As the awards and nominations keep piling up for fan-favorite writer Nnedi Okorafor, four of her books have been announced as finalists for the prestigious Locus Awards’ 2022 edition.
By Abdulkareem Baba Aminu
The Locus Science Fiction Foundation has announced the top ten finalists for this year’s Locus Awards, and the final winners will be announced on June 25, during the virtual Locus Award Weekend. Four books by Nigerian-American writer Nnedi Okorafor are on the list. Her books on the list of finalists are Noor (DAW) for Best Science Fiction Novel, Remote Control (Tordotcom) for Best Novella, The Black Pages (Black Stars) for Best Novelette, and the graphic novel adaptation of After the Rain (Abrams ComicArts/Megascope) by John Jennings, with art by David Brame.
Okorafor is a leading writer of science fiction and fantasy with a breath-taking body of work spanning close to two decades. She is also known for coining the term ‘Africanfuturism’ and defining the subgenre itself.
Okorafor is a leading writer of science fiction and fantasy with a breath-taking body of work spanning close to two decades. She is also known for coining the term ‘Africanfuturism’ and defining the subgenre itself. An unapologetic champion of diversity, inclusion, and originality in SFF, her works are often praised for inventiveness and innovation.
Over the years, Okorafor has won some of the most prestigious awards, including three Hugo nominations, one for each of the books in her well-received and critically-acclaimed acclaimed Binti trilogy, which the first book won in 2016. She has also won a Wole Soyinka Prize for Literature in Africa, three Nebula Awards, as well as an Eisner Award and Hugo win (with artist Tana Ford) for the LaGuardia graphic novel, among several others.
Founded in 1971, the Locus Awards are conferred by the Locus Science Fiction Foundation. The 2020 awards are spread across 16 categories, with winners determined by polling magazine readers.
Poems about gagged lips and lone voices: A review of Peace Longdet’s ‘Enablers’
A look at the new poetry collection ‘The Enablers’ reveals a work that is at once layered in a most subtle way, as well as powerfully effective.
Title: The Enablers | Author: Peace Longdet
Genre: Poetry | Pages: 67
Publisher: Sevhage Publishers | Year of Publication: 2022
Reviewer: Bizuum Yadok
Every poet has a responsibility to communicate feelings, experiences, fears, aspirations, values and dissatisfaction on behalf of herself or her society. This form of communication is usually aimed at either creating awareness or igniting a radical solution. Whichever way, while at it, the poet always entertains and extracts emotion from her audience. Many scholars agree that the bulk of African literature, from colonial times (and especially in writing), is essentially a response to wide-spread tragedy, and as such it is usually characterised by protest; protest against colonialism, protest against the megalomaniacal claims of independence, protest against military juntas, protest against mammoth corruption colouring democracy, and protest against terrorism or other forms of man’s inhumanity to man.
Dr. Peace Longdet is ushered into the league of protest poets by her significant debut collection of poems, Enablers. Her poems are not just relevant but timely in a presently deteriorating society like Nigeria where dissenting voices are gagged, if not silenced permanently. It has reached a point whereby any person criticising the lackadaisical attitude of the government, especially with regards to insecurity, nepotism, and corruption, is hastily termed as a saboteur. Freedom of expression has now become a mere rhetoric and quite far from practice. However, poets like Peace Longdet have refused to be hushed. If their voices will not be heard, then their agitation will find expression in print. Her Enablers comes as a worthy example of artists’ weapons that are meant to cure societal ills while confronting social injustice at the same time.
