Ope Adedeji in conversation with Nnamdi Ehirim, author of Prince of Monkeys
Ope Adedeji
As I read Prince of Monkeys, I kept thinking about the audacity of the author, the audacity of the book. It’s been a while since I read a debut novel from a peer that was written this well. If Chimamanda had been my contemporary, perhaps I’d have had the sentiment with reference to Purple Hibiscus. It’s only a reminder that creativity has no age, that it is a relative matter if you continue to work and absorb the beauty in the world. So, for someone like Toni Morrison, her first book, The Bluest Eye, was published when she was 39. Although Nnamdi and his work are not strangers to me, reading it was refreshing.
My favourite thing about the book is not its great plot or beautiful writing style; it’s that the author does not pander. In the words of Amatesiro, who reviewed the book here, like a true millennial, Nnamdi makes no attempt to explain anything, educate his audience or make allowance for ignorance.
Prince of Monkeys is about Ihechi and his friends who grew up in the 80s and 90s in middle-class Lagos. His friends are very opinionated. In between drinks at Shrine, they discuss everything from spirituality to politics. A tragedy makes Ihechi leave Lagos for Enugu, where he moves in with his uncle’s family and struggles to find himself outside his former circle of friends. Ihechi eventually becomes successful by leveraging his connection with a notorious prostitution linchpin and political heavyweight, earning the favour of the ruling elite. But just as Ihechi is about to make his final ascent into the elite political class, he reunites with his childhood friends and is forced to question his world, motives, and whom he should become.
Nnamdi Ehirim is a Nigerian writer based in Lagos and Madrid. His debut novel, Prince of Monkeys, was published by Counterpoint Press in April 2019.
This conversation started on a very hot Friday in Lagos. Nnamdi wrote from Madrid, where the weather was warm and what he called “ideal”. It was his last night in Madrid before returning to Lagos — where he was born, has lived most of his life and his novel is largely set. For about five days, even when he’d returned to Nigeria, we discussed via email his debut novel, writing career, and Lagos, amongst other things. This interview took place in March 2019.
Ope: How long have you been away? And how does it feel to be returning?
Nnamdi: I’ve been in Madrid for 15 months. I didn’t think I’d love it so much, but it has definitely become a second home. For a capital city, it’s very laid back and serene, the absolute alter ego of Lagos. As regards returning, it’s more happiness than excitement. Near everybody thinks I’m crazy for voluntarism, wanting to move back to Lagos, but it’s where I’m meant to be. I’ll thrive here or die trying.
Ope: That’s interesting to hear, especially now that everyone seems to be “running away”. There’s this desire to leave that’s growing on a daily. What’s also interesting is how you navigate spaces in your work. I’ve always been intrigued at just how important you see spaces and how well you capture them in your work. In “Coitus Currency”, which I had the honour of editing, there’s the lounge that transforms into a nightclub in Victoria Island and in “Lagos is a Dangerous place” — I mean, the title already says it all — you don’t have to live in Lagos to get an idea of the kind of city it is.
There’s also “Capitalist Central”, which is more of narrative journalism that deals with the history of Lagos. In your debut novel, Prince of Monkeys, there’s that power of description that makes one nostalgic of places they’ve never been to: Omole, Enugu, Fela’s Shrine in the 80s and 90s. And I’m not talking about description solely in terms of how the place looks or feels; it’s about the soul of a place: the economics, the people, the culture. This is something some writers take for granted — and here I can’t help but admit I might be guilty as charged. Is this something you set out to do consciously in your work?
Nnamdi: Yeah, I know how weird my decision is especially in these times. It’s hard to walk away from what you love, even when it gets abusive. Two of my favourite songs on places are Kanye West’s “Homecoming” with John Legend and Vic Mensah’s “Didn’t I”. They’re both from Chicago and in both songs, they discuss how leaving their hometown to pursue success left them with a feeling of betrayal, and how they keep trying to reassure themselves and all they left behind that they haven’t left for good. I remember listening to both songs on my first flight to Madrid and asking myself if I’d be in a similar position where I’d have to betray home for success.
