On a rather sad note, Chinua Achebe’s story illustrates why inaccurate statistics, shoddy records, and unjust scales become the equivalent of illiteracy or even metaphoric blindness. If Chinua Achebe had enjoyed the proper rewards of his labour and honest investment, Africa’s greatest novelist had no business inside the type of vehicle that crushed his bones along Enugu- Onitsha road in 1990. At 60 years of age, Chinua Achebe could have earned enough financial leverage to have been traveling in a different class of automobile.
The eagle on iroko would never have had his career -winding crash inside a chartered Peugeot 504 salon car during which he was maimed. Part of the blame lies perhaps in the character of the transactions between Chinua Achebe and his publishers over plain accounting, transparency and honest bookkeeping.
Our first meeting was in 1985 after Chinua Achebe, Chukwuemeka Ike and myself retreated to Professor Ike’s private apartment at the University of Jos staff quarters. Professor Achebe had given an inaugural lecture that afternoon. Our meeting in Ike’s house was the ultimate solidarity, old boys of Government College, Umuahia could offer themselves in the circumstance. It was at that venue that Achebe told me that his wife, Christy Achebe hails from the Onubuiyi family in my home town, Enugwu- Agidi. I was still too young to savour the implications of that discourse. On my way for the second supper and fellowship and like amateur astrologers, we drove gingerly towards Chinua Achebe’s residence at Annandale -on – the Hudson, New York in the evening of November 27 , 1992. Emma Afam Anigbogu drove us. Having lived in the US for decades, he could travel any terrain within the New Jersey axis, but the metropolis that evaporates his poise, is the mighty New York, New York. Emma played the humble kid whenever we headed towards New York, that octopus of a city, which Fela Anikulapko Kuti said “…makes men feel like cockroaches.” After a prolonged spell and intermittent phone directives, we finally arrived at Chinua Achebe’s customized residence at Bard College!
But his hospitality has remained eerie till date. It took me almost a season before realizing that Achebe had ushered us into his presence on wheelchair and not walking. I had to get used to that twist of fate. After pleasantries and updates from home, our famous host volunteered his own storyline, that his 60th birthday anniversary festival at University of Nigeria, Nsukka was a surreal magnificence. And while it lasted, he wondered whether it was quite proper to lavish accolades and encomiums on a mere mortal. The deluge of praise and commendations during the carnival was dizzying. Wouldn’t the gods be unhappy? He nevertheless managed to navigate his space and balance, by an abiding gratitude to God over the general tone of events and that he deliberately remained in America owing to the logistics of his medication and continued sustenance.
There was no brooding, melancholy or reservations in the atmosphere or his bearing. Chinua Achebe was a study in grace or simply sangfroid. Greek drama had always premised tragedy as a misfortune upon some nobles and kings, but Achebe asserted much earlier in life, that Igbos consider tragedy as what befalls any individual in one corner of his life that he could do nothing about, an overwhelming suffering.
At that instant, I remembered Heinemann African Writers Series and several thoughts cruised on my mind. Just as I had grieved over Christopher Okigbo’s Labyrinths whose copyrights were lost to foreign gods, it became obvious that if Achebe had received judicious compensation for his stature and global acclaim, he had no business inside a Peugeot 504 chartered vehicle to Lagos. He could have had a superior and safer mode of transportation.
He was concerned that we should complete our meals before the ongoing conversations. Mrs. Achebe surprised us with her dinner of pounded yam and onugbu soup! Ironically, few days earlier, I had teased my cousins that if I couldn’t get to eat foofoo; that I will report myself to the American Consulate and request to be deported to Nigeria. How could an African man survive without eba in a week?
As part of his exceeding hospitality; he again reflected on his wife’s ancestral roots as it concerned me, Enugwu-Agidi town and the Onubuiyi family. This time, I was better prepared. My dad had earlier intimated me, that in Igbo culture, a bona fide son of the family, must know his family history, that is, the line of his ancestors up to the 7th generation. That it was the only proof of his authenticity and also a buffer against being sold into slavery, without being able to facilitate his return to liberty. Therefore, I informed our hosts that the patriarch of Onubuiyi [Otigbu Anyinya] of Enugwu-Agidi, actually hails from Udeozo Ekwughe’s bloodline and genealogy on the maternal side. Till date, the Onubuiyis pay customary allegiance to the Udeozo Ekwughe fraternity in ceremonial terms.
