by Uwem Akpan
“Emily, your story is as searing as the first time you shared it with me two years ago,” Jack said, “though I didn’t know it was this painful to you.”
“Courage, Emily,” Molly said, rubbing her palms together. “We’ve got a great chance at this. I’m sure you’ll put a bit of your experience in the bid letter to assure the author he’s in the hands of an editor who’s emotionally in sync.”
Jack and Angela exchanged quick glances.
“Please, I don’t think I’ve had a chance to voice my opinion yet,” Jack said, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t think we’ve discussed the bid yet.”
“Okay, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to end the conversation,” Molly said. “Of course you and Angela can add some thoughts about publicity and marketing to the bid letter, too, as usual. Please, go ahead, speak.”
“I don’t really know how to put this,” Jack said, scratching his head.
“Just say you’re playing the devil’s advocate!” Angela prodded, chuckling.
He said: “Yeah, I wanted to say, with all due respect, Trails is still very far from the finished product. Actually, way further behind than Mistress.”
“I didn’t like the writing,” Angela said, folding her arms. “It’s too heavy-handed, too dependent on identity politics, and then the tone is all wrong, too comical in some places, too cloying in others. The personal story that Emily is telling, which has made us all cry, is 180 degrees different. That’s not the book.”
“I beg to disagree,” Emily said like she wanted to cry.
“Emily, as I’ve told you before, I think what you have in mind may work better as memoir?” Jack said. “Trails of Tuskegee just doesn’t resonate with me.”
Angela agreed: “Emily, you could write this memoir—and, of course, Molly would be your editor, right, Molly?”
“It would be a really splendid book,” Jack said.
“I think we should focus on the work in question,” Molly said tersely.
“Anyway, when Emily spoke about Tuskegee,” Angela continued, “it was so lucid, so painfully insightful, you know. Emily, you know already how much we’re indebted to your knack for publishing the best multicultural voices. But I believe your writing would also go very deep. It would reach people who actually buy books. And it would also get our African American compatriots to also see how the unforgivable injustice done to them boomeranged on us, the so-called oppressors, and, maybe, ultimately, foster the kind of dialogue you and the author envision about raising kids in an increasingly diverse America. A memoir would also allow you to really authoritatively put forward the important points you made about challenging family and close friends about diversity. Lots of people need help and encouragement to take that very difficult but necessary step if we’re to keep progressing.
“Emily, your voice would not only be relatable but would be more balanced, less sensational. I don’t think our readers need to see images of weeping penis-less folks having sex. I’m not being prudish. I love the sex scenes in Mistress, but these are too extreme, gross. This book would be a tough sell.”
“Yes, there are better ways to show how America has emasculated diversity,” Jack said. “Beyond the difficulty in getting publicity, I just don’t see the creativity in this book!”
AS TENSION BUILT UP, Bob suggested we should take a break. But Angela turned sharply to challenge him like she wanted to head-butt him. Emily began to chew her nails. “Listen, am I the only one feeling a bit like there have been too many novels with a diversity agenda in the last few years?” Angela said.
“Market forces aren’t respecters of diversity,” Jack said. “We need to run this not as a charity but as a business.”
Angela continued: “And, unlike Ekong’s minorities, who, I hear, are yearning for dark war fiction like the unfortunate thing that happened to your family, here, in the United States, readers—those who actually buy books—are losing interest in these accusatory books about the sins of white people in America. And, luckily, we don’t have these African tribal wars and corruption that rigs even the number of tribes so no one knows whether they even exist. Nobody knows why people in Africa are still waging these unending wars over land. Ekong, the truth is since the 1960s we’ve made undeniable progress in diversity and inclusion here—”
“Wait, Angela, this isn’t about me or my father’s rape!” I interjected, looking at her, then at Molly, who dropped her face into her hands for betraying my confidence about my family tragedy. “And I’ve never said my country was better than yours. Still, there’s no need to trash my family … you don’t understand what it means to be caught up in what you’ve rightly called, yes, these unending wars. And do you really need to remind me of my humiliation at the embassy?
