Lights Out In Nigeria | By: Chimamanda Adichie

We call it light; “electricity” is too sterile a word, and “power” too stiff, for this Nigerian phenomenon that can buoy spirits and smother dreams. Whenever I have been away from home for a ‎while, my first question upon returning is always: “How has light been?” The response, from my gateman, comes in mournful degrees of a head shake.
Bad. Very bad.
The quality is as poor as the supply: Light bulbs dim like tired, resentful candles. Robust fans slow to a sluggish limp. Air-conditioners bleat and groan and make sounds they were not made to make, their halfhearted cooling leaving the air clammy. 
In this assault of low voltage, the compressor of an air-conditioner suffers — the compressor is its heart, and it is an expensive heart to replace. Once, my guest room air-conditioner caught fire. The room still bears the scars, the narrow lines between floor tiles smoke-stained black.
Sometimes the light goes off and on and off and on, and bulbs suddenly brighten as if jerked awake, before dimming again. Things spark and snap. A curl of smoke rises from the water heater. I feel myself at the mercy of febrile malignant powers, and I rush to pull my laptop plug out of the wall. 
Later, electricians are summoned and they diagnose the problem with the ease of a long acquaintance. The current is too high or too low, never quite right. A wire has melted. Another compressor will need to be replaced.
For succor, I turn to my generator, that large Buddha in a concrete shed near the front gate. It comes awake with a muted confident hum, and the difference in effect is so obvious it briefly startles: Light bulbs become brilliant and air-conditioners crisply cool.
The generator is electricity as electricity should be. It is also the repository of a peculiar psychology of Nigerian light: the lifting of mood. The generator is lord of my compound. Every month, two men filled with mysterious knowledge come to minister to it with potions and filters. Once, it stopped working and I panicked. 
The two men blamed dirty diesel, the sludgy, slow, expensive liquid wreathed in conspiracy theories. (We don’t have regular electricity, some say, because of the political influence of diesel importers.) Now, before my gateman feeds the diesel into the generator, he strains it through a cloth and cleans out bits of dirt. The generator swallows liters and liters of diesel. Each time I count out cash to buy yet another jerrycan full, my throat tightens.
I spend more on diesel than on food.
My particular misfortune is working from home. I do not have a corporate office to escape to, where the electricity is magically paid for. My ideal of open windows and fresh, breathable air is impossible in Lagos’s seething heat. (Leaving Lagos is not an option. I love living here, where Nigeria’s energy and initiative are concentrated, where Nigerians bring their biggest dreams.) To try to cut costs — sustainably, I imagine — I buy an inverter. Its silvery, boxlike batteries make a corner of the kitchen look like a physics lab.
The inverter’s batteries charge while there is light, storing energy that can be used later, but therein lies the problem: The device requires electricity to be able to give electricity. And it is fragile, helpless in the face of the water pump and microwave. 
Finally, I buy a second generator, a small, noisy machine, inelegant and scrappy. It uses petrol, which is cheaper than diesel, and can power lights and fans and freezers but only one air-conditioner, and so I move my writing desk from my study to my bedroom, to consolidate cool air.
Day after day, I awkwardly navigate between my sources of light, the big generator for family gatherings, the inverter for cooler nights, the small generator for daytime work.
Like other privileged Nigerians who can afford to, I have become a reluctant libertarian, providing my own electricity, participating in a precarious frontier spirit. But millions of Nigerians do not have this choice. They depend on the malnourished supply from their electricity companies.
In 2005, a law was passed to begin privatizing the generation and distribution of electricity, and ostensibly to revamp the old system rooted in bureaucratic rot. Ten years on, little has changed. Most of the companies that produce electricity from gas and hydro sources, and all of the distribution companies that serve customers, are now privately owned. But the link between them — the transmission company — is still owned by the federal government.
I cannot help but wonder how many medical catastrophes have occurred in public hospitals because of “no light,” how much agricultural produce has gone to waste, how many students forced to study in stuffy, hot air have failed exams, how many small businesses have foundered.
What greatness have we lost, what brilliance stillborn? I wonder, too, how differently our national character might have been shaped, had we been a nation with children who took light for granted, instead of a nation whose toddlers learn to squeal with pleasure at the infrequent lighting of a bulb.
As we prepare for elections next month, amid severe security concerns, this remains an essential and poignant need: a government that will create the environment for steady and stable electricity, and the simple luxury of a monthly bill.‎
Credit: New York Times‎

