King Solomon Akpan
“This report, then, is about pain. The subject is very much with me.” — Harlan Ellison
Recently I’ve been in a terrible place, creatively and in Lagos. I tried reading my old stuff and I felt very sick, unable to fathom how corny, badly written and clunky anything I’ve made looks. I can’t bring myself to delete them though, I am much too sentimental about my own work. I also tried reading the work of contemporaries and found them much too pretentious. I started (and failed to finish) about five novels in two weeks (although I did finish Paingod and Other Delusions by Harlan Ellison, great collection).
Time has somehow moved, as it does, and now I find myself trying to grasp old glory, what about me that made people like what I used to write. Maybe they lied, I believe many did. It would be too much to ask for acquaintances and friends to tell you what you wrote reads like manure. Or maybe they were true, and it was quite alright. Or maybe they thought it was good, but they just have bad taste. Maybe.
I realise the only way to truly find out is to challenge myself, to do more, allow practice to make me perfect, as it were. But I can’t. Ideas come to mind but end up as highlights on Notes. It concerns me a little.
Recently I heard a peculiar exchange I think you may like.
On a fairly normal, overcast afternoon, in front of a fairly large kiosk not far from me, some men had gathered. I knew most of them in passing, I’d been seeing their faces every day for about two weeks now, all except one man. Him I had known for much longer. He’s quite a short fellow, built well - years of bricklaying would do that to you - as a matter of fact, you could describe him as stocky. I have been used to seeing him wear either matching or colour-coded casual wear, but today he was kitted up in a well-sewn native attire. With a cap!
They’d been bantering for a few minutes when I tuned in to their conversation and heard, "My papa still dey fuck at 90 na".
Some things you just have to hear the whole of.
"When e marry last sef? E last wife na 28 she be and she don born 5 already."
The oohs and ahhs followed naturally. Still they prodded him, asking for more, and he dutifully obliged.
"Actually, my mama na first wife and she born us 10 but I be number 37 overall." I nearly got whiplash.
This man’s father had at least 57 children by over 13 women with his latest wife younger than his 37th child. And he was not shy about having another one.
"That one na normal na. One other man for my village don marry 22 and once e marry the woman e go give her three-bedroom flat, simple,” he concluded.
It made me wonder a lot. The financial commitment involved, the parental guidance to be given, how much ejaculate expended. How some of those children would never really know their father, or even worse, their siblings.
I figure they come from a part of the world that relegates the entire upbringing of the child to the mother, but I wonder how much one woman can do if she’s looking out for 10, at last count.
I’ve sat on this for almost a month and I still see number 37. I haven’t learned his name. I know him, just not what he is called. But his story will stay with me. These days he wears t-shirts with one particular pair of ripped jeans shorts and old sneakers damaged by overpronation. I see him and think, "My God, those poor women."