It was also a familiar script of our world class host, who often reminded the world at large, especially those that denigrate our humanity and knowledge base, that Africa is People. It was amazing that inside that sublime sitting room in New York, we could easily relate Mrs. Christy Achebe’s family tree to the homepage of their dinner guest.
Our camera failed us, but Professor Achebe was gracious in his consolation and wished us better luck next time. What remains indelible is the gift I brought from Nigeria. All the custom points along our flight paths marveled at and commended it. But Chinua Achebe gave the utmost praise. He told me that of all the several awards he has received from institutions, governments and cultures across the world, what I gave him that evening was especially dear to him.
By God’s grace, all the way from Lagos, I had offered Chinua Achebe a sculpture of An Eagle on Iroko with a plaque about his significance in world history and civilization. He was deeply moved by this presentation, and offered me many blessings before our departure. As an aside, Odia Ofeimun, is not the only one who can keep a secret. I shall reserve details of Chinua Achebe’s comments on my career for the future.
The price we pay for lacking statistics and proper book-keeping had a tragic payload in the career of Chinualumogu Achebe the author of Things Fall Apart. A concrete example exists in the foiled attempt of the Nigeria Television Authority [NTA] to plant a modest figure over her services. The moment NTA dared to announce that their broadcasts were watched by over 30 million viewers; the caricature, cajoling and contempt they fetched from dissenting quarters was unprecedented. The rival print media in a special Boo boo slot ensured that her mockers and scoffers in that season, compelled NTA to an eventual retraction. Today, owing to unavailing statistics, NTA does not even have the courage or moral authority to put any figure to her performance. We know that Nigeria comprises millions of citizens, but the exact or even approximate figure remains shrouded in ethnic politics, chicanery and hegemonic fraud. These days, NTA has taken solace and refuge in you can’t beat the reach as a saner and safer slogan. But speaking about The reach without facts and figures, lacks actuarial life and commercial profit. You need figures to obtain compensation, to pay royalty and to balance the records. Without figures that are true and verifiable, every other index of decent accounting is tenuous and volatile.
Heinemann as publishers of Achebe’s works employed this stratagem for over 50 years against Things Fall Apart. Recall that the same publishers were involved in an altercation with Ghana’s Ayi Kwei Armah who tore his Nineteen Thousand Pounds Sterling Cheque into two and returned one half to Heinemann African Writers Series over proper accounting and just compensation issues. He further banned the publisher from ever re-issuing his works after. So, we are not merely speculating.
It’s shocking and shameful that for over 50 years, the official sales record available to the public on Achebe’s Things Fall Apart is a paltry strange number. We have been fed this advert for more than 30 years, that Things Fall Apart has sold over 10 million copies worldwide.
Since this happened in Achebe’s case, Ayi Kwei Armah and several other African writers, shall attempt an extrapolation of the likely sales revenue of Things Fall Apart from the facts of living experience. Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With The Wind, was said to have sold 27 million copies; James Joyce’s Ulysses sold 22 million copies; Eric Segal’s Love Story sold 23 million copies and the stratospheric J.K. Rowling’s Harry Porter series is raking in tens of millions of sold copies across the world. Then how could it be that only Achebe’s work has the least in terms of sales revenue?
It’s an established fact that Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart is the most translated novel out of Africa, and among the 100 most valuable books of all times! As at 2006 Golden Jubilee Celebrations for Things Fall Apart, Professor Emmanuel Obiechina officially informed the audience that Things Fall Apart has been translated into 61 languages worldwide. Facts and figures are critical, sacred and profitable. Yet, several commentators insist on talking of Achebe’s work being translated into more than 50 languages. 61 and 50 are not the same. The difference has historical, vocational and financial implications. Africans need to wake up to both bookkeeping and proper accounting. We need to understand the salvation in honest figures and the damage any form of duplicity does to social justice and peaceful co-existence.
The magnitude of book translations somehow reflect the scope and possible scatter of its readership pool across the world.
For instance, Things Fall Apart became not just a successful novel in the popular sense of commercial success; it also became an instant classic in classrooms around the globe. George Walker Bush (Jnr) and Bill Clinton, two American presidents have publicly admitted reading Things Fall Apart in their academic sojourn. That Things Fall Apart has been recommended for American colleges and universities is several decades deep. Nelson Mandela’s praise for Things Fall Apart is even on the novel’s blurb.