Half of a Yellow Sun movie finally gets greenlight

Good news to movie enthusiasts especially those who have been anticipating the release of the screen adaptation of Chimamanda Adichie’s award-winning book, Half of a Yellow sun. The movie has finally gotten a greenlight by the National Film & Video Censors Board (NFVCB) after months of delay. The Biyi-Bandele directed movie which was classified “18” has been approved for cinema release.

Half of a Yellow Sun Movie ban: Ace filmmaker, Tunde Kelani appeals to NFVCB

The last has certainly not been heard of the highly-anticipated movie, Half of a Yellow Sun which was banned in Nigeria by the National Film and Video Censors Board (NFVCB) few months ago for being partly based on events that took place during the Biafran war. Ace filmmaker and cinematographer has joined thousands of people appealing to the board for the release of the movie.

“This is an appeal to the DG of the National Film and Video Classification Board to release the film Half Of A Yellow Sun to the Nigerian public without further delay. Chimamanda Adichie on BBC programme, HardTalk yesterday revealed that HOAYS is not political but a beautiful love story. We understand that the film is already awarded classification and has been cleared by appropriate security agencies. Nigeria cannot afford another round of negative press and global condemnation before taking action. Please madam let’s do the right thing at the right time.” He wrote on his official twitter page.

Kenyan movie star, Lupita Nyong’o obtains film rights to Chimamanda Adichie's third novel, Americanah

Just like award-winning novel, Half of a Yellow Sun, renowned author, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s third novel – Americanah is about to be adapted on the big screen. Kenyan movie star, Lupita Nyong’o has obtained film rights for the movie version of the book.
The announcement was made yesterday May 29, 2014 at Stylist Magazine’s Stylist Book Club Inaugural Session held at the Waldorf Hilton in UK.

“Lupita Nyong’o has optioned rights for the film version of Americanah, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie confirms #stylistbookclub”. Stylist Magazine wrote on its twitter account and also posted photos of the writer signing copies of Americanah for her fans.

Short Story: A Flight Diversion | By: Chimamanda Adichie

I was woken by the pilot’s voice. In the drowsy hum of the airplane, his words crackled, and I thought I heard something about preparing to land. Could I have slept so long? I looked at the time. It was only three hours into the Lagos-to-Atlanta flight. The flight attendants were hurrying back and forth. The pilot was still speaking.

“We have an emergency onboard and we have had to divert the flight to Dakar.” I could feel the plane descending. It seemed too fast. A sweeping hollowness. My fog of sleep cleared instantly. Something was wrong, the pilot was too cryptic, the flight attendants too blank-faced, snatching up cups, urging seats straight. I thought: If I die, I hope it’s quick and I don’t know. The woman beside me crossed herself. Then the pilot’s voice came back on. It was a medical emergency, he said; a pregnant passenger went into early labor and had just had a baby. I sensed, around me, a collective hush of relief and wonder. A baby delivered on the plane! We landed in Dakar. It was 2 a.m. Medical personnel in orange vests hurried in, a man carrying a black box, a lanky woman dragging an IV stand, their eyes heavy with sleep. I wondered what the baby would need, and if they had what the baby would need.
Soon, the lanky woman left, cradling a bundle wrapped in cloth. The baby. I strained to see better, hoped I would hear it cry. Then the new mother emerged, a young woman with a tube dangling from her arm, and behind her came the other medical worker, trying to support her. But she didn’t need him. She strode past, straight and steady, so quick that I caught only a glimpse of her face. She looked stunned and frustrated. It seemed even more of a wonder to me, not only that she had just had a baby in midair but that there she was on her feet, normal and capable. The pilot came out of his cabin. A tall man with an easy air, he told us it was a baby boy, and both mother and baby were fine.
His American humor emerged. “Been flying a long time and this is a first for me!”. We, the Nigerian passengers, laughed with a shared sense of delight, as though by being present we had  somehow shared in bringing this baby into the world. The American flight attendants were baffled.
“The mother said she was 24 weeks gone, but that baby looked full-term. Why would anybody take the risk?” one asked. We did not ask why. The new mother was travelling alone, nobody knew her, and yet we felt as if we did. We speculated about her circumstances. She probably had visa problems, got her visa later that she’d planned, or perhaps she had not planned it early enough, or maybe the chance to go to America emerged late in her pregnancy, and she’d chosen to do what she had to do because the sparkling worthwhile end was an American-born baby.  I thought of her expression as she exited the plane, more frustration than worry, a lament for the American passport that now would not be. Some passengers joked about her poor luck.

