The Thing Around Your Neck

“Nnamabia was staring at his yellow-orange rice as he spoke, and when he looked up I saw my brother’s eyes fill with tears—my worldly brother—and I felt a tenderness for him that I could not have explained had I been asked to.”

Nnamabia has changed due to his time in prison, and for the first time the narrator is able to recognize this. The disdain the narrator has had for her brother’s actions up to this point falls away in the face of his new understanding.

“Nkem imagines the proud young men, muscled, brown skin gleaming with palm kernel oil, graceful loincloths on their waists. She imagines—and this she imagines herself because Obiora did not suggest it happened that way—the proud young men wishing they did not have to behead strangers to bury their king, wishing they could use the masks to protect themselves, too, wishing they had a say.”

Nkem, in contemplating the past, is hung up on the moral questions in the scenario, whereas Obiora feels pride. Nkem, feeling powerless and hurt, connects to her cultural identity through these feelings.

“When he asked if she would marry him, she thought how unnecessary it was, his asking, since she would have been happy simply to be told.”

Nkem’s marriage has involved a loss of agency in exchange for protection. Her recognition of this and of what it has cost her is what she discovers over the course of the story, with her final request to Obiora being the first one she is shown to make.

“She cries quietly, her shoulders heaving up and down, not the kind of loud sobbing that the women Chika knows do, the kind that screams Hold me and comfort me because I cannot deal with this alone. The woman’s crying is private, as though she is carrying out a necessary ritual that involves no one else.”

Though Chika perceives that the woman’s tears are private, the intimate nature of the two women’s situation in “A Private Experience” forces Chika in as an observer and a part of the woman’s sorrow. The despair the woman feels and Chika’s witnessing of it become another connection forged between them due purely to their proximity.

“Later, Chika will read in The Guardian that ‘the reactionary Hausa-speaking Muslims in the North have a history of violence against non-Muslims,’ and in the middle of her grief, she will stop to remember that she examined the nipples and experienced the gentleness of a woman who is Hausa and Muslim.”

Chika’s experience is continually contrasted with the broader event of the riot, her connection to the other woman placed in opposition to the simplified narrative ascribed to the conflict. Her and the woman’s care for each other are not reflected in the public view of the riot at all, showing the disconnect between the event and the individuals affected by it.

“But Ikenna was talking in a rush. ‘I did what I could,’ he said. ‘I did. I left the International Red Cross. It was full of cowards who could not stand up for human beings. They backed down after that plane was shot down at Eket, as if they did not know it was exactly what Gowon wanted. But the World Council of Churches kept flying in relief through Uli. At night! I was there in Uppsala when they met. It was the biggest operation they had done since the Second World War. I organized the fund-raising. I organized the Biafran rallies all over the European capitals. You heard about the big one at Trafalgar Square? I was at the top of that. I did what I could.’”

Ikenna tries to justify to James why he is not returning to Nigeria, though he has asked for no justification. In doing so, Ikenna shows that it is he himself who is most affected by not having returned. This is a different kind of immigration experience to others portrayed in The Thing Around Your Neck—leaving in the middle of a conflict, Ikenna cannot let go of his guilt.

“‘Is it a good life, Daddy?’ Nkiru has taken to asking lately on the phone, with that faint, vaguely troubling American accent. It is not good or bad, I tell her, it is simply mine. And that is what matters.”

James, at the end of his life, has come to peace with the hardships and losses he has suffered. Assured by his sense of self and his understanding of the continuity of his life, he accepts where he is, comforted by the past and the ghost of his wife despite the tragedy.

“‘You speak such good English,’ he said, and it annoyed her, his surprise, his assumption that English was somehow his personal property. And because of this, although Tobechi had warned her not to mention her education, she told Neil that she had a master’s degree, that she had recently arrived in America to join her husband and wanted to earn a little money babysitting while waiting for her green card application to be processed so that she could get a proper work permit.”

Kamara’s experiences in the US are largely characterized by the erasure of her accomplishments and desires as they existed in Nigeria. Here this erasure is a requirement for her to get a job, because she needs to appear less than what she is to soothe Neil’s insecurity.

“Kamara tried to soothe Chinwe, raged about the useless husband, and then hung up without saying a word about her new life; she could not complain about not having shoes when the person she was talking to had no legs.”

The experience of being away from Nigeria has also placed a barrier between Kamara and her friends at home. Her problems are no longer the same as theirs, and this prevents the kind of commiseration she would have previously been able to engage in.

“Afterwards, everyone turned to Edward, even the Ugandan, who seemed to have forgotten that he was workshop leader. Edward chewed at his pipe thoughtfully before he said that homosexual stories of this sort weren’t reflective of Africa, really.”

Edward asserts himself as the arbiter of what makes “good” and “authentic” African literature, speaking over the writers’ own experiences. His view of Africa is narrow and informed by his own prejudices, and as a person in a position of authority, he has the power to suppress the stories that show a different version of Africa.

“There were other things Ujunwa wanted to say, but she did not say them. There were tears crowding up in her eyes but she did not let them out. She was looking forward to calling her mother, and as she walked back to her cabin, she wondered whether this ending, in a story, would be considered plausible.”

“Jumping Monkey Hill” plays with the line between fiction and reality. Ujunwa’s story is her own experiences, and Edward’s rejection of its reality invites the question of how much of the rest of Ujunwa’s experiences are “real” or “acceptable” in the eyes of Western audiences.

