A Chike and the River Book Review or How Things Fall Apart Before Coming Back Together

In his 1966 book Chike and the River, renowned Nigerian author Chinua Achebe brings to life the story of eleven-year-old Chike, who  struggles to achieve his dream of crossing the Niger River to the city of Asaba. As with many tales, the heart of the story lies within the journey:

The more Chike saw the ferryboats the more he wanted to make a trip to Asaba. But where would he get the money? He did not know. Still, he hoped. “One day is one day,” he said, meaning that one day he would make the journey, come what may.

What follows is a series of adventures both humorous and precarious that aid Chike’s personal growth and understanding of the world, from dealing with a money-doubling village magician, to being tricked by his headmaster into carrying a missionary’s luggage across a stream. Through perseverance, Chike eventually realizes his dream, but soon finds Asaba is not as he had imagined. The journey home becomes yet another test of wit and bravery.

A great strength of Achebe’s is his ability to tell vivid stories free of overly dense prose or convoluted plotlines. The power of his deceptively simple brush strokes are found in descriptions of key characteristics and motivations rather than of physical attributes alone. The privileged essence of Chike’s good friend, Samuel Maduka Obi (who nicknamed himself S.M.O.G. for the effect), comes through in S.M.O.G.’s attitude about money rather than through an account of his belongings. After being swindled by the magician recommended by S.M.O.G., Chike returns to his friend to ask, “Has he ever doubled money for you?” to which S.M.O.G. replies “No, I get everything I need from my mother. So I don’t need to have my money doubled.”

Another example of Achebe’s skill in illustrating the nature of a person or setting, oftentimes simultaneously, can be found in Chike’s take on a big city after leaving his mother and two sisters to live with his uncle forty-miles away:

At first Onitsha looked very strange to Chike. He could not say who was a thief or kidnapper and who was not. In Umuofia every thief was known, but here even people who lived under the same roof were strangers to one another. Chike was told by his uncle’s servant that sometimes a man died in one room and his neighbor in the next room would be playing his gramophone. It was all very strange.

Thus, the reader is given not only a boy’s anxiety in and skepticism of a place both large and new, but is also shown differences in community values between a village and a city.

Unlike previous illustrated editions of Chike and the River, the August 9, 2011 Anchor Books edition features the work of Cuban-born artist Edel Rodriguez, a regular contributor to The New Yorker magazine and a former art director for Time Magazine. Each in three colors (red, white and black), the abstract acrylic paintings complement the modest, yet wildly creative spirit of the narrative.

A charming story of the modern versus the traditional, of pushing against and overcoming boundaries, Chike and the River offers enjoyment for readers of any age.
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Ishmael A. Elias is a writer and teacher based in Oakland, Calif. He is completing his debut novel, the first chapter of which is due to appear in the upcoming "Cherokee Writers from the Flint Hills of Oklahoma: An Anthology" by the Cherokee Arts & Humanities Council.

Turtle Island to Abya Yala

When times are tough, fear and anger are easy emotions on which to rely. We are afraid of hurting and of being hurt, so we hide behind vague and passive aggressive means of expression. We become unattached. We lash out and bear fangs for a sense of empowerment. No one wants to be the first to extend the olive branch. Compromise and understanding are afterthoughts. Compassion is for fools. Love is for the weak.

Or so it seems.

One way to combat the fear of being seen as frail or naïve when showing compassion or expressing love is through art. Art has always allowed space to be both triumphant and vulnerable in the face of such fear.

Turtle Island to Abya Yala: A Love Anthology of Art and Poetry by Native American and Latina women is an example of how the spirit and power of love can help to quell anger and anxiety in a society built from conquering and oppressing, where greed is the invisible hand that pushes us toward a more individualistic existence.

Nearly two-hundred pages in length, the theme of love is explored by over sixty Indigenous women in four sections: Flowers of Death: struggle and oppression, Counting Relations: family and ancestors, Slowly With You: love and relationships, and My Doctrine of Discovery: strength and transformations.

The anthology is not only a reflection on issues of racism, genocide, colonialism, domestic violence, substance abuse, and poverty, but is also a celebration of cultures, thoughts, dreams, stories, images, traditions, triumphs, relationships, and communities.