“Now she has a Senegalese baby, ah, this is bad market for the baby!” one said. “A Senegalese passport is still better than a Nigerian,” another countered.

“They will give a Senegalese person a visa before giving a Nigerian.” “Good that the baby waited for the flight to take off, do we even have the right emergency services in Lagos airport?” someone else asked. We chuckled. Good will swirled among us.
Thank God it ended well, many people said, thank God. Risk taking was familiar to us. For too many in our world, this was the norm: the lack of choice and the dependence on chance. Again, the pilot’s voice brought news. A tire had  deflated, and the airline did not have the resources in Senegal to fix it in time. We would have to spend the night in Dakar. As we left the plane and got into buses, we sent text messages and grumbled about the inconvenience of arriving a day later than planned. Still, the complaints were light-footed because what mattered was that the birth had gone well. In the hotel, some passengers posed for pictures by the fountain; why miss a good photo opportunity in a fellow African city they otherwise might never have visited?

“Please, my sister, do you have any sleeping pills?” a stranger asked me.
The next morning, slightly disoriented and starved of sleep, I skipped breakfast. When I finally went down to the lobby, most of the crew and passengers were gathered, waiting for the airport bus, faces dull and unrefreshed, voices a muted murmuring. As I joined the group, a woman asked me if I had heard.

“Heard what?” I asked.

“The baby died.”
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Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie is a renowned novelist, the author of three novels, Purple Hibiscus (2003), Half of a Yellow Sun (2006), and Americanah (2013), of a short story collection, The Thing around Your Neck (2009).  She has received numerous awards and distinctions, including the Orange Broadband Prize for Fiction (2007) and a MacArthur Foundation Fellowship (2008).
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Are you a writer? Interested in sharing your short stories on this platform? Be our guest on our Short Story Fridays segment.
Email: ololade.olatunji@yahoo/gmail.com