So yeah, I do have an attachment to places; it’s only natural it manifests in my work. You know how people say sex is only as good as your chemistry with who you have it with? I think it’s the same with places; your living experience is only as good as the chemistry you develop. That involves putting yourself out there and trying to experience as much as you can to find what and where is best for you, almost the same way you would do with a woman or man, whatever your preference is. I explore a lot and document a lot, so if I ever have to write of a place, I have a wealth of material to pull from.
Omole, Lagos and Enugu are the places I grew up in. They formed me. It was only fair to pay homage to them. Other places like the Shrine and Sodom were discussed to different extents. They were places I documented during my period of writing the book, they had stories worth telling. And these places, like most places, have their own stories and narratives as people do. They are characters of their own. You just have to pay attention to them. For me, telling of these places was very deliberate and also very necessary.
Ope: I’m listening to Kanye West’s “Homecoming” right now as I write; I haven’t listened to it in such a long time. It’s such a lovely song. I’ve always enjoyed it for the gospel feel of the instrumentals. I can see why you listened to it on your trip. That happens. I have a similar experience with going to Ilorin for NYSC camp, but my motivation for listening to Kygo’s “Stole the Show” are for entirely different reasons.
Susan Sontag said, “Music is at once the most wonderful, the most alive of all the arts — it is the most abstract, the most perfect, the most pure — and the most sensual…” I’m wondering if this is a take you agree with. I know you love music and I believe it’s something that heavily influences your work.
Nnamdi: I absolutely agree with Sontag. It’s funny the influence of music in writing is coming up because I recently finished an essay which discusses the influence of music, hip pop especially, on my writing. It’s called “My Stories are a Mixtape” and it is as the title implies. There’s a direct quote from the essay which says, “In most instances, great rap is just as well thought out, as thought provoking and therefore as worthy of creative theft — to be read as creative inspiration — by contemporary writers as great literature.” Everything from the rhythm to the use of language have literary learnings. And I think this isn’t just limited to hip pop, but all lyrical genres.
Then there’s the added dimension of the way music makes you feel. Strip away the lyrics, the sound and melodies also affect you in a very abstract yet pure, perfect and sensual way. I got the epiphany for my next book in a techno club in Berlin. No lyrics, just sound, lights and intoxication. I’ve spent the last few months visiting techno clubs to document the experience and the mood, because it’s the feeling I want people to have when they read that next work.
Ope: Prince of Monkeys referenced a lot of 80s and 90s music — from Sunny Okosun’s “Now or Never” to Nico Mbarga’s “Sweet Mother”. There’s also a lot of Fela. Did you have to listen to any of these old but timeless music as you wrote? If Prince of Monkeys had a playlist of songs you listened to while writing it, what songs would be on it?
Nnamdi: A lot of the songs I referenced in Prince of Monkeys are songs I knew already. They are classics and they defined the era being discussed in the book, so it was necessary to discuss them for the sake of both reflecting the mood of that era and documenting culture. But the actual music I listened to while writing the book was very contemporary. There was a lot of Kendrick, Isaiah Rashad, SZA, Jhene Aiko, Chance, Poe, Jesse Jagz, Blackmagic. And it was very repetitive. I’m the type to have a rotation of about three playlists for months.
Ope: I love the sound of that, and can’t wait to read that essay, “My Stories are a Mixtape”. I remember in 2017 when Bob Dylan won the Nobel Prize, after going through the back and forth of whether it was unmerited or not, I started to wonder if music is literature and if yes, to what extent. I mean poetry generally has that musical quality and your quote was just spot on.