As explained in the preface by editor Mica Valdez, the anthology “is both inspired by the colorful, spirited art and poetry zine Mujeres de Maiz, a publication by women of color, and provoked by the lack of visibility of Native women in mainstream poetry publications, such as Poets & Writers Magazine.”

The anthology’s title, she adds, was collectively named by its contributors as a way to build community:

“Turtle Island” has signified North America for many First Nations peoples from North America and is derived from the Haudenosaunee / Iroquois creation story of Sky Woman and Turtle Island. “Abya Yala” is the name given by the Kuna Nation of Panama that is commonly used by many First Nations South American peoples to describe the continent known as America and signifies “land in its full maturity.”

Available locally at Laurel Book Store and Corazon Del Pueblo in Oakland, California, Gathering Tribes in Albany, California, and online at Malinalli Press, the artful collection speaks from the heart to show love and compassion are, indeed, beautiful sources of strength.

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Ishmael A. Elias is a writer and teacher based in Oakland, Calif. He is completing his debut novel, the first chapter of which is due to appear in the upcoming "Cherokee Writers from the Flint Hills of Oklahoma: An Anthology" by the Cherokee Arts & Humanities Council.

Dead Indians—Indian Affairs

Album Review by Ishmael A. Elias (originally published on reznetnews.org, 2007)

Albums with vulgar lyrics generally have an explicit content label on the CD case. Dead Indians, a hip-hop group from Winnipeg, Manitoba, chose instead to put the warning at the beginning of its latest release, “Indian Affairs.”

“This program contains scenes with nudity, sexuality, nudity, violence and coarse language,” a female announcer says. “Viewer discretion is advised.”

Immediately afterward, “Jonesin (Your Beer is My Beer)” rolls in with a slightly sped-up sample from Billy Paul’s 1972 hit, “Me and Mrs. Jones.” Near the end of the sample, rapid-fire vocals and an up-tempo beat, replete with high hats and cracking rim shots, combine for a head-nod-inducing sound.

The rest of the album follows a similar formula: obscene, but witty wordplay over catchy soul/pop sample and banging beat. The best examples of this recipe can be found on “West End Girls,” which takes a piece of the Pet Shop Boys’ hit song and “The Apprentice,” which uses a spliced sample from the Donald Trump reality TV show of the same name.

The lyrical content of the album ranges from lewd to socially aware. Lewd because of the constant mention of booze and broads—aware because through all of the wise cracks and hedonism, group members reveal concern for Native hardships in a system that doesn’t always work.

“See, we’re dealing and thieving ‘cause the stakes are not even/ So, we’re out here making money like there’s nothing to believe in,” a Dead Indians crew member raps over an interpolation of Randy Crawford’s “Street Life.” He continues a few lines later with: “Thinking how they gonna’ save the language and the elders’ knowledge/ when there’s more fluent speakers in jail than there is in college/ but who am I to say? I don’t live the teachings of the old ones/ I’m just out here for a good time with a couple of the cold ones.”

And that’s part of the charm of Dead Indians. They are similar to Drunken Fist Kung-Fu practitioners in that while they appear to be in a constant alcoholic stupor, high levels of control and self awareness are maintained.

For hip-hop fans who can stomach the raw lyrical content, “Indian Affairs” delivers the goods. Sensitive listeners might want to wait for an all-ages show to hit their area.

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Ishmael A. Elias is a writer and teacher based in Oakland, Calif. He is completing his debut novel, the first chapter of which is due to appear in the upcoming "Cherokee Writers from the Flint Hills of Oklahoma: An Anthology" by the Cherokee Arts & Humanities Council.

Los Nativos—Red Star Fist

Album Review by Ishmael A. Elias (originally published on reznetnews.org, 2007)

Overall, hip hop albums these days have no focus. Sure, there may be an outward appearance of a theme, but the result is usually a collection of unrelated songs. Minnesota-based Los Nativos buck that trend with their sophomore effort “Red Star Fist.”

Unlike artists who keep thoughts about the government to themselves at the risk of having their albums crushed under a bulldozer and their name dragged through the mud, group members Xilam Balam and Felipe Cuauhtli speak boldly about corruption in the Americas – past and present.