The President I Want | By: Chimamanda Adichie

In the wake of the abduction of over 200 Nigerian school girls by Boko Haram few weeks back, award-winning writer, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie in an article titled, “The President I Want” has condemned the lackadaisical attitude of President Jonathan towards the rescue of the girls and security in general. Read below:
Some of my relatives lived for decades in the North, in Kano and Bornu. They spoke fluent Hausa. (One relative taught me, at the age of eight, to count in Hausa.) They made planned visits to Anambra only a few times a year, at Christmas and to attend weddings and funerals. But sometimes, in the wake of violence, they made unplanned visits. I remember the word ‘Maitatsine’ – to my young ears, it had a striking lyricism – and I remember the influx of relatives who had packed a few bags and fled the killings.
What struck me about those hasty returns to the East was that my relatives always went back to the North. Until two years ago when my uncle packed up his life of thirty years in Maiduguri and moved to Awka. He was not going back. This time, he felt, was different. My uncle’s return illustrates a feeling shared by many Nigerians about Boko Haram: a lack of hope, a lack of confidence in our leadership.We are experiencing what is, apart from the Biafran war, the most violent period in our nation’s existence. Like many Nigerians, I am distressed about the students murdered in their school, about the people whose bodies were spattered in Nyanya, about the girls abducted in Chibok. I am furious that politicians are politicizing what should be a collective Nigerian mourning, a shared Nigerian sadness. And I find our president’s actions and non-actions unbelievably surreal.
I do not want a president who, weeks after girls are abducted from a school and days after brave Nigerians have taken to the streets to protest the abductions, merely announces a fact-finding committee to find the girls. I want President Jonathan to be consumed, utterly consumed, by the state of insecurity in Nigeria. I want him to make security a priority, and make it seem like a priority. I want a president consumed by the urgency of now, who rejects the false idea of keeping up appearances while the country is mired in terror and uncertainty. I want President Jonathan to know – and let Nigerians know that he knows – that we are not made safer by soldiers checking the boots of cars, that to shut down Abuja in order to hold a World Economic Forum is proof of just how deeply insecure the country is. We have a big problem, and I want the president to act as if we do.
I want the president to slice through the muddle of bureaucracy, the morass of ‘how things are done,’ because Boko Haram is unusual and the response to it cannot be business as usual. I want President Jonathan to communicate with the Nigerian people, to realize that leadership has a strong psychological component: in the face of silence or incoherence, people lose faith. I want him to humanize the lost and the missing, to insist that their individual stories be told, to show that every Nigerian life is precious in the eyes of the Nigerian state. I want the president to seek new ideas, to act, make decisions, publish the security budget spending, offer incentives, sack people. I want the president to be angrily heartbroken about the murder of so many, to lie sleepless in bed thinking of yet what else can be done, to support and equip the armed forces and the police, but also to insist on humaneness in the midst of terror.
I want the president to be equally enraged by soldiers who commit murder, by policemen who beat bomb survivors and mourners. I want the president to stop issuing limp, belated announcements through public officials, to insist on a televised apology from whoever is responsible for lying to Nigerians about the girls having been rescued. I want President Jonathan to ignore his opponents, to remember that it is the nature of politics, to refuse to respond with defensiveness or guardedness, and to remember that Nigerians are understandably cynical about their government. I want President Jonathan to seek glory and a place in history, instead of longevity in office. I want him to put aside the forthcoming 2015 elections, and focus today on being the kind of leader Nigeria has never had.
I do not care where the president of Nigeria comes from. Even those Nigerians who focus on ‘where the president is from’ will be won over if they are confronted with good leadership that makes all Nigerians feel included. I have always wanted, as my president, a man or a woman who is intelligent and honest and bold, who is surrounded by truth-telling, competent advisers, whose policies are people-centered, and who wants to lead, who wants to be president, but does not need to – or have to- be president at all costs.
President Jonathan may not fit that bill, but he can approximate it: by being the leader Nigerians desperately need now.

Half Of A Yellow Sun movie delayed in Nigeria! (Official Statement)

Half Of A Yellow Sun film; adaptation of award-winning writer, Chimamanda Adichie’s novel which was meant to open today 25th, April 2014 has been postponed. Here’s an official statement from Shareman Media and FilmOne Distribution; the Nigerian producers, and distributors of the film.
“The highly anticipated release of Half of a Yellow Sun in Nigeria has been postponed due to delays in obtaining certification from the Nigerian Film and Video Censors Board for the public release of the film.  Subject to obtaining the certification of the Board, the film is now rescheduled for release on 2nd May 2014.”

Photos from the Nigeria premiere of Half Of A Yellow Sun movie

Finally! The Nigeria premiere of Half of a Yellow Sun movie took place yesterday, April 12th, 2014 at the Silverbird Galleria, Lagos. Guests include the writer of the book-turned-movie, Chimamanda Adichie, Genevieve Nnaji, Chiwetel Ejiofor, OC Ukeje, Onyeka Onwenu, Biola Alabi, Sanusi Lamido, Lara George to mention a few.
Credit: Linda Ikeji

Photos from the UK premiere of Half of a Yellow Sun movie

The UK premiere of Biyi Bandele-directed movie, Half of a Yellow Sun movie, was held yesterday tuesday 8th April 2014 at the Odeon Cinema, Streatham Hill, London, UK. In attendance were; Chimamanda Adichie; the writer of the award-winning novel, Thandie Newton and Chiwetel Ejiofor. The Nigeria premiere will take place this month.
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