Say You're One of Them (Oprah's Book Club)

by Uwem Akpan

  JEAN YANKS THE CLOTH off Maman and tries to wake her. He straightens her finger, but it bends back slowly, as if she were teasing him. He tries to bring together the two halves of Maman’s head, without success. He sticks his fingers into Maman’s hair and kneads it, the blood thick, like red shampoo. As the ceiling people weep, he wipes his hands on her clothes and walks outside, giggling.

  I wander from room to room, listening for her voice among the ceiling voices. When there’s silence, her presence fills my heart.

  “Forgive us, Monique,” Madame Thérèse says from the parlor ceiling.

  “We’ll always support you and J-Jean,” her husband stammers from above my room. “Your parents are good people, Monique. We’ll pay your school fees. You’re ours now.”

  “Get this dead body off me,” Grandmaman de Martin groans from above the corridor. “It’s dead, it’s dead!”

  “Just be patient,” someone close to her says. “We’ll send the dead down carefully before they fall through.”

  Some praise God for the way my parents’ marriage has saved them. Grandmaman de Martin becomes hysterical, forcing every-one else to rearrange themselves in the ceiling in the corridor. I identify each voice, but Maman’s voice isn’t there. Why hasn’t she said something to me? Why doesn’t she order me to go and shower?

  All the things that Maman used to tell me come at me at once and yet separately—in play, in anger, in fear. There is a command, a lullaby, the sound of her kiss on my cheek. Perhaps she is still trying to protect me from what is to come. She’s capable of doing that, I know, just as she stopped Papa from telling me that he was going to smash her head.

  “I’m waiting for Maman,” I tell the ceiling people.

  “She’s gone, Monique.”

  “No, no, I know now. She’s up there.”

  “Yagiye hehe? Where?”

  “Stop lying! Tell my mother to talk to me.”

  The parlor ceiling is now creaking and sagging in the middle, and Madame Thérèse starts to laugh like a drunk. “You’re right, Monique. We’re just kidding. Smart girl, yes, your maman is here, but she will come down only if you go outside to get Jean. She’s had a long day.”

  “Yego, madame,” I say, “wake her up.”

  “She’s hearing you,” Monsieur Pierre Nsabimana says suddenly from above the kitchen. He hasn’t said anything all this while. His voice calms me, and I move toward it, my eyes fixed on the ceiling. Someone begins the Catena in a harsh, rapid whisper. It’s not Maman. She always takes her time to say her prayers.

  “Do you want your maman to fall with the ceiling on you?” Monsieur Pierre says.

  “No.”

  “Then, girl, leave the house, and don’t come back!”

  The ceiling above the altar begins to tear apart from the wall, and people scurry away from that end, like giant lizards. I pick up the broken crucifix and hurry outside.

  There are corpses everywhere. Their clothes are dancing in the wind. Where blood has soaked the earth, the grass doesn’t move. Vultures are poking the dead with their long beaks; Jean is driving them away, stamping his feet and swirling his arms. His hands are stained, because he’s been trying to raise the dead. He’s not laughing anymore. His eyes are wide open, and there’s a frown on his babyish forehead.

  Then he wanders toward the UN soldiers at the corner, their rifles shiny in the twilight. They’re walking away from him, as if they were a mirage. The vultures are following Jean. I scream at them, but they continue to taunt him, like stubborn mosquitoes. Jean doesn’t hear. He sits on the ground, kicking his legs and crying because the soldiers won’t wait for him. I squat before my brother, begging him to climb on my back. He does and keeps quiet.

  We limp on into the chilly night, ascending the stony road into the hills. The blood has dried into our clothes like starch. There’s a smaller mob coming toward us. Monsieur Henri is among them. He’s carrying a huge torch, and the flame is eating the night in large, windy gulps. These are our people on Maman’s side, and they’re all in military clothes. Like another soccer fan club, they’re chanting about how they’re going to kill Papa’s people. Some of them have guns. If Papa couldn’t spare Maman’s life, would my mother’s relatives spare mine? Or my brother’s?