Nnamdi: To be honest, I was really glad the Bob Dylan win happened for the sake of the conversations it opened. As we evolve, the artform should be subject to constant examination and redefinition. For instance, before movies, plays were what movies are. And great playwrights were considered literary giants, look no further than Shakespeare. And so if movies have become what plays were, why don’t we perceive great screenplay writers as literary giants? After all, great screenplays have literary merits. My very first short stories had almost no dialogue, I only learned how to write dialogue after studying screenplays.
Ope: Let’s talk more about the writing process of Prince of Monkey for a bit. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed it but hopefully, you’ll find out just how much during the course of this conversation. First I want to know where and when the inspiration for this book came from. I’ve found that with writing or any creative endeavour, it usually begins with something very little. So for Toni Morrison’s Beloved, it was a real life newspaper account of a mother who chose to kill her daughter instead of returning her to slavery. I find that a lot of books have tiny little inspirations like this.
Nnamdi: It all started from a simple decision to write a novel. The folks on my playlists were all in their twenties, creating dope work without any regard for industry gatekeepers and finding success globally. I figured I might as well do the same. What is the prologue of the novel now was a short story I had submitted for the commonwealth short story prize. I had also submitted it to Granta and the New Yorker, all to no avail. But I didn’t want to trash it, so I kept expanding on it. It also covers themes that are very personal to me because primarily, I wrote it for myself; friendship, art in all forms, politics, spirituality. I hadn’t published even a short story as at the time I started. My readership was my mailing list. So there was no burden or pressure of writing something “publishable” because that was more of a dream than an ambition. But that allowed me to be carefree. To discuss whatever theme in whatever voice I desired, to be more experimental with humour and use of language. And in writing it, after the part one, I knew how the story would end but I didn’t know how we’d get there. So I pretty much winged it, experimenting with the plot. There was no official plot outline. Just one page at a time.
Ope: That’s quite inspiring. I often wonder how people manage to write books. I commend you, for not giving up, and for writing a good book. How much of the novel is “you”? Some of it read like nonfiction; this shows how authentic the voice of your novel is.
Nnamdi: Thanks. I’m really glad you connected with it. Like I said, the storyline was very spontaneous. However a lot of the thoughts, musings, arguments were ideas I either held or debated somebody for holding. There were a few takes which I heard someone argue and felt were worth discussing without necessarily agreeing or disagreeing. I had noted a lot of the ideas down in notebooks and blank documents independent of the novel and only used them where I felt they would edify a conversation or narrative. So in that sense, I can understand why it would come across as nonfiction. But it would be very selfish of me to claim it was all originally mine.
Ope: What was the process like? In terms of rituals, rereading, editing, etc.
Nnamdi: I have no elaborate rituals. I never pressure myself to write everyday. I pretty much carry the ideas through the day with me and when I feel like I have something worth putting down, I make out time to do so. It could be three pages in a day or a paragraph a week, either way there’s absolutely no pressure. Closest thing to rituals is listening to a playlist to get me in a certain mood. I read a lot of nonfiction while in writing mode, almost no fiction at all. When I’m stuck, I reread short passages from my collection of Poe or Fitzgerald. They were my earliest faves, so I treat their work like manuals on fiction. But for the entire year and a half it took to complete the book, I abstained from any other form of full-length fiction.
I also do little to no rereading because revisiting my work after a few days or weeks makes me cringe. I’m never satisfied. I had an interview with Radio France recently where I was meant to read a passage from the book and after searching for hours, I couldn’t decide on anything that impressed me enough, so the host ended up selecting the passage for me to read. I trusted my mailing list and my editor almost blindly when it came to pruning excesses.
Ope: I think having external input is amazing. I recently started a tinyletter myself and I love how intimate it feels — writing and getting feedback from friends and strangers.
