Whenever I see someone working on their Classics Spin projects, I wonder whether I would be more dedicated to this kind of reading if I approached it with a plan: of course I would be.

But this isn’t much different than knowing it would be better to walk around the block in the evening than to read another chapter. What we know and what we choose: sometimes these diverge.

So, as it is, my classic reading is erratic. This year, I determined (said in a stern voice heheh) I would read 20 books published before 2000, whether western canonical classics (Catch-22 and The Tin Drum are on my list—but the Günter Grass novel will get pushed into next year) or modern classics.

Nkem Nwankwo’s Danda (1964, published in 1970 in the Heinemann African Classics series, #67) is an accessible and richly scenic read. There’s a glossary in the back for Ibo terms and a brief summary of social structure, but it’s easy to intuit what’s happening from the narrative itself.

Danda is an “akalogholi” (which the glossary defines as a “ne’er-do-well, which is such an old-fashioned term itself that it nearly requires yet another definition). In short, Araba sees this man—his son, Danda—as a disappointment.

Life on Araba’s compound is extravagant:

“In Araba’s house there was noise and bustle, much going to and fro. The obi and all the eleven huts of the women swamed with strangers. There were relatives from the ten towns. Then there were friends form other lands. These last made a great impression where ever they went. They spoke the Ibo tongue with a refreshing breadth of accent and Aniocha wags forund a new pleasure in mimicking them. Their women wore strange hair styles and flashy ornaments: copper bells and bangles that sang and tinkled all over the compound.”

He yearns to see his son straighten up and fly right. But Danda’s got other plans.

And by plans, I mean he’s planning to not make plans. He seems to go along with those who are increasingly influenced by western ways and expectations in the moment, but he has no interest in satisfying their requirements.

He knows people are frustrated, but he has other ideas. “They smile in my face but as soon as my back is turned they say: “Do not take notice of Danda. He is no good.” But I will not tell you a lie, son of our fathers. I cannot run away from the smile of a woman. Let us go for palm wine.”

Nwankwo (b. 1936) was educated in Nigeria, worked in the government of Biafra, moved to the United States to work in academia.

John Munonye (b. 1929) was born in Nigeria and had a year of post-grad studies in London before he returned to Nigeria to work in education; two of his other novels The Only Son and Obi are also in the Heinemann series.

Oil Man of Obange (1971, #94 in the Heinemann African Classics series) immediately invites readers into Jeri’s daily life. He’s climbing on his bicycle to deliver six cans of palm oil, for which he’ll be paid a few coins, no reflection of the grand physical effort required to balance and pedal, let alone the risk of travelling so far from home, through regions where risks and robberies proliferate.

His wife, Marcellina, once assisted him; now she is preoccupied by responsibilities at home, not least of which are their four children (including twin boys). The kids are regularly and insistently reporting the unpleasant news that more fees are required at school, which heightens the pressure on both parents, particularly when it comes to continuing their daughter’s education.

‘Mamma, why is it that girls don’t pay school fees?’ Lu asked.
‘Well, it’s because…’ she hesitated. Nobody had really thought about it. Don’t you know your father would have had a lot more to pay if it wasn’t like that?’

Munonye does ask tough questions and he’s content to leave them unanswered, content to allow readers to ruminate on the possibilities. As the story unfolds, it seems clear that girls and women in this culture are uniquely vulnerable, but they are not the only ones to suffer and there are a few moments of good fortune too.

This is a quiet story, with a lot of bicycle rides and a lot of school fees, and not a whole lot of characterisation so that readers are gently invested in the outcome but, nonetheless, I felt engaged from the start, pedalling up all those hills, struggling to balance on the way down.

I was inspired by Bill’s year-long reading of African books to pull these off the shelf; I started to read a couple of others, but the library loans took hold, and I lost track of my plans (even without any palm wine).