Imagining Another Country: Eghosa Imasuen’s “New Nigeria” in To Saint Patrick
Last weekend, I read Benin-based author Eghosa Imasuen’s 232 page alternate-history political thriller, To Saint Patrick (Farafina, 2008). Imasuen imagines Nigeria on a different path, what Nigeria could have turned out to be if its leaders had been less greedy and more patriotic—what could have happened if corruption had been dealt with in the 1970s, […]
Last weekend, I read Benin-based author Eghosa Imasuen’s 232 page alternate-history political thriller, To Saint Patrick (Farafina, 2008). Imasuen imagines Nigeria on a different path, what Nigeria could have turned out to be if its leaders had been less greedy and more patriotic—what could have happened if corruption had been dealt with in the 1970s, if politicians followed the rules, and if a prosperous economy had undermined ethnic prejudices by which communities seek to scapegoat the other. I emerged from this dream-world to news of bombs at a church on a Kaduna military base, hours of gunfire during an attack on an Abuja police station, and bombs and gunfire as armed robbers held the city of Auchi under siege. As I thought about the difference between Imasuen’s fictional Nigeria and the Nigeria in which we live, I was struck by how relevant the story was to Achebe’s memoir, which both nostalgically recalls Biafran dreams of building a great nation and records war atrocities that have largely been banished from public discourse. The title of Achebe’s memoir could just as easily be the title of Imasuen’s novel: “There was a Country.” Imasuen’s novel, like Alejo Carpentier’s story “Journey to the Seed” I discussed last week, rewinds history and starts over.
The central conceit of the novel is that military head of state General Murtala Mohammed survived the coup attempt in 1976. From that small alteration in history, a completely different sequence of events unwinds. After a preface that recounts the general’s recovery, the novel begins in Benin City, May 2003. Ayo Nwanze is a homicide investigator for the South-South regional police, called to the scene of the gruesome murder. He soon finds himself working alongside a former flame, federal agent Hadiza Jinadu. A cracking detective story ensues. It has all the marks of the genre: there’s a murder, a lonely male detective, a long-lost lover who reappears, political forces that try to suppress the discovery of the truth. The suspense-filled story had me biting my fingernails to the very end. But To Saint Patrick is so much more than a murder mystery.
As the characters are introduced, the change in setting gradually breaks in. This is a Nigeria that works. Police collect fingerprints and DNA samples. Ayo uses a Wazobia 306 saloon car, indicating that Nigeria has its own automobile industry. At home, he has a dishwashing machine and seems to take electricity for granted. Detail upon delightful detail piles up: high-speed railroads, subways, a booming economy, Nollywood in cinemas by the mid-1990s, global respect: “The Nigerian passport was practically a visa-free pass to any country in the world.” Indeed, Nigeria is vying for a seat on the UN security council. Political decisions in Nigeria have ripple effects across the entire region. In a sly response to South African xenophobia, Imasuen rewrites that country’s history too.
This is no dream of Westernization. It is still a recognizable Nigeria. As in his more recent novel Fine Boys (Farafina, 2012), Imasuen demonstrates he has an ear for how people really speak. Characters effortlessly banter in pidgin. Imasuen unselfconsciously tosses Nigerianisms, like “aje-butter” or “gist,” into his third person description. Frequent wry offhand descriptions left me giggling: Ayo’s colleague, for example, speaks like “one of those West African football players who picked up an American accent playing soccer in Eastern Europe.” There are still familiar scenes. At the crowded railroad station, Nigerians had “never unlearnt how to say welcome;” mad bus drivers still park in the middle of the road. But it is a much better organized Nigeria: a true Giant of Africa, with patriotic politicians, an educated police force, a committed civil service.
This “new Nigeria” is full of resurrections. MKO Abiola appears munching on doughnuts, and General Ibrahim Babangida whispers to General Mamman Vatsa like a schoolboy, never-mind that in actual history IBB executed the poet. Imasuen deadpans that “it would be really difficult to corrupt the friendship between these two.” Not all of these real-life characters turn out for the better, and no doubt ethnic loyalists on all sides will be offended by actions attributed to historical figures. However, Imasuen is careful to spread around both blame and praise. He points out, in an author’s note, that “the circumstances and incidents described are strictly fictitious.”
Despite its prosperity, this “New Nigeria” is no utopia. There are still recognizable problems: police play politics, and politicians cover over inconvenient truths. The poor are still with us: veterans beg on the street and hawkers scamper away from the police. Although regions seem to have become simultaneously more independent and more unified, there are still hints of old animosities. This new Nigeria has been built over a gruesome secret, a shared tragedy that binds together the fictional and the historical nation. The truth threatens to undermine all the country has achieved. As with real-life responses to Achebe’s memoir, when Nigerians are reminded of atrocities in the past, things begin to fall apart.
I love this book. I place it next to Achebe’s Anthills of the Savannah (Heinemann, 1988), as being one of the most brilliant Nigerian political novels I have ever read. To Saint Patrick slyly subverts powerful master narratives and wistfully re-imagines what Nigeria could be if it had leaders and citizens committed to the country rather than their own selfish interests. When I started enthusiastically tweeting about the novel, writer Chimeka Garricks responded to me “’To Saint Patrick’ is a criminally under-appreciated book. “ I agree. I don’t understand why, although the novel was published in 2008, I can’t find more than 3-4 short reviews online. Is it that Nigerian literary reviewers turn up their noses at “genre fiction,” or is it just that not enough reviewers have had access to the book?
On the other hand, I do understand why non-Nigerians may not have reviewed the novel. Poet and scholar Tanure Ojaide has written about how recent Nigerian novelists often seem to use language and cultural descriptions that point their fiction towards a Western market. Imasuen does not do that. To Saint Patrick is unapologetically directed at the Nigerian reader, from its taken-for-granted pop culture references to its dialogue straight from the street. You will best understand the subversive nuance of the narrative if you are familiar with Nigerian history, and much of the delight in reading comes from recognizing Nigerian characters and mannerisms in a new and improved context. Imasuen does not pander to the Western reader, anymore than his strong independent “New Nigeria” panders to Western political interests.
And that, in my opinion, is exactly as it should be. Nigerians should be the primary readers of Nigerian literature. They should be the ones who determine their own literary canon. The problem is that that not enough influential Nigerians support local publishers or read and recommend the books they publish. Neither are English-language publishers as innovative as they could be in their distribution techniques.
My advice? Go make the effort and find this book. Unlike Achebe’s There Was a Country, both of Imasuen’s novels are published in Nigeria. They are accessible at affordable prices in Nigerian bookshops and as e-books online. It is important to read Nigerian literature because it helps us imagine complex characters, who are neither fully good nor fully bad. It also reminds us of past mistakes and suggest ways forward into a future. But, neither fictional nor historical characters can change Nigeria. Only we can do that.