GraceLand: Final Thoughts

"There was a message in it all somewhere, he mused a point to the chaos. Bu no matter how hard he tried, the meaning always seemed to be out there somewhere beyond his reach, mocking him" (307).

This project was not only a much larger time investment than I could have imagined, but it was equally as much work as it was rewarding. I found myself enjoying the novel much more since I was focusing on smaller chunks of the text, teasing out more detail than I regularly would have. Additionally, writing as I went made me consider things differently than if I had attempted to write one long paper on the book retrospectively. Abani's narrative was as dark as it was beautiful, and the words would sometimes wind themselves into vivid strands of poetry, just to transition into gruesome, unsentimental instances of violence. Upon finishing the book for the second time, I was left with even less of a feeling of hope, but that doesn't bother me. The passage I know that Abani was faithful to his characters by ending it the way he did. I think the above passage indicates perfectly how the novel felt as a whole.

GraceLand

The meaning of the title has several direct and indirect connotations, causing a certain ambiguity that ends up fitting the novel in a very appropriate way. For instance, the song is clearly a reference to Elvis Presley, of whom Elvis Oke is the namesake. But Presley's Graceland is a relic of dated pop iconography, kitsch, and even a gift shop. Graceland comes to be a kind of monolith of bad taste in the American cultural landscape. Nonetheless, it is an important aspect of mass media culture, which America has exported to an incredible degree. 
The other reference that comes to mind is one Abani must certainly have been aware of (Abani is a musician himself), which is the Paul Simon album and song of the same title (below). The lyrics are bittersweet, cataloguing a trip Simon is taking to visit Presley's Graceland Estate. What makes this album especially relevant is the incorporation of several South African musicians, including the group Ladysmith Black Mambazo. The album was recorded in South Africa in 1986, and included many African references and music styles, including Isicathamiya and Mbaqanga (Zulu). This particular reference indicates the notion of cultural fluidity, and that cultural import and export rarely goes one way. The references pile up: Elvis carries the name he does, which relates to Presley's Graceland, but the African aspects of Paul Simon's Graceland point to both Oke and Presley, and visa versa. The confusion is an effective indicator that culture doesn't truly belong to any one group of people. 

Redemption

"Elvis stepped forward and spoke. 'Yes, this is Redemption'" (321). 

I intentionally saved the discussion of Redemption's name for the end. Redemption seemed always to be trying to earn his name, but always doing it in the wrong way. He tried to help Elvis out of each bad situation he came across, from start to finish, but always ended up doing the right thing the wrong way. From getting Elvis involved in drug trafficking, and eventually human trafficking, Redemption seemed to be more trouble than help, but his intentions were often good. Finally at the end, Redemption gives Elvis his passport as a final act of redemption. By passing his identity on to Elvis, however, an interesting shift happens. The name takes on a new meaning in the hands of Elvis, and as he boards the plane he says, "Yes, this is Redemption." Clearly, this is pointing at the fact that Elvis is given a new identity, and therefore a new chance to save—that is, redeem—himself. I think Redemption recognized that Elvis simply wasn't cut out of life in Lagos, and that he didn't hadn't hardened himself enough to survive much longer in Lagos. Furthermore, Redemption realized that Lagos was his home, and he was holding onto the passport "for dream," instead of intending to actually go to America (317).
Elvis leaving the country shouldn't be viewed as an abandonment, however. In fact, Elvis protests, saying, "But this country is just as good as America" (318). The departure should be seen as an act of self-preservation, instead of as Elvis giving his country up.

GraceLand as a Bildungsroman

As far as a coming-of-age novel, GraceLand is not a typical one. Though Elvis certainly does age and change, the transformation is not fully realized. Instead he leaves for America, where the true coming-of-age will have to take place. In a way, it is as if the novel suggests that there is not such thing as one instant that creates an adult from a youth. Instead it is a steady progression of events. Even if it is Elvis' story, it is also a kind of bildungsroman for Sunday, and perhaps even Nigeria. Particularly at the end, Sunday makes an effort to regain his pride and self-worth by standing up for Maroko, looking out for Elvis, and fighting for his own rights. Perhaps Abani is calling for a kind of "maturation" for Nigeria, where the country, like Sunday, must learn to take care of itself, as well as it's sons and daughters.

