Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Clinical Blues I




This poem is a product of boredom in a class of obstetrics. talk about disillusionment, sometimes i wonder how i found my feet in the medical school. but thats another story. that afternoon, i actively poured my thoughts in my notes and what i have written below is the refined composition. i hope its enjoyable!




Clinical Blues


Sing me a song
not from your larynx
probe deep
deeper into lungs,
the recesses of your soul

I am a lonesome observer,
the clinical sentinel
who sits still to wage
wars against infirmities

And your organic sax
plunges snot and sounds
into my drink of of patience
the truth is eerie,tall
like swabs of heavy winds

Bored purveyor!
where lies your magic
your medicine of
doses and regimen
that mount eternal
wars against Hypnos

The blip of an ailing heart
tolls a symphony of symptoms
but am no open chest surgeon
for I'm a jazz pianist
With little stint with blood

The morbid applause of the gut
claps of bilious thunder
in the economy of sound
music is found
in scribbles,
in slow latent dribbles
drops and drips
beams of ray scamper
as life shudder into light
and souls slip into purgatory

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Measuring Habila


Book: Measuring Time
Pages: 322
Year of Publication: 2007
Publisher: Cassava Republic Press
ISSN No: 978-978-080-513-5
A writer’s ability to simulate reality borders both on his creative acumen and experience. Habila, fully knowing this, wrote his sophomore attempt at “the novel” after garnering these rather important writer-ly ingredients. I digress a bit.
His first effort launched him into widespread literary acclaim and a splash of notable literary prizes, the Caine( fondly referred to as the African Booker) and the Commonwealth First Book Prizes inclusive. Waiting for An Angel, his debut collection of inter-connected short stories, fashioned after John Steinbeck’s Pastures of Heavens, wrote into the depths of Nigerian condition during the military regimes.
Measuring Time, which also tackled topical issues, is a very much different book. Habila, in an interview, said that he always knew he wanted to write the book even before he wrote his first. This seemed similar to Orange-prize winning Chimamanda Adichie’s response when she was quizzed about Half of a yellow Sun, also her second novel.
The mastery of a writer hinges on his ability to write directly into the human conditions. Habila aptly did so with Measuring Time, and for this discourse, the medical conditions of his characters are of utmost importance.
Mamo, the protagonist, is a twin who suffered a blood condition peculiar to the blacks. The medical practitioners would call it Blood Dyscrasia, Hemoglobinopathies but it remains Sickle-Cell Disease, a popular scourge that plagues one out of every four blacks.
Mamo inherited his traits from both his parents. His mother, also sickly, died shortly after she delivered the twins. Her death was peculiar to complications resulting from multiple gestation, her peculiar blood condition and untoward health care, for she was delivered at home with very little medical intervention proffered by a midwife.
Habila captured the ill-health that plagued Mamo as a child. Being motherless, his aunt played a pivotal role in his staying alive in spite of his sickly predispositions, telling him fairytales which in exact ‘habilan’ words goes thus:
He imagined the stories insinuating themselves into his veins, flushing out the sickle-shaped, hemoglobin-deficient red cells that clogged the nodes in his veins and caused his joints to swell painfully. It was the stories and not folic acid tablets that he swallowed daily or the green vegetables and liver that were staples in his diet, or the special care not to get bitten by mosquitoes; it was his auntie’s stories slowly working their magic in his veins, keeping him alive.(P. 19)
Numerous medical conditions also come to fore: Waziri, a major character in the denouement of the plot, suffered from a squint: “one of his eyes, the left one was off focus”; Binta, the lady to which Mamo lost the innocence of his youth, was an incurable nymphomaniac who eventually dies by the hands of sexually transmitted infections, presumably AIDS, from Habila reference to her shriveling up, an euphemism for profound weight loss; Sadiya, Mamo’s father’s first and only love suffered a stroke that affected her memories.
Mamo, set back by his blood condition, lacked the physical vigour he needed to pursue his desire to become a solider like his brother, La Mamo. Habila attests to his having to twin his major character in a similar fashion to fellow African writers like Chimamanda Adichie(Half of a Yellow Sun), Diana Evans(26a), and Helen Oyeyemi( The Icarus Girl). This was a major architectural decision that held the literary outlay affording Habila an avenue to wedge several subthemes including War, Crime, Corruption, and Politics amongst other human sensibilities into the structure of his novel. And also since La Mamo, the twin brother, did not have a voice in the narrative. His sojourn in the world had to be captured in several letters spanning the intervals he spent abroad fighting wars, a similar fashion to Lekan Oyegoke’s novel.
Like most writers, Habila is aware of the role a love story plays in the novel. The love story is the horse on which the plot rides; easily, it provides the tension and suspense that turn pages and tugs at the heart of readers. Zara, whom Mamo fell in love with, is a matrimonial fugitive seeking respite in the obscurity of her hometown. A single mother abused often by her soldier husband, who also fell in love with Mamo to requite his affections, but strangely their love resolves in unfortunate circumstances.
It is also important to note that Habila learnt from the masters. Himself, a contemporary writer, he drew a lot from his encounters with previous influential writers, the likes of John Steinbeck and Alex Laguma, a South African who wrote prolifically against Apartheid. Of mice and men and A walk in the Night are chapter titles in the book but are also important books authored by the aforementioned writers. Plutarch, a greek philosopher and writer, also was of beneficial influence. His Parallel Lives, a book of four single biographies and twenty-seven pair of biographies, is an important fabric to the essence of the major theme. The novel raised pertinent, even disturbing questions, about the veracity of history and Mamo the protagonist in his attempt to establish true history wrote the biographies of ordinary people that constituted Keti, where most of the story is set.
It’s noteworthy that Habila is no medical expert. However in his attempt at transmuting his research work on Sickle-cell Anaemia into fluid sentences firing up vivid images into reader’s mind, he stepped on some medical terminologies. But all misgivings would be forgiven, for he has indeed written an important book on history for posterity.