The first poem in the collection, “Thoughts in Print”, aptly welcomes the reader to a potpourri of thematic concerns mostly tilted towards protest against ineptitude of leaders and collaboration of followers marked by complicitous participation, herd silence and ignorance. The 9-lined poem reads:
Treading, yet knowing
The ground is unholy,
Giving, yet knowing
The gift is abominable,
Taking, yet knowing,
The gift is temporal
Dreaming, yet knowing
The morning breaks
Nearly all who conspire to create an ailing society are present in the poem above. Ironically, they are in the full knowledge of their contributions whether by treading on unholy grounds, giving abominable gifts (e.g bribes) or taking fleeting gifts. In any of the cases, they are always in the state of “knowing”. It is rather absurd that the same set of people are dreaming – perhaps for a better place – yet still “knowing” that “morning breaks” when their secret acts come to light and the end result is an anarchical society. The poet’s projection of effect, from the cause, using the principle of economy, is nicely captured in the brief poem which lays a good foundation for string of angry poems such as, “Gagged”, “Hallowed Gong”, “Terror”, “Few”, “Killings”, “Blessed Yet . . .” among others.
In some of the poems, the poet doesn’t just expose injustices but also firmly resolves to meet her obligation as a person. For example, the poem, ‘My Pledge’ offers a more radical, even militant, perception of herself in the sense that she uses the ‘Tigress’ as metaphor for her self-concept. She reiterates, “I am a tigress” in lines 1, 12, and 18 to assert her manner of confronting any factor that seeks to subjugate women, using the weapons of her physical, mental and emotional strength represented by claws, teeth and speed of the tigress. Consider the first six lines of the poem:
I am a tigress
Armed to breathe with my claws
My claws the pen
To speak with my pen
To drum with my claws
The rhythms are coals of fire
Pouncing in the direction of the hunter
A tigress has been proven to be more vicious than the tiger. From Longdet’s description though, we do not see the poet as a wild animal but a mentally armed and ready-to-fight phenomenal woman. Thus, she shifts from the semblance of the prey to become the predator. At this point, it doesn’t matter who the hunter (enemy) is, but that tigress is willing to launch an attack to protect her cubs (hapless women and children) as seen in lines 8 & 11, ‘The cubs depend on my razor-sharp teeth/ . . .For the cubs must know the myth of the hunter.’ She restates her point in lines 18-20 with her emphasis on attack as a form of activism which is quite necessary in a jungle-like nation:
I am a tigress
My passion is my weapon
To speak up in the land of the dumb.
A similar conviction like that of the above can gleaned in lines 17-21 of the poem, “Wandering Loner”, where she says:
This fire must burn!
It is a quest like an enchanted Diva,
Prowling with the words of fire
To wake them from sleep
To give them a voice
The reoccurrence of the word “fire” in this poem, just like in her other poems, connotes the fury or righteous anger that the poet is filled with and it is employed in the pursuit of justice. She doesn’t just create awareness but lends her voice to the voiceless so that more voices of protest could be heard. In the same vein, the poet makes loud her commitment to positive change in lines 21-30 of the poem, “The Voice”, by saying:
I do not possess the power to stop the carnage but
I will stand high on this space;
All that I am and all that I can
There is an inexhaustible list of the violent killings across Nigeria prior to and especially during the tenure of President Buhari, who had earlier promised to put a stop to all kinds of terrorism orchestrated by Boko Haram, Fulani Militia also known as bandits, and Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB). He fails woefully in tackling terror and almost all other arms of government combined are reluctant to point accusatory fingers at him. However, Peace Longdet bravely holds the government by the balls, reminding it of its fake promises in poems like, “Deceit”, “Haribu”, “Sleeping Shepherd”, “Double Standard”, and “Quest”. Her fearless confrontation of the powers that be are not even encrypted in the poetics of modernists, rather it is concise and readily accessible to every reader. In this regard, I concur with the literary critic, Paul Liam, in his statement that, “Longdet is a poet for every reader.”
It would be unfair to state that Longdet’s collection is all about protest as some poems are private and they depict supposedly personal or second-hand experiences. Poems like, “Memories”, “Unleased”, “Son of the Wind”, “You Drank”, “Entagled Wind”, and “The Vow”. This collection of 57 poems offer a variety of societal topics in dire need of an elaborate discourse and sometimes follow-up action. The poet pays little attention to sound devices but the optimal imagery makes up for the spice the sound devices might have rendered. Most of the poems are short and captivating as though the words were calculated before each poem was composed.
