Literature affords me insight into myself, trains me to be critical of social inflections —Adepoju, OAU undergraduate on debut novel

Isaiah Adepoju is an undergraduate student of the Department of English at the Obafemi Awolowo University (OAU), Ile-Ife. He is a writer and a contributor to magazines of note, and recently published his debut novel titled ‘Happiness is a Sickle-Kinikan in my Belly’. In this interview by KINGSLEY ALUMONA, he speaks about his new book, publishing in Nigeria, and the place of writing in society.

Congratulations on your new book ‘Happiness is a Sickle-Kinikan in my Belly’. How and where did the idea to write this book come from?

I was writing a different story and a friend who I told about that story complained that the characters in the story were sad. I did not know why they were all falling and weeping, but I promised myself to write a story of happy characters. That birthed this novel. I am convinced that ‘Happiness is a Sickle-Kinikan in my Belly’ is a happy novel. It is moreover about choosing to be happy or not in the face of the world’s terrible silence.

 

What is the book about and what lessons is it meant to teach the reader and society?

The book is about the Olorunyomi family trying to live after Ephraim’s death. Father, mother, and daughter experience his death differently. Because of this, the book reads like an epilogue. It constantly shifts focus. It has no one focal character.

About the lessons the reader or society can learn from the novel, I sincerely do not know. I hardly can remember lessons from the good books I have read. Eloghosa Osunde’s ‘Vagabond’, for example. Or Elnathan John’s ‘Born on a Tuesday’. And I love Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’ and Marlon James’ ‘A Brief History of Seven Killings’, because — for once — they show that literature need not teach a lesson.

 

The title of the book sounds poetic, if not ironic and satirical. What are you trying to portray with that title?

I have difficulty with titling. Not that I do not title well, but that titling is a more rigorous labour than even writing the novel. A title is the story at a glance. For this novel, the title embodies the intangible feeling pervasive in the story. With timid Isaac, insane Teresa, and defiant Dolapo. The ungraspable absence.

 

Did the book draw inspiration from personal or family experience?

The novel does not directly draw from family experience — but of course, all art forms must draw from personal experience in a way. Instead, it is informed by it. My first brother went missing after I had written the first draft. My emotional response to his missing was plastic, and in trying to characterise Ephraim’s family, the story and I are sort of talking: How do you articulate plasticity? How is loss configured? I doubt very much that I succeeded. It would be tragic if I did.

 

Your brother who went missing after you had written the first draft of the book, was he kidnapped? Was he later found? How did your family handle the experience?

I do not know the circumstances of his missing — only that one day I saw him, and for over one year now I cannot find him. He has not been found since then. My family experiences this loss differently. But the burden is of a different stock — my brother’s children (to whom my novel is dedicated) are growing up and I am hoping Jacob is found before they start asking for him. Because that will be the real loss: the ineffability that comes with it.

 

How long did it take you to write the book? How did you financially support yourself while writing the book?

I was at Ebedi International Writers Residency. Ebedi is a wonderful place. The trees, the quiet, the birds. Five days before the end of my residency, I had finished the project I had gone to Ebedi to do. And I wanted to utilise the remaining five days. During the stay, I listened to a fellow talk about the death of his child. He told it bluntly, not without emotion, but devoid of florid confessions. Naturally, I expected so much getting-the-listener-into-my-character trope in his words. Thus, I resolved to write a story about a sad occurrence but without a sad character. I tried to tell it his way. Not without emotions, but bluntly. I also wrote the first draft in those five days.

 

You are probably in your early twenties and an Obafemi Awolowo University (OAU) undergraduate English student. How did you create the time to write the book with all the stress of academics and campus distractions?

I think the struggle about the time to write is a struggle about something else: the struggle of faith in the writing process. This is how I create the time. I believe in contributing the short sentences and the bits of characters here and there. I believe in the process of never writing whole paragraphs at once. Fifty words a day is a productive day.

Moreover, I have an edge over my academics, and it is about priorities. My writing comes first before school. It is a truth I seem to have always known. I write now, and study for school later. Three semesters in school yet, and in all cases this method has worked.

 

How did you land a publishing deal with Abibiman Publishers (United Kingdom) for the book? Do you have a literary agent? Did you try Nigerian or African publishers before Abibiman?

No. I did not have a literary agent. And I felt insecure about sending out my works to publishers — I still feel insecure. I hardly am interested in whether I had skill, but that I would be misunderstood. My passion to tell a story could be judged through the barometer of experience. That I could be told things that make a story work. So, while Dr Nwelue and I talked about writing, he said why don’t I send it to Abibiman, that they could check it. That is that about that.

 

There are speculations that Nigerian publishers are not living up to their expectations in supporting and publishing budding literary writers. What is your take on this?

One who speculates this way will find out that their claim is not exactly true. I think Nigerian publishers are doing so much, maybe even too much. But I love that energy, anyway. The onus should be on the writers. The budding literary ones, I mean. If the work is quality enough, you will be published and supported. The burden now is how to reach that quality without compromising on the altar of renown.

 

At what age did you realise you were a writer? And how did you hone and develop your writing skills as a teenager?

I was seventeen. I was nearly three years out of high school. While browsing through my father’s shelf, I came across Maryam Ali Ali’s ‘Faces of Naira’. And I remember laughing so hard at Shuaib, who was immensely pitiful in the novel. Before then I did not know a book could make you feel things.

Since reading that book, I have been trying to create a similar character — and I have not — so, I am still unsure whether I am a writer. When I started to do some writing at seventeen, Hilltop Creative Arts Foundation did the rest. Terrific work goes on in that organisation. They helped me as a teenage writer.

 

You have engagements with some literary magazines and organisations. List them and your job description in each.

The Nigeria Review, as the Deputy Editor-in-Chief. Adroit Journal, as a prose reader. Hilltop Creative Arts Foundation, as a member. ANA-OAU, as the secretary. And, I am terribly looking to work with Narrative Landscape as an editorial intern. I hope something happens with that.

 

How do you think writing and literature could help to salvage some of the problems facing Nigerian society?

I do not know how. I have not grown an outlook critical enough to answer this question. Writing for me is important because it does not pass on the trauma of the previous generation. It filters the dirt of history and redefines one’s basic humanity. Literature affords me insight into myself and trains me to be critical of social inflections. In this way, writing does not salvage the problems I face. It understands it, discusses it, and makes me malleable to progressive conversations.

 

Who are your mentors in the creative world and your best Nigerian writers? Do you see a Nigerian writer winning the Nobel Prize in Literature soon?

Eze Ifeanyichukwu Peter is the man in my corner as to the creative world. My best Nigerian writer would be one person, but I do not know the person yet. I hope this same writer will win the Nobel. But for that Nobel to come, a drastic change must occur to and in the country. That is the puzzle. How should one artist bring order to these ruins? That’s every Nigerian writer’s kryptonite.

 

Are you working on another book or literary project? How do you manage the stress and challenges associated with writing, especially combining it with your academics?

I am working on a project which I doubt will ever be completed. I am optimistic, however, about it. Creative writing, combined with academics, is difficult — probably because I abhor academics enough and am terrified of their jargon and their dabbling into abstractions. I am nevertheless trying to find a balance. Of course, when it comes to an either-or situation, I will again and again choose writing. I pray it does not come to that.

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