Would you tell us something about the Achebe family and growing up in an Igbo village, your early education, and whether there was anything there that pointed you that early in the direction of writing?
I think the thing that clearly pointed me there was my interest in stories. Not necessarily writing stories, because at that point, writing stories was not really viable. So you didn’t think of it. But I knew I loved stories, stories told in our home, first by my mother, then by my elder sister—such as the story of the tortoise—whatever scraps of stories I could gather from conversations, just from hanging around, sitting around when my father had visitors. When I began going to school, I loved the stories I read. They were different, but I loved them too. My parents were early converts to Christianity in my part of Nigeria. They were not just converts; my father was an evangelist, a religious teacher. He and my mother traveled for thirty-five years to different parts of Igboland, spreading the gospel. I was the fifth of their six children. By the time I was growing up, my father had retired, and had returned with his family to his ancestral village.
When I began going to school and learned to read, I encountered stories of other people and other lands. In one of my essays, I remember the kind of things that fascinated me. Weird things, even, about a wizard who lived in Africa and went to China to find a lamp . . . Fascinating to me because they were about things remote, and almost ethereal.
Then I grew older and began to read about adventures in which I didn’t know that I was supposed to be on the side of those savages who were encountered by the good white man. I instinctively took sides with the white people. They were fine! They were excellent. They were intelligent. The others were not . . . they were stupid and ugly. That was the way I was introduced to the danger of not having your own stories. There is that great proverb—that until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter. That did not come to me until much later. Once I realised that, I had to be a writer. I had to be that historian. It’s not one man’s job. It’s not one person’s job. But it is something we have to do, so that the story of the hunt will also reflect the agony, the travail—the bravery, even, of the lions.
You were among the first graduates of the great University of Ibadan. What was it like in the early years of that university, and what did you study there? Has it stuck with you in your writing?
Ibadan was, in retrospect, a great institution. In a way, it revealed the paradox of the colonial situation, because this university college was founded towards the end of British colonial rule in Nigeria. If they did any good things, Ibadan was one of them. It began as a college of London University, because under the British, you don’t rush into doing any of those things like universities just like that. You start off as an appendage of somebody else. You go through a period of tutelage. We were the University College of Ibadan of London. So, I took a degree from London University. That was the way it was organised in those days. One of the signs of independence, when it came, was for Ibadan to become a full-fledged university.
I began with science, then English, history, and religion. I found these subjects exciting and very useful. ..The English department was a very good example of what I mean. The people there would have laughed at the idea that any of us would become a writer. That didn’t really cross their minds. I remember on one occasion a departmental prize was offered. They put up a notice—write a short story over the long vacation for the departmental prize. I’d never written a short story before, but when I got home, I thought, ‘Well, why not’. So I wrote one and submitted it. Months passed; then finally one day there was a notice on the board announcing the result. It said that no prize was awarded because no entry was up to the standard. They named me, said that my story deserved mention. Ibadan in those days was not a dance you danced with snuff in one palm. It was a dance you danced with all your body. So when Ibadan said you deserved mention, that was very high praise.
I went to the lecturer who had organised the prize and said, ‘You said my story wasn’t really good enough but it was interesting’. Now what was wrong with it? She said, ‘Well, it’s the form. It’s the wrong form’. So I said, ‘Ah, can you tell me about this?’ She said, ‘Yes, but not now. I’m going to play tennis; we’ll talk about it. Remind me later, and I’ll tell you’. This went on for a whole term. Every day when I saw her, I’d say, ‘Can we talk about form?’ She’d say, ‘No, not now. We’ll talk about it later’. Then at the very end she saw me and said, ‘You know, I looked at your story again and actually there’s nothing wrong with it’. So that was it! That was all I learned from the English department about writing short stories. You really have to go out on your own and do it.
I once heard your English publisher, Alan Hill, talk about how you sent the manuscript of Things Fall Apart to him.
