact that she “took away the edges
eaten by cockroaches” (where I left them) and “helped smoothen
the crumpled fabric of my life”. In 2000, when I moved to Abuja (Nigeria’s
capital), I joined the Abuja Literary Society. There, my confidence began to
grow. I also discovered that passion
about poetry which most writers have. Living alone, away from my family, I
turned my evenings into a theatre of sorts, and the ALS into my school. The
result was the publication, in 2002, of the
fire within. Fortuitously, it won the maiden edition of the ANA/NDDC
Gabriel Okara Prize for Poetry. Since then, I have published another collection, pilgrim’s passage (2004) and I
am currently working on a third, nene, the love poems. Hopefully, it would come out in 2006.
I am also working on a novel, A walk
with nothing and a collection of short stories, A light in the tunnel. A.E.: How much publishing possibilities are there in
Nigeria? C. A-N. : Unfortunately, not too many.
Over the years, the publishing houses have seen their fortunes dwindle,
because As an alternative, writers would rather publish
themselves, with little or no external influence, editing nor supervision.
All you had to have was a little cash, and a friend or godfather in business
or government, whom you’d pester to help you ‘launch’ your
book. Afterwards, they mostly moulded on private shelves. Another alternative is a growing population of Nigerian
writers, who have migrated abroad, where there are better opportunities. This
drain has affected both the enthusiasm and the quality of books published
here. The only silver one sees beneath the cloud is the endowing of new prizes,
which has triggered a fresh rash of interest in literature. How this unfolds,
or affects the poor state of publishing can only be told by time. A.E.: Nigerian literature – and poetry, in
particular – has a political undertone that mirrors a larger troubled
socio-political ferment. Is your work mimetic in this way? C. A-N.: Which work isn’t? Every
society is mirrored in its literature, because what we become are chroniclers
of society’s evolution, its interests and tragedies, its wars and
peace, its love and hate. The many compulsions that propel societies, and
regenerate them. The Sound and the Fury
by William Faulkner is a reflection of Depression Era America. Arrow of God by Chinua Achebe is a
reflection of Nigeria’s encounter with colonialism, on the one part,
and a reflection of true heroism and tragedy, against the corrupting
influences of intervening societies on the other. Yet, what makes them great
literature lies in the telling of those stories: the elegance of pure and
clear thought and the art of controlled rendering. For Nigeria, unfortunately, it’s been more tragic
than pleasurable, more political because our culture has been subsumed under
the politics of the day. And politics hasn’t been the swan song that it
promises. For Nigeria, in spite of its blessings, in spite of what this great
nation has been called to be, particularly in Africa, there has been a
failing of such gross and tormenting proportion. This reflects in our
literature, and is evoked in the poetry I have written over the years. And,
why wouldn’t it. It is part of our everyday experience. As a journalist
in early 1990s Nigeria, what else did we have to face but the unfolding
tragedy of June 12, and the criminal arrogance of those who held the gun
– and held the power. While my early poems where love poems, the period
between 1992 and, perhaps, 2002, were mostly political in tone. They were
mostly angry, disillusioned, bitter and dark. When, for instance, I wrote “broken dreams”,
I was somewhere in Ikeja, Lagos, during one of those
June 12 riots and the lines: “how often we watch flowers die in our
hands/ and bats eat the fruits of our
trees/ and spiders run rings around
our heads/ and flies wash hands inside
our mouths/ and around us patient
vultures stand/ eating to the bone the
carcass of our dreams” were more than a refrain in a poem. Thankfully, the love poems are coming back. And, again,
it may just reflect one’s relief that, finally, we have a semblance of democracy, and within that system lie boundless
possibilities, both good and bad. Yes, things may be tough, but hope springs
eternal. I still find a lot of residual anger in the poetry of
the day, including mine. For some, indeed, nothing much has happened to abate
that feeling of disenchantment, dislocation and exile, even within the
homeland. But, we continue to believe that something better would happen. Not
to hope is to die. A.E.: Do you think literature has any notable influence
on political life in Nigeria? C. A-N.: Unfortunately, I don’t
think so. I work within the political environment. There is no worse place in
Nigeria to write poetry, because people laugh at the crazy-head who would
rather bury his head in his books and his poetry. That’s on a personal
level. On a larger scale, the quality of personnel involved
in Nigeria’s politics are often men and women more given to
other pursuits than the intellectual and the sublime. Here mediocrity is
often enthroned. They treat writers with palpable disdain, so how well can
the work produced have a better effect? As I always say, somehow, Nigeria
would be retrieved from this poor state of affairs, because it is imperative
that we become part of the civilised world, contributing to decisions that
influence global politics with some level of sophistication and learning. A.E.: Is there any guiding theoretical literary
principle or philosophy behind your work? C. A-N. : I don’t know, because I
don’t know what the theories are. You know, sometimes I feel
particularly daft and unlearned. I don’t know much about Shakespeare,
for instance, as funny and/or tragic as that sounds. I can’t do a
proper intellectual critique of another’s work. When I enjoy what I
read, that’s good enough for me. I can’t explain similes and all
that, even though I recognise them. So, when people sometimes commend
‘my work’, I am often bemused. When flaws are pointed out, I
listen and do the best I could to sift the necessary from the egoistic. I am
constantly trying to improve my craft, so I am always looking for new
opportunities for interaction, to catch up with what I always feel I have
lost. That’s why, when I hold talks in schools these days, I always ask
the children to read and to write. That’s the best way to grow. As for philosophy; I do have an
evolving thought. You see, the very first poem I wrote began in my sleep. The
threads of the Abiola dirge to Kudirat,
“awakening”, came
while I was asleep. So, I have had to wonder, what makes us write? Who makes
us write? If one would write a poem in a state of unconsciousness (and I know
this has happened to so many others), what right do we have to claim them as
ours? Aren’t we mere vessels in the hands of a Great Influence?
