Farafina Mermaids by Kenechi Uzochukwu

A literary evening held by Farafina Books featuring beautiful ladies, cool drinks and a surprise musical guest leads Kenechi to question his writerly vocation. 
 
They say Nigerians do not read, and that the only place one can safely hide money is inside a book. I don't know how true this is, because I have had cash stolen from the books in which I hid them. But I know that if you organise a book reading or any kind of event where books other than the Bible will be opened in Nigeria, you are likely to encounter a lot of empty seats. A book launch here usually has only the author and his close cousins in attendance.
But sometimes strange things happen, and when they happen it is our duty to examine the "why" behind the unexpected. A few strange things happened at the most recent Farafina Trust Literary Evening. Farafina holds these literary evenings to mark the end of its annual writing workshops, and usually in attendance are the workshop participants, Farafina staff, and a few other people. I was invited to the most recent evening and I was expecting the usual Nigerian book event situation: vacant seats and nondescript people collected in some drab bookshop. But I was to be shocked. First was the venue: Google Maps had taken me to the Oriental Hotel in Victoria Island. When I saw the grandeur of the hotel, I was certain that Google had erred. Nobody, not even Alfred Nobel, would spend money to have a literary event in such a place, and especially not in Nigeria. But Google assured me that I had not taken any wrong turns. From the hotel lobby I took a left down a lush carpeted corridor, and then I saw the mermaids. They were tall and beautiful, standing poised under the chandeliers, batting their eyelashes and smiling at me. I sensed danger. I stopped. In slow motion, one of them raised a finger to beckon me. NO! I shook my head. That was what they wanted to do to Sinbad the Sailor. I turned around and fled. When you are alive and things start to look so much like heaven, just turn around and run. You are not James Bond. I hightailed it back to the lobby where I explained the situation to a sympathetic male attendant. I didn't know what he found so funny, but I insisted that he took me to the event hall himself. On the way there he told me the mermaids ladies were hostesses for the Farafina event, which was sponsored by Nigerian Breweries. Wonders. Nigerian Breweries? Hostesses for a literary event? When did all that start? The strangeness of the evening had not ended, however, for when we got into the hall, the place was packed. I couldn't believe it. People were drinking beer and eating small chops. Serious cocktail things. I grabbed a plate as I was hungry. When I caught sight of Chimamanda Adichie, the chief facilitator of the workshop, I realised I had unearthed another reason for the crowd. Why did she have to stand under a chandelier too, and have the lights enhance her looks? We will not speak too much of her smile, but from where I stood, I saw how when she smiled at anyone, the poor mortal would simply turn around and buy another copy of Americanah. I didn't know people had so much money. Believe me, there was a queue as long as a canal in front of the Americanah book stand. A truth I had always suspected was confirmed: the movie industry was not the only one in which beauty was a requirement. Any writer who wants to sell in Nigeria should go get some good looks first. It would definitely help their hustle. The cocktail party buzzed: I shook some hands, recognized friends from social media, and drank the free booze. I didn't purchase any book. As the evening progressed I still couldn't shake the suspicion that something else was responsible for the crowd. It couldn't be just Adichie, the small chops and the free beer. Then it happened. From nowhere a young man sprang up like a cat and started yelling things. The speakers joined him and the noise became deafening. I was thoroughly shaken. When I regained my senses, I found that everyone else had gone mad. I was the only one still seated. Apparently, music was what was happening, and the young man on the stage was the current darling of the Nigerian music industry. I didn't hear a word of what he was singing, but the people loved it. Books were thrown aside, and writers whom I respected went up to the stage to touch the young artist's hands and shoot videos on their mobile phones. So this was why there was such a large crowd at this literary event. Some organiser must have leaked information that the artist would be performing. No wonder. After the performance, someone whispered that the young man was paid as much as ten million naira for his appearance. I became depressed. Such gossip was why lots of writers become alcoholics and commit suicide. I bear that performing artist no grudge (we are even namesakes) but, see, the most I have been paid for my writing is thirty thousand naira (in instalments), and it took me a long time to write that piece. For this musician, a fellow artist, to come and spring around for three minutes and get paid ten million was just not fair. This is why I have decided to switch careers. I am going to join my cousin who has a small music studio in Agege. It is a small enterprise for now, but I have faith. You’ll see. Read more of Kenechi Uzochukwu's musings. Image source: 360nobs.com