Ukamaka Olisakwe: On Writing Eyes of a Goddess

Eyes of a Goddess is Ukamaka's debut novel. She was part of the GCLF writers workshop last year. She tells us about her writing journey.

Sometime early October, 1991, I dreamt that I died during a stampede. I was nine years old and the fear left me in cold shudders. I remember running out of the room and screaming 'blood of Jesus!', as we were taught to say in church. For hours that nightmare left me paralysed in fear, and it marked a defining moment; it was the next day that the bloody '91 Kano riot began. I was shocked by what humans could do to other humans, at how easily we could snuff lives. I knew of family friends who lost loved ones in the bloodbath. My cousins were trapped in the heart of Kano. Dad took the risk, when Mum couldn't stop crying, and went in search for them. Fear is like a huge stone sitting in your stomach; it sat in mine for hours. I cringed and wept while we waited for dad's return. The stories of butchered women and children filled Sabon Gari -- where we lived, the tales of family burned in their homes raved, and of people butchered. We had neighbours whose relatives escaped with minimal cuts and burns; they told saddening stories. I kept shaking, until dad finally returned with my cousins and aunt, all six of them. For years I remember the joy in mum's eyes, the laughters and then tears. I still remember the faces of relatives searching for loved ones, of people severely hurt, the endless cries of “Boys Oye!” by the vengeful Christians in Sabon Gari, and the intermittent screams that the rioting men were closing in on us in Sabon Gari. I stayed awake for most of the nights, with the strong belief that if I stayed wide-eyed, the rioting boys would be kept off. And they were kept off. And after the fifth day, the Nigerian Army was redeployed to the beleaguered State. 


My quest began when I was much older; I tried to understand why human beings could hurt others, how the decisions we take make or break the lives of others. That memory of the riot and many other experiences stayed with me. For years I lived with those fears – those demons. It was the reason I never became very fluent in the beautiful Hausa language, why I hardly ventured outside the confines of Sabon Gari all through my stay, except during my short studies at the Federal College of Education, before dropping out at the age of nineteen. Each time I tried to open up, to learn, that crippling fear kept jumping and clamping my stomach into a hard ball. I lived with those demons, lived like one in a blur. 

Writing brought freedom -- I was encouraged by my friend, Idris Saliu, to write stories after he read my scribbles. Writing is like exorcising demons; those voices up there begging for freedom, to be penned down, the voices of the people in various times in my growing up: happy, wishful, lusty, sad. I walked with them and did not have peace until I abided to their whim. They hum when I'm in company of friends, and I had to furiously write in long hand, which had my friends muttering: “Wetin be her own sef?”

The voices never let you go until you have set them free, until you pen the last word, then you exhale, like one doused with a bucket of cool water after a marathon. But it goes away, this orgasmic state, because they return again. Again. And again. With different stories. They come when you accidentally flip through TV channels, or through books, or even listen-in on a conversation that isn’t your business in the first place. They trigger some sort of memory. They get stronger each time, their voices sharper and clearer. Your skill as a writer sharpens with each completed short story or book, and you marvel at the wonder, at the profound creativity, of being able to birth such beautiful children with finesse. You begin to accept that truly, this is who you were made to be, who you will always be: a story teller.

I’ve been asked how I wrote Eyes of a Goddess. A friend said he ‘suspects’ me, that perhaps, that was truly my story. There is the truth that the character grew up in my village; in my house, lived in same room I slept in for years, but that was where it ended. The story grew naturally on its own.

To tell about Njideka -- the narrator in Eyes of a Goddess, I had to let her become me. I think that’s the point where budding writers trail off: the inability to let your characters think and feel like familiar people. Njideka would be as tall as I am if she were my age, and she had my face. And to make her feel comfortable, I had to let her feel at home in my memories; my home. I had to let her into my secret and being, to become one in body and soul. It helped me interpret her feeling/emotions just as I would if it happened to me, to react or burst out just as I would, to become aware of her sexuality just as I did. I think that’s why most people read Eyes of a goddess and ask if it actually happened to me because the story was not told in a detached tone like a shrink reading out the notes on her patients. It is like I was telling the world: This is me! I was depressed at some points too -- it affected me as a person having to write such a passionate story. Most times I cried. I cried a lot while writing it, laughed a lot too, and at nights I dreamt I was Njideka. That is how strong a character could be when you see their lives through your own eyes – through the eyes of our many personalities. But the major challenge is in separating yourself from your characters at the end of the story, to move on no matter how your story turned out. This is very crucial.

Fiction writing gives you cover and power; the power say 'Let there be light!' and there will be. You could recreate lives that were already lost, you could incorporate every facet of life as you wish, imaginations, and those fears you would not ordinarily give voice to on any other day. It gives you the opportunity to punch people in the face with truths that you would not easily tell them, especially those that are so far from your realm or circle of friends, and you get to package the story in such an appetizing way that would be alluring and punchy at the same time. It’s like cooking a dish that is hot and cold at the same time. How possible is that? Writers are magicians!

The trying part was after I was done with the story. Okay, here, most people get lily-livered; you get afraid when you are advised to let a third eye read your work. But it was very important that a third eye read my book; it was my first time. I met a close friend online – Richard Ali. He read the first three chapters and went: “Wow! Wow! Wow! This is beautiful!” I did acrobatic tumbles on my bed, though I tried not to break my neck.. hehehehehe! It was satisfying to have such an educated mind read my story and make such a comment. I sent him the next three chapters, and that was when the whole bubble got burst.

“Wait! Wait! Ukamaka, you are all over the place. What happened? What happened to that first writing style? What's the story about? You are rubbing it in and it is boring,” RA said to me over the phone. I was deflated like a balloon, and the crash to earth was dizzying and painful. But it was a necessary one. Together we reshaped the book. All unnecessary parts were cut off. I was well over a hundred thousand words when we began, and after he was done, I was left hanging limply on a seventy-five thousand. Am I happy? Hell I am! Most times in our fight to write lengthy stories like other established writers, we over-write; clog our chapters with paragraphs that get bogged down in shoddy details, and they add no value to the book. A third eye is like your final audience; he gets to LIVE your story while reading, and he judges if it is realistic, feasible, alluring, or a total put-off. 

On publishing: Writers reel out stories of rejections. Some paint them so colourful, you are filled with fear. I had a rejection and an unreturned query letter. But I got lucky; met the humble Prof. Paul Nnodim, the publisher at Piraeus Books LLC, Massachusetts, USA. It was fulfilling, kind of. Though for weeks after I held the first copies of my book, I was filled with this overwhelming emotion, one I couldn’t name. It was unbelievable -- what I created, though I do not go about aggrandizing my accomplishments; I am still a beginner, and I'm liking the voices now.

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