  I slip into the bush, with Jean on my back, one hand holding the crucifix, the other shielding my eyes from the tall grass and the branches, my feet cold and bracing for thorns. Jean presses hard against me, his face digging into my back. “Maman says do not be afraid,” I tell him. Then we lie down on the crucifix to hide its brightness. We want to live; we don’t want to die. I must be strong.

  After the mob runs past us, I return to the road and look back. They drag Maman out by the legs and set fire to the house. By the time their fellow Tutsis in the ceiling begin to shout, the fire is unstoppable. They run on. They run after Papa’s people. We walk forward.

  Everywhere is dark, and the wind spreads black clouds like blankets across the sky. My brother is playing with the glow of the crucifix, babbling Maman’s name.

  AFTERWORD

  Although his parents had played a prominent role in our diocesan events and development for decades, I first came in contact with Father Uwem Akpan in 1988, at his home village of Ikot Akpan Eda. He was one of the 150 parishioners of St. Paul’s Parish, Ekparakwa, who were waiting to receive the sacrament of Confirmation that bright Sunday morning. Shortly before Mass, it was realized that the catechist, who had prepared the candidates and led them through the rehearsals for the celebration of the sacrament, had suddenly taken ill and was indisposed. As churchwardens scrambled for a replacement, Uwem stepped forward and volunteered to be the master of ceremonies on that occasion. He was seventeen, rather stern-looking in his dark “French suit,” as we say in Nigeria. He had just graduated from secondary school and was bent on joining the Jesuits. He had never been a master of ceremonies before. When I asked how he would lead the other candidates and the congregation through the day, he quickly said he would be coming to the altar to consult the bishop on what to tell the people. Many times during that Mass, Uwem had the church in stitches as he ran the commentary with a straight face, using everyday language to say what the sacrament of Confirmation meant. He was fluent in both English and his native Annang language.

  It was when I invited Uwem to live and work with me in the Bishop’s House that I really came in contact with his depth, passion, and courage. He always said things straight from the heart. He was impatient with what he called “abstract” theology. He read widely and bombarded me with questions about the Catholic faith. Sometimes, his focus and intensity were made bearable only by his Annang humor and ringing, mirthful laughter. As I followed the progress of his Jesuit priestly formation in Nigeria, the United States, Kenya, Benin, and Tanzania—and in the conversations we had when he visited home, about his struggles to write in the seminary—I began to sense that there was no way this Ikot Akpan Eda man could be a priest without using the common man’s language to probe the terrain within which modern Africans are living out their faith. Therefore, I was not very surprised when he started giving African children a voice in fiction.

  It is my belief that the publication of Say You’re One of Them is a bold attempt to enlighten readers about children in Africa, fueled by a passionate desire to create a safer place for children all over the world. Father Uwem, we in your home diocese of Ikot Ekpene are proud of you. May God continue to confirm your faith and bless your talents and courage as priest and poet.

  —The Most Reverend Camillus Etokudoh,

  Bishop of Ikot Ekpene

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book came together because of the presence of many people in my life.

  In the name of the Jumbo Akpan-Ituno and Titus Ekanem extended families, I thank you, my brothers and sisters-in-law—Emem and Joy, Aniekan and Nkoyo, and Mfon and Ekaete—and your children; and you, John Uko and Bishop Camillus Etokudoh. You always said it was possible.

