ktravula – a travelogue!

Browsing the archives for the Observations category.

Losing a Faith You Never Had – A Review of “Miracle”

This week, as part of my five-week blogathon on the five shortlisted stories in the 2013 Caine Prize, I present some thoughts on the second story: Tope Folarin’s Miracle, first published in the Transition Magazine Issue 109, an excerpt from the forthcoming novel The Proximity of Distance. Read it at http://www.caineprize.com/pdf/2013_Folarin.pdf

___

The plot of Miracle is a very simple one, a familiar story told however in a deliberately slow fashion that builds expectation from the beginning to a deft crescendo finish at the end: an infidel (also, a realist) gives faith a chance in public at one vulnerable moment, and is disappointed. I have experienced it, however in a different fashion. Most people who grew up in the pentecostal socialization process of southern Nigeria have experienced it in one form or the other. In the beginning, there is doubt, then there is a little benefit of the doubt, which leads to a “leap of faith”, and then a final denouement that sends the accidental believer headfirst into the bosom of disbelief, and reality.

My first thought on Miracle is that is is well written, well-edited, and well presented on the page – credit to the author, and to the Transition Magazine editors. And although I spent much of initial time reading the story wondering where it is headed, it is one of those stories where patience is rewarded at the end. The initial aimless wandering gradually morphs into a recognizable direction, and the reader is satisfied. Or is he/she? If you are a devout pentecostal church-goer, you would probably force your laptop close as soon as it is all over, and head to church for a confession of sins, or a needed exorcism for the sin of indulgence. Tope Folarin has just eased you into empathizing with a churchgoer whose faith wasn’t strong enough to set him free, who laughed at the pastor’s theatrics even as he wished that they would yield fruitful results, and who in the end relapses into the ways of the flesh to deal with carnal troubles. If you are reading the story on a sheaf of papers, and as soon as you read the last sentence you crumple the sheets and throw them as hard as you can against the nearest object, you might be a Nigerian Christian.

A “Nigerian Christian” is not the same as a Christian who happens to live in Nigeria. No. He/she is one to whom the word of the priest/pastor/prophet is law and holy; one whose first response to an irreverent joke is to either cross himself/herself, give you a dirty look while praying for the salvation of your soul, or to walk away with a loud hiss while reminding you of your place in the hottest part of hell. They are not peculiar to Nigeria either. In the US, they may also go by the name “Social/Religious Conservatives” or “Evangelicals”. I love Miracle because the universality of the short episode that makes up the story is one that many people would recognize, whether they be devoutly pious folks, or resigned agnostics to whom miracles are television advertisements to church services and bountiful offerings. Replace the old pastor in the story with a chief priest in an Ifa shrine, and the hero of the story with one visiting a shrine for the first time in pursuit of some advertised miracle, and you have the same story. A human story of effort, of a “leap of faith”, and disappointment.

It is a familiar story because many people we know, if not ourselves, have experienced it before. It is familiar in fiction too because it has also been told before, sometimes though through foreigners experiencing the evangelical brand of faith for the very first time. In this case, the hero is a Nigerian in a foreign country. The situating of the story far away in the United States when it could have worked just as well in Nigeria is a curious one. I find no justification for it other than the added dramatic effect of the diversity of backgrounds, which makes the agnostic reader’s bewilderment at their followership, and complete acceptance of faith and miracles even more enhanced. Written for “Nigerian Christians”, it is trash literature assaulting the belief of devout Christians. In the hands of more discerning faithfuls however – those not afraid of having their faith questioned and challenged – it is a fascinating parable illustrating the benefit of faith and work, as the bible itself recommends. Muslims, or people of any other faith (or disbelief) who read it should see beyond the caricature of pentecostal church service, to the simple problem of the conflict of expectations, peculiar to many more circumstances than the house of worship. Even the brightest teacher of economics might not always succeed in converting a student most conditioned to writing poetry.

