CW: Discussions of sexism, sexual assault, violence against women
1
The Son of the House, published by Dundurn Press, in 2019, by Professor Cheluchi Onyemelukwe-Onuobia (at Babcock University), has gone on to be shortlisted for the $100,000
Giller Prize, won Sharjah International Book Fair (2019—UAE) and the prestigious NLNG prize for literature (2021). The novel positions itself against sexism and, with intense chapters chronicling the lives of two economic-differing women—Nwabulu, a maid in the ‘70s with the dream of being a typist, who suffers molestation then rape from his male employer, and Julie, the girlfriend (then second wife) of the bourgeoisie, Eugene, who, as the story progresses, faked pregnancy of the prized ‘son of the house’—condescends on the urgency of gender-violence discussion. 2
The title sets itself apart from its contemporaries to embody the gender prize-racing for the most legitimate of children—the son? Or the daughter? — keeping in mind the uncharacteristic expectation already leveled on the masculine, “This was the son of the house, she said, but I was already teaching him that breath came and went from his lungs only so long as he held on to my wrapper.” P.82
This would have gone underway if, at the preceding pages, she hasn’t shrunk when Urenna first kissed her and asked whether she liked ‘it at Mrs Obidiegwu’s house’: “I was a housemaid. He was the son of the house. He would not really know what it was like to work in a place and live and sleep there but still know that it was not home.” P.39 The quotations above signify the assignment and acceptance of gender burden and responsibilities, respectively. In her leaving for Lagos at ten, her relationship with Nnabuzo (uncle), though brief, was stoked with directions, annunciations of what character the reader would see in Nwabulu, say after Nnabuzo wished for Ezechitoke’s care for her: “I nodded solemnly. Later, I would remember hugging Nnabuzo, holding on tight, memorizing his thin frame and the tobacco snuff smell of him, before Mama Nkemdilim pulled me away, saying that we had a long way to go to get to the bus. It was the last time I ever saw him.” P.17 |
3
I had a brief argument few months ago about the perpetuity of Igbo words and setting in African novels such that Enugu, Ndo, Nwanne, etc, have begun to sound almost English. And italicization of ‘non native’ words are gradually extinct. Whether it was intentional is another question, yet the question of representation inexorably surfaces. What Nigeria’s (or African), and ex-colony, English language should connote since linguistic import from, and to mishmash in, the two cultures-- the Nigerian and its linguistic nuances, and the colonizers’-- will be unachievable. Hence, the unity of the aforementioned linguistics rules become, what we know as, the African English. And Cheluchi owned the Africanness of it. Her dexterity, and her calling out the reader from conservative reading to active investigation, is commendable.
4
Nwabulu and Julie, women from high and low economic and social class, are polarization of the feminine struggle (especially in third-world countries), childhood trauma, especially as a female child—with this, I thought ‘Daddy’’s rape escapade would be uncovered but it wasn’t, which I find a realistic thing Cheluchi did, because everyday rapists parade the streets, free, and in most cases are reintegrated into less complicate societies—
The novel is also an exposition into the African world where oppressive culture always wins, mostly to the mishap of the subordinate gender. Hence, the subordinate seek solace in resistance. Consequently, throughout the story, we see Nwabulu as not only a defense mechanism against androcentrism in the light of liberal feminism, but also marriable to distinguish liberalism as not the basis of pragmatic feminism.
Cheluchi’s experimentation with the polyperspective style, as a debutant, is daring, and delicate. This delicateness is managed bravely throughout the book, especially in the patriarchal context of Nigeria, and almost is archetypal of preceding texts—Okparanta’s Under The Udala Trees, Unigwe’s On Black Sisters Street, etc—and that would have continued if the characters had been predictable. For example, we assume Nwabulu’s to and fro from Urenna’s family but her parting was permanent and, as for later, she said: I thought of Urenna, who did not know that he had a child, who did not care. And, for a second, I was glad that Ezinwa had had a father who cared about him. P.201
Albeit, single-parenting was inevitable, which begs the question of the Nigeria case and Cheluchi’s personality as a gender rights lawyer. Writers in the last few decades have used artistry to portray importance of women in social governance and their plight under patriarchy; in Chimamanda’s Purple Hibiscus, we see a recluse Kambili; in Ayobami Adebayo’s Stay With Me, we encounter Yejide, a similar character to Julie, who relinquish to the pressure of having a child to solidify their permanence in marriage.
Bordering between the concept of womanism and feminism, critics subscribe to womanism, and not feminism because to most, ‘feminism is evil and do not allow female marriages.’ This literature do not explain the spectrum of wo-feminism but attempts a constructive criticism of the system, whilst bringing the reader to a dilemma—an epiphany—where Cheluchi creates an intellectual environment for the discussion of topics mentioned above; that somehow, the fight against patriarchy will always be constant in that the feminine would always be confined to discuss their victimization under such patriarchal practices.