“Black Flag Red Star” starts the EP off fully focused with the spirited line, “Zapata Vive! La lucha sigue!”

For those that don’t understand Spanish or don’t know who Emiliano Zapata was, the chorus comes to save the day in all its counterculture glory, “Revolucion! Bolt on the armor/ Time to get it on/ Invade the border/ Black flag, red star/ my son and my daughter/ Indigenous warrior, never be a soldier.”

The first verse takes the listener deeper into the rabbit hole, giving more insight into the meaning of the chorus.

“America saw the brown picture on the canvas/ commercials for the army/ playing them in Spanish/ I walk around the city like the war’s right here/ Military wants the Indian to cut his hair.”

Similar to the group’s first album, clever use of Aztec and Mayan imagery over banging beats brings Native issues and Indigenous pride to life. “Science Mayan” and the “Like the Indigenous” remix are representative of the album’s thought-provoking lyrics with lines such as: “English or Spanish, I’m really not caring which/ when it comes down to it, they’re both invader languages” and “Why you always question the shit that I’m on?/ The only thing you need to know – it bleeds the heart of Aztlan.”

While all the tracks aren’t politically charged (one for all the low-riders in the house), the cohesiveness of the album’s theme remains.

EPs – known for being mini-albums around 15 to 30 minutes long – don’t have the luxury of filler tracks. So, it’s good that “Red Star Fist” is one that can be played all the way through.

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Ishmael A. Elias is a writer and teacher based in Oakland, Calif. He is completing his debut novel, the first chapter of which is due to appear in the upcoming "Cherokee Writers from the Flint Hills of Oklahoma: An Anthology" by the Cherokee Arts & Humanities Council.

Straight Outta East Oakland

Book Review by Ishmael A. Elias (originally published in The Campanil, 2009)

Some students have turned to such illegal methods as prostitution or theft to raise quick cash for college tuition, but for Firstborn Walker—the academically talented protagonist of “Straight Outta East Oakland”—selling drugs is the chosen path.

In order to receive an 80 percent scholarship offered by a mysterious alumni organization to attend the prestigious Alston University—a fictitious college seemingly based on UC Berkeley—Firstborn must provide the remaining 20 percent by the end of the summer. Unemployed and facing the possibility of homelessness, he turns to a street-hardened, drug-dealing friend named Drama for help.

Author Harry Louis Williams II, a minister at Allen Temple Baptist Church on International Boulevard in Oakland, uses this setup to shed light on the disparities between the Bay Area’s privileged and impoverished, as well as to expose the deadly cycle of street life. Peppered with vivid character descriptions and mentions of several East Oakland locations (such as Jack London Square, Fruitvale BART, and sections of International Boulevard), the novel succeeds in being both an interesting cautionary tale and a call for greater community involvement in the lives of troubled youth.

That being said, the overall telling of the tale keeps the work from being a page-turner. Lines such as “I would have roller-skated through hell in a gasoline T-shirt for a third kiss” seem out of place and phrases such as “in the hood” and “homeboy” are overused. Also, instances of mischaracterization and uneven narration stretch artistic license and dampen the story’s momentum. For example, while Firstborn is a bookworm and nice guy by design, he appears too naïve at times given his familiarity with East Oakland and experience gained as a dope dealer. Another example is found in a scene where Firstborn’s drug-addicted friend, Lonnie, is found searching the ground intently for a dropped crack rock one moment and delivering a mouthful of academic speech the next. Given the narrator’s description of how crack transforms people into soulless fiends, it’s unlikely Lonnie would have the presence of mind to utter impromptu phrases such as, “Isn’t that the radical right-wing Berkeley think tank that’s always in the news for trying to torpedo affirmative-action programs?”

In the end, “Straight Outta East Oakland” deserves accolades for being a resource for those who believe the drug game is the only viable way to escape poverty (or raise tuition money), but as a literary work, its message overshadows the storytelling to ill effect.

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Ishmael A. Elias is a writer and teacher based in Oakland, Calif. He is completing his debut novel, the first chapter of which is due to appear in the upcoming "Cherokee Writers from the Flint Hills of Oklahoma: An Anthology" by the Cherokee Arts & Humanities Council.