Rethinking Magic

"Sunday roared, leapt out of his body and charged at the back of the policeman, his paw delivering a fatal blow to the back of the policeman's head. With a rasping cough, Sunday disappeared into the night" (286).

Upon revisiting the time of Sunday's death, I couldn't help but think my assessment of magic in GraceLand had been somewhat off. Perhaps Nigerian culture has less of an emphasis or believe in magic, and Abani was using it more for purposes non-didactic. After all, this is certainly a work of fiction. The scene where Beatrice and the totem jaguar appear before Sunday proves more to be a simple hallucination, and instead a powerful moment of magical realism in the text. To see Sunday spring up from his dead body and kill the policeman in retaliation was rewarding, and the use of the word "paw" indicates that it wasn't Sunday in the normal physical sense, but more of the spirit of Sunday. I took it to be more of a symbol than an actual happening in the story at first, but when Elvis discovers the torn-up head of the policeman, he mentions that it looked like the work of a large animal. This all adds up to a strange break in form, since all of the following story had been realistic. I can't help but question the powers of the wizards and Oye in the story, though it doesn't make a large difference at this point.

"Helplessness Blues"

"I don't have a choice, Elvis. When de muse calls, you obey" (275). 

The above excerpt is George explaining the reason why he has chosen the life on the road with the Joking Jaguars. The undertone is obvious; George doesn't feel like he has the choice to play music. Instead, he and his fellow musicians are forced by the "itch" they experience. This explanation precedes Elvis' realization that only a few men at the head of the government are in control of their fate, and Elvis is overtaken by sadness and a sense of a similar helplessness. "He looked up at the sky. It was beautiful. Stars. Like so much sand" (281). Elvis is clearly touched by a sense of insignificance to couple his feeling of powerlessness. When Elvis weakly asks why nobody has done anything about it, George answers simply, "Who want to die?" (281). The feeling of the road wearing on Elvis, along with his newfound sense of helplessness has gotten the better of Elvis for a moment, and the fact that the Colonel has a hit on him doesn't ease his mind. In this passage, the Bildungsroman element of the book blossoms more than ever before, which I will discuss later. For now, I'd like to leave it at this particularly relevant song by Seattle folk rock band, Fleet Foxes, titled "Helplessness Blues."

Magic Revisited

It was mentioned that Jagua, a practicing druid, was previously seen as something of a phony; "Everyone pooh-poohed Jagua's druidic philosophy and magic spells" (253), but after casting an apparently-effective spell upon Confidence, he was taken more seriously. Oye had also been revered for her magical abilities, but I hadn't realized that there was as much belief in magic in the Nigerian culture as when the police arrested the two wizards hurling spells at the bulldozer. The fact that the police chief would even consider this to be a possibility is strange to me, because the belief in magic—at least this kind of magic—is so widely dismissed as silly. However, there seems to be a lasting belief in magic in 1980s Nigerian culture that I would not have expected. I know that shamans are widely accepted as legitimate practitioners in many cultures, but there is a difference between the shamanic worldview and pure magic. According to Professor Robert McKinley, a professor of Shamanism  and the Sacred Journey at Michigan State University, a shaman is one who practices "cosmic- or soul-journey," which is a transcendental experience. Instead, Jagua, Oye, and the other practicers of magic cast spells and conduct healing. This is not a criticism; I can certainly see parallels between this kind of magic and various popular religious rituals, but I couldn't help but be surprised.

