On Chinua Achebe as a Marvellous Writer

Abstract

In the nadir of winter on Saturday, 23 November, 1985, I arrived in Stockholm to investigate the neglect of African writers in the award of the Nobel Prize in Literature since its inception. I knew nobody in that sub Arctic inclement part of our planet. Indeed colleagues on the Paris-based Journalistes-en-Europe staigiaire class had been doing their best trying to dissuade a Johnny-come-lately to the cold climates from embarking on what they, on just account, considered a hazardous undertaking. But it was, for me, a once in-a-lifetime opportunity, not to be missed. When I heard the news about Achebe’s death, I thought of that journey. I remembered some of my experiences then only faintly but there are some highlights of it that stand out as if only yesterday. The first task was to look for a place to pass the night. My main tasks would begin on Monday. By sheer serendipity I came upon a visiting Chinese called Luu who had stayed a longer period and seemed to know a thing or two about the city. And who, more importantly, was so friendly. Luu was staying in a cheap youth hostel and was willing to take me along to the place. 
The Swedes had converted a decommissioned ship into a youth hostel, naming it Af Chapman and stationing her on the banks of the lake. It was the cheapest place my shoe-string budget could accommodate. I arrived Af Chapman too thoroughly tired from the hassles of the day to notice that I had myself become something of a spectacle. In the well subscribed hostel, I was the only person of my colour. The receptionist demanded my passport. I brought out the green booklet and handed over to her. She hadn’t looked at my particulars just yet but she exclaimed something that I didn’t understand in Swedish. But I knew she was pleased because I had never, and still never have, seen an official react with such ecstasy to a mere travelling document.