Theory

“The basic principle,” he said, “is that literature does not admit of its own unreality, even when it acknowledges it—in the metafictional sense, that is—though, in principle, my dear Mere, it is also self-aware enough to allow for the distinguishment of reality from unreality, even within the canvas of the real-unreal, if you get what I mean.”

“I get your point of course, Prof, you are referring to truth even in imagined—”

“Exactly!”

“Yes . . . in imagined space. That is, imagination as truth, even if the narrative is untrue. Meaning, it is not real as the present we are experiencing now, but real because we recognise what the narrative is saying; we see its world replicated in ours; in short, we see that it imitates our world. It’s like what you’ve said: it is a tangible imaginary, but also unreal for that very reason. But the tangible imaginary quote and unquote that I speak of means that it is as real as the world. What I am saying is: if the unreal is seen in literature as real, would that—not discounting, of course, that this is mere hypothesis—would that make the real in life unreal? You know, in the sense of the expression that literature is ‘Truer than life’.”

“You could say that, my dear, but be advised that the two exist entirely in their own planes. Not in terms of metaphysics or these theories being bandied about these days. I am reiterating the basic principle, which is that fiction does not inherently acknowledge its own formal inadequacies as it pertains to notions of reality and artificiality, but is still about excavating, evaluating, and dramatising the inadequacies of reality.”

“Of course, of course. We are saying more or less the same thing, tangentially.”

“Touché. But let us pay a little more attention to the nuances here. Suffice it to say that the operating principle here is one that is liable to confusion—which has been the case in some circles, as it were, for which careful exegesis is needed. The task before us… the…the ta…the task—well, pour me some tea from that flask on top of the fridge.”

“I will pour one for myself, too.”

“By all means.”

“Here you go. Do you need anything else?”

“No. I will take a sip directly… Aghh. What was I saying? Ah, yes, the task… the task before us is to try to define, in simple and composite terms, where the real operates and where the unreal does not. That is, where they diverge as opposed to where they converge.”

“Prof, don’t you think that their point of convergence is more interesting, since their divergence is obvious to even the most unschooled fellows out there?”

“Decidedly, Mere, decidedly. Let me read you a section of the letter I wrote to the committee making the proposition that a course to that very effect be introduced. The letter… oh, all right, it’s right here. It begins: Dear Sir/Madam. To The New Course Committee. I have been apprised of a proposal made by the above committee to institute a course into our established curriculum to be called Literature and the Unreal. While the initiative behind this is surely well-intentioned, its construction assumes what it cannot justify, and particularly ambiguates the course’s real meaning into an almost too-literal suggestion of horror or other similar genres. This unwittingly delimits the scope of the proposed course. If the goal is to construct a concise and precise course title befitting of the long deliberations this committee must have had on the matter, I am here suggesting that you consider the title of Literature and Reality. It is much simpler, but also subtextualises the idea of unreality without mentioning it. This will allow the course to cover further ground in the theory.”

“A most straightforward letter, Prof. But may I ask for an elaboration of your point? We might be liable to cause confusion for ourselves when we hypothesize so abstractly.”

“Why would you say that? I am taking you up right away on your last point, Mere, in the course of elaborating the matter. To illustrate the appropriateness of the term, Literature and Reality, I will begin by reminding you that reality is rooted in the human conception of time. More precisely: reality, as you and I and our forebears understand it, is rooted in the African conception of time, though this varies from culture to culture. The Kenyan philosopher John Mbiti’s explication of the concept of African time provides immense illumination on the subject of our subjective reality as a unique culturally constructed idea. Are you following?”

“I am riveted, Prof.”

“In his book African Religions and Philosophy, Mbiti argues that time for Africans is rooted in what he calls ‘an anthropocentric ontology’ and goes on to syllogise that for many African cultures time occurs within a non-linear, event-centered framework. Time works around event, based on human or natural phenomena. Outside of event, everything falls under the realm of ‘No Time’.”

“Broadly speaking, this is more or less what occurs in our language and culture—”

“Of course, language contains a people’s system of thought. It is the most immediate way to study a people’s philosophy and culture. But listen to what Mbiti deduces on how Africans see time. I can recite this passage by heart, having read the book several times. He wrote, and I hope I do not make a single mistake, that ‘according to traditional concepts, time is a two-dimensional phenomenon, with a long past, a present and virtually no future.’ Remember what I explained a couple of minutes ago about Mbiti’s ‘No Time’ element?”

“Yes—”

“He says No Time is in the region No Event. Now listen to how he explains it further: ‘The future is virtually absent because events which lie in it have not taken place, they have not been realized and cannot, therefore, constitute time.’ Think about that carefully, then think about how we see time in Igbo culture, and then also think about the Western conception of time we have been inured to. What do you see there?”

