Interview by Uche Umezurike
Yejide Kilanko’s new novel A Good Name (Guernica Editions, 2021) explores the complexities of relationships, traditions, and masculinities. Uche Umezurike sits down with the author to discuss the process behind her work.
Uche Umezurike: A Good Name has been a long time coming. Do you feel like this is the right time to share the story of Nigerian immigrants with the world?
Yejide Kilanko: When I started writing the manuscript in 2010, younger, optimistic me thought that at the maximum, it would be a three-year journey from conception to publication. It seemed like a conservative bet. I had no idea that after some meandering, A Good Name would finally get a publishing deal in 2019, or that it would be published in 2021, right in the middle of a relentless pandemic. Its timing was entirely out of my control. The way I see things, it is always the right time to share all kinds of stories, including those about Nigerian immigrants struggling to survive and reinvent a home in Canada, the United States, Europe, or even in Asia. Stories are vehicles for our voices. They establish our presence in the world, invigorate, and set us free.
UU: The story of the female protagonist Zina is tragic. African spouses who long to transform each other into a cash cow is a common story among immigrant communities. What do stories such as this tell us about the quest for the perfect American life?
YK: These stories tell us that there is no such thing as the perfect American life. They reinforce the fact that everything in life comes with a cost; it could be financial, emotional, or both. The bottom line is someone is being voluntarily or involuntarily milked to pay the tab. I’ve lived in Canada for over seventeen years, and I can say that there is no perfect Canadian life either. There are those who feel that African women such as Zina, who marry men living in the diaspora like Eziafa, are complicit in their tragedies. Even as I acknowledge the importance of caution, I can empathize with the need for safety, for stability. To quote Warsan Shire, one of my favourite poets, when “home is the mouth of a shark,” it makes sense that people run desperately towards shiny illusions.
UU: Naming seems a salient feature in A Good Name, though the male protagonist Eziafa rarely lives up to his name. Eziafa even dreams up names for his unborn children—then there is Raven, who strikes me as peculiar. How do you go about deciding what to name your characters?
YK: Character naming is a crucial part of my writing process. I can’t start a story without a title to guide my way. This comes from my identity as a Yoruba woman. For Yoruba people, the collaborative process of naming a child is not taken lightly. We believe that names shape personalities and destinies. The names I choose for my characters are often rooted in my beliefs and hopes for them. Sometimes, they are a nod to a physical characteristic or personality trait. It is not unusual for me to change character names as the plot unfolds, and I gain better insight into goals and motivations. Raven’s name was informed by two things: his hair colour, and the misconception that he was a predator.
UU: Eziafa is torn between having to fulfill paternal legacy and personal aspirations. This tension also reflects his struggles with masculinity and insecurities, and he appears oblivious to the misery he has wreaked on Zina. I’d like to hear your thoughts about the connection between masculinity and tradition.
YK: First of all, I have to say that Eziafa was not totally oblivious to the misery his expectations wreaked on Zina. His toxic masculinity, shaped by patriarchal traditions imbibed from home and selfish personal aspirations, demanded that Zina stoically bear their crushing weight—just like he endured the weight of his family’s demands. On the connection between masculinity and tradition, it is established that community traditions shape gender identities and roles. And in patriarchal societies, notions of masculinity are dominant. A manly man is king. Sadly, men who wish to buck toxic masculinity are often shamed into conformity, while the women adversely impacted by these traditional norms actively uphold a harmful status quo. A popular Yoruba saying goes like this, kí a ṣe bí a ṣe nṣé, kó ba lè rí bí ó ti nrí. Translation: Let’s do things the way they’ve always been done, so that things remain the way they’ve always been. As a child, I saw the saying as an argument for cultural preservation and order maintenance. While it is important to preserve certain life-affirming values, we must work to disrupt insidious beliefs and traditions that can further the dehumanization of men and women in society.
UU: I find the briskness of your prose and its terse dialogues captivating—yet this device belies the complexities of human emotion you depict in your novel. What informed this choice of rhythm for you?
YK: Thanks for the kind compliment. I’m a fast talker, I process information quickly, and I’ve found that these attributes shape my prose. Because I enjoy a good banter, I love, love writing dialogue. Perhaps a little too much. My dialogue’s terse quality comes from years of breaking down complex concepts such as trauma or attachment disorder during talk therapy sessions in ways that children as young as six can grasp. For them, less is indeed more. And I agree with that.
UU: Can you talk a little about the playlist you shared on social media, and what role music played during your writing of A Good Name?
YK: I wanted to offer my readers a behind-the-scenes peek into the creation of A Good Name. Listening to music plays a huge role in my daily self-care routine, and it’s that one thing I need when I’m writing. Prolonged silence fills itself with distracting thoughts. I can write anywhere, at any time, on my tablet, in a notebook, on the back of a grocery receipt—but when creating crucial scenes, I need to tap into the ethos of a selected song. The fourteen songs on A Good Name’s playlist are a mix of musical genres. What I listened to as I wrote depended on what the characters needed for that day. If I had to pick a favourite from the list, it would be a toss-up between “With You I’m Born Again” by Billy Preston and Syreeta Wright, and “Book of Job” by Nneka. Readers can access the playlist on YouTube by clicking on this link.
UU: Finally, Nigerian writing appears to be garnering some attention in Canada. Cheluchi Onyemelukwe-Onuobia is on the 2021 Scotiabank Giller Prize; Irehobhude Iyioh and Vincent Anioke were on the longlist of the 2021 CBC Short Story Contest, while Kayode Ajayi made the 2021 CBC Nonfiction Contest longlist. How do you feel about this moment?
YK: My feelings are a mix of intense pride, excitement, and hope. Representation matters, and these wins reinforce that there is room for Nigerian writing to belong and thrive in what I call the grand tapestry of Canadian literature (see my review on 49th Shelf). To many more.
Yejide Kilanko lives in Ontario, Canada, where she practices as a social worker. Kilanko’s debut novel, Daughters Who Walk This Path, is a Canadian national bestseller. The novel was longlisted for the 2016 Nigeria Literature Prize. Kilanko’s work includes a novella, Chasing Butterflies, two children’s picture books, There Is An Elephant In My Wardrobe, and Juba and The Fireball. Her latest novel, A Good Name, is out now. When she’s not busy with life, you’ll find Kilanko online playing simultaneous games of Scrabble.
Uche Peter Umezurike holds a PhD in English from the University of Alberta, Canada. An alumnus of the International Writing Program (USA), Umezurike is a co-editor of Wreaths for Wayfarers, an anthology of poems. His books Wish Maker (a children’s book) and Double Wahala, Double Trouble (a short story collection) are forthcoming from Masobe Books, Nigeria and Griots Lounge Publishing, Canada, respectively, in fall 2021.