Maroko as a Principle

By preventing the government from tearing the slum down, Sunday was given a new chance to lead. The resistance  however, was both a defeat and a victory. Sunday realized that there would be no changing the minds of the government's decision to tear down Maroko, but he felt he needed to stand up for his and his community's rights. Though the demolition was postponed for another day, one man was shot, Jagua was injured, and two of the other wizards were arrested. "Had it been worth it? was any of this worth any principle? Sunday was not so sure anymore. Sighing, he walked past Freedom and Confidence into the tenement" (272). It is even unclear to Sunday whether or not he should have lead the resistance at all. The powerful symbol of walking pas Freedom and Confidence is an interesting way of framing the scene. The figurative powers of their names are not only their own, but create a relationship to others, which is an aspect about the power of naming I had not considered until this scene. To be left with an image of the children playing a new game of "who could jump over the still-burning barricade" (272) is very interesting as well. Fire has both a destructive and regenerative power, and children playing with the fire is an odd symbol. It leaves me with an odd sense of hope for the people of Maroko, but it's a strangely sad image nonetheless, leaving this chapter with a bazaar sense of beauty.

Sunday's Second Chance

With the news of the government wanting to tear Maroko down, Sunday is given the chance to be a leader in the resistance. I had been trying to figure out the connection between Sunday and his name, and a few pieces have started to come together. Firstly, names are often given according to the day of the week one is born on in the Akan tradition, an ethnic group from western Africa. Here is a link to the Akan calendar and some clarifications on the naming system. The choice to name him Sunday, instead of one of the traditional, or even Igbo names shows that even the earlier generations were heavily effected by westernization. Additionally, Sunday is considered the day of the Lord in the Christian tradition, which is suggestive of the notion of paternity, mixed with the strong presence of Christianity in Nigerian culture. This day is also the day of rest, and Sunday is unemployed, which muddles the connotation even more, but Abani has been consistently ambiguous throughout the novel, so I wouldn't expect anything less of him when naming one of the main characters.

Recombination of Narrative

In Book II, the narrative recombines itself into a single consistent story-line. At the same time, the events cause Elvis to feel almost schizophrenic. "Elvis was silent. He stared out of the window, but kept seeing the heads in the iced cooler. He felt strange, like there were two parts of him, each watching the other, each each unsure. He watched from another place as his hands trembled and his left eye twitched uncontrollably" (242). The division of the self coupled with the unification of the plot line seems to be an emphasis of the present, and how one interacts with the so-called "here and now." Elvis is stuck feeling like he's watching himself, and is somehow somewhere other than where he is, which confronts the issue of time and space, but relative to the notion of identity. What those "two parts" Elvis describes are undefined, but I can't help but see the division of self as an issue of the past, which has made him who he is, in direct conflict with the events of the present.

Casual Violence in Lagos

"As he climbed into the truck, Elvis was shaking. This scene had affected him more than anything else he had seen, though he wasn't sure why. maybe it was the cumulative effect of all the horror he had witnessed; there was only so much a soul could take. As they drove off, Elvis watched the spreading fire through the tinted glass. It was horrifying, yet strangely beautiful" (228). 

Book II begins with the one of the more unsettling scenes in GraceLand.  The scene of Elvis and Redemption eating at the Buka in Lagos was one of the more graphic depictions of violence and vigilante justice of the novel, and was perhaps even more disturbing than when the clothing seller jumped into the fire. The issue of morality is a constant struggle for Elvis, and he feels paralyzed in a situation like this. He knows that what he is seeing is wrong, and he wants to help the man, regardless of whether or not he is a thief. Elvis realizes that he is doing something wrong by dealing drugs and especially working for the Colonel, but can't see any other way of getting out of the place in which he is stuck. The final paragraph (above) reflects how Elvis can't take much more of the depravity of Lagos, which alludes to the book's conclusion. Additionally, it seems to suggest that if something isn't done and a stand isn't taken, the "fire" can spread quickly.

Rehashing: Memory and Time

I am not at the end of Book I, so it seems appropriate to take the time to evaluate the structure of the novel thus far.