Like Lebanon’s Khalil Gibran, Nigeria’s Niyi Osundare, or South Africa’s Oswald Mtshali, posterity will keep making reference to Peace Longdet as a phenomenal poet who supplied her intellectual arsenal to fight against all forms of oppression and injustice. Enablers is a book of poetry that will require very little effort of salesmen because it will sell itself by the quality design, print and content therein.
#7Questions: How I settled on Africanfuturism – TJ Benson
TJ Benson’s first book, a collection of short speculative fiction called ‘We Won’t Fade Into Darkness’ (Parresia, 2018), crept into readers’ heads about four years ago. Since then he’s had a second book published, with a third one on the way. Here, the writer/artist/photographer answers seven questions in the way only he can.
By Abdulkareem Baba Aminu
Your first book, the novella ‘We Won’t Fade Into Darkness’ divided readers, causing many to try and force a label on it. How would you describe it?
TJ Benson: I started writing the stories with the intent of making an African sci-fi world, but when I was done I realized I had created something different from that. My characters used indigenous technology, which is regarded as witchcraft today. They also mostly never leave the continent. I didn’t have words for it until I came across the term ‘Africanfuturism’ coined by the celebrated writer, Nnedi Okorafor, and had an ‘aha!’ moment. So, Africanfuturism.
“I didn’t have words for it until I came across the term ‘Africanfuturism’ coined by the celebrated writer, Nnedi Okorafor, and had an ‘aha!’ moment.”
Your sophomore effort, ‘The Madhouse’ (Masobe, 2021), is causing similar reactions over genre. Where would you place it?
TJ Benson: I fought against the category ‘Magical Realism’ right up to the month of publication, because I felt the supernatural governs the lives of many people who share a country with the characters. Yet the spiritualistic elements in the book weren’t of any specific culture which would have made it African Spirituality, like Ben Okri’s ‘The Famished Road’, so ‘The Madhouse’ is definitely Magical Realism.
What can you dish to us about your upcoming novel ‘People Live Here’?
TJ Benson: Not a lot, I’m afraid. It’s a much smaller novel than ‘The Madhouse’, and more linear in structure, even if I admit it has a lot of twisty turns. It’s me, after all (laughter). All I can tell you is that I’m really excited for it to come out.
You’re also a visual artist, as well as a photographer. How do you approach that aspect of your creativity, and does it feed into your writing work?
TJ Benson: There was no intersection between the mediums I practiced until the global lockdown of 2020 when I lost all language. I started drawing on my photographs and realized I draw from the same well in my spirit that I write from. One pulls the other. Pure photography on the other hand is like speaking an entirely different language for me.
“There was no intersection between the mediums I practiced until the global lockdown of 2020 when I lost all language. I started drawing on my photographs and realized I draw from the same well in my spirit that I write from.”
While it’s too early, what’s your next project, after ‘People Live Here’?
TJ Benson: Another short story collection with a little bit of magic, and a little bit of science fiction. That’s all I can share for now.
At what point in your life did you decide you wanted to be a writer?
TJ Benson: To be honest, I decide every year. But the earliest was when I showed an aunt a novella I had handwritten when I was eleven and she told me to make sure I kept the exercise book safe.
What are you reading – and enjoying – these days?
TJ Benson: Unpublished manuscripts (laughter).
#AkumbuReviews: ‘The Return’, by Hisham Matar
This week, Akumbu Uche takes a good look at the critically-acclaimed, Pulitzer-winning book written by Hisham Matar.
By Akumbu Uche
In 1990, Jaballa Matar, a Libyan businessman and political dissident, was abducted from his Cairo home and thrown into Libya’s infamous Abu Salim prison without trial. Except for a few relatives with whom he was incarcerated, his family never saw him again.
