Story culled from "Paradox of Abel" by Larry Sun.
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One afternoon, Areal's phone rang. He'd been overjoyed; a publisher had called him based on the Brick Of Jericho he had submitted weeks earlier. The company was one of the leading publishing companies of the country. I was as confident about getting published now as the crew of the Titanic prior the kiss of the iceberg.
“We’ve read your book, Ariel Leak.” The ‘Leak’ came from the synonymous pronunciation of the second syllable of his original surname. “And I must commend your efforts on it. I cannot but marvel at how Ike pulled that trick at the end of the story.” The publisher, Mr. Waziri, had said. Mr. Waziri was a stout but balding man approaching his sixtieth years. The few hair on his head and his upperlip was grey. Ariel knew that the man was lying; he did not read the book in the least. It was read by one of the company’s literary agents and the phrase this publisher had made about Ike’s action was nothing short of what the rich publisher had been told to say. Seeing him alone, Ariel knew that the elderly man was not one who had a fondness for reading novels, or any book for that matter. The man’s major interest was in making money, and someone had insisted he built a publishing company among the numerous others he had constructed. This annoyed Ariel, he had nothing but loath for a man who published books but had no interest in reading.
On the walls of the publisher’s office were photographs of himself with the most powerful men of the country, past and present. There was the uniformed Mr. Waziri saluting Major General Babangida; Mr. Waziri, still with a full head of black hair, shaking hands with the military-clad General OBJ; Mr Waziri glaring balefully at General Sanni Abacha; Mr. Waziri sharing a joke with Colonel Gowon, both of them laughing like hyenas; Mr. Waziri in a business suit, deputy director of the RRS, deep in conversation with a frowning OBJ, and Mr. Waziri, now bald and wearing glasses, wagging a finger at President Yar’adua. He was pictured dancing with Stella, drinking champagne with Tinubu, and watching a football match with President Goodluck Jonathan. [i]Whom was he trying to impress?[/i] Ariel thought with distaste. Himself, probably. Constantly seeing himself with people of the country’s high echelons reflected that Mr. Waziri was an important man. Ariel’s hatred for the man was growing like a balloon.
In response to the publisher’s praises, Ariel smiled chivalrously and merely mumbled under his breath, “Thank you, sir.”
The man continued, “You’ve written a great book, Mr. Shake. But as much as we’d like to publish your work, I’m afraid we can’t. I’m sorry.”
Ariel was instantly shocked. [i]Don’t tell me that you called me all the way from my home only to tell me this bad news![/i] Ariel took his work very seriously indeed. So it was hard for him to sit there and hear that his novel was not good enough for publication. He studied the publisher’s head, expecting to find a bruise. Perhaps the man had fallen down in the toilet this morning and banged his head against the toilet bowl, twice at least. Hence his faulty mentality.
“Why?” Ariel asked.
“Oh! It’s nothing personal, Mr. Leak. It’s only because you’re still an unpublished writer; you aren’t popular yet. So, the management of the company has reached the conclusion that publishing [i]Brick Of Jericho[/i] could be inimical to the company’s financial investment.”
The writer could not believe his own ears. If a new writer was not published, how could he be famous? Weren’t the likes of Achebe, Clarke and Soyinka new before getting popular? [i]And management my sphincter![/i] The decision came only from this ugly man sitting before him. Ariel felt like strangling someone in that office.
“Okay. Thank you, sir.” Ariel declared.
As he rose from his seat to leave, the man said:
“But we’re willing to make a proposition, Mr. Leak.”
A proposition? Ariel relaxed back in his seat. He wished the man would stop using ‘Mr. Leak’ at the end of every speech he made. The publisher was beginning to make the name sound too autonomous for the writer’s liking.
“What proposition?”
The publisher smiled and rubbed his palms together, like an accountant who knew that the company in which he had just invested his life saving would never go bankrupt.
“We’d want you to write another novel which we are definitely going to publish, but not this.”
Ariel nearly beamed with excitement. Of course, they could publish his first book [i]TEMI (All about true love)[/i] or the [i]LARABA[/i] which he believed he would be completing very soon. Then he suspected foul-play breeding. So, he cast a suspicious look at the man as he asked again:
“Why?”
“Because we want you to write something which would sell quickly; a readers’ choice.”
“You mean [i]Brick Of Jericho[/i] won’t sell?”
“It may sell,” the publisher replied, placing a sharp emphasis on ‘may’. “But definitely not quickly, Mr. Leak.”
“So, what do you want me to do?”