The entire structure of the novel works as exploration of time and memory. The story-line of the novel is split into two parallel stories, which I will call section A and section B, but also littered with cultural artifacts and signifiers, recipes, and excerpts from other texts. Section A is the story that begins the novel in 1983, where Elvis is 16 and living in Lagos. The following chapter marks the beginning of Section B, with Elvis still living in his home town. At this point, his mother is alive, but that changes as Section B's story line progresses. It's important to note that Section B is told in a much less linear fashion than Section A, and for that reason, it may not even be entirely appropriate to designate it as a section unto itself. However, section A follows a much more structured time line, which keeps the novel from falling into disjointedness.


This is a similar way to how memory is reproduced, in that it isn't a linear process. Instead, recollections weave themselves in and out of each other and call other memories to the front of their mind in their place. The cultural entries that bookend the chapters provide even more structure to the novel, while simultaneous splitting the narrative even more. They end up providing a more traditional sense of history; a man-made "factual" reproduction, giving the novel a sense of comparison between institutionalized cultural memory and personal recollection.

War and Religion

"There is only one God in war: the gun. One religion: genocide" (211). 

Chapter 20's startlingly dark vignette of the then 13-year-old Innocent's involvement in the Nigerian-Biafran war is so heavily inundated with religious inflections and content, it is difficult to keep up with whether or not religion, and specifically Christianity is being treated as a positive thing. The image of the Madonna weeping bullet holes whose arms were "folded over her Immaculate heart [to keep it] from flying out of her chest" (209) paints a painfully sad picture of what had happened at the church, but as we see into Innocent's thoughts, we see a more jaded interpretation of the events. "He looked at the dead bodies. They had probably converged on the church compound believing they would be safe here, protected by God's benevolence and man's reputed fear of Him. How wrong they had been! He could have told them that" (211). These contradicting tones, coupled with the convoluted lines between the "good" and "bad" guys seems to be less a condemnation of one or the other, but instead a critique on absolutism. 

Innocent

Innocent's name is clearly loaded with meaning, but it becomes difficult to delineate the irony from the sincerity of his name. It becomes the most complicated in chapter 20, when Innocent confides in Elvis about his role in the war. "Well, dat time na rough time. I was only a child, you know" (209). He says it to Elvis more as a confirmation to himself that he shouldn't be held responsible for what he had been a part of. As he mentions, he was enticed by political idealism of the rebel army, but soon became disillusioned by the horrific violence and sexual deprivation, including the destruction of a church, murder of the congregation, and the rape of two nuns. The question becomes whether or not Innocent deserves his name. on the one hand, he was young when he entered the army, apparently seduced by the idea of change. Additionally, it's clear that he didn't want to participate in the more horrific acts. However, the notion of innocence is still up for debate. If one participates in a war, can one really be considered innocent? Even complacency may be grounds for guilt, so in the question of genocide, the question remains if Innocence is even possible. 

Bifurcation of Narration

"We have always done things this way" (172).

This passage is a bit more oblique than the previous passages have been, but is in the place that the kola nut entries usually are, so I can only assume it is in reference to the kola nut. It is difficult to determine the tone that is being used in this passage, and its general intent is unclear. Perhaps it is used as a tool to signify to the reader that the voice of the kola nut entries is not the voice of the author or the narrator that narrates the rest of the story. This is an indication that the narrator is somehow a bifurcated personality, or there are two narrators. This element gives the secondary author (which is what I will call the voice of the kola nut passage) an air of authority; the voice is one that imparts knowledge. This passage, however, ties the traditional to the older generation, by saying "We" and "always" points to the idea that the youth are disconnected from the past, be it a good or bad thing.

Magic's Potency

"They are sorcerers beyond power. They are the star's end; they are the star's beginning (128)

This passage suggests that magic is highly regarded in Nigerian culture as something very much real and powerful. With the strong emphasis placed on the Kola nut, to suggest that the sorcerers have the power to end and begin such a power symbol is to suggest that they do indeed possess a certain power. Who these sorcerers are is unclear, and this particular passage marks the beginning of more and more oblique passages at the beginnings of chapters.


