The Education of a British-Protected Child Book

"Who is Chinua Achebe?"the boy asks when he sees me reading.
He's the writer who made people notice African novels . They call him the patriarch of African Literature.
"Ohhh. Is this your favorite book?"
No, but this one is. I read it when I was your age. I reach for Things Fall Apart from my shelf and hand it to him. He's here for an hour or two, with his sister, the kids another single-mother-friend has sent to hang out in my library until she gets home from the second job. His dad died in the same war I survived. I feel some responsibility for him. He opens the book, his younger sister finishes her Math homework, I place lamb in the oven and continue reading.

Achebe lost the use of his legs during a car accident (sometime during the late 90s or early 2000s? the years are conflicting in a couple of essays) and I find myself with the thought, the visual in the back of my mind as I read. His wife left her job as a college instructor to take care of him. The man survived the Biafra War, only to lose his legs to an accident. This disturbs me. I know I shouldn't concentrate on the fact, still, it bugs me, so I place the book on the counter and go off to chop some green peppers and onions.


Chinua Achebe posed for the New Yorker after his accident

The Education of a British-Protected Child is an eloquent, erudite collection of essays that make the effects of colonialism palpable. Achebe didn't consider this an academic collection, in fact he stresses the point that he is straying from academic speak since he is a novelist at heart, and yet these pieces sometimes take on the texture of a impassioned lecture. What makes the collection appealing is its nuanced look at the mental and physical concept that is colonialism. Achebe visits the thoughts of black Africans and Americans, even infusing James Baldwin's thoughts at a conference they'd attended in Florida, when Baldwin called him "my brother." He writes of Langston Hughes offering him a seat of honor next to him, at the opera, while Achebe was still an apprentice writer. He debunks the theory that Africans write in European languages as "ignorant and meaningless comparisons," and instead presents the theory of "linguistic pluralism" that stems from the rich history of Africa.

I'm engrossed in all of this when the boy asks another question.
"What is palm-wine?"
I hesitate. It's something sour and bitter.
He snickers, unconvinced. "Okonkwo is stubborn. But he's brave."
I nod and try not to say more, a method I used with former students. I want them to formulate their own thoughts and I help guide them, but not before the act of intellectual conception.
We continue reading quietly.

Achebe mentions Dom Afonso, king of the kingdom of Bukongo (1506-1543), whose kingdom was destroyed by Portuguese colonists. That country (now Democratic Republic of Congo), has known many names, seen many wars. Before this, it had been a thriving kingdom with embassies in Lisbon and Rome. Achebe's point is that sometimes the history books do not contain most of what was Africa before Europeans arrived. His point is that it is not "necessary for black people to invent a great fictitious past in order to justify their human existence and dignity" but that they must "recover it" by becoming researchers and writers. What better time to hear these words, than during Black History Month?


A younger Achebe, in 1960, with two editions of his masterpiece

An hour later, the phone rings.
"Girl, thanks so much. I'm on my way."
He looks up. "Please tell my mom I need more time," he says.
How bout you pick them up after the grocery run?
"He giving you a hard time? Tell him I'll be there when I get there and he better be ready."
He's reading.
"He's whaaaat?…"
"Okonkwo is having a palaver right now and I want to finish that part," he yells from the library.
"Okon- who is this Okon whatever. And he's having a whaaaat?"