By Azubuike Obi

An act of translation is nothing more than the act of betrayal.
                                                                                               – F. KUANG 

I

In Igbo, Mmụta means learning. But it is so much more than that.

In the western style of education, you sit in a classroom and you are taught. Your teacher instructs you in the way in which they have learned; you then write exams to show that you have learned.

With the Igbos, Mmụta happens in a myriad of ways. This person shows you how they’ve done it or how they are doing it. You then do it, and it doesn’t matter if you do it the exact way they’ve done it; what matters is that you achieve the desired result. It is what happens in Ịgba Boi, the Igbo apprenticeship system, where there’s a lot of observation and passive learning. You do not have to sit in a classroom or attend any formal setting. You don’t sit in one place and watch the master break it down for you; you work with him.

This, too, happens in Imu Ọrụ or Imụ Ahia. But unlike the apprenticeship system, the master does not take the learner under his wing. Instead, the learner pays the master in cash and kind before he learns. In the end, a certificate is issued. The learner would then, usually with the help of family members, establish his own practice. Imu Ọrụ can be done in businesses such as welding, carpentry, hair styling, etc.—where one of its advantages is the opportunity for artistic and creative freedom. Imu Ahịa can be seen in businesses that also favour Ịgba Boi, including Ogbọ Ogwụ (pharmaceuticals), Afia Abada (textiles), Ogbo Efere (kitchen supplies).

Although it’s not the only kind of learning that is available to writers, what happens in creative writing is Mmuta. There are also MFA programmes and there are writing workshops—the latter of which I first learned about in Jumping Monkey Hill, a short story by Chimamanda Adichie.

My own learning led to a draft of a story I read to my siblings. We then discussed. What worked? What didn’t? What was missing? I wrote, we read, they critiqued. On and on, it went, until I got what became The House of Ịzụagbalụbenze, my first published story. Thereafter, I decided to take writing seriously. I had stories to tell and I needed to learn to tell them well.

One night in March last year, I saw a flyer advertising a writing workshop. Emmanuel Esomnofu was leading a class on short stories and Chimezie Chika was facilitating a class on essay writing. I had to be there. I began to prepare. I bookmarked Chika’s pieces, got a haircut and acquired a notebook only for my creative writing. I left Asaba for the workshop, which was taking place in Awka.

At my bus-stop, the image of a police man on the Onitsha-Asaba expressway kept playing in my mind; he was chewing bitter kola while handing a bus driver his balance from a “settlement”. I walked around in search of Star Sunny Motors, as I had been told to do by a former classmate. As the car moved, I whipped out my notebook and a pen. A man in ripped jeans and with toenails clipped ridiculously short shot a questioning glance at me.

At Aroma Junction, I walked up to a man calling passengers. “Nnewi Ebea! Nnewi Ebea!” Where could I get a bus to Nnamdi Azikiwe University, UNIZIK? I asked. He waved perfunctorily at the main road. I secured a bus whose driver told me it’ll cost 150 naira and that he had no change. On our way, a passenger alighted at “UNIZIK Junction” but I didn’t see the school gate, so I remained married to my chair, convinced I heard wrong. Still, I was worried enough to ask:

— Anyị erugo UNIZIK? Have we reached UNIZIK?

The slouching young man sitting close to me answered, his demeanour, incredulous.

—Since. Anyị agafe go nu. We have passed.

He told me I was to get a shuttle at the flyover we had just passed when I asked about the school’s gate, the one with books.

I alighted immediately, the town’s humid air unwelcoming as I raced down, my slippers slapping the asphalt. At the foot of the flyover, I asked an Ọkpa woman, who was trying to shield herself and goods from the ferocious sun, for directions. I was to go down the flyover, flag down a bus, and say “School gate”.

II

From the voices I heard, I knew it was happening in Hall 14. I confirmed and walked in. I recognised Michael Chiedoziem Chúkwúderà instantly, slightly taken aback. He wasn’t supposed to be there. I greeted him and he offered a firm handshake. I asked why nothing was heard on the date his book was to be published. He said there was a new date.

I try and I fail to imagine this person asking me to write out my WhatsApp number—so I can be added to the group where I would receive a copy of one of the essays we would be working with—arguing on Twitter about Chigozie Obiọma failing to adequately capture the sense and sensibilities of teenage boys in The Fishermen. I try and fail to imagine this dreadlocked, towering figure in a pink shirt and jean trousers writing the arguments for the greatness of Adichie’sHalf of a Yellow Sun on social media, arguments I had read just before I saw the flyer for this workshop. But this was the person.

After about an hour of waiting with only a handful of people were present, Chúkwúderà decided to begin with the basics. We read Baldwin’s “Stranger in the Village”. I wrote down a couple of points. Having read the 500-word personal essays we were tasked to write, Chúkwúderà got on a call. But just when I thought we are to call it a day, Chimezie Chika arrived. This person, I expected: a bespectacled bearded man wearing a black and white shirt. I could imagine him, crouched on a desk, nocturnal sounds announcing the night, as he wrote Spirit, Wife, Spirit Life. He apologised and we got right into it.

He gave a quick summary on machineries needed in essay storytelling, oscillating between English and Igbo fluidly. He pronounced story as “St-uh-ry” and I was reminded of Achebe’s voice in a PBS interview I saw on YouTube. Again, we were asked to write but as it was getting late, we were told to do just a three-sentence opening of a previous journey. As we put pen to paper, the facilitators begin chatting: on how Iduma’s Stranger’s Pose is a better book than his 2023 offering and about Teju Cole’s brilliance. Chika sounds in awe of Cole’s erudition.

The conversation moves on to Achebe the Essayist and Chúkwúderà sounds just as animated as I imagined he would on Twitter. He says the opening essay of The Education of a British Protected Child is terrific. Chika thinks Achebe’s thought process unique. Esomnofu believes Iduma is grossly underrated, citing an essay he adores. It’s all music to my ears; I’m almost swaying.

We start reading our three lines. Chika encourages us to speak up. He says a workshop can only be efficient if the writers’ work receives proper feedback from fellow participants.

It’s past six now and my sister’s calls are attempting to crash my phone. I pack up and start backwards. Chika asks if I’m leaving. I get a goodbye wave.

III

Outside, the sun was stealing away from the skies. I waited for a short while before a keke turns up. At my stop, a minibus comes along. And as we glide through the market in front of the school gate, I think, fleetingly, if this is where the shootings happen. If the race that ensues as a result of gunshots rending the air, making my cousin type IFITE IS ON FIRE on WhatsApp, usually happens here, in this market, with girls haggling with a tomato seller and boys huddled in front of a wheelbarrow with palm slippers piled high.

At Aroma Junction, I got pangs of hunger upon seeing carrots but I ignored the sight. I also sidestepped the suya and gazed away from fizzy drinks. I was going home.

In the bus, the driver moved in spurts, halting to water his vehicle, to the chagrin of the passengers. Who stops in the middle of nowhere these days? Under different circumstances, I’d share their concern, but I just wanted to bask in the experience I just had. The way I read had been changed forever. It will no longer be a sprint; it has become more than just pleasure.

That is, of course, how the driver passed my stop. But when I finally came to, I didn’t panic as I had on the way to UNIZIK. Instead, I alighted from the bus and walked back in excitement, still basking. “Read more,” Chika said. “Look closely at what others are doing.”

I know what I need to do. Read closely. Write carefully. E

Azubuike Obi is an Igbo storyteller, who believes in the transformative power of language. His words have appeared in The Republic, African Writer, and SprinNG.