Stay healthy

So this is life now.

All the fires that have been burning inside me just weeks ago, no, days only, have gone out. Silence around me and inside me. More calmness than I had in years. Peace, not to be confused with happiness. It's remarkable how quick and easy it was to accept this new normalcy.

We write history, stay home, it was never that easy to (hopefully) save the world. Okay, maybe we leave some behind, maybe once again we can see the arbitrariness that was given to the executive just like that, too easy to say now that they know what they‘re doing, oh they know what they‘re doing, alright, the signature on the free ticket hasn‘t even dried yet. A bit of control over the situation for the small price of a few lives, a few homeless here, a few refugees there, what's the world cost, I'll take two.

Only a few lives for the safety of the rest, the dregs are rejects, and just above that float the really important ones – applause! Standing ovations for the relevant! Appreciation for your daily bread, which you might not actually be able to buy because the shelves are empty when you, oh relevant one, finally get to do your shopping too, but that's no problem because you sure have our APPRECIATION, be proud of yourself! Because we‘ll only be in writing, we admire you, enduring the stress and let yourself be treated like shit by those who you are keeping alive, keeping everything running, it is so easy to forget who treats you like shit as long as we just clap loud enough. Maybe play the ode to joy in the evenings. Ignoring that your job has been hard for ages, not rarely unbearable. NOW you are important, congratulations, here is your participation trophy, and then we can hopefully forget soon why you were important and be important again ourselves.

The realization that we are not actually important when things get rough tastes bittersweet. Never has our work seemed less meaningful, never has it felt so empty to just keep going on but at least it gives us a bit of purpose, a bit of security while the world around us breaks apart. We don‘t have anything else, after all, we can‘t drown our depressions in booze and meaningless sex, not even a hug between friends to let us forget our pain for a moment. When things get rough it‘s clear who stays alone with their thoughts. How many will the virus kill, how many the economy, how many the solitude? What will we tell our grandchildren if we survived all of this? What will we say in a couple of decades?

So this is life now. We write this story. Let‘s hope that it's going to be a good one. One that we can tell without being ashamed. Be kind to each other. We have nothing else left.

Stay healthy.

"Half of a yellow sun" by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie - Review

The newly acquired independence of Nigeria from the Commonwealth involves new problems. The population is split over how the country should be governed. Many intellectuals still see a strong bond to the former colonial ruler Great Britain, and between the different tribes is discord as well, because when you speak of Nigerians you don’t speak of a homogenous people but a loose affiliation of different peoples whose only common ground is that between the borders of their nation.

Now that the Nigerians are supposed to govern themselves, each of those tribes is afraid of being overlooked, and Nigeria turns into a powder keg. History is made quickly, a military putsch is pulled through mainly by Igbo, one of the three biggest tribes in Nigeria. That results in the persecution of the Igbo who get murdered in masses by people of the other tribes. 1967 at last, in the South-East of the country, the republic Biafra is declared, a nation supposed to protect the Igbo and make them independent from Nigeria. What follows is a bloody war between both countries and a blockade that coins the image of the biafran malnourished child with a bloated belly forever before Biafra is reincorporated after the capitulation in 1970.

In “Half of a yellow sun”, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie bluntly and impressively tells the story of three people during the rise and fall of Biafra. The link between those people is the university docent Odenigbo who fights for Biafra passionately. We witness the story from the point of view of his wife Olanna who falls from the life of a privileged daughter of a rich family into a life in poverty in a refugee camp during the war, the point of view of the houseboy Ugwu who is intellectually fostered but also influenced by his master and yet always keeps a little jungle in his heart, and from the point of view of the British journalist Richard who, after living as a stranger in Nigeria, finally feels home in Biafra – and still isn’t, due to his skin colour and origin and the privileges coming with that.

With “Half of a yellow sun”, Adichie, who is an Igbo herself, makes a part of history visible that ususally is overlooked by the Eurocentric world view and the habit to let the winners write history and yet manages to not force a onesided view upon the reader by being fully aware of both the flaws of Biafra as well as the injustices that were committed by Nigeria and the rest of the world. Additionally, with the social entanglements between Olanna, Odenigbo and Richard and their families, she makes up a thrilling and captivating family story.

 “Half of a yellow sun” makes this part of history understandable especially to those who never heard the word Biafra. Helping with that is a glossary at the end of the book.