Monday, June 15, 2009

On This Year's African Booker

It was a good thing the Caine Prize people thought it right to put out the shortlists on their website. I, like many handicapped literary enthusiasts, would have mastered story titles, perhaps fantasize about their text and waited till the clincher is announced late July. But instead, this year is better and by God, I have the five stories downloaded into my little laptop, all for my enjoyable consumption.
So I started out with End Of Skill, the Ghanaian story trashed by Toni Kan. Kan did put this story down, below Chikwava’s Dancing to the Jazz Goblin and His rhythms which I was opportune to read in a ride out the back of Tade Ipadeola’s friend car after a writer’s meet at The Palms. But reading through Kabu’s story about a weaver who sold his father’s legacy and passion for western currencies, I concluded that the story was not entirely as weak as Kan purported it to be, although the romance with weaving was in excess and of little import to the progression of plot and its denouement. In other words, if we excise Kabu’s ramblings on Kente and spice what is left, we still have his good story, which is obviously not my Caine Prize winner.
Next on my list is Waiting, E.C Osondu’s second chance to clinch the prize he narrowed missed with Jimmy Carter’s eyes in 2007. I was somewhat disappointed that his AGNI published story didn’t win and I can’t proffer reasons because I didn’t read the other entries. But Waiting, I must say, is not as strong as Jimmy Carter’s Eyes. Never. In his romance with refugee children and their plights, Osondu chronicled in his usual straight albeit short prose his imaginations which I find sympathetic but shallow. Personally, I was not moved. And I doubt if the judges would be.
Next is Parselolo Kantai’s story, You Wreck Her. Parselolo comes highly recommended so as I gunned down his scripted thoughts I couldn’t but feel refreshed reading through his gospel on an already trite theme. It’s refreshing perhaps because of unique narrative. There was an elusive manner in which the story began but the story holds through for the reader to immense in the writer’s recesses and the empathy generated in the reader’s mind is neither induced by the writer’s choice of words or the mood portrayed. With so much said, its safe to conclude that the story is a favourite.
But not so fast, Mukoma wa Ngugi also told a good tale, How Kamau wa Ngugi escaped into Exile. I find that title exasperating but it was while reading these stories I found how perfectly edited these stories were, if not for anything, I think it’s a fine reason they made the shortlist. Kamau comes as a fugitive activist fleeing from the enforcement agencies who sought him and in his escape in goes through a lot that exposed to the reader the depth and the gory details of the inhuman experiences he fought against. I liked the feel of love in the story that was soon threaded behind the serious fabric of its themes.
Last but not the least is Alistair Morgan’s story which also came highly recommended and which I think would be a popular choice. Personally, I respect this product of his narrative and if history is anything to go by, the last winner was also South African. The story written in first person in the opening lines got me questioning what African sensibilities it appealed to? I thought it was well written but could have passed as western prose touching on themes like gruesomeness of reality. I was, I must admit, a little too quick to pass judgment, for the story built into an African sensibility. However, the genius of Alistair’s craft can be based on his dwelling more on how human adapt to his theme rather than running graffiti on their actual gruesome consequences. I reiterate that it’s probably the popular choice, but we must wait till July to know the true clincher.