The element of magic, and especially Oye's magical powers as a witch, surface throughout GraceLand in various locations. It is difficult to tell exactly where science, religion, and superstition intersect in the culture of Lagos, but it all has its place, and there is different emphases on the three elements of belief at different times. Oye, who certainly believes herself to be a powerful witch, says herself that magic isn't appropriate at all time. When Elvis asks her why she doesn't speak to her turtles when other people are around, she responds, "Because I know tha difference between a gift and insanity" (103). The degree of intentional irony is unclear, but it is clear that Nigerian culture doesn't believe that magic is dominant and unquestionable. Still, there is a high degree of respect and fear for Oye because of her supposed powers, and even some of the political thugs around the house during Sunday's elections were frightened of her. 

Elvis and Sunday

Sunday has been a rather unsympathetic character throughout the novel, spending most of the time either drunk, abusive, or both. The first substantial glimpse of sympathy towards Sunday, however, occurs at the beginning of chapter 19. "Sunday Oke woke with a start. It was not a noise that woke him. Nor was it the silence. It was something moving between, deep inside him" (201). The beginning of this chapter is different from all of the previous, in that it starts with the third-person omniscient narrator focalized through Sunday. It isn't strictly the content of the chapter that leads me to empathize, or even the way Sunday seems genuinely concerned for Elvis' well-being. Instead, it is the structure of the chapter. Sunday is described at the beginning in the following way: 


"He got up, swinging skinny legs out of bed, flesh wrinkled and sagging...He slept naked, and his sex swung pudnulous and full, heavy with regret for a life of too much sex and not enough love...He peed, staring at the amber liquid collecting in the bowl as though he expected to divine what had woken him. As he poured the bucket of water in to flush it, he flet like his life was going down the drain" (202).


 This paragraph is so densely loaded with symbols and images, that the metaphors entwine themselves within each other, adding to the grogginess of the morning, mixed with the knowledge that Elvis had been raped without his father knowing. The reference to his erection and loveless sex is a pointer towards his deeply internalized sense of masculinity, but by the end of the chapter, Sunday is entirely helpless. Elvis no longer fears or respects his father, and doesn't believe his father is of any use or merit. The "instinctive" kiss on the head that Elvis leaves Sunday with on his bald spot is not only an unintentionally and emasculating gesture, but also a sign of the age Sunday feels. 

Elvis and Makeup

"'Okay,' [Elvis] said sitting on the edge of the bed, watching [Felicia] put on her makeup, fascinated by the deep flake of her powder-patted cheeks, the cherry pout of her lips and the heavy blue eye shadow that made her look older. He was amazed not just at how much makeup made her aware of herself, but by how much he wanted to wear that mask" (173). 

There are several instances when Elvis mentions makeup and identity change throughout GraceLand, but this is as explicit as the narrator has been thus far. There is certainly a strong tie to makeup and sexuality, but what draws Elvis to the makeup is not strictly the feminine aspects of it. Elvis instead desires both the aesthetic of makeup, as well as the transformative process that it has on identity. Elvis enjoys wearing makeup in the early part of the novel, but since he no longer works as an Elvis impersonator, he no longer gets the chance. He realizes that he could wear makeup in public if he wanted, but he would be putting himself at the same risk that transexual prostitutes face. His desire for makeup is much less a sexually transgressive desire, but more of a desire for constructed, controlled external identity.

Recipes

All these recipes, and yet nobody he knew cooked from recipes. That was something actors did on television and in the movies: white women with stiff clothes and crisp-looking aprons and perfect hair who never sweated as they ran around doing housework for the husbands they called "hon." (146)

This particular passage severely complicates two aspects of GraceLand. First, if nobody cooks using recipes in Lagos, why has Elvis' mother chosen to write so many down in her diary she wrote for Elvis? Second, why are their recipes included in the novel itself? 

