Two tales of a continent

The first one induced in me a likeness for African literature. It was set on such a huge canvas that sprawled across 200 years, many generations and two continents. I was there when Kunta Kinte shrilled for the first time and the year was 1750. He grew up with me. It was superb watching him at close quarters. I revelled with him in his childhood and a part of his teen years. When he went to manhood training, his parents and siblings were not supposed to be with him there. But I paid a visit. No, not just a visit, I stayed with him through out the period. He had great plans and ambitions. All thwarted when he was captured by the toubobs. And thus he was:

“Stolen from Africa
Brought to America
Fighting on arrival
Fighting for survival…”

It was a real tome running close to 700 pages. But it was so intense except for a few chapters. I felt like the loser I am when I finished reading ‘Roots’. Thank you Ranjeetha, thanks a lot.

Comparing to ‘Roots’ ‘Things Fall Apart’ is a smaller volume. All of 187 pages, it disappointed me in the beginning. I was still under the influence of the world Alex Halley had shown to me. Comparing to the people in Juffure, those at Umuofia were less sophisticated. Okonkwo was short tempered and a couple of times he beat his wife mercilessly. He was a warrior and a great wrestler who earned much fame when he over powered the champion wrestler of his time. He loathed his father for he was too lazy and left nothing for his son but a pile of debts. Okonkwo was a self made man and one cannot expect a self made man showing too much sophistication. He was afraid of becoming lazy and coward. He despised anyone who showed a hint of his father’s character. He struggled not to be like his father, never ever, and he succeeded in that. He amassed wealth and earned titles. His barn was always full with yams. But when his gun accidentally fired killing a fellow tribe man during a funeral he was forced to go exile and lived at his mother’s village for the next seven years. He too had great plans about being a great member of the tribe. And when he came back the scene was quite different. Even when he was at his mother’s village his son Nwoye had been converted to the new religion introduced by the white people. Things were really falling apart at his own village. Their faith had been questioned and insulted. Okonkwo and his fellow men were captured and humiliated. And he knew that his people were not willing to wage a war. He killed a messenger, a representative of the invaders, and then killed himself. Only to be brought down from the tree on which he hung himself by the whites and to be buried without honours.

And it was in the last paragraph the only time the author intervened to tell what had in the mind of the District Commissioner. Satirical it was. He would write a book with an interesting paragraph or two if not a whole chapter, narrating the incidents that led to the suicide of Okonkwo. And the name he chose for his work was: The Pacification of the Primitive Tribes of the Lower Niger.

The Challenge

To be with you
keeping myself sane.

It’s yet another phase in life.
Just another.
No ADJECTIVES.
I’m staying with people
who watch WWF wrestling mania,
the moment they are out of bed.
It embarrasses me.
And once when I was reading,
someone breathed down my neck and asked
“Is that a storybook?”
“Yes”, I replied.
“What does it deal with”?
Again I muttered something in reply
and he guffawed.
“Oh, old story that’s before 1947”.
“Even before that…” I protested.