By Adefoyeke Ajao
“Nothing was going to stop me from enjoying New York to the marrow…”
This declaration by Ekong Udousoro, the narrator of Uwem Akpan’s New York, My Village, (with its colourful cover reminiscent of one of Times Square’s most iconic Broadway marquees) hints at hedonistic pleasure. But, as the reader will discover, it is instead a nuanced novel about the politics of identity, memory, and conflict.
Continuing in his role as narrator, Ekong eases the reader into his backstory as he travels from Akwa Ibom to Lagos for his visa interview at the American Embassy:
“I was the managing editor of Mkpouto Books in Uyo, after I left my job as a literature lecturer at Ikot Osurua Polytechnic. With a Toni Morrison Fellowship for Black Editors I was on my way to Andrew & Thompson, a publishing house, to understudy their operations for four months. I would also use that time to edit an anthology of stories by minority writers on the Biafran War, the fiftieth anniversary of which was going to be the following year. The ethnic war ran deep in my soul: I was born a year into it, 1968, hence my mother naming me Ekong, which means “War.””
As the novel proceeds, it delves into the dynamics between applicants and consular officers. Ekong is wrung through the US Embassy machinery, which is spiked at various points by touts, overzealous security guards and dismissive consular staff. For one who had boldly declared that he would fit in because he had “seen a lot of America on TV and spoke American English,” his confidence takes a hit when he witnesses the contemptuous treatment of visa applicants and the lengths that they go to – spiritual and otherwise – in order to obtain a visa. To make matters worse, Ekong’s application is denied twice by two consular officers nicknamed Santa Judessa and Lagoon Drinker. He only gets a visa thanks to a series of special interventions and the determination of Molly Simmons, the publisher and editor-in-chief at Andrew & Thompson.
We get a glimpse of Ekong’s state of mind as he finally arrives in the US and struggles with new city blues, imposter syndrome, and the intricacies of American publishing. At this point, he appears naïve and guarded, doomed to making excuses for others – whether snobbish neighbours, prejudiced colleagues, or suspicious relatives. He realises that “that prison of an embassy” – as described by Ujai, his precocious 8-year-old niece – was a microcosm of the concrete jungle he now lived in. Ekong’s existential crisis is exacerbated when he discovers the duplicity of some of his acquaintances – especially his colleagues at Andrew & Thompson, Angela Stevens and Jack Cane – during a phone call to the abominable agent Chad Twiss; and the bedbug infestation in his apartment. Thankfully, he can rely on encouragement from his wife, Caro, and his priest, Father Kiobel.
The pace really picks up halfway through the novel as Ekong finally acknowledges that like the bedbugs that have overrun his apartment, discrimination has permeated every facet of society including his beloved Catholic Church. While both discrimination and bedbugs share the ability to camouflage while causing damage, the bedbugs are blind to race, class, or creed. The critters even help Ekong break the ice between his neighbours Brad, Jeff, and Alejandra.
Although Ekong’s name means “war”, his character and approach to conflict is quite the opposite. He is affable, diplomatic, reflective and conciliatory. His open-mindedness attracts more allies and makes them trust him enough to share their stories and their lives with him. This makes New York, My Village a melting pot where identity is not monolithic. As characters’ vulnerabilities are laid bare and they unbundle their personal trauma, we see that discrimination appears to thrive in different forms whether it is in Tuskegee, Argentina or Nigeria.
Despite being a generous 481 pages (spread over 35 chapters and acknowledgements), New York, My Village is neither tedious nor predictable. Akpan’s writing is concise and each sentence, whether written in English, Annang or Pidgin contributes to its overall wholesomeness. The main character retains an engaging voice, in his narration of good or bad, his descriptions of the past or the present, or in his comparison of New York with his beloved Ikot Ituno-Ekanem. For such a multidimensional story, the tone is unpretentious and this simplicity is what makes it so appealing. The 39 pages that make up his acknowledgment as well as his references to other writers and material add even more context and accounts that could not be written into the novel.
Although this story takes place between an early morning in April 2016 and just after Thanksgiving of the same year, it incorporates events that happened decades before. More than five decades after its end, the experiences of minority ethnic groups during the Nigerian Civil War is still a largely unexplored and contentious topic; but Akpan goes where others fear to tread. Unlike accounts that attempt to airbrush and even expunge the experiences and existence of minorities from collective history, New York, My Village turns the trauma of different generations into a strong, analytical and intimate portrait that promotes recognition of minorities’ rights and realities. Akpan’s writing is vivid and unforced when, through various characters, he gives detailed accounts of the atrocities committed against the Annangs and other minorities during the Nigerian Civil War. He even indicates that these discriminations are still prevalent today.
While he is critical of popular accounts of the Nigerian Civil War and the country’s current problems, Akpan shows that it is possible to question, to disrupt and to lament without being belligerent – a quality which is often lacking in today’s discourse. Even though he argues in the novel that “it is okay to talk about these things,” his language is anything but aggressive, even when his characters are enraged. In reality, however, he acknowledges that few share this sentiment and that he is “singing from a different hymnbook.”
Given the level of hostility and censorship directed at alternative recollections, it is impossible to disagree with Ekong’s decolourised kinsman, Tuesday “Hughes” Ita when he says that “You need the patience of an elephant to correct war history”. Indeed, as Ekong observes, “being a minority wherever [one goes] in the world [is] no joke,” but until more people are capable of introspection like many characters in New York, My Village, we will remain as bewildered and defeated as Ekong, when he wonders, “How does one become a minority? How does one escape being a minority?”