  I’m also
indebted to you, my friends—among whom are Jesuits—who never tired hearing of my big dreams or reading my drafts: Jude Odiaka, Ubong Attai, Mary Ifezime, Edie Nguyen, Itoro Etokakpan, Ndi Nukuna, Isidore Bonabom, Comfort Udoudo-Ukpong, Emma Ugwejeh, Ehi Omoragbon, Lynette Lashley, Emma Orobator, Caitlin Ukpong, Chuks Afiawari, David Toolan, Bob Hamm, Iniobong Ukpoudom, Vic EttaMessi, James Fitzgerald, Peter Chidolue, Bob Reiser, Larry Searles, Abam Mambo, Bill Scanlon, Rose Ngacha, Gabriel Udolisa, Tyolumun Upaa, Barbara Magoha, Christine Escobar, Wes Harris, Matilda Alisigwe, John Stacer, Aitua Iriogbe, Peter Byrne, Amayo Bassey, Funto Okuboyejo, Gozzy Ukairo, Peter Ho Davies, Nick Delbanco, Laura Kasischke, Nancy Reisman, Dennis Glasgow, Fabian Udoh, Greg Carlson, Mark Obu, Prema Bennett, Bob Egan, Arac de Nyeko, John Ofei, Gina Zoot, James Martin, Madonna Braun, Ray Salomone, Jim Stehr, Wale Solaja, Sam Okwuidegbe, Tom Smith, Mike Flecky, Kpanie Addie, Shade Adebayo, Gabriel Massi, Nick Iduwe, Peter Otieno, Dan Mai, Greg Zacharias, Anne Njuguna, Edie Murphy, Alex Irochukwu, Fidelis Divine, Jan Burgess, Jackie Johnson, Chika Eze, Marian Krzyzowski, Eugene Niyonzima, Jeanne Levi-Hinte, Marissa Perry, Celeste Ng, Preeta Samarasan, Peter Mayshle, Anne Stameshkin, Jenni Ferrari-Adler, Phoebe Nobles, Joe Kilduff, Ariel Djanikian, Jasper Caarls, Taemi Lim, Maaza Mengiste, Marjorie Horton, Taiyaba Husain, Rosie and Jerry Matzucek, Ufuoma and Rich Okorigba, Emily and Paul Utulu, Eunice and Dele Ogunmekan, Olive and Thomas Beka, Monica and Cletus Imahe, Mary Ellen and Leslie Glynn, Justina and Raphael Eshiet, the Okuboyejo family, Daniel Herwitz and Mary Price of the University of Michigan’s Institute for the Humanities, and the Akwa Ibom priests and religious in Michigan.

  I also wish to thank Cressida Leyshon at The New Yorker; Pat Strachan, Marie Salter, and Heather Fain, editor, copyeditor, and publicist, respectively, at Little, Brown and Company; Elise Dillsworth at Little, Brown Book Group; and Eileen Pollack, Gerry McIntyre, and Ekaete Ekop, friends and editors at large. Maria Massie, my agent, you are the best out there.

  Last, may the Lord bless you, the people of St. Patrick’s Church, Ikot Akpan Eda; St. Paul’s Parish, Ekparakwa; and the Catholic Diocese of Ikot Ekpene, for your love and generosity to me and my family since my childhood. Through your inspiration, I have stories to tell.

  * * *

  Bonus Material!

  Say You’re One of Them

  Stories by

  Uwem Akpan

  * * *

  About the Author

  I was born under a palm-wine tree in Ikot Akpan Eda in Ikot Ekpene Diocese in Nigeria. I was inspired to write by the people who sit around my village church to share palm wine after Sunday Mass, by the Bible, and by the humor and endurance of the poor. My grandfather was one of those who brought the Catholic Church to our village. I was ordained as a Jesuit priest in 2003, and I like to celebrate the sacraments for my fellow villagers. Some of them have no problem stopping me in the road and asking for confession!

  I have very fond memories of my childhood in my village, where everybody knows everybody, and all my paternal uncles still live together in one big compound. When I was growing up, my mother told me folktales and got me and my three brothers to read a lot. I became a fiction writer during my seminary days. I wrote at night, when the community computers were free. Computer viruses ate much of my work. Finally, my friend Wes Harris believed in me enough to get me a laptop. This saved me from the despair of losing my stories and made me begin to see God again in the seminary. The stories on that first laptop are the core of Say You’re One of Them. I received my MFA in creative writing from the University of Michigan in 2006.

  I always look forward to visiting my village. No matter how high the bird flies, its legs still face the earth. When I get back to Ikot Akpan Eda, my people and I will celebrate this book in our own way—with lots of tall tales, spontaneous prayers, and palm wine!

  Uwem Akpan in Nigeria, as photographed by his brother, Mfon Akpan

  Photograph by Mfon Akpan

  Photograph by Mfon Akpan

  A conversation with the author of

  Say You’re One of Them

  Uwem Akpan talks with Cressida Leyshon of The New Yorker

  Your story “An Ex-mas Feast” is about a family living on the street in Nairobi, Kenya. When did you first start thinking about these characters and the world that they inhabit?