Patriarchy in political Nigeria is ever present. For example, the Nigeria government, though imposed a lockdown and implored residents to shelter-in-place from the Covid-19 pandemic, it created no avenue for violence against women and children. Possible evidence of this, was that the government excluded the Ministry of Women Affairs, NGOs and other women-focused organizations from the Presidential Covid-19 task force and from the government’s general planning and decision making, Cynthia Igodo wrote in The Republic.
The novel is also an exposition into the African world where oppressive culture always wins, mostly to the mishap of the subordinate gender. Hence, the subordinate seek solace in resistance. Consequently, throughout the story, we see Nwabulu as not only a defense mechanism against androcentrism in the light of liberal feminism, but also marriable to distinguish liberalism as not the basis of pragmatic feminism.
Cheluchi’s experimentation with the polyperspective style, as a debutant, is daring, and delicate. This delicateness is managed bravely throughout the book, especially in the patriarchal context of Nigeria, and almost is archetypal of preceding texts—Okparanta’s Under The Udala Trees, Unigwe’s On Black Sisters Street, etc—and that would have continued if the characters had been predictable. For example, we assume Nwabulu’s to and fro from Urenna’s family but her parting was permanent and, as for later, she said: I thought of Urenna, who did not know that he had a child, who did not care. And, for a second, I was glad that Ezinwa had had a father who cared about him. P.201
Albeit, single-parenting was inevitable, which begs the question of the Nigeria case and Cheluchi’s personality as a gender rights lawyer. Writers in the last few decades have used artistry to portray importance of women in social governance and their plight under patriarchy; in Chimamanda’s Purple Hibiscus, we see a recluse Kambili; in Ayobami Adebayo’s Stay With Me, we encounter Yejide, a similar character to Julie, who relinquish to the pressure of having a child to solidify their permanence in marriage.
Bordering between the concept of womanism and feminism, critics subscribe to womanism, and not feminism because to most, ‘feminism is evil and do not allow female marriages.’ This literature do not explain the spectrum of wo-feminism but attempts a constructive criticism of the system, whilst bringing the reader to a dilemma—an epiphany—where Cheluchi creates an intellectual environment for the discussion of topics mentioned above; that somehow, the fight against patriarchy will always be constant in that the feminine would always be confined to discuss their victimization under such patriarchal practices.
Patriarchy in political Nigeria is ever present. For example, the Nigeria government, though imposed a lockdown and implored residents to shelter-in-place from the Covid-19 pandemic, it created no avenue for violence against women and children. Possible evidence of this, was that the government excluded the Ministry of Women Affairs, NGOs and other women-focused organizations from the Presidential Covid-19 task force and from the government’s general planning and decision making, Cynthia Igodo wrote in The Republic.
***
Julie is a woman in her early 30s yet to get married. She gets pressured, then she fakes pregnancy to marry Eugene in high hopes of giving birth to a son—of the house—though to her, something—anything—to cement her permanence in Eugene’s house to earn the title of Mother would be non-negotiable.
Months passed by, worrying she ought to get pregnant, she faked a miscarriage. Hence, Eugene’s family found a window to pressurize her and, ironically, Obiageli—and her aunt, Mama Nathan, who had stolen Nwabulu’s son—was there to comfort her, then to gift her ‘the son of the house’—Ezinwa. Julie became Nwabulu’s son’s caretaker, until the kidnap—the story’s catastasis—when ‘Nwabulu’s story ignited the fire’ of, what I believe not just to be the reclaiming of ‘son of the house’(Ezinwa), but the realization of the feminine communal struggle against sociopolitical failure, (the kidnapping, for example) and the realization of their joint struggle itself.
Albeit, why Nwabulu’s story ‘ignited the fire’ also begs the question of whether femininity is unpopular in the lower class; or whether economic buoyancy is a factor that determines feminism, liberal feminism, and all forms of liberalization struggles. Thus, is economic health a factor for all human struggles? And, what should gender liberalization mean for underdeveloped states—? Perhaps, perhaps not. What remained constant is, that, Julie and Nwabulu were not different people, but the same coin of two sides: the growth through trauma, molestation, (1972, 1973), and the complexity of managing marital crisis by the feminine: the want for marital permanence (see, Julie), single-parenting, and left-wing reassignment of gender roles. For example, when Emma, Obiageli’s husband, refused to buy a generator during general electricity outbreak, which Obiageli sees as ‘[his] responsibility’:
“Obiageli gave in, abandoned her stance that it was the responsibility of a man to ensure that his family did not stay in darkness, and bought a generator.” P. 152.
