My Dad and Me A Heartwarming Collection of Stories About Fathers from a Host of Larry's Famous Friends

Chinua Achebe A prolific novelist, an editor, and an educator, Chinua Achebe has won countless awards for his vital contributions to African and English literature. His novel Things Fall Apart has sold more than 10 million copies all over the world and is considered by many one of the hundred greatest novels ever written. He is currently a professor of languages and literature at Bard College. My father was born in the 1880s when English missionaries were first arriving among his Igbo people. He was an early convert and a good student, and by 1904 was deemed to have received enough education to be employed as a teacher and an evangelist in the Anglican Mission. The missionaries' rhetoric of change and newness resonated so deeply with my father that he called his first son Frank Okwuofu (New Word). The world had been tough on my father. His mother had died in her second childbirth, and his father, Achebe, a refugee from a bitter civil war in his original hometown, did not long survive his wife. My father therefore was not raised by his parents (neither of whom he remembered) but by his maternal uncle, Udoh. It was this man, as fate would have it, who received in his compound the first party of missionaries in his town. The story is told of how Udoh, a very generous and tolerant man, it seemed, finally asked his visitors to move to a public playground on account of their singing, which he considered too dismal for a living man's compound. But he did not discourage his young nephew from associating with the singers. The relationship between my father and his old uncle was instructive to me. There was something deep and mystical about it, judging from the reverence I saw and felt in my father's voice and demeanor whenever he spoke about his uncle. One day in his last years he told me a strange dream he had recently had. His uncle, like a traveler from afar, had broken a long journey for a brief moment to inquire how things were and to admire his nephew's "modern" house of whitewashed mud walls and corrugated iron roof. My father was a man of few words, and I have always regretted that I did not ask him more questions. But I realize also that he took pains to tell me what he thought I needed to know. He told me, for instance, in a rather oblique way of his one tentative attempt long ago to convert his uncle. It must have been in my father's youthful, heady, proselytizing days! His uncle said no, and pointed to the awesome row of insignia of his three titles. "What shall I do to these?" he asked my father. It was an awesome question. What do I do to who I am? What do I do to history? An orphan child born into adversity, heir to commotions, barbarities, and rampant upheavals of a continent in disarraywas it at all surprising that my father would eagerly welcome the explanation and remedy proffered by diviners and interpreters of a new word? And his uncle, a leader in his community, a moral, open-minded man, a prosperous man who had prepared such a great feast when he took the OZO title that his people gave him a praise-name for itwas he to throw all that away because some strangers from afar had said so? Those twomy father and his uncleformulated the dialectic that I inherited. Udoh stood fast in what he knew but he also left room for his nephew to seek other answers. The answer my father found in the Christian faith solved many problems, but by no means all. His great gift to me was his love of education and his recognition that whether we look at one human family or we look at human society in general, growth can come only incrementally, and every generation must recognize and embrace the task it is peculiarly designed by history and by providence to perform. [read more]