Readers familiar with his son, the writer Hisham Matar’s work will recognize the fictionalisation of this tragedy in his first two novels, In the Country of Men (2006) and An Anatomy of a Disappearance (2011).
In The Return (Penguin Books, 2017), the younger Matar once again probes his family’s circumstances, but in memoir form this time around. Subtitled “Fathers, Sons, and the Land In Between,” the book’s portrayal of the relationship between both Matars mirrors that of Odysseus and Telemachus, the mythological father-son duo immortalized by Homer in ‘The Odyssey.’
In the wake of the 2011 revolution that brings Gaddafi’s 42-year rule to an end, Matar recognizes an opportunity to return to his native homeland for the first time since 1979 when his family emigrated to Egypt. Like Telemachus setting off from Ithaca, Matar’s mission is to find his father. Like Telemachus again, 20 years have passed since his father’s disappearance. The Greek hero visits Pylos and Sparta where their kings Nestor and Menelaus fill him in on Odysseus’s exploits during the Trojan War; in similar fashion, our author spends time in Benghazi and Ajdabiya, reuniting with family friends and relatives who recount the events of his father’s early life and later incarceration.
There is a sense that Matar is not only interested in his father’s whereabouts, but is trying to understand his choices which have ruptured the family’s sense of normalcy and plunged them from privilege into precarity. At the end of many trials and tribulations, Odysseus who has been in disguise for the latter part of the Greek story makes himself known to his son, and they are reunited.
Unfortunately, there is no such happy ending for the Matars; after a trail of false leads, the son is advised to presume the father dead, and with neither a date to mark the last day of his father’s life nor a body to bury, his mourning is complicated, prolonged to perpetuity. “I envy the finality of funerals.” He laments. “I covet the certainty. How it must be to wrap one’s hands around the bones, to choose how to place them, to be able to pat the patch of earth and sing a prayer.” Grieving a missing person is perplexing.
One of the facts we learn about the elder Matar’s prison years is how he forestalled despair by reciting the alam, an elegiac Bedouin poetic form that “privileges the past over the present.” Although written rather than recited, and in English rather than Arabic, Matar’s prose is also an alam, one dedicated to both father and fatherland.
Recalling his youth and family legends also means making reference to and probing Libyan history from from its time under Italian colonization to Gaddafi’s dictatorship. But try as he might, our author cannot ignore the present. His return to Libya is marked by both reconciliation with distant relatives and a reckoning that the hope for meaningful change that ushered in the revolution has dissipated into chaos and civil war.
Continuing the family’s tradition of political resistance is his twenty-two-year-old cousin Izzo, one of many young Libyan men who have pushed their university studies and career ambitions aside, and taken up guns to liberate their hometowns in anticipation of a new Libya. One thread seems to join three generations of Matar men: their deep love for their homeland requires a lot of sacrifice. One wonders why patriotism often demands a heavy toll.
If men take centre stage in Matar’s account, it is because Libyan society is a gendered one and as such, war and politics tend to be men’s issues and the book simply reflects this reality. Just as Penelope’s heroism is celebrated in the Odyssey, so are that of Fawzia Tarbash (wife to Jaballa and mother to Hisham), and several other Libyan women – mothers, wives and sisters – who visited their relatives in prison and in their own way supported their struggle. This is a male text, but it is not a misogynist one.
Drawing from Western and Maghrebian literary influences and thoroughly descriptive, Hisham Matar’s writing is a rich tapestry. In his worldview, the personal is inseparable from the political, and after reading this book, it would be difficult for outsiders to speak of Libya without making reference to the author’s family. Even though Matar’s quest raises more questions than it does satisfying answers, his memoir is fundamentally a love offering to his absent parent. May we be worthy of such honour.
Akumbu Uche is a Nigerian writer. Her work has appeared in Bella Naija, Brittle Paper, and Engaging Borders Africa. She lives in Owerri.