“I can think of one thing now. Among my Ngwa people, we refer to yesterday as echi gara-aga. And you know that echi in Igbo means tomorrow.”

“Brilliant, yes.”

“So, by saying echi gara-aga we understand yesterday as past tomorrow.”

“This is instructive and it aligns perfectly with Professor Mbiti’s observations that the African conception of the future time is not as actual time but potential time. In short, your Ngwa people and other parts of Igboland affirm Mbiti’s position that African time is composed of the present and the past, progressing in a mostly backward movement. Although, of course, it would be assuming too much to claim that this applies in all African cultures, even within Igboland. I also want us to first recognise that we have grown up with two different ways of looking at time: one impressed upon us by our colonial past, the other by our own culture. It is a kind of double consciousness, and I suppose this is the same for most Africans. I think some people have even vernacularised their culture’s conception of time and endowed Western time with official status. I am, in fact, understating the obvious by saying some.”

“I think everyone is vaguely aware of this in some way.”

“I agree. Which leads back to where time and reality converge. It should be clear to us that how people conceive of time is directly proportional to, or at least affects, how they view reality. If time in many African cultures resides in what Mbiti calls ‘a long past’, then we can conclude that reality in that frame is reported and seen in retrospect. Therefore, the reality becomes subject to some level of imaginative retelling: it becomes a version of unreality, because its timeline is not rooted in the present (that is, the real-real). In addition, when the reality of time stretches into the ‘no time’ zone, we get a version of unreality, because it is a potential reality, not an actual one. Thus, unreality in fiction, though mediated by the real, is nothing more than the potential of reality to go beyond the zone of knowable reality or time.”

“My God! Prof! That is a most magnificent way to explain the basic problem of literature and reality.”

“To bring it home once more, I think the entire concept in Mbiti is best illustrated in the Igbo nwaniga riddle. Do you know it?”

“Why would I not? It is a very popular folksong. All the way from my childhood. Listen to this:

“Gini mere nwanyiga

Nwanyiga oo, nwanyiga

N’ụkwa dagburu nwanyiga

Nwanyịga oo, nwanyịga

Na mkpọ magburu ụkwa

N’ụkwa dagburu nwanyịga

“And so on.”

“If you look at what it does carefully, you will see that it constructs time as a loop, a loop that reaches backwards in order to go forwards. And it situates this within the culturally mediated idea that time moves in endless circles, ever-returning back to where it began (the cyclical epochs or ụga in Igbo cosmology gives us much to ponder here). That is, if we can truly tell where time and reality began.”

“Yes, I think we can conclude that if time is linked to reality, then they would begin with cosmology, which complicates the origin narratives one may attach to a timeline, for there is no one cosmology, or ontology for that matter, notwithstanding Mbiti. Reality gets more and more complicated, endless.”

“I suppose you could consider matters in that manner. But think again, because I am thinking simultaneously as I go along. The complication of reality is a matter of dimensions rather than pure differences. Reality can be actual or not…. You know the idea of the fantasy epic, another world, with all sorts of unusual phenomena carrying the day? I just thought of one concept in fiction: where an entirely different self-contained world is created somewhat out of the present world’s frame of reference. What do you think of the term allotopia?”

“Err…I am not very familiar with it. What does it mean?”

“Oh, like I explained, it’s a world that creates its own reality, an entire universe of its own. An oft-cited example is Tolkien’s Middle-Earth. You should go research it.”

“Certainly.”

“It seems to me that the real wahala, and as I have laid it out before the committee, is to establish a precision of thought in the pedagogy of literary theory, especially when the concept is newish and many of its parts remain in intellectual murk.”

“A recording of our discussion might have sufficed to enlighten the committee…”

“That is all well and good, but they would need more intellectual rigour than mere conversation could engage. And this is not degrading the quality of our discussion. I am saying, my dear, that deconstructive reasoning would allow them to…to…to…er…get to a hold of the basic principle… Haven't we been talking for long.”

“We have. I do wish to continue, even though it’s getting dark outside. Not that I am worried in any way. It’s just a little headache I'm beginning to feel.”

“A headache. Are you running a fever? Have you treated malaria this year?”

“No. But I am sure it is not something to panic about.”

“Alright then. So let us return now to the earlier point. My cup of tea is finished. Well,” he continues in a slower voice. “The basic principle, though there is a but there, is that literature does not admit of its own unreality or, sometimes, its own impracticality.”

“I meant to cycle back to—”

“That’s because when you circle round an issue such as this—with the appropriate rigour of course—you will realise that by applying Mbitian philosophy therein, certain dimensions of the real-unreal dynamic are opened up. What do you think?”