Read Me Without Prejudice

The art of writing has a way of eliciting good tidings from discerning and intelligent readers. Everyone—book reviewers, literature teachers and ordinary readers—all have ways of expressing their love for a book, leaving them to devour the pages of such books like a nicely iced birthday cakes. One of such ways of showing much love for a well-crafted book is through blurbs. Book blurbs could come from editors, reviewers, writers and even readers. Regardless of where they spring from, they have come to capture my attention, forcing me to run to them immediately I grab a book before flipping to the first chapter.

Imagine this about Toni Morrison’s Beloved. Staring unflinching into the abyss of slavery, this spellbinding novel transforms history into a story as powerful as Exodus and as intimate as lullaby.  Wouldn’t you rather spend some time appreciating the similes that helped breathe life into this praise before poring over the book? One of my best books of all time, James McBride’s The Color of Water, still holds one of my most admired blurbs. The Color of Water [will] make you proud to be a member of the human race. The first time I read this blurb, I nursed a sensational feeling that a separate award should be designed for blurb writers. If I ever wrote a book, I would wish a blurb writer would exert as much thought-through process into the blurb as I would have into the book. I could have a praise go like: Vivid and poised. This book would make you cringe, laugh and cry. Above all, it would have you place it at arm’s length.

Over the years, disciplining myself to become a better reader has taught me a great lesson. We should never read books to admire the beauty of words and skills alone; otherwise, we would have our laboratory of words built without that of the ideas refined. The theme, which is the central idea of a book, is arguably of immense importance than the cluster of words formed into admiration. Just like a preacher uses a story in a scripture to pass a message to a carefully listening congregation, followed by a resounding halleluiahs and praise Jehovah with one hand placed on the Bible and the other swaying from left to right in the air, writings however graciously written they are, should never fail to pass their messages. Readers, after each chapters, should like the preacher’s congregation, hold the book to their bosoms, grateful for the fact that someone is telling a story they never would have told.

Don’t get me wrong. For what is the beauty of writing without a well-crafted language? Our languages, whether in metaphors or similes, should help advance our work, not just show how gifted we are with words. These days I am becoming too uncomfortable with blurbs, as well. It seems to be the booming business of the writing world and I have this feeling that people are becoming trained blurb writers. Some occupy first-three pages of a book, with the exception of back covers, saying almost the same thing (praising the writer, the styles, the languages). They do this altering the reader’s five senses of judgment—sight, smell, taste, feel and hear. The readers are left prejudiced. The opinion of the writer still lurked in the pages of varying blurb writers’ opinions. In the end, some readers come out of reading a book with mixed feelings: either it’s been over praised or under praised. The readers, therefore, nurse the wishful feelings of making profound decisions not initially clouded by other’s senses. They are left betrayed.

Even though blurb writers are great editors and good writers themselves, the conscious human intellect is sometimes suppressed by the subconscious human intuition. It is therefore not surprising to find hidden in blurbs the sheer personal appraisals of writers, leaving the idea of the books drowned in beautiful lines of personality and gift praises. 

I love blurbs. They are my windows to the world of the unknown. But care should be taking in writing them.  Most readers cast their expectations of a book on them. They should come without helping readers make decisions. They would better be appreciated when they come with suspense, urging the reader to want to know more. When blurbs are carefully written, they become compasses that help navigate the reader to a destination having hanged them with a thin rope of suspense.

Helping Our Girls Heal

I grew up hearing this story from my siblings. Our oldest sister schooled eight hours away from home. Being the first, she had been asked to stay back and complete her school at the Government Girls College, Gajiganna. Father’s transfer from Borno to Jos had come almost unexpectedly. And being one who despised changing schools for children, except under pressing need, he compelled her to stay back in Borno to complete her school, suppressing the only fear that parents nursed then—the fear of distance.

Her coming back for holidays used to be like a return from pilgrimage; her home entry a triumphant one. A private car was always hired to pick her up in Maiduguri. Her younger ones would line the walls of their room with colorful card board papers etched with words like: welcome back sis; Jos is cold. They swept and cleaned. These they did while Mother prepared the type of meal you ate on New Year’s Day. Father and Mother anticipated her return to warm up to her. To constantly remind her that leaving her to school thousands of miles away from home wasn’t unkind. It was a belief in the school and trust in the state. My other siblings, however, wanted to see her to trade memories. Of friends they left back in Borno. Of how much grasshoppers my sister ate, and if stand storm had scooped any body’s child away. She left Gajiganna with gratitude. There, she met her best friend with whom they still hang out. Her joyful stories must have inspired Father to further send his two sons and a cousin to school at the University of Maiduguri.

I called my sister to hear her opinion when the Chibok girls were abducted. There was silence, a clear-cut one that I could hear her daughter, my little niece, giggling in the background. It was then followed by a despaired voice. A voice that spoke volumes. It could have happened to anybody, she said. I have a daughter and can only imagine it better. I hung up and wondered if we would have had the best of her had she been abducted and returned; if she would have ever had any gleeful stories to share.

The Chibok girls are sisters and daughters. While they may not have been schooling far away from home, they had people waiting on them. They had stories to tell about Chibok and friends and life. The foot path they trod to school; the boys who made them giggle; their aspirations for higher institutions. But those stories, it seem, may now be blurred by sheer callousness.

Bring back our girls is now trending, globally. The clamor amazes and inspires me. How interesting that the world is indeed watching. It gives me hope that the girls, by some mission possible, will be rescued and brought back home. But I am also worried. I am worried that the girls may not be able to unloose the terror wrapped around them by Boko Haram. This terror, like post traumatic stress disorder, may plague them to a blind, obscuring their visions of joyful past memories. Yes! They will tell stories. But I hope where these stories would emanate from would not leave them paranoid and withdrawn for a disturbing long time.

Only time heals, they say. But I also understand that we need someone, astute and patient, to constantly remind us that we are waiting to be healed by time. Chibok is a sleepy town; Borno is displaced. I doubt if such persons, discerning and settled, will be on ground to help these girls heal when they are rescued and returned home.

So when next we raise placards or hash tag bring back our girls, we should also remember that our girls will be brought back hurt. This may not be a physical injury. But it sure will be one that might take time to get healed. Are we ready, fellow activists, to take our protests off the streets and clamor off twitter to help these girls heal? They may have spent weeks in the forest. They will spend more time learning to recount better stories. Only our continued shared efforts will help them remember how beautiful the world used to be, and still is.