Prince of Monkeys consistently played on colours. I’ve been reading about the role of colours in film — essentially a medium of storytelling — so I found that interesting. I’d like for you to tell me a bit about the use of colours in Prince of Monkeys — why color? There’s a bit of a nostalgic feel to your book, and I feel like the colours with which you introduce Part 1 play a significant role. There’s a quote in the prologue that particularly jumps at me: “Always pay attention to the secrets in colours that are too terrible to be mentioned out loud.”
Nnamdi: Abeg sign me up to your tinyletter if you don’t mind. I like how you capture your experiences in your personal essays.
And to your question of “why colour?” I’ve always been seriously interested in colour and art on a larger scale. My father is an avid art collector. His collection has works dating from David Dale’s stuff from the 80s to recent stuff from Isaac Emokpae and there’s every medium from oil to charcoal to bead work to stained glass. So growing up, even staring at the walls was a trip. I naturally grew curious about these things and would always investigate the life and thoughts of artists whose works I found interesting. I don’t think I’m the most technical art student but if something catches my attention, I’d look to explore it in detail. I can’t remember exactly what rabbit hole led me to it, but I know during that period of writing, I had been reading Goethe’s Theory of colours. It’s a more technical than creative read, but I enjoyed it still. And so just because art and colourful things were around me a lot, I felt it would be interesting to represent that in Ihechi’s childhood, but he was definitely more intense and technical about it than I was as a child. And for someone like me who is interested in going beyond the basic narrative arc and creating tangents that some find excessive and unnecessary to the story, I understand that the more detail you invest into a passage, the more you’re in control of the reader’s mood. I understand you can paint pictures with words. If you read Poe extensively, even before the story begins he makes sure to create a dark and miserable mood and setting, so you’re already unsettled before you arrive at the horror in the plot. The first paragraph of his story The fall of the House of Usher is an ideal example. And you’re right, it’s used in movies as well. Check Sweeney Todd, it’s a great movie of one misery after the other but from the very first five minutes, you are in such a miserable mood, you already know there’s no joy ahead. So, I borrow the concept and make sure to start each new passage with a moodsetter paragraph before beginning the actual story for that passage. In Ihechi’s childhood, I use colour as a moodsetter but as he grows older, in part two and three, it’s more complex stuff because you just don’t see adults as fascinated by colour in their everyday life, not with all the wahala in Lagos.
Ope: I’ve never read a Poe. So, I’m certainly marking that down to read soon. Sounds like you had a very interesting childhood — of which I can relate to that, being surrounded by art and all. Is this what inspired your decision to become a writer or to start writing?
Nnamdi: At all. [Tears Emoji] If you know me, you know I’m super capitalist. I believe in profit as one of the ultimate human motivations. I started writing essays for English classes in secondary school, and I was good, so folks used to come to me to write theirs for them for gala and vitavite or meat. You know how boarding house dey. I was so prolific, my English teacher knew my style and would know when I wrote for someone else. He was the first guy to call that I’d be a published writer and all my guys still make jokes about it today. They don’t let me rest. They’ll probably bring it up at my funeral.
I started writing stories proper after stumbling on the work of guys like Poe, Wilde, Fitzgerald and Faulkner in our school library. Library was always quiet and empty, so we used to go there with our babes. You know how boarding house dey. So when I was less busy and waiting for someone to show up, I’d read these guys. And I actually enjoyed them, so I started copying them; sampling and remixing their work the same way hip hop artistes sample and remix classics. My first collection was in a handwritten notebook called Love, Thrills and Midnight Shrills. The only surviving piece of it is what evolved into Metropolis which was heavily influenced by Poe’s Murder in the Rue Morgue.
But before all of this, I used to write rap, and I was pretty good. My secondary school folks would also confirm that. When I told my editor, Mensah Demary, about it in our first conversation, he said he guessed as much because of how lyrical my writing tends to read with rhymes and alliterations. Maybe I’ll drop a mixtape someday so Chimamanda isn’t the only Grammy nominated Nigerian writer.