“We want you to write something special. Like a sequel.”
“I have a sequel, it’s titled [i]Laraba[/i].”
The publisher nodded as if he knew. He did not know. “Good. But we’re not talking of that sequel. We mean a sequel to an already published popular novel, Mr. Leak.” Truly, sequels could be written by different writers, it had been done before, Ariel knew. Alexandra Ripley wrote [i]Scarlett[/i], the sequel to Margaret Mitchell’s [i]Gone With The Wind[/i]. The latter was published fifty-five years before the sequel. But the idea of having him write a sequel for another person’s work seemed preposterous to Ariel.
“What are you talking about?” he intentionally refused to add ‘sir’.
“Imagine writing a sequel to the great book for instance.”
“What great book?”
The man frowned and was lost in thought for a moment. He had apparently forgotten what he had been told to say.
“The book about something apart.”
Ariel could not understand the publisher yet. “What something apart?” he asked.
“That novel written by that man who wrote a memoir which involves the account of the Biafra.”
[i]This man could be talking about our own Nigerian Leon Uris[/i], Ariel thought.
“You mean [i]Things Fall Apart[/i]?”
“[i]Touché![/i] You’re on point, Mr. Leak. [i]Things Fall Apart[/i]. Who was the man? The author?”
“Chinua Achebe.”
“Wasn’t it Cyprian Ekwensi?”
“No. Achebe.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Of course, I’m right.”
“I’ll contact him and talk to him.”
“Who?”
“Achebe. I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse, and you’ll right the sequel.”
Ariel knew that the ignorant publisher was not aware that he had just made the popular phrase originally said by Don Corleone, a mafia lord in the Italian novel, [i]The Godfather[/i]. [i]I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse[/i]. And a humorous thought crossed Ariel’s mind; he wondered if Sir Achebe possessed a black horse named Khartoum. He doubted it.
Ariel could not believe himself bothering to say, “[i]Things Fall Apart[/i] doesn’t need a sequel.”
“Everybody wants to know.”
“Know what?”
“What happened next to the main character.”
“Which main character?”
“The main character.”
“You mean Okonkwo?”
“Oh yes, Okonkwo. I forget.”
“He’s dead at the end of the book.”
“You’ll bring him back to life. Think of a way.”
The stare with which Ariel drilled his host, however, if brought to bear on a promising geological formation in the South-South, would core the earth and strike oil in minutes.
“I can’t bring him back if he’s dead. I’m not Jesus Christ.” he finally said.
“In America, they’re always bringing Dracula back. I’ve watched many movies where the dead Dracula comes back to life.”
“Dracula is a vampire.” Ariel suspected that the publisher wasn’t aware that [i]Dracula[/i] was also a fictional novel character created by Bram Stoker. But he knew that trying to convince this man about the truth would be akin to getting the Sphinx to yawn.
“The there is your jinx; make Okonkwo a vampire.”
Ariel struck his forehead with a palm and groaned. Sometimes, being a writer isn’t much fun, he thought. Hell! It isn’t fun at all, but one is always addicted to it.
“That’s impossible! You might as well ask me to travel to Aso Rock and fetch the First Lady’s undies. Don’t you dare call Mr. Achebe, because I’m not going to write any sequel for [i]Things Fall Apart[/i].”
“Why won’t you? The book is going to sell millions of copies, Mr. Leak. You’ll make a lot of money.”
“I hate [i]Things Fall Apart[/i].” he lied, hoping that this would shut the man up.
“Oh!” The published oh’ed. Then he smiled broadly. “You know what?”
“What?” Ariel sensed another seismograph vibrating.
“I don’t like the book either.”
“Good for both of us then.”
“You can do something else.”
“What?”
“You can write about Dracula. Make him a Nigerian.”
Ariel was certain now that the publisher had really gone out of his mind. He was tired of arguing with the old psycho; this wasn’t a debate he was going to win.
He shrugged and said, “Okay. I’ll think about it.”
“That’s my man.” The publisher actually stood up and patted Ariel on the back. “When are you going to give me a feedback?”
“Would next week be alright?”
“Yes, it would.”
“Then next week it is.” Ariel lied again. Not in a lifetime! This man will never see me again.
“I’ll be expecting your call.”
Ariel literally fled the office before the lunatic would call him back and ask him to perform another silly feat; like writing a biblical tale about Jesus betraying Judas for thirty kobo or perhaps, how Jesus escaped the death on the cross of calvary.
The End.
Happy weekend to you!
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