Truth is Hard to Find Here

Weeks ago at the Abuja Literary Society (ALS) critique session, a dark-skinned young man of average height agreed to be the first from a list of about nine to read to the audience from his work. He came up stage and read from an iPad a piece he said he had yet to figure which genre it belonged. It was not a short story, neither was it a play, and clearly not a poem. The essay, so to say, had characters wielding canes, thrashing a hapless individual, slapping, dispensing pain and injury, angry and euphoric at the same time. It is the known story of the mob and a victim who may be innocent or not. In his story, as expected, the mob is the devil in multiple incarnate. 

 

The piece had moments both low and high. Brief moments of delight that make you want to sit up and listen and moments of despair when you slouch back in your seat and mute the voice of the reader. However, in the end, there was applause. When the host sought the audience’s opinion on the words just heard, the hall at Transcorp Hilton became quiet.

Then a voice from behind said it was a beautiful piece of writing. I understood his predicament. The icebreaker needed to be mild and polite, just wetting the ground to be tilled. I expected the following speaker to hit the mark, but perhaps, it was impolite to contradict the first opinion, so he perpetuates the praise, and there was more praise. The consensus, despite the appeal of the host for critical engagement, was that it was indeed a beautiful piece.

This was only the beginning. Next there was a poet, another poet, and a performance poet, all men, expressing their love for their particular woman. There would be more presentations in different genres and all would get the applause and praise they deserve or desire. Meanwhile, the candid opinion about their work was being whispered between neighbours or sent as text messages among friends, eliciting chuckles. And these writers will be ignorant of the truth about their work or talent.

The closest to a candid public comment would be to highlight a sentence or paragraph as a cliché, as though that was the only unworthy aspect of the particular work, implying that besides that everything else is perfect and that the work isn’t the absolute trash that it is? This won’t be the first place writers are misled about their abilities. I have been in similar gatherings where every piece read without exception was, you guessed it, beautiful. The audience at writers’ rendezvous are too polite.

It is easier to sit behind a laptop and leave nasty comments on the trail of a short story online. Criticism is hard to give and take face to face. It is akin to performing a surgery without anaesthesia, perhaps more painful, capable of killing a writer’s ambition.

This may not be an entirely pathetic situation. I imagine people who peddle their work before live audiences come little expecting a candid review. They come, I suppose, with their best works, the piece in which they are most pleased, most confident, soliciting praise, seeking assurance not tutoring.

And supposing they are willing to be truthfully edited, it is too much to ask me to listen, enjoy, and take critical notes that can never be as thorough as sitting back home and putting red marks on sections and advising, if need be, that the entire manuscript be deleted, and as a friend would further suggest, and the recycle bin be emptied.

ALS was fun ― it’s okay to admit that was all it was meant to be, no need to couch it with nobler intentions ― an unwinding session, a time to straighten fingers made crooked from scribbling. For a trade as isolating as writing, readings are the literary equivalence of Friday night at Cubana; the reward of seven hours of solitude, time spent building word count, filling blank pages with imagination.