“Iya uwei, I don’t even know why you’re picking on me. I’ve not uttered a single word—none—about Trails of Tuskegee.”
“Ekong, I’m sorry,” Bob said, and left the room as if to puke.
“No, we are all really sorry, Ekong!” another said, covering her face. “This. Is. Just. Not. Us.”
Angela said, “Why is everyone acting as if I have a personal ax to grind with Ekong?”
“Angela, Angela, I just have to stop you right there!” Molly said, touching her arm, avoiding my face still. “We must keep this really professional.”
“Ekong, I apologize if I said the wrong things,” Angela said.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Anyway, Emily, I believe I can help you edit Trails of Tuskegee!”
“Ah … just hang on a sec,” Jack said, pushing aside his notes, leaning into the table. “It could be tricky editing works from cultures you’re not conversant with.”
“Yes, you’re totally right,” I said, nodding.
He relaxed back into his chair and said, “Yeah, huge, huge cultural differences.”
“But you guys have been editing African fiction, no?” I said as I felt the noose tightening around my neck again.
Silence.
Then Angela cleared her throat and said we needed to set priorities. Dodging my eyes, Jack said maybe priority was not even the right word. He said we really needed to be ready in case Liam said we did not have enough money to cover both wonderful books, which had already generated a lot of buzz in the industry. Molly said, well, Liam had promised to fund both, especially if we were all excited about them. But Angela looked Molly straight in the face and said when she spoke to Liam, her Harvard classmate, two days before, he was concerned about their cash flow. Molly did not like the fact that Angela had spoken to Liam, and flinched like she had been punched in the gut. When she tried to meet Angela’s eyes without success, I felt we had lost the fight. Molly grumbled that Angela should have told her this when they did lunch the day before.
Angela said Liam himself was not very sure. Clearing her throat, she announced that we needed to be pragmatic. “Please, correct me if I’m wrong,” she announced like an impartial elections official. “From our little conversation, Mistress got eight out of eight votes. If you factor in our Fellow’s lukewarm appraisal, it’s still eight-point-five out of nine. On the other hand, Jack seems to agree with me on Trails, so, that gets perhaps, what, seven out of nine? That puts it at number two, yes?” They went on to explain to me they were one of the houses that made these decisions by vote, while others gave their editors less freedom, with the publisher making all the final decisions. They tried to explain other models, but the whole atmosphere was too heavy for my heart.
I blamed myself for Jack and Angela’s aggression toward me. I regretted saying anything at all about Mistress, though I did not know what I could have done differently about Trails. As they reopened the arguments about the strengths and weaknesses of the two works, I kept thinking of the words relatable and resonate.
When I sensed Jack watching me with the focus of a mind reader, I ignored him. I pretended to be watching Angela, whose face was quite angry at this point, only to discover she was watching Jack watch me. I refused to follow her eyes to Jack, to main
tain my cover. I felt Michelle Obama was right when she said if you are not at the table, they are probably eating you. But, in my own case, even though I had made it to the table, Angela and Jack seemed bent on eating me alive.
Unlike with my Hell’s Kitchen neighbors, I elected not to confront these two. I convinced myself they needed more time to adjust to my visibility. I prayed their madness would end with the meeting, returning us to the welcoming Andrew & Thompson I knew. Emily excused herself; she had a doctor’s appointment and left. As the gathering went on to talk about Andrew & Thompson’s other editorial concerns, the voices in my head would not let me listen.
Why is Jack taking this out on you, instead of Emily? said one.
Because you don’t deserve even to sniff this table! said another.
But others appreciate you.
We’re not so sure about Molly.
Give her another chance.
Just don’t contact the owner behind her back like Angela did!
Next time, google those sharecropper lynching photos to shut her up.
