simply more interested in exploring the essence, the meaning, the worldview of both
religions. By approaching the issues of tradition, culture, literature, and language
of our ancient civilization in that manner, without judging but scrutinizing, a treasure
trove of discovery was opened up to me.
I often had periods of oscillating faith as I grew older, periods of doubt, when I
quietly pondered, and deeply questioned, the absolutist teachings or the interpretations
of religion. I struggled with the certitude of Christianity—“I am the Way, the Truth
and the Life”—not its accuracy, because as a writer one understands that there should
be such latitude, but the desolation, the acerbity of its meaning, the lack of options
for the outsider, the other. I believe that this question has subconsciously deeply
influenced my writing. This is not peculiar or particularly unique, as many writers,
from Du Bois to Camus, Sartre and Baldwin to Morrison, have also struggled with this
conundrum of the outsider, the other, in other ways, in their respective locales.
My father had a lot of praise for the missionaries and their message, and so do I.
I am a prime beneficiary of the education that the missionaries made a major component
of their enterprise. But I have also learned a little more skepticism about them than
my father had any need for. Does it matter, I ask myself, that centuries before European
Christians sailed down to us in ships to deliver the Gospel and save us from darkness,
other European Christians, also sailing in ships, delivered us to the transatlantic
slave trade and unleashed darkness in our world?
Every generation must recognize and embrace the task it is peculiarly designed by
history and by providence to perform. From where I stand now I can see the enormous
value of my great-uncle, Udoh Osinyi, and his example of fidelity. I also salute my
father, Isaiah Achebe, for the thirty-five years he served as a Christian evangelist
and for all the benefits his work, and the work of others like him, brought to our
people. My father’s great gift to me was his love of education and his recognition
that whether we look at one human family or we look at human society in general, growth
can come only incrementally.
A Primary Exposure
I began my formal education at St. Philip’s Central School, in 1936 or thereabout.
The school had pupils from Ogidi and the surrounding towns. Most who attended classes
there had to walk alone several miles every day to get to school. But things were
simpler and safer in those days, and there was never a story of child abductions or
any unsavory incidents that I can recall.
I enjoyed school a great deal and was a hardworking pupil. I remember looking forward
excitedly to new lessons and information from our teachers. Occasionally we received
instruction from individuals who were not on the staff of St. Philip’s. One particular,
humorous event stands out: On a hot and humid day during the wet season our geography
teacher decided to move our entire class outside to the cool shade of a large mango
tree. After setting up the blackboard he proceeded to give the class a lesson on the
geography of Great Britain. The village “madman” came by, and after standing and listening
to the teacher’s lesson for a short while, walked up to him, snatched the chalk from
his hand, wiped the blackboard, and proceeded to give us an extended lesson on Ogidi,
my hometown.
Amazingly, the teacher let all this take place without incident. Looking back, it
is instructive, in my estimation, that it was a so-called madman whose “clarity of
perspective” first identified the incongruity of our situation: that the pupils would
benefit not only from a colonial education but also by instruction about their own
history and civilization.
—
The headmaster of St. Philip’s Central School was a colorful, extraordinary Igbo
religions. By approaching the issues of tradition, culture, literature, and language
of our ancient civilization in that manner, without judging but scrutinizing, a treasure
trove of discovery was opened up to me.
I often had periods of oscillating faith as I grew older, periods of doubt, when I
quietly pondered, and deeply questioned, the absolutist teachings or the interpretations
of religion. I struggled with the certitude of Christianity—“I am the Way, the Truth
and the Life”—not its accuracy, because as a writer one understands that there should
be such latitude, but the desolation, the acerbity of its meaning, the lack of options
for the outsider, the other. I believe that this question has subconsciously deeply
influenced my writing. This is not peculiar or particularly unique, as many writers,
from Du Bois to Camus, Sartre and Baldwin to Morrison, have also struggled with this
conundrum of the outsider, the other, in other ways, in their respective locales.
My father had a lot of praise for the missionaries and their message, and so do I.
I am a prime beneficiary of the education that the missionaries made a major component
of their enterprise. But I have also learned a little more skepticism about them than
my father had any need for. Does it matter, I ask myself, that centuries before European
Christians sailed down to us in ships to deliver the Gospel and save us from darkness,
other European Christians, also sailing in ships, delivered us to the transatlantic
slave trade and unleashed darkness in our world?
Every generation must recognize and embrace the task it is peculiarly designed by
history and by providence to perform. From where I stand now I can see the enormous
value of my great-uncle, Udoh Osinyi, and his example of fidelity. I also salute my
father, Isaiah Achebe, for the thirty-five years he served as a Christian evangelist
and for all the benefits his work, and the work of others like him, brought to our
people. My father’s great gift to me was his love of education and his recognition
that whether we look at one human family or we look at human society in general, growth
can come only incrementally.
A Primary Exposure
I began my formal education at St. Philip’s Central School, in 1936 or thereabout.
The school had pupils from Ogidi and the surrounding towns. Most who attended classes
there had to walk alone several miles every day to get to school. But things were
simpler and safer in those days, and there was never a story of child abductions or
any unsavory incidents that I can recall.
I enjoyed school a great deal and was a hardworking pupil. I remember looking forward
excitedly to new lessons and information from our teachers. Occasionally we received
instruction from individuals who were not on the staff of St. Philip’s. One particular,
humorous event stands out: On a hot and humid day during the wet season our geography
teacher decided to move our entire class outside to the cool shade of a large mango
tree. After setting up the blackboard he proceeded to give the class a lesson on the
geography of Great Britain. The village “madman” came by, and after standing and listening
to the teacher’s lesson for a short while, walked up to him, snatched the chalk from
his hand, wiped the blackboard, and proceeded to give us an extended lesson on Ogidi,
my hometown.
Amazingly, the teacher let all this take place without incident. Looking back, it
is instructive, in my estimation, that it was a so-called madman whose “clarity of
perspective” first identified the incongruity of our situation: that the pupils would
benefit not only from a colonial education but also by instruction about their own
history and civilization.
—
The headmaster of St. Philip’s Central School was a colorful, extraordinary Igbo
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