Achebe freed me to tell my own story

He demonstrated the importance of finding your own voice.

Chinua Achebe, who has died aged 82, writes of his protagonist in Things Fall Apart: “Okonkwo was well known throughout the nine villages and even beyond. His fame rested on solid personal achievement.” At the age of 27, Achebe most likely had no idea just how much of his own life that opening sentence of his debut novel was prophesying. Things Fall Apart has since sold more than 12 million copies and has been translated into more than 50 languages.

The book’s publication in 1958 was deservedly a huge cultural event. Published two years before Nigeria gained independence, at a time when questions of identity and nationhood preoccupied colonised nations throughout the continent, it firmly moved Africans from the margins of their own narrative to the centre.

It tells the story of the colonial intervention from the African point of view and eloquently challenges the notion of the “discovery” of a people who already existed, and whose well-established civilisation has come under attack by the “discoverers”. “The white man is very clever,” Achebe writes. “He came quietly and peaceably with his religion. We were amused at his foolishness and allowed him to stay. Now he has won our brothers, and our clan can no longer act like one. He has put a knife on the things that held us together and we have fallen apart.”

Like everyone else I know, I remember the first time I read Things Fall Apart. I could not have been more than ten when I read an older sibling’s copy. I was struck even then by the simplicity and beauty of the prose, and how the village it described seemed very much like mine. It captivated me and opened up for me a world of expansive possibilities. In it, I – who had been fed on the stories of Enid Blyton, and instructed at school on the history of post-colonial Nigeria – found a space where I could exist, one in which my forefathers existed as people worthy of respect. They were not pagans, running around wildly in the dark, cursed by God for not being Christians, as a pamphlet I had discovered around the same period asserted.

That revelation was a liberating and refreshing experience. Nelson Mandela has been quoted as saying that Achebe was the one writer in whose company his prison walls came down. For me, it was in his company that my world opened. And it would be many years before I would describe it as “coming home”.

Achebe became my idol and I sought him out diligently. I read him carefully, savouring his wisdom. His later works continued the interrogation of the tension between old and new, but also became increasingly critical of the Nigerian government. His last book, There Was a Country: a Personal History of Biafra (2012), traces the trajectory of the country’s leadership problems and offers an honest and biting criticism of contemporary Nigeria.

No matter what his subject, Achebe wrote with an unflinching honesty and with elegance. From Things Fall Apart to There Was a Country, he has reminded me of the importance of not only owning my own story, but also articulating it, transcribing it, and, more importantly, of finding my voice. That is his enduring legacy, for which I – and many others – are immensely grateful. Achebe is gone, yet he lives not only in his works, but in those of generations of writers all over the world for whom he continues to be an influence.

Chika Unigwe won the 2012 Nigeria Prize for Literature for “On Black Sisters’ Street” (Vintage, £8.99)

Chinua Achebe and Nelson Mandela in 2002. Photo: Getty Images.

This article first appeared in the 01 April 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Easter Special Issue

Photo: Getty
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Social media tome #Republic questions the wisdom of crowds

Cass R Sunstein explores how insulation pushes groups towards more extreme opinions.

Cass Sunstein, one of the leading public intellectuals in the United States and a former Obama administration official, has worried and written for more than 15 years about the effects of the internet and digital communications on democracy. This book, his third on the subject, tackles social media.

The heart of his argument lies in the cumulative, collective effect of what individuals do online. Networking, shopping, dating and activism are all transformed by the engine of opportunity that is the internet. But those new links and choices produce a malign side effect: “filter bubbles”, inside which like-minded people shut themselves off from opinions that might challenge their assumptions. Insulation pushes groups towards more extreme opinions.

Sunstein’s organising principle is the ­difference between consumer and political sovereignty. The former promotes individual choice despite its possible consequences; the latter takes into account the needs of society as a whole. His inspiration is Jane Jacobs, the historian of US cities who celebrated, in poetic language, the benign and enriching effect on democracy of random encounters between citizens on pavements and in parks. How do we now reverse or dilute the polarisation driven by Facebook and Twitter?

The solutions Sunstein proposes for this very difficult problem are oddly tentative: websites stocked with challenging ideas and deliberative debates, voluntary self-regulation and “serendipity buttons”. He rightly stresses transparency: we know far too little about the algorithms that sift news for our attention on the networks. Facebook has talked about trying to show news that is “engaging” and “interesting”, without ever engaging in detailed public discussion of what these words mean. The disclosure requirements for social networks “require consideration”, Sunstein writes, without saying whether Facebook might have to be required legally to explain precisely how it routes news to almost two billion users.

Sunstein’s most interesting arguments are myth-busters. He questions the “wisdom of crowds”, while refraining from pointing out directly that the single strongest argument against this idea is the inequality of opinions. Not all opinions are equally valuable. He warily suggests what only a very few American voices have so far dared to say: that the First Amendment to the constitution, which guarantees a free press, should not be treated – as the courts have recently tended to do – as an equally strong protection for the freedom of all speech.

Sunstein is nostalgic for the media system and regulation of the past. I spent years working for a daily “general-interest” newspaper (the Times) and regret the decline of those outlets as much as he does, yet there is no reversing the technological and economic changes that have undermined them. It might have been a mistake to deregulate television in the United States, and killing the “fairness doctrine” might have had unforeseen effects, but that does not deal with the dilemmas thrown up by WhatsApp or Weibo, the Chinese version of Twitter.

Users of these platforms face the problem of managing abundance. Writers such as Sunstein imply that people who lock themselves in filter bubbles are deplorably unable to break out of their informational isolation. But we all now live in bubbles that we design to make sense of the torrent of information flowing through our phones. Better-designed, heterogeneous bubbles include the unexpected and the challenging.

Yet the problem lies deeper than the quality of your bubble. Polarised societies can no longer agree on how to recognise the truth. Filter bubbles play a part, but so do a preference for emotion over reason, attacks on scientific fact from religion, decades of public emphasis on self-fulfilment, and a belief that political elites are stagnant and corrupt. Like many journalists, Sunstein treats the problem of a malfunctioning communications system as a supply-side matter: the information being generated and distributed ought to be better.

In the case of fake news, that is indisputable. But there is also a demand-side problem, one that hinges on the motives of those consuming information. If, inside their bubbles, people are not curious about alternative opinions, are indifferent to critical thinking and prefer stoking their dislike – of, say, Hillary Clinton – will they have even the slightest interest in venturing outside their comfort zone? Do we have a right to ignore the views of others, or an obligation to square up to them? Millions of Americans believe that one of the most important guarantees in their constitution is the right to be left alone – and that includes being left alone by the New York Times.

Sunstein does not venture far into this territory. He only hints that if we worry about what people know, we must also worry about what kinds of societies we build. Globalisation has reshaped communities, dismantling some and building others online, but the net effect has been to reduce deliberation and increase a tendency to press the “Like” button, or loathe opponents you can’t see or hear. The ability to debate civilly and well may depend on complex social chemistry and many ingredients – elite expertise, education, critical thinking, culture, law – but we need to be thinking about the best recipes. 

George Brock is the author of “Out of Print: Newspapers, Journalism and the Business of News in the Digital Age” (Kogan Page)

#Republic: Divided Democracy in the Age of Social Media
Cass R Sunstein
Princeton University Press, 328pp, £24.95​

George Brock is a former managing editor of The Times who is now head of journalism at City University in London.

This article first appeared in the 22 June 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The zombie PM

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