Months passed by, worrying she ought to get pregnant, she faked a miscarriage. Hence, Eugene’s family found a window to pressurize her and, ironically, Obiageli—and her aunt, Mama Nathan, who had stolen Nwabulu’s son—was there to comfort her, then to gift her ‘the son of the house’—Ezinwa. Julie became Nwabulu’s son’s caretaker, until the kidnap—the story’s catastasis—when ‘Nwabulu’s story ignited the fire’ of, what I believe not just to be the reclaiming of ‘son of the house’(Ezinwa), but the realization of the feminine communal struggle against sociopolitical failure, (the kidnapping, for example) and the realization of their joint struggle itself.
Albeit, why Nwabulu’s story ‘ignited the fire’ also begs the question of whether femininity is unpopular in the lower class; or whether economic buoyancy is a factor that determines feminism, liberal feminism, and all forms of liberalization struggles. Thus, is economic health a factor for all human struggles? And, what should gender liberalization mean for underdeveloped states—? Perhaps, perhaps not. What remained constant is, that, Julie and Nwabulu were not different people, but the same coin of two sides: the growth through trauma, molestation, (1972, 1973), and the complexity of managing marital crisis by the feminine: the want for marital permanence (see, Julie), single-parenting, and left-wing reassignment of gender roles. For example, when Emma, Obiageli’s husband, refused to buy a generator during general electricity outbreak, which Obiageli sees as ‘[his] responsibility’:
“Obiageli gave in, abandoned her stance that it was the responsibility of a man to ensure that his family did not stay in darkness, and bought a generator.” P. 152.
5
Feminism has been obfuscated several times, often misconstrued with ‘apathy to marriage’, albeit wrong, the belief has fostered and, to some extent, facilitated gender violence—ironically, on both sides. And I find it obscene that in 2021 the topic of gender oppression is still rife in Nigeria, that independence of the feminine is still seen as a co-factor with being a housewife—even if, of recent, married women are lawyers, bankers, business moguls, the debilitating aspects of tradition are still held on to. So we have women who are pressured about childbirth—even when the men have low sperm count—and women, like Julie, who put up a façade for marital permanence, and women, who are expected to bury their heads when their husbands speak (because, ‘it is a sign of disrespect’) even when the husband is obviously wrong. And, in this century, the feminist suffers her leverage of disrespect, whether married or unmarried-- you become rude when you are even brilliant; you are expected to stay ‘unmarried’ — because when you do so, people see you as a womanist, or they snigger at your husband because they think you make him mop the floor, cook Onugbu or Edikaikong and make him change the diapers.
Feminism has been seen as an attempt to switch gender roles, and as intrinsic with LGBTQIA+ society, as, conclusively, the enemy-of-my-enemy verbatim vividly applies here. Cheluchi maintained an apathy to feminism and the LGBTQIA+, staggering equidistance to its cause and effect.
What really is the cause of feminism? What does apathy from feminism mean for the average Nigerian woman? Why, even with the two main religion forbidding women ‘to speak in public’, do we see women who do exactly so, and who profess their religious inclination? The Son of the House gives an empathetic cause, as Akwaeke Emezi did with Death of Vivek Oji for the LGBTQIA+, and concludes her story, subtly I see, that Nigeria need an even safer intellectual environment—voluntarily or otherwise—to discuss the importance of all Nigerians becoming feminists, or realizing the perpetual evils of patriarchy. In consequence, the topic of polygamy sets in—the factors, and consequences, for the individual and the society: how does Polygamy contribute to population explosion? Why, of all things, polygamy is not illegal or ‘a social sin’, whilst there are ‘parameters’ to the practice of liberalism—?
Feminism has been seen as an attempt to switch gender roles, and as intrinsic with LGBTQIA+ society, as, conclusively, the enemy-of-my-enemy verbatim vividly applies here. Cheluchi maintained an apathy to feminism and the LGBTQIA+, staggering equidistance to its cause and effect.
What really is the cause of feminism? What does apathy from feminism mean for the average Nigerian woman? Why, even with the two main religion forbidding women ‘to speak in public’, do we see women who do exactly so, and who profess their religious inclination? The Son of the House gives an empathetic cause, as Akwaeke Emezi did with Death of Vivek Oji for the LGBTQIA+, and concludes her story, subtly I see, that Nigeria need an even safer intellectual environment—voluntarily or otherwise—to discuss the importance of all Nigerians becoming feminists, or realizing the perpetual evils of patriarchy. In consequence, the topic of polygamy sets in—the factors, and consequences, for the individual and the society: how does Polygamy contribute to population explosion? Why, of all things, polygamy is not illegal or ‘a social sin’, whilst there are ‘parameters’ to the practice of liberalism—?
6
Cheluchi questions the status quo with The Son of the House on the contribution of all facets of the community to communal growth—sexism, classism, etc. The high and low class has a responsibility to grow collectively, has a responsibility to their society, to themselves too and to people around them. Perhaps then we can create a safe intellectual environment where we can be semi-atheist with our conclusions, and devise an unsentimental politics, and can make general decisions independent of our unilateral proclivities or religious beliefs, to foster a stronger, bolder equitable society.