  When I went to study theology in Nairobi, in 2000, I was taken by the phenomenon of street kids. I’d never seen anything like it before.… I started talking with the bunch of kids around Adams Arcade, which was near my school. These kids were not very wild, because they still went back to their homes in the slums in the evening. There was one kid, Richard, who was their leader. I started calling him Dick. He had some English, and was very respected by the others. If I wanted to give them money, the whole bunch would ask me to give it to Dick, because they knew he would not cheat them. He would talk with me and ask me about Nigeria. I don’t know how he managed to be so nice, unlike his friends. After the Christmas holiday of 2000, he disappeared. I started asking questions. Some of his friends told me that maybe he had gone to the city to become a real street kid. I really thought I would run into him someday in the city. But I never did. I kept hoping that he would keep his gentleness even in the very wild gangs of the City Centre.

  You’re working on a collection of stories about children in various countries in Africa. Can you talk a little about the other stories? Why do you want to write about a number of African countries rather than one or two—for example, Nigeria, where you grew up, or Kenya, where you studied for three years?

  I would like to see a book about how children are faring in these endless conflicts in Africa. The world is not looking. I think fiction allows us to sit for a while with people we would rather not meet. I have had the chance to study and to travel a bit. I really hope I can visit these places and do good research, so that the stories can be truly those of the people I am trying to write about. I want their voices heard, their faces seen.

  Do you find it easy to move between the two continents, Africa and America, or does it take time to adjust to life in each place again?

  The rhythm of life here is different from that of Nigeria. I really liked the efficiency and accessibility of things here, the educational opportunities. And I was touched by the beauty and tolerance it has taken to fashion America. But, for instance, the thing about old people staying in “homes” away from home blew my mind. As did how little Americans know or want to know about life elsewhere.

  It is a great thing to be able to move back and forth. I get to see my friends. There’s also the challenge of remaining faithful to my roots. Now each time I return to Ikot Akpan Eda, my home, I ask my parents and old people a lot of questions. I am more interested in my Annang culture now than I was before I started coming here. I am always interested in listening to old people in my village. Everybody knows everybody, and people tell tall stories. After Mass on Sunday, people sit together outside the church and share fresh palm wine. One of my mother’s cousins used to come around to our home to tell us stories he made up about different people in the village. He seemed to have a license to change any story into what ever he wanted. My granddad, who helped bring Catholicism to my village, became a polygamist at one point and later came back to monogamy. So I have many uncles and aunties. My father and all his brothers live in one big compound. My mother’s place is not far off.

  Have you set much of your fiction in the United States?

  I have not set any of my fiction in the U.S.… Not yet. I feel that you guys have tons of writers “discovering” the American experience for you. I feel that the situation of Africa is very urgent and we need more people to help us see the complexity of our lives. Ben Okri has said that rich African literature means rich world literature. Having said that, it would be great to set some of my fiction in this country. A lot of African refugees are coming to America now. So that could be where to begin.

  What do you read, mostly?

  The stories I find in the Bible keep surprisin
g me. All the crimes are already committed in Genesis, yet God stays with the ones who committed them. I read extensively, though ever since I started writing my reading speed has gone down considerably.

  Is your faith important to you when you’re writing? What role, if any, do you think it should play in your fiction?

  Since it is not something I can put away, my faith is important to me. I hope I am able to reveal the compassion of God in the faces of the people I write about. I think fiction has a way of doing this without being doctrinaire about it.

  In “An Ex-mas Feast,” two of the main characters, Jigana and his sister Maisha, live in a harsh world. Do you think that they’ll survive?

  My continent is in distress and has been since the beginning of slavery. Leadership is a big problem. My hope is that things will change in Africa. Eu rope fought endlessly with itself in past centuries; now they have a Europe an Union, not just in name, like the African Union. I hope that someday all the stupid wars on the African continent will end. I am amazed at the endurance of people, whether in Asia or Latin America or Africa, caught up in harsh situations.