Born Naijamerican

Meaning: "Storyteller"

I pulled this excerpt from the very first novel I wrote titled, Bush Radio. It’s a magical realist literary novel that starts in the United States and ends in Nigeria. It has never been published, of course. Three or four times, it was loved by editors and nearly sold but then was shot down at the last minute because it was too odd.

I remember the responses from several editors who flat out rejected it: “What is this?”; “This novel is divisive! It pits African Americans against Africans!”; “I can’t tell if the main character is American or Nigeria”; “This is too difficult to categorize”…and so on. Each of these responses ended with “Therefore, I’m going to pass on this.” Oddly enough, I heard many of the same comments in response to the fantasy/science fiction novels I later wrote…but in the end, editors within these genres were more open-minded and welcoming of work that was not “an easy fit”, especially in when it came to my YA works.

Nnedi's point of view.

Anyway, this brief novel excerpt is flat out autobiographical. It’s basically my first experience of an African American Studies course. This happened in my freshman year (before the whole paralysis and becoming a writer thing. At this time, I was a pre-med major taking the class to fill a requirement).

The main character in the excerpt is Chioma. However, in this moment, Chioma is me. The scene is word for word what happened that day in class. And it was the first time I really started articulating to myself (and aloud) the reality of diversity within the American black community. I deal with similar themes of culture in my novel Akata Witch, too. 

Is the subject matter a bit touchy? Yeah, I guess.  Might some be offended? Maybe, I dunno. But have I ever been one to avoid writing about something because it’s a potential mine field? Nope.

Note: In case you were wondering about the title of this little post, “naija” is slang for “Nigerian” or “Nigeria”.

Also Note: The prose of this excerpt is a little rough around the edges. The last time I edited this was 2004, so sue me.

Bush Radio an excerpt

African American Literature 101

It all came together in African American Studies 101. She’d sat in the front to the far right and didn’t say one word for the first months. She considered herself there more to observe and listen than interact. And by that day in the middle of the semester, she’d only grown more confused.

She couldn’t quite get into the literature they’d been reading in the course. It was rooted in the Blues, slavery, and the Harlem Renaissance. Countee Cullen, Jean Toomer, Richard Wright and Ralph Ellison. Barely any woman writers. She wondered if it had to do with the fact that she was of a more scientific mind than literary.

Up to this point, she’d only taken one other English class, all of her other classes being in the sciences unless Latin counted as non-scientific. She wasn’t used to reading fiction from those eras and she wasn’t used to reading poetry at all.  She didn’t think she quite understood the abstract symbolism and discussion of social issues.

It didn’t help that Chioma thought the professor was “an arrogant son-of-a-bitch,” not that Chioma would have told a soul how she felt. Instead, she sat in class frowning as he strutted around the room lecturing. He was like a peacock who didn’t care that he’d lost his feathers, his baldhead glimmering under the florescent light. Occasionally, he’d glance at his all black class as he spoke what he felt was fact.

The sound of his voice was annoying. He spoke with a lisp. Not a natural lisp, though. Chioma wouldn’t have had a problem with that. His lisp was from smoking too many cigars. And he smelled strongly of his habit. Even the graded papers he handed back smelled of the smoke. Knowing him and his cockiness, his favorite brand was certainly expensive. And Chioma sensed that Professor Carre wasn’t the most sincere of persons. On more than one occasion, she’d seen female students slipping into his office, their bodies communicating a non-academic language.

This day, they were discussing Their Eyes Were Watching God. Chioma had warmed to this one. Aside from the fact that Hurston was the only female author they were studying, she had a worldlier feel that made Chioma comfortable. And Chioma liked Hurston’s explorative background, how she was able to go to Haiti and submerge herself in the culture. She also thought the novel was simply damn good. This particular day, Professor Carre was discussing dialect and slang, and Chioma didn’t like what he was saying.

“Y’all know what I mean,” the professor was saying. He strutted past Chioma and she stifled a sneeze. “It’s one thing when you’re in class or at work, but it’s anotha’ thang when you with yo’ folks.”

The whole class chuckled, except Chioma. She looked around, a mild smile on her face.

“Ain’t no way y’all can get away from it,” he said with a chuckle. “You can grow up in the whitest of neighborhoods, but you still find it in you somewhere. Our people were dragged to this country and forced to learn a foreign language. Of course, they incorporated their own languages and natural poetics into the English that they were taught in piecemeal, this is how you get this fabulous dialect we speak. So since we all are the descendants of slaves, we got that way of speaking in us.”

Chioma’s hand shot into the air before she was aware of it. Her heart pounded in her ears and her hands shook and sweated. She didn’t bring her hand, however. She had to say something, despite the fact that she didn’t want to cause a disturbance. She hated confrontation. But the professor was excluding her from the class. It wasn’t fair.

“Yes?”

“Well, I don’t know about anyone else…but…I think…you’re generalizing about all of us here. I mean, I’m not a direct descendant of the slaves brought here …not really, not that I know of,” she said quietly. “My parents are from Nigeria. I don’t use that sort of…dialect. They have different accents.”

Chioma quickly realized that her words hadn’t come out the way she meant them to. The entire room was silent. Oy, Chioma frantically thought. Oy vey. But, well, she wasn’t a direct descendant of slaves, not the slaves brought to America. She wasn’t trying to be arrogant. Hell, she thought, my ancestors may have been the sellers of the slaves! Ugh, that’s even worse. But she didn’t like Carre’s assumptions. Here she was in a class full of blacks; it was the last place where she'd expect to feel reduced and invisible. . How come no one else had raised a hand to correct the professor? Maybe everyone else is“African American”, she thought. Or Caribbean? Or Black Brit? Or Black [Some Other Part of the World That Wasn't United States]? Shit.

“I hear how you speak,” her professor said. “Nigeria was colonized by the British, thus your speech is very proper….”

He went on to say more things that Chioma didn’t agree with. He didn’t apologize for generalizing nor did he correct himself. Chioma just sank back into her seat and let him babble, preen and preach in his lispy "African American" male professor dialect. She felt all eyes on her for the remainder of the semester and she never said another word in the class.

She earned a “B” in the course by the skin of her teeth.