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Onitsha

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Is it possible to write of a journey upriver into the African heartland without falling into the shadow of HEART OF DARKNESS? And yet the example of Conrad's masterpiece need not be a dead weight, as ONITSHA, the 1992 novel by the recent Nobel laureate JMG LeClézio, proves. As Conrad had done, LeClézio begins his book with a long voyage by water, in this case from Bordeaux along the coast of Africa to the mouth of the River Niger. His protagonist is a young boy, Fintan, who travels with his Italian mother (nicknamed Maou) to join his English father Geoffroy Allen, whom he has never seen, working as a shipping agent in the river town of Onitsha. Fintan's situation is clearly based on that of the author himself, whose father was also separated from his mother during the War, and who similarly spent part of his childhood in Nigeria.

I was surprised to discover that Onitsha is actually a real city, for it is also presented as a place of myth. All through the long voyage (deliberately prolonged to emphasize Onitsha's remoteness), Fintan and his mother look forward to a tropical jungle paradise. What they find is a deforested commercial outpost run by British colonial officials on behalf of the trading companies. Fintan meets a slightly older African boy and soon discovers his own Onitsha, running barefoot through the savanna and pottering in the reeds at the water's edge. Maou fits poorly into colonial society and at first feels very lonely, but eventually she forms her own ties to the place and its native people. And Geoffroy, no more than competent in his official work, becomes obsessed with the idea that the Onitsha region might contain the new city founded by the semi-legendary Queen of Meroë at the end of her long trek across the continent from the Nile, two millennia earlier.

Conrad's novella is about the evils of colonialism, and some dark force that takes possession of its central figure, Kurtz, and drives him mad. LeClézio also sees colonialism as evil, but he presents it in its last dying throes, denouncing it less for its horrors than its isolation and irrelevance. For the mysterious heartbeat of Africa that seduces each of the three main characters is not some kind of black magic, but the sense of an ancient history, an even older religion, and a oneness with the land and its elements. Once these things have entered the bloodstream, they are impossible to remove. Only war, famine, and commercial exploitation can do that; but the worst of these things happen (as they did in the Biafran War) after the main part of the book is over. This is a powerful novel, but a magical one also, and not nearly so harrowing as the description on the back cover might indicate.

At first, the book's oddly-named characters, almost allegorical setting, and university-press printing, combined with the reputation of the Nobel Prize, almost screamed French Intellectual at me, but I found it almost impossible to put down. Even in translation, LeClézio's writing is both evocative and crystal clear; there is poetry aplenty, but no sense of heaviness. LeClézio is less an intellectual than a sensual writer, not just in his pervasive evocation of sexuality as a life force, but also in his sense of place. And his choice of characters is surely deliberate -- Fintan is a Celtic name, Geoffroy a French spelling of an English one, Maou a contraction of the Italian Maria Louisa -- all combining to create a rootlessness that is the opposite of the strong sense of place LeClézio will establish in Africa. He almost never mentions an African place name except as part of a string of such names, as Homer might have done. This is a slim book written in a world where Homeric grandeur has long since gone. But the sense of lost greatness remains, reaching a climax in passages like the following, in which an old resident shows Fintan the wreck of a warship [the ellipses are the author's]:

"Look, pikni! Here, in this hull, the officers would stand to attention when Sir Frederick Lugard came on board with his great plumed hat! With him came the kings of Calabar, Owerri, Kabba, Onitsha, Ilorin, with their wives and their slaves. Chukuani of Udi... Onuoorah from Nnawi... the Obi of Otolo, the old Nuosu wearing his leopard skin... the warlords of Ohafia... even the envoys of the Obi of Benin, even Jaja, the old fox Jaja from Opobo, who had resisted the English for so long... They all came on board the GEORGE SHOTTON to sign their peace treaties."

Anybody still hesitating to buy this wonderful book might check out the story by LeClézio in the current NEW YORKER (10/27/2008), "The boy who had never seen the sea," which shows once again his affinity with young protagonists and almost mystical feeling for nature. He is a subtle and magnificent writer.