Ope: Haha. I love it! I’ll be looking forward to that mixtape. I enjoyed a lot of your characters in Prince of Monkeys. I think my favourite character was Ihechi’s mother — this eccentric Yoruba woman who practiced traditional religion, wrote and was an academic. I could see her. Yet, she seemed like such a difficult character to write. Was she? Coming up with and developing characters can be very tricky. Can you tell me about how you come up with characters generally? Did you perhaps model the lives of Ihechi, Mendaus, Zeenat, Pastor’s Son after the lives of people you know?
Nnamdi: I wanted to write memorable characters, characters who are exciting and aren’t limited by societal status quos. One of the earliest feedback I got on Mendaus was that, as a child, he was too woke for his age. And I replied, if it’s not impossible for a Nigerian child to be that woke, then let’s imagine it’s real. Most people say their favourite characters are either Mendaus or Zeenat. I think you’re the first to highlight Ihechi’s mum, but she was definitely my favourite character to write. She was beautiful and loving, but she also had balls and addressed bullshit at the first sighting of it. I don’t think there was any specific inspiration for her. I wanted an outlet for my thoughts on Ifa, and I also wanted an outspoken and loveable mother figure, so that was an organic manifestation. And it’s like that with most of the characters, I first started out with what I wanted the character to represent or achieve and then I returned to make him or her as unique and memorable as I could.
But in terms of their physical representation, I do this thing called character profiling. I watch and make notes on random strangers I find interesting. I describe them on paper and write a little back story for them. And sometimes when I need an appearance and backstory for an additional character, I literally copy from my notes.
At the Ake Workshop a few years back with Sarah Ladipo Manyika, she suggested this method of acting out your character to test and shape it to perfection, speaking and walking like them, all the little details. I haven’t implemented it in my work yet, but I’m planning on doing that for future work.
Ope: Pentecostalism in Nigeria grew considerably in the 80s and 90s, the period in which your book is set. Why were you so interested in Ifa, considering traditional religion was largely relegated to the background during these times and considered evil, demonic, as evidenced today by tons of Nollywood movies produced? The whole Esu episode with Effy and Ihechi in Enugu was quite chilling, but it’s one of my favourite parts of the book. I’m curious to know just how heavy your research was in terms of religion and even pop culture since the book is set in a time before we were born.
Nnamdi: I wanted to discuss it firstly because I was exploring it at the time and needed an outlet, but also because like you said, it had been largely relegated to the background and unjustly demonised. Our traditional religions are valid and relevant and should be treated as such. And I also appreciate that Nigerian writers are now exploring our ontology in their works as valid world views. Emezi and Obioma also explored this in their recent works. I have a forthcoming essay with LitHub that discusses this in detail.
I also didn’t care so much that it wasn’t a popular theme of the era. Like I said, I wasn’t too bothered about conforming to status quos of society. I allowed for some flexibility.
And I wrote the entire book in my final undergrad semester and my NYSC year. So, time for research was very limited and was pretty much internet surfing. But the internet is often enough.
Ope: While reading Prince of Monkey, I got Fishermen vibes. It’s somewhat a similar storyline. I was also thinking of God of Small things by Arundhati Roy not because they’re similar but because tragedies or sometimes, small incidents change the course of our lives and shape the people we become. These things can either tear us apart or bring people together. I think you did an interesting job of showing how people can bond over grief with Tessy and Ihechi’s friendship.
Nnamdi: For most people, Nigerian-living is an unending epic tragedy. A lot of our relationships are formed by co-experiencing or bonding over tragedy. It’s not always something as heavy and final as death, as in the story, but it’s tragedy nonetheless. But in our moments of tragedy we are most vulnerable. Tessy noticed Ihechi’s vulnerability and built a bridge in the ways she knew how. Effy bonded and built a bridge in her own way too. And to be honest, I don’t think it was very deliberate. I really was just exploring personal thoughts and human behaviour. I’m glad you connected in the way you did.