“You asked him where he ended up finding himself and he laughed. You did not laugh. You did not know that people could simply choose not to go to school, that people could dictate to life. You were used to accepting what life gave, writing down what life dictated.”

Akunna’s struggle to reconcile the differences between her experiences and her boyfriend’s are key to the story. His wealth and lack of responsibility create a fundamental divide between them, as each operate with completely different worldviews.

“You knew by people’s reactions that you two were abnormal—the way the nasty ones were too nasty and the nice ones too nice. The old white men and women who muttered and glared at him, the black men who shook their heads at you, the black women whose pitying eyes bemoaned your lack of self-esteem, your self-loathing. Or the black women who smiled swift solidarity smiles; the black men who tried too hard to forgive you, saying a too-obvious hi to him; the white men and women who said ‘What a good-looking pair’ too brightly, too loudly, as though to prove their own open-mindedness to themselves.”

Akunna and her boyfriend are not only dealing with their own differences, but also they also have to manage how the outside world perceives them. Because their relationship is interracial, others feel that they have the right to make assumptions about each of them or project their own views onto their relationship.

“It was not courage, it was simply an exaggerated selfishness. A month ago, when her husband forgot about his cousin’s wedding even though they had agreed to be wedding sponsors, telling her he could not cancel his trip to Kaduna because his interview with the arrested journalist there was too important, she had looked at him, the distant, driven man she had married, and said, ‘You are not the only one who hates the government.’”

“The American Embassy” deals with the tension between different demands, physical and emotional, political and personal. The divide between the main character and her husband is seen here, as he continually chooses political and physical demands over emotional and personal demands.

“Her son had been killed, that was all she would say. Killed. Nothing about how his laughter started somehow above his head, high and tinkly. How he called sweets and biscuits “breadie-breadie.” How he grasped her neck tight when she held him. How her husband said that he would be an artist because he didn’t try to build with his LEGO blocks but instead he arranged them, side by side, alternating colors. They did not deserve to know.”

The inhumane nature of the embassy interview is shown through the request for the gruesome details of his death. The main character’s refusal to share either the good or the bad memories, sticking purely to facts, is a rejection of the process the embassy tries to force her into, an assertion that some things are more important than physical safety.

“Us. Our country. Those words united them in a common loss, and for a moment she felt close to him. She refreshed an Internet page. There was still no news of any survivors.”

Even though Ukamaka is initially resistant to Chinedu’s overtures of friendship and commiseration, their shared heritage and nationality is already connecting them. As Ukamaka comes to realize, the common ground they share is a basis for a strong connection.

“The man’s name was Abidemi. Something about the way Chinedu said his name, Abidemi, made her think of gently pressing on a sore muscle, the kind of self-inflicted ache that is satisfying.”

Ukamaka struggles with her breakup throughout “The Shivering,” but when Chinedu shares his own history and breakup story, she is able to identify similar urges in him. They both hold on to the memory of their relationships, no matter that the memories are painful.

“She had made him smile. ‘You are not going to be deported, Chinedu. We will find a way. We will.’ She squeezed his hand and knew he was amused by her stressing of the ‘we.’”

The friendship that Ukamaka and Chinedu form cuts through some of the loneliness of their lives and the isolation of their experiences. Chinedu’s continual overtures to Ukamaka are rewarded, at last, when he shares his troubles and Ukamaka assures him that she will be there for him in turn.

“They did not warn you about things like this when they arranged your marriage. No mention of offensive snoring, no mention of houses that turned out to be furniture-challenged flats.”

Chinaza has been sent off into her marriage with no say and no preparation for leaving Nigeria for the US. Even the smallest things of her life are foreign and unexpected, to the point that her marriage feels like it has taken place under false pretenses.

“My new husband came back half an hour later and ate the fragrant meal I placed before him, even smacking his lips like Uncle Ike sometimes did to show Aunty Ada how pleased he was with her cooking. But the next day, he came back with a Good Housekeeping All-American Cookbook, thick as a Bible. ‘I don’t want us to be known as the people who fill the building with smells of foreign food,’ he said.”

Dave’s insistence upon adhering to American ways of life over Nigerian ones continually ruins the joy and connection between husband and wife. This adherence is hypocritical despite its omnipresence. Though Dave wants to be ‘American,’ he still wanted a Nigerian wife due to his belief that she would be more subservient than an American woman like Nia, and he is frustrated at any signs that this is not the case.

“Grandmama screamed at him—at his limp body—saying i laputago m, that he had betrayed her, asking him who would carry on the Nnabuisi name now, who would protect the family lineage.”

Family legacy, traditions, and relationships are the driving forces behind the main character’s actions. Her frustration at Nonso’s central place in the family fosters in her a hatred of him. The grandmother’s screams at Nonso’s dead body show how fragile this place was, defeated easily by death.

“Your father talked to you afterwards, and said he understood how hard it was for you but you had to be careful what you said so that you didn’t cause more hurt. And you thought about his words—Be careful what you say—and wondered if he knew you were lying.”

Nonso’s death causes suffering for those around the main character, fundamentally changing her relationships. This counsel from her father reframes the main character’s view of the situation, showing the many smaller hurts that come from each decision she makes.

“A stupid system, Nwamgba thought, but surely everyone had one. Ayaju laughed and told Nwamgba again that people ruled others when they had better guns.”

Who has power is a central question in “The Headstrong Historian.” The awareness that Nwambga has over systems of power informs her decisions, forcing her to make choices between her culture and beliefs and her son’s safety.