Memoirs or fictional accounts of childhood experiences in Africa have become popular in recent years, in particular by Africans having escaped the horrors of war. They express a need to reconnect with their roots and their lasting influence on their lives. JMG Le Clézio's fictional treatment of his own formative time in Nigeria as a child has resulted in this powerful and alluring novel. Written in 1991 with the hindsight of historical events, most of the narrative is set against the harsh realities of colonial Nigeria in 1948/49 when revolts against the British had been increasing and, at least for one protagonist, the "end of the empire" was already in the cards. The story concludes twenty years later at the time of the brutal Biafra war, fought by the then independent Nigeria. In a lucid, yet often poetic language Le Clézio effortlessly blends an intimate portrait of his young hero, Fintan, his family and the personal challenges they confront with a sweeping impressionistic depiction of a real, yet also mystical place in its cultural and historical context.

During the month-long sea voyage from France to the remote Nigerian town of Onitsha, the twelve-year old Fintan experiences a rainbow of emotions: joyous anticipation as well as anxiety about their new home, homesickness and, above all, a sense of dread of the father he never knew. The intimate relationship to his mother, Maou, short for Marie-Luisa, may be under threat in the new circumstances. Maou, Italian-born and desperate to leave her difficult life of prejudice behind, dreams of an Africa that is wild, idyllic and beautiful. It will also finally reunite her with her beloved husband. The romantic Geoffroy, whose fascination with Africa goes way back, had been caught up in Africa during all of WWII, and had finally, in 1948, asked his family to join him.

Reality is usually very different from dreams and all three main characters have to go through crises, substantial change and learning before they can find themselves and, hopefully, each other. The author lets the reader follow the path that each takes in their unique ways. Fintan, an uncomplicated and receptive youth, has the easiest time in absorbing the new surroundings, literally throwing off his black shoes and wollen socks to follow his new friend Bony running barefoot through the long grass of the Savannah. The boy, son of a local fisherman, increasingly takes the role of Fintan's guide into the mysteries of the local culture and religion. For example, when Fintan, unthinkingly destroys termite mounds, Bony chides his friend for having attacked the gods of nature. There is playfulness in the way they explore hidden paths to the river and its islands. Mystery abounds not least in the persons of Sabine Rodes, the eccentric loner who seems to live in a different universe from the British community, his "adopted son" Okawho and, above all Oya. Young Oya, whose name means "river goddess" in the local language, appears from nowhere and seems to live outside real time or space. Not only Fintan is completely mesmerized by her eerie beauty and behaviour...

Events also force Maou to adjust her dreams to the realities she encounters. Onitsha is a busy, British-run, urban trading centre, disconnected from the traditional way of life of the ancient cultures and religions and the natural idyll she was seeking. Her open-mindedness and sense of fairness towards the African population quickly brings her into conflict with the colonial establishment. Through her, Le Clézio expresses his strongest critique of colonialism while at the same time imparting her increasing sense of comfort and appreciation of her African surroundings and newly won friends. Whereas Geoffroy has become a middling bureaucrat in a trading company, his obsession with Africa has not diminished. He is unfeeling and overly strict towards his son and apparently uncaring towards his wife. While he becomes increasingly remote from daily life, he is absorbed in his search for clues as to the locality along the Niger river of a lost Meroë empire, refuge for the descendants of the last empress after they had to abandon the ancient city of Meroë in Upper Egypt. Geoffroy's sections in the novel are set apart from the rest of the flow of the story. They combine his personal quest with glimpses into this history-rich and culturally diverse region marked by the mighty Niger, a trading route for thousands of years. Le Clézio's concluding chapter - reflecting on the twenty years since the journey started - is deeply moving and satisfying.

The author's own experience percolates through his narrative and imagery. His detailed descriptions, evoking the beauty of landscape and the creatures inhabiting it, demonstrate an intimate knowledge of these surroundings: the magnetism of the powerful and mystical river on the peoples who live along its banks; the impact of the change of seasons and the play of colours and sounds from the early mornings to the setting sun in the mist after the heavy rains. The intimate connectedness between daily life and the spiritual realm is particularly well and sensitively conveyed. [Friederike Knabe]

When Le Clezio won the Nobel a year ago, I had never heard of him. I quickly picked up a German pocket book with a novel in translation, (I forgot which title), and tried it. I did not like what I found and labeled the man's writing `travel agency prose'.
Then an Amazon friend convinced me to take another look. I chose Onitsha because of its subject, and did not regret it. There is a lot to be said about this book, it is definitely better than my prejudice expected. Maybe the German translation was impossible, or the other book was just so much worse, or maybe I had been in a bad mood...