Ope: One of the reasons I’m excited about Prince of Monkeys is that it’s come from a young author. I feel like we need more of these — opportunities and spaces for young people to thrive. Were you nervous about publishing this book? Or even sending it out to publishers? How did you feel when it got accepted? How do you feel now?
Nnamdi: Hundred percent. As young writers, we need to believe in the strength of our craft, validity of our stories; and trust our process more. I got published without an MFA or an agent. A lot of people, including me, would have previously thought it almost impossible. I’m beyond convinced our generation of writers can do incredible things if we actually put out work, but I fear not enough of us would. Yes, the opportunities are scarce but also yes, there’s still room for us to put out more.
And I was lucky to have a great team at Counterpoint who were very invested in the work and in refining it because I was tense as fuck until publishing day. I had been sending it out to publishers for about two years with no success and at the point it got accepted at Counterpoint, I was close to giving up on it. So I guess the timing worked out perfectly. And even through a million edit drafts, I was anxious about how readers would take to it. Yes, I write primarily for myself, but external validation is a drug and I’m pitifully and mercilessly hooked. Currently, I’m a bit more satisfied with it and more settled about my expectations. It’s a good book and very different from others that have been written.
Ope: You’re absolutely right. We need to risk it more and just put ourselves out there. What about reviews? Some writers say they never read reviews of their work. I’m sure you’ve been getting amazing feedback so far. What do you think your relationship with reviews would be? And what are your general thoughts on receiving feedback or criticism.
Nnamdi: The usual advice is not to look out for reviews, but I’m very keen on feedback. I want to know what people think of it whether I agree with or not. I’m not going to lose confidence in my work because of a review. I’m more interested in how readers connect or disconnect with it. My folks at Counterpoint also send me updates on reviews and press feedback, and I go through all of it. I think what I would want more of is peer review. I’d want more reviews and feedback from contemporaries or Nigerians or Africans. I haven’t seen enough of that, and I think there’s generally room for growth in that regard.
Ope: A last question, and I’m going to follow the typical interview “structure” — it’s also because you’ve mentioned advice in your last response. What’s your advice to writers like yourself?
Nnamdi: I’m a bit weary of questions like this because I understand the natural craving for external validation or motivation, but as a creator, I feel it’s necessary to wean ourselves off it. Creating, in my opinion should be a selfish endeavour and as creators, we should be self-sufficient. The legendary designer Chris Do made a few points on this a while ago on his
Twitter. He said, “Are designers addicted to Aspiration/inspiration Porn? We gather to watch the success of others in hopes of discovering a carefully guarded secret. After catching a glimpse of their process, being inspired and hearing anecdotes about clients, we feel relieved. The world is nice and good. But days later, after the euphoria dissipates, we realize that there weren’t any tangible things to implement. Our lives haven’t changed. The work is the same. The clients still undervalue us. Where did this go wrong?”
I believe the answer to his question is, things go wrong at the juncture we begin to trust in anything or anyone outside the validity of our stories and the potency of our work as encouragement. Another great designer is Niyi Okeowo, he was one of the earliest creators I had the privilege of being around back when we were in Covenant University. His personal mantra was “Passion over everything”. You could literally see him live and breathe his art. Nothing was more important and no one’s opinion on his choice to create was relevant. He’s hands down top three designers in the country on any metric if we are being generous, but even before he had such a visible platform, he passionately and absolutely trusted the validity of his work. This isn’t the same as speaking things into existence, because talk is cheap. It’s about spending less time aspiring or looking to be inspired and spending more time passionately creating. Whatever you do, regardless of whatever happens or how you feel, just create.
This interview was guest edited by Ruth Zakari.
About the author: Ope Adedeji dreams about bridging the gender equality gap. She is a lawyer, writer and editor. She is an alumni of the 2018 Purple Hibiscus Trust Creative Writing Workshop. If you do not find her reading, you’ll find her writing.