Ekong, give us an anthology of Arabs crushing the balls of Black slaves for centuries because it’s as bad as the lynching of Black men—
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” Molly said, to close the meeting, “I shall present the reactions to the two books to Liam. Thanks!”
BACK IN MY CUBICLE, I was no longer the innocent who left Hell’s Kitchen that morning. I was no longer the naïve person who confidently told Lagoon Drinker I would do anything to get the best out of my fellowship. I began to see that humility and friendliness would not be enough at Andrew & Thompson. What did the momentous policy to publish a book by votes even mean, when one’s race was not represented at the polls? I did not like this type of democracy, because this felt like a carefully orchestrated gerrymandering, a deeply ingrained wuru-wuru. And how many publishers were Black at all those houses where publishers solely decided the fate of manuscripts? I was thoroughly scandalized by the whole environment and wondered what was going on in all these departmental meetings without minority presence.
When Jack and Angela left for an author reading, I was relieved they did not invite me along. Then I felt better seeing a text from Emily, apologizing for the meeting. “Please, forgive Molly and me for not defending you enough!” she wrote. But it also reminded me Molly herself had not said anything about her betrayal.
It was my most painful part of the day.
As others learned of our meeting, the office atmosphere festered with angry whispers against Jack and Angela. And though no one came to me, I was aware they were following me with eyes full of pity. I wanted them to speak to me, but at the same time I did not want them to speak to me. I did not want to listen to anyone. I worked hard on my war anthology, like I needed to flee to Nigeria after work. I buried myself in those stories of our tribalism.
And when work ended, I felt no relief in the streets, because, unlike the first day, my vision had refused to readjust to terra firma. No, my mind replayed the meeting nonstop. As I crossed Times Square, nothing could dilute my alienation. Even the sight of the high-rises repulsed me, for who knew how many white bubbles they protected?
When I called Father Kiobel and told him everything, he was shocked into speechlessness. But when I announced I was quitting, he began to ramble about how I must have an honest talk with Molly given all she had done for me, how I must remain strong to accomplish my mission in America. “Maybe she’s just too crushed to immediately know how to react!” he said in a panicky, breathless voice. “From everything you’ve told me about her since you got there, I believe she’s on your side. You don’t know what she could be suffering from Angela and Jack! Didn’t she share with you the ups and downs of her career? Didn’t she cry over your father’s murder? Please, be patient with her. Patience is a great thing in any culture.”
He told me that though Molly’s situation and his may have been totally different, he knew what it meant to struggle for decades and not know what to say about his childhood trauma in the Biafran War. “That reminds me: keep Emily in your thoughts, too, for sharing her childhood,” he emphasized. “Spilling out her intestines like that must be a big moment for someone who has seen tons of painful manuscripts. As our people say, it is not a little disease that makes an old medicine man weep.” He begged me to take solace in the fact that, in her brokenness, Emily did not only remember to text her apologies but also to intercede for Molly. He wanted me to let Emily know he was praying for her, because her childhood and Ujai’s were basically two sides of the same coin.
He warned me I could not change the world alone.
“Father, I know you mean well,” I said. “But are you trying to use Molly’s negligence to excuse your silence over Biafra?”
“I’m sorry, no.”
“It’s not a matter of sorrying me.”
“I don’t want to remember this war or engage insinuations I myself was a bloodthirsty child soldier. Perhaps I shouldn’t have vetoed your war memorial event.
“And, Ekong, please, you must also be careful with Usen, your childhood friend. The village knows already how disappointed he is in your American optimism. He’s so angry you’re the only Black person at your publisher’s.”
“I know, Father.”
“He can’t advise you right!”
THOUGH FATHER KIOBEL was not sounding like himself one bit, it was striking that Emily’s powerful confessions had made him say the most conciliatory thing about the war that he had yet said to me. It would have been nicer, though, if he had spoken directly about my father’s death, instead of referring only to the memorial.