Isn’t our gift only a reflection of our frailty, our vulnerability, our
fragility; just like sap that flows from the fragile parts of a shrub when it
is broken? What makes a work immortal and why does Shakespeare remain a
constant 500 years after, or Leonardo da Vinci a
recurring name, or Pablo Neruda a well-formed
genius even at twenty? And how did Mahatma Gandhi write such immortal poetry
with his silence? I write poetry without punctuation and capital, not for
any other reason than the fact that “life is a fragile metaphor, told
with neither capital nor punctuation.” We are mere tools in its hand.
Life is a train of unbreakable and uncontrollable motions and emotions. Its
essence is not in the punctuations, but in the story itself that unfolds. As
I reflected in the author’s note in pilgrim’s
passage, life, as with poetry, “is a rimless spiritual adventure
teeming with mystery.” I publish without my personal data and name
because I believe I have little control over what “I write”.
Instead, I use my family name, amu nnadi,
(together; never separated), because it is the only one that can survive me;
that possesses a hint of the eternal, just as that Influence that inspires
poetry. Just, as I believe, the things “I write”. I publish
without my photograph because I do not want to add my image or arrogance to
what is not completely mine. Because, as Gandhi says, “we must reduce
ourselves to zero” to earn eternity. Sometimes it is contradictory and
befuddled. Sometimes it is clear. But, that’s the stuff of art,
especially poetry. A.E.: What is your opinion on the new NLNG Prize and
the poet Odia Ofeimun’s
objections to its limitations? C. A-N.: The Nigeria Literature Prize
must be the best thing to have happened to Nigerian writers, based in
Nigeria, with its terribly limiting opportunities. I don’t know what Odia’s objections are, but I suppose it is because
it limits Nigerians living abroad from entering their works. One major
limitation is that it precludes Nigerians who may otherwise have great works
from being part of what celebrates them (wherever they may live). As the
Nigerian Prize, it ought to encourage entries from every Nigerian, and by so
doing, encourage the best the country has to offer. But, if I am allowed some selfishness, precluding
Nigerians abroad means that it offers to those who are not as fortunate to
tap into the opportunities abroad, the chance to improve their craft, and,
perhaps, earn a little recompense for staying and making something good out
of a bad situation. As I told Thisday Newspapers in an
interview last year, Nigerian writers abroad have a right to protest. But, I
think NLNG is trying to encourage what is wholly home-grown: telling our
story from a point that is peculiarly native, about our experiences and
environment. Of course, we are all Nigerians, but sometimes what give us an
identity may not be lineage or birthplace, but those experiences and
encounters that define our character and loyalties. Of course, it may be that it precludes what may be the
best Nigerian book. But then, may be it doesn’t. It is just argument
now. A.E.: Who are your influences? C. A-N.: Just about anyone whose work I
have enjoyed, or anything whose beauty I have
encountered. Because I don’t have conventional training, I have grown
into some kind of forest where all manner of influences exist. Of course,
there is Pablo Neruda, whose work I encountered for
the first time in December last year during a visit to the United States,
Leopold Sedar Senghor, who seemed to share the same
voice, Dennis Brutus, whose poetry is so elegant you wanted to cry, Gabriel Okara, who traps pictures in his words. And there is
Christopher Okigbo, about whose poetry I don’t know much, but whose
stories are the stuff of legend. My
wife is also a great influence, because she is never satisfied until the
poems begin to sound satisfying. I am like the soil: I collect all influences
and use them the best way I can. My relationship with God is also a great influence. It
helps me remain calm, humble, and eager to learn. And I can take the harshest
criticisms. What better way is there to improve? A.E.: chijioke , thank you very
much for your precious time. |
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