Here is my favourite part of the story:

I begin to believe in miracles. I realize that many miracles have already happened; the old prophet can see me even though he’s blind, and my eyes feel different somehow, huddled beneath their thin lids. I think about the miracle of my family, the fact that we’ve remained together despite the terror of my mother’s abrupt departure, and I even think about the miracle of my presence in America. My father reminds my brother and me almost every day how lucky we are to be living in poverty in America, he claims that all of our cousins in Nigeria would die for the chance, but his words were meaningless before. Compared to what I have already experienced in life, compared to the tribulations that my family has already weathered, the matter of my eyesight seems almost insigniﬁcant.

Right there, in the acceptance and celebration of the little blessings in his life, with or without any further additions in form of a miracle wrought in the presence of an anticipating crowd, is contentment, is nirvana, is a kind of inner peace that the nominal public miracle the crowd so wished onto him may not even have provided. Hence unfortunate, any commentary that dismisses the story solely on the basis of the final, absolutely necessary, embrace and celebration of pragmatism.

There is only one question left to be asked: Is this an important story? My answer is “yes”, without a doubt. It might help explain (or at least describe) why many people throng to churches: chasing miracles. It beautifully illustrates the mindset of the agnostic/realist, and shows today’s churches as less than a homogeneous body of like-minded people. It gives an insight into the level of religious and spiritual development of today’s Nigerian (and Nigerian/African immigrants abroad), and can be pointed to one hundred years from now as a record of one part of that cultural, religious, movement. Every culture went through one. And as far as Nigerian/African religiosity is concerned, this is certainly not one of its most ferocious archetypes, but it’s it’s one of the most relatable. It will also rank as one of my favourites.

Having known how the story ends, I may not read it again, except as part of the longer novel from which the story was culled. However, that initial process, and the little perks of re-reading parts of it, carry a certain premium that I now wish on all my pious friends.

_________________

Also reproduced on the Nigerianstalk LitMag

Lagos Morning Surprise

It’s a Monday morning in Lagos, after a sustained night rain, and the city – for the very first time – showed an uncommon character the like of which might never be seen again.

The sewers had opened up their wares, with dung floating to the surface and onto the many streets in the flooded island. With sleeves and pant legs rolled up to keep wetness to a minimum, commuters and pedestrians saunter onto the road, most of them an hour later than they ordinarily would. The transportation buses had left the roads early enough – perhaps the only regular feature of the city’s uncertain character – and commuters who got to the road at anything after 6am had been left stranded now, praying for a miracle to get them to their places of work on time. That was when it happened.

A police van heading to its patrol point in the city parked by a throng of people at one bus stop, and asked folks to come in. They were at first surprised, and then – realizing a once-in-a-blue-moon chance – rushed in and filled the back seating area, saying “thank you” as often as they could. The cops merely smiled, started the van, and moved on. As if on cue, another car stopped, this time a Prado Jeep driven by a young woman of around 32, likely the employee of a bank, or any other high-paying job. “Aren’t you going?” She asked no one in particular, as a few more people paced briskly towards it and sat themselves in comfortable positions in front, and at the back. “I am late to work too,” I heard her say impatiently. “Get in and let’s go. I can drop you off anywhere between here and Law School.”

The sky remained dour and drizzly as one fancy car after the other stopped at each bus stop to pick up passengers many of who were usually stunned at first that such private drivers could really have intended for them to get into the cars. In one instance, a passenger refused to give into the driver’s constant entreaty that he would, indeed, give him a ride for free and drop him off wherever he would be getting down. “I don’t get it,” the man said to himself. “Lagos rich people are never this considerate.” The driver drove away, perhaps stunned by the resistance of a helpless passenger in the face of help on a rainy day.

For the next one hour, Escalades, Sorentos, Four-Wheelers, Land Rovers, Land Cruisers, small saloon cars, a BMW, a station wagon, a church bus, another police van, a school bus, two empty BRTs heading to a repair shop, a couple of small tricycle scooters, a soldier on a motorbike, a Mercedes Benz, and a number of other new and rickety vehicles, each otherwise empty except for their drivers (and sometimes one other passenger), stopped by all crowded stops to pick up passengers stranded there and late for work. It was a surreal, almost eerie, sight on a Lagos morning. Humanity came alive in a way never before seen and would never be believed by anyone else not there to witness it. There is hope for this country after all, I thought to myself as I concluded my morning stare at the bus stop, finally accepting an offer to ride with a middle-aged lady in corporate wear who driving her 10 year-old kid to school.