Onitsha is a place in Nigeria.
The story begins in 1948, during the final years of colonial rule. The English colonialists are of the same ilk as the Sahiblog in Orwell's Burmese Days (however I would claim that Orwell did a better job at painting them individually; Le Clezio's Englishmen are just types).
We travel to Onitsha with a little Italian boy who accompanies his mother, to be with the English father. The war had caused a longer separation between the parents, the boy does not know his father, and it goes badly between them.
Onitsha, the place, is at first a huge disappointment for the mother; all romantic expectations are crushed by the dreary reality of a colonial river station and by life in a group of sahiblog. The expressive term `porco Inglese' (adapted from an Italian aunt) is applied, and mutates to `poko Ingezi'.
The relationship with the husband and father is also not as hoped.
Boy and mother both `go local' in different ways; this is their personal survival strategy. Both develop an appreciation for different perspectives of climate, culture, and environment. Both are shocked by the realities of colonialism.
Actually, the father has also gone local: he is on a magical mystery tour into African mythology and history.
Going local is the ultimate anti-social act for members of an expat `community', especially in colonial times. The family gets ostracized by the whites and finally has to leave.
The book has 4 chapters: the ship voyage from France to Nigeria in 48, the first time in Onitsha, the end time there, and last, and finally, 20 years later in England and France, the family back in Europe, the boy grown up, with comments on visions and thoughts of Onitsha during the Biafra war.

Le Clezio tells his story from the all-knowing third person narrator standpoint, with changing main protagonists. The focus shifts between the members of the small family.
His language makes ample use of the repetition of exotic words, he likes to use place names, tribes' names, etc, and gains some poetic value from listing things. He stays far away from irony or other humoristic style elements.
While I respect him, on second visit, much more than last time, I am not able to say that I fall entirely for his style and ways. There is a little too much `mystery' in the tale, secrets, `old knowledge'. The characters of the protagonists are not fully developed, actions remain unmotivated or mysterious. Example: one of the Englishmen is an outsider with odd behavior, a man called Sabine Rodes. He seems to be an unconventional maverick, but then turns out to be a fierce enforcer of white supremacy. We never learn why the boy's mother had refused to meet him after one encounter. Le Clezio likes to keep assumptions pending: did he try to seduce or rape her? Did he insult her? This way of keeping things unclear comes together with a tendency for sexual allusions and images, frequently half-understood and from the boy's perspective. Even as an adult, 20 years later, the son has dreams about Rodes.

It wasn't until the end of the novel that I really connected this novel with Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's novel, Half of a Yellow Sun, which was based on the Biafran War in the 1960ies where the eastern part of Nigeria, primarily represented by the Igbo people, were hounded into succession and an attempt to found their own state. Or that I began to wonder why so much of the literary output of Nigeria (besided Adichie, Chinua Achebe in the previous generation and Chris Abani more recently)--at least that which has got attention in the West--comes from this area of the country. Of course, LeClezio is not Nigerian himself, but he clearly identifies with the people of this area.

LeClezio's novel spans the time frame of Achebe and of Adichie, with the novel beginning in 1948 when its main character, Fintan, first travels to Africa and ending in 1969 when Fintan travels to France where his father is dying and from there, one speculates--since he resigned his teaching job--to Nigeria.

Fintan is 12 when he travels with his mother on the Holland Africa steamer from France to Nigeria. Mother and son are unusually close and both write on the ship--the mother (Maou, short for Maria Louisa), bits of evocative poetry and Fintan, a chronicle called "A Long Voyage". On the ship with them is the new British DO (District Officer) at Onitsha--where they are headed--giving the reader a preview of the racial and cultural disconnect they'll encounter at their destination.

In addition, we have the strange circumstances of their own voyage. In the 30ies Maou had married Geoffroy, an Englishman, in her home country, Italy. Shortly after their marriage he goes off, presumably to Africa, promising to send for her which he does only after his child is 12 years old!

Fintan resents the father he's never met and doesn't like him in person and we're at first on his side as his father seems to be as insensitive as the other British functionaries in the local colonial government--including the DO met on the ship. Gradually, though, as Fintan toughens up his feet and runs with a local boy, learning the ways of the forest and the river, we learn of Geoffroy's passion for the ancient myths and legends of the people who first settled on an island in the Niger. His interest borders on obsession, is deemed inappropriate by local whites. When Maou speaks up about British mistreatment of the people at the British club, she's ostracized and the powers that be decide they have to go.