That was a long story. The first part of it was how the manuscript was nearly lost. In 1957 I was given a scholarship to go to London and study for some months at the BBC. I had a draft of Things Fall Apart with me, so I took it along to finish it. When I got to the BBC, one of my friends—there were two of us from Nigeria—said, ‘Why don’t you show this to Mr. Phelps?’ Gilbert Phelps, one of the instructors of the BBC school, was a novelist. I said, ‘What? No!’ This went on for some time. Eventually, I was pushed to do it and I took the manuscript and handed it to Mr. Phelps. He said, ‘Well . . . all right, the way I would today if anyone brought me a manuscript’. He was not really enthusiastic. Why should he be? He took it anyway, very politely. He was the first person, outside of myself, to say, ‘I think this is interesting’. In fact, he felt so strongly that one Saturday he was compelled to look for me and tell me. I had traveled out of London; he found out where I was, phoned the hotel, and asked me to call him back. When I was given this message, I was completely floored. I said, ‘Maybe he doesn’t like it’. But then why would he call me if he doesn’t like it. So, it must be he likes it. Anyway, I was very excited. When I got back to London, he said, ‘This is wonderful. Do you want me to show it to my publishers? I said, ‘Yes, but not yet, because I had decided that the form wasn’t right’. Attempting to do a saga of three families, I was covering too much ground in this first draft. So, I realised that I needed to do something drastic, really give it more body. So I said to Mr. Phelps, ‘Ok, I am very grateful but I’d like to take this back to Nigeria and look at it again’. Which is what I did.
When I was in England, I had seen advertisements about typing agencies; I had learned that if you really want to make a good impression, you should have your manuscript well-typed. So, foolishly, from Nigeria I parceled my manuscript—handwritten, by the way, and the only copy in the whole world—wrapped it up and posted it to this typing agency that advertised in the Spectator. They wrote back and said, ‘Thank you for your manuscript. We’ll charge thirty-two pounds’. That was what they wanted for two copies and which they had to receive before they started. So I sent thirty-two pounds in British postal order to these people and then I heard no more. Weeks passed, and months. I wrote and wrote and wrote. No answer. Not a word. I was getting thinner and thinner and thinner. Finally, I was very lucky. My boss at the broadcasting house was going home to London on leave. A very stubborn Englishwoman. I told her about this. She said, ‘Give me their name and address’. When she got to London she went there! She said, ‘What’s this nonsense?’ They must have been shocked, because I think their notion was that a manuscript sent from Africa—well, there’s really nobody to follow it up. The British don’t normally behave like that. It’s not done, you see. But something from Africa was treated differently. So when this woman, Mrs. Beattie, turned up in their office and said, ‘What’s going on?’ They were confused. They said, ‘The manuscript was sent but customs returned it’. Mrs. Beattie said, ‘Can I see your dispatch book?’ They had no dispatch book. So she said, ‘Well, send this thing, typed up, back to him in the next week, or otherwise you’ll hear about it’. So, soon after that, I received the typed manuscript of Things Fall Apart. One copy, not two. No letter at all to say what happened. My publisher, Alan Hill, rather believed that the thing was simply neglected, left in a corner gathering dust. That’s not what happened. These people did not want to return it to me and had no intention of doing so. Anyway, when I got it, I sent it back up to Heinemann. They had never seen an African novel. They didn’t know what to do with it. Someone told them, ‘Oh, there’s a professor of Economics at London School of Economics and Political Science who just came back from those places. He might be able to advise you’. Fortunately, Don Macrae was a very literate professor, a wonderful man. I got to know him later. He wrote what they said was the shortest report they ever had on any novel—seven words: “The best first novel since the war.” So that’s how I got launched.
Heinemann was also perplexed as to how many copies should be printed . . .
Oh yes. They printed very, very few. It was a risk. Not something they’d ever done before. They had no idea if anybody would want to read it. It went out of print very quickly. It would have stayed that way if Alan Hill hadn’t decided that he was going to gamble even more and launch a paperback edition of this book. Other publishers thought it was mad, that this was crazy. But that was how the African Writers Series came in to existence. In the end, Alan Hill was made a Commander of the British Empire for bringing into existence a body of literature they said was among the biggest developments in British literature of this century. So, it was a very small beginning, but it caught fire.
Do you write with a pen, a typewriter, or have you been seduced by computers?
No! No, no—I’m very primitive; I write with a pen. A pen on paper is the ideal way for me. I am not really very comfortable with machines; I never learned to type very well. Whenever I try to do anything on a typewriter, it’s like having this machine between me and the words.