All of this is fiction, of course. You can tell.

Xperia’s Lagos

Unless Sony Ericsson makes me an offer I can’t refuse, this is the last time I’ll put a name of their brand on a blog title :). This caveat is necessary in case anyone begins to wonder whether I’ve already been paid to present the camera of one of their better phones in a good light. From how it has worked with me so far, it seems that I don’t need to do that after all. The product speaks for itself.

However, if I do get an offer to try out any of their even better, newer, Xperia versions, it would be nice to compare what I have to what new functionalities they offer. If Google is listening too, I wouldn’t mind trying a Nexus either.

In any case, this post is about a few photos taken around Lagos, Nigeria. Enjoy.

An Observation…

That I am not as free, or as eager, as I would be in a foreign land, to whip out my camera at every available instant in order to take a picture. There is a little reluctance somewhere the source of which I can’t lay my finger on.

On the way to my home is a newly completed highway due to be open sometime soon. The project is still ongoing, and the stretch of the highway is destined towards somewhere farther into the far ends of the state towards a place called Epe. I have observed with impatience, bewilderment, affection, and exasperation as the construction workers toil day by day on the road, causing traffic build-up as they do so inevitably. The road is now done and almost ready for “commissioning” even if that will be done only by commuting tyres rather than an official government representative.

The traveller in me would have documented all the stages of this construction – at least to the best reaches of my camera. And then I remembered that for the better part of the last couple of months, I had no camera to use anyway. The experience with this new Xperia is an encouraging one and I hope to get fully back into this street photography game in earnest. What I have so far impresses me, and that’s a start.

A Week in Ignorance

It surprised one of my co-workers when, during lunch sometime during the week, I’d mentioned that one of my grouses with the Goodluck Jonathan presidency was his condonement of corruption, citing the example of his appointment of a convicted certificate forger onto the board of a university. The government has since vigorously defended it as proper and not out of the ordinary. Propriety, and setting a good example with exemplary public servants can go to hell.

“This really happened?” My co-worker asked, unbelieving of something that would otherwise sound like something copied out of a satire written by Wole Soyinka. It got the attention of a few more staff members at the table some of whom also had never even heard of Salisu Buhari or his present designation in the corridors of power.

“Yes, he did.” I replied, and the conversation went on and on about a few other ills that paints the administration as one of the most permissive of corruption in the history of the nation’s democratic experiments. “He also pardoned Alamayesiegha, among others.”

Why the conversation surprised me a lot was because I had assumed that everyone, like me, was interested in what was going on in government, and thus fully aware of the misgovernance taking place in our name. I am wrong, obviously. Nobody really cares. As long as the routine of our daily lives are not affected in any way by the corrupt dealings of the “top bosses”, we are fine. This is not a typically Nigerian problem, but as I am here, it is one that I have given a lot of thought. A few weeks ago in Ikogosi Ekiti, during the session on what young people can do to get proper representation in power to be able to effect the changes they want, the chairman of the governors’ forum, Rotimi Amaechi, had suggested to the faces of those present that no change would come as long as people sat pretty and gave the leaders a free hand to do whatever they wanted. How else could it be any different now, I thought, when we don’t even know, or care, about what is going on in the first place? A number of young people have twitter and Facebook accounts. But how many are relevant enough to effect change? When next an “Occupy” protest comes on and locks down the streets, preventing people from going to work in order to demand for one change or the other, the very first people to complain that the protests have gone on long enough are going to be these ones who (though are very hardworking and well-meaning citizens) have no idea what the heck anyone of us should be worried about. After all, salaries get paid on time, and the road to and from Lekki are good enough in the morning on the way to work, and during evenings on the way back home.

This is the problem, and I can think of millions more who are merely content to go on with their lives without a worry in the world about anything else.

I don’t have a solution.

It just makes for a rather curious study in citizen revolt and participatory democracy.

« Older Entries Newer Entries »