The point of view shifts almost imperceptibly between Maou and Fintan. LeClezio excels in characterizing the place, through descriptions of the sights and sounds of the forest and the river and the love of the land and the people that grows in mother and son. The sections that represent Geoffroy's thoughts are printed in a different font to indicate a shift; at first they seem irrelevant to the contemporary world, though gradually people and events from the past seem to merge with those in the present. Readers hardly experience Geoffroy except through his research into the mists of history, though his sections communicate his intense emotional involvement with that past. Gradually, though, as Fintan comes to acknowledge and respect his father's understanding of the past, we see the small family of three standing implacably against the colonial establishment in what is a powerful, because understated, indictment of colonialism.

This book is totally excellent, one of the best I've read in years. I see myself reading it again shortly. This is Things Fall Apart (Chinua Achebe) from a French boy's eyes.

Like many in Asia and North or South America, I had not read Jean-Marie Gustave Le Clézio before he was awarded the 2008 Nobel Prize in Literature by the Swedish Academy. I seldom violate my "read after death" policy, but Le Clézio's style and themes sounded intriguing enough to make an exception. Unfortunately, if Onitsha is any indication of the overall quality of Le Clézio's oeuvre, it appears that the Nobel Committee has once again placed political interests above literary merit.

Onitsha is a surprisingly insipid book, considering that it's the work of a Nobel laureate who was more than 50 years old at the time of its original publication (1991). To be fair, perhaps it's a minor work. I hope that's the case. However, Oxford University Press published an article last year in the journal French Studies that said Onitsha "is to date [2008] the most important fictional piece the author has devoted to his childhood experience of colonial black Africa (British-ruled Nigeria of the late 1940s)." So I doubt it.

Though Le Clézio's descriptions of the African landscape are obviously rooted in experience, his characters are simplistic, undeveloped, and, in several cases, bordering on stereotype. There is no moral ambiguity in Le Clézio's Africa, and little of the messiness that makes characters human and literature necessary. Onitsha is first and foremost a sentimental book, not angry or horrified as its description claims, and I suspect that it idealizes Le Clézio's childhood in the same way that Fintan idealizes his mother (the opening chapter contains several scenes of Fintan staring raptly at her naked body).

This general tenor of idealization is furthered by Le Clézio's interest in African mythology, which leads him to treat Onitsha's primary African characters, the couple Okawho and Oya, as inscrutable warrior and goddess figures. This is done principally through the character of Fintan's father, Geoffroy, and his quest for the "one legend, one river," a primarily academic journey that is told via intermittent, differently fonted chapters.

Those intermittent chapters are suggestive of another problem, which is that Le Clézio seems to lack an innate grasp of structure. Onitsha has obvious structural features--an opening journey, a concluding chapter set 20 years after the principal action of the book--but its division into four parts is too arbitrary, and there's little logic to the placement of the interjecting "Geoffroy chapters," which themselves wander from myth to narrative to history.

Then again, logic and structure aren't exactly Le Clézio's favorite things, as he told Label France in 2001. "Western culture has become too monolithic," he said. "It places the greatest possible emphasis on its urban and technical side, thus preventing the development of other forms of expression--religiosity and feelings, for example. The entire unknowable part of the human being is obscured in the name of rationalism. It is my awareness of this that has pushed me toward other civilizations." Clearly, Le Clézio hasn't heard about Oprah or Joel Osteen.

All of this leads me to suspect that The Guardian had it right when they surmised that "awarding Jean-Marie Gustave Le Clézio the Nobel prize for literature shows a clear distaste for America's cultural dominance." It wasn't much of a guess, since Horace Engdahl, permanent secretary of the Swedish Academy, had criticized the U.S. the week before Le Clézio's selection as "too isolated, too insular." He's correct, of course, but I'm not sure how giving Nobel Prizes to undeserving writers is going to fix that problem. Perhaps other of Le Clézio's religion- and feeling-based novels will help clear up this conflict of mutually insular parties.

I read this book as part of my Sorbonne II exams literature study. At first, I thought it was going to bore me, and leave me all the way uninterested, mainly because I wasn't so keen on this type of literature, and because it seemed too long. But reading it was after all quite a nice experience! I found it wasn't boring, it kept me up, wanting to find out what happens next, although not all the time! :) Interesting because we learn so much about its theme (involving the status of Africa half a century ago). Interesting also, of a literary fashion; I, at least, found it fun to analyse it in class! It wouldn't get 5 stars because, well, it didn't exactly blow my skirt up, neither would it get 3 stars cause it just was more interesting than 3 out of 5!