When my phone beeped, I realized Emily had sent me eight manuscripts to read for the next editorial meeting in two weeks. I wandered the neighborhood, for I had no energy to go home to confront Jeff and Brad. Hell’s Kitchen’s Flea Market traders were noisily packing up their wares like Obo Annang traders when Molly called. She apologized she was stuck in back-to-back meetings and her phone needed to be recharged. Sobbing, she regretted sharing with Angela that I was thinking about writing an autobiography about my inherited trauma.
“Ekong, I’m sorry, I never expected her to use your war misfortune to humiliate you!” she lamented. “I just mentioned this briefly to her in one of our meetings knowing how much we both love memoirs. I’m glad you spoke up.”
“No, thanks for stopping her,” I said.
“Didn’t do it soon enough! You know, Emily felt really supported by your presence. Your calm stopped her from walking out.”
I felt better.
CHAPTER 8
Nigerian food. Fulton Street. Brooklyn
THAT NIGHT, LYING THERE ON MY BED, I MISSED HOME. I missed Caro. I missed the tropical rains and the forever dampness of our September. I missed when the rains petered out in late October and the excitement and drumming in the buildup to our seasonal festivals and New Year celebrations. I missed the scent of the valley when the sun began to dry out the undergrowth, and the recession of the river and the communal work to clean the bleaches. I missed the changing of the water colors as the harmattan winds denuded even evergreen trees. I missed the sudden sharpened burnt smell of the queen-of-the-night flowers. I missed attending the Calabar Carnival with my extended family and friends and the unbelievable cuisines of the royal Efiks.
I missed the intervillage soccer matches, each tackle kicking up little puffs of harmattan dust, and the bragging rights that went into the New Year. Watching the global English Premier League on TV was not the same. And even if my team—Liverpool—won every day, it would never match the excitement of winning the village derbies, or the pain of such a defeat. Either way, the feeling lasted the whole year …
I woke up in a huff at two a.m., as though someone were knocking on my door. Groggily, I checked around. When I tripped on the recliner, two of Keith’s dogs grumbled below. I could not sleep, because my body was slowly warming up, like I was being cooked. When sweat arrived, I removed my pajamas. Then
my right nipple began to itch. But as soon as I grabbed it and pulled and twisted it like a beer top, it seemed to send a signal to the rest of its fighters to rise up in a mad ambush. I jumped out of bed again and started to scratch. I put on the lights, all the lights. The itches had spread, and my ribs looked like I had survived Biafran spray bullets. This time there was no warning, no slow ripening.
I sprayed the analgesic on my torso till it dripped into my pants, but it was of no use tonight. When my nails carved out jewels of streaked blood and the itches still did not abate, I resorted to slapping the spots. A good slap not only numbed the targeted itch but shook the whole system, as it were, took care of those itches I could not reach, and, I supposed, finally scared the old ones into submission. But, after four whacks to the stomach, I felt my intestines were moving, queasy.
I only knew I was moving all over the apartment, or, to be precise, standing in the restroom, because Keith’s dogs grumbled. I sat very still on the toilet to placate them. Yet they would not let up. Frustrated, I flushed. The noise rumbled through the walls, soothing them. I tiptoed back to my bed and lay myself down gently.
THEN IT HIT ME the only people I knew who scratched or bore welts like these were AIDS patients in the hospice where Caro and I helped out. I did not want to think of this. When I closed my eyes, the flashing parking sign across the street was a strobe that went right into my brains. And even when I turned to face the wall, it continued to pulse on my eyeballs.
I got up again and set about an elaborate task of rubbing the anti-itch stuff all over my body, including the soles of my feet. Where I could see the welts, I stood dollops of the white ointment on them like the thick body paintings of ekpo-ntokeyen masqueraders. When I sprayed my back, everything was calm except that first gashed rogue itch that only the stairwell scratching had reached. It pursued me out into the stairwell wearing only a pair of boxers. I switched off the ceiling light and when nobody came out, I sat down and went to work.