Perhaps the reason Elvis' mother chooses to write her recipes down is because she acknowledges the erosion of traditional Lagos culture. Food is a definitive part of any culture, and there are always cultural notes included in the recipes. The problem with this idea is that the recipes in themselves exist outside of their own culture, and instead rest inside the imported perception of American culture. In this sense, maybe the entries are a way of bridging the two cultures for Elvis, since she knew she would not be around to do it for him. If the reader views these recipes in this sense, and considers the cultural notes to be a supplementary tool geared towards the same ends, then perhaps Elvis' mother knew he was not made for Lagos life. That is, maybe she was providing him with a bridge not extending from America to Lagos, but instead from Lagos to America (or at least anywhere that isn't Lagos).

If one thinks of the recipes as a cultural bond to Elvis' home, then perhaps the entries work the same way for the foreign reader, as I have suggested in an earlier post. Perhaps the entries and recipes are to function as a channel so that the heritage and customs can move in two directions. After all, reading is a source of knowledge transfer, and there are no restrictions on how and what is to be shared.

Imported Identity

Barbara Kruger, "Untitled, (You are not Yourself)" 1981

Elvis is growing up in at a time where culture is very much a product of media, and most of the media influencing the culture is imported. Though the use of television is apparently rather slim, other forms of advertisement, imported pop music, and especially movies, are constantly bombarding Elvis and the people of his generation. It is worth noting that a portion art world, and particularly the American art scene, of the early 1980s was often referred to the Pictures Generation, with artists like Robert Longo, Cindy Sherman, Barbara Kruger, and Richard Prince, artists who often dealt with what it meant to be in a society so heavily driven by mass media and giant corporations, using information “from B-movies to dollhouses that served as training manuals for who and how to be” (Metropolitan Museum of Art). Similarly, Elvis has read so many books and viewed so many American films, his identity has been shaped to reflect those notions. So when Elvis sneaks out to watch American western films, and his friends begin to toss non-sequitur cliches around, “Somehow it all made sense to them, like some bizarre pig latin. And there was a power in the words that elevated them, made them part of something bigger” (150). That something bigger was a shared cultural experience, but an imported, idealized one. 

This particular view of identity and personality doesn’t entirely explain Lagos, though. Lagos has still retained some cultural identity original to the pre-colonial times, but is also informed by colonial practices (i.e. Christianity) that were established long ago. This notion also brings up the issue of the formation of culture and how it is viewed in relation to history. How can we say when one culture begins and another ends? Aren’t all cultures, to some degree, a hybrid of other cultures? Originality is an extremely difficult notion to put a finger on, especially when media and cultures are being distributed so swiftly and widely. The question becomes whether or not any of it is real, which is an exceedingly difficult question to answer. 

Elvis and Elvis

I’d like to focus more closely on Elvis’ name and it’s relationship to Elvis Presley. At the time Elvis was born, Elvis was still alive, but his image we currently have in our cultural memory is very different from what elvis looked and acted like towards the end of his life and career. Above are images from both his early career and his last performance. The Elvis we remember as a world culture is certainly the younger one, but the older Elvis certainly exists in our memory. Regardless of what Presley was towards his death, the image of the youthful, roguish Elvis persists in the cultural memory, and especially in the movies he produced. The problem is, the cultural references is an outdated one, and furthermore a presentation of an outdated, idealized image of America. This comes to represent and reflect the kind of globalized, imported culture that Lagos is. 

So what does that have to do with Elvis? Being named after an American Rock and Roll star draws a connection between Elvis of Lagos and Elvis Presley, and not only a cosmetic one. In fact, Elvis’ name has played a major roll in the development of Elvis’ identity. Without being named Elvis, it is likely that he would have never become an Elvis impersonator, which is one of the defining characteristics of Elvis. ALSO: An interesting link about African names imported into the American naming society. 

What's in a Name?

Elvis’ name is, of course, of great importance, but I’ve waited for a few entries to address the issue for a couple of reasons. One reason is that I wanted to wait until there was a bit more cultural and personal background provided in the story. Secondly, there is an important scene on page 105 between Elvis and Oye. 

Elvis’ name is obviously derivative of Elvis Presley, but his name connects him to much more than the King of Rock and Roll. His name was given to him by his parents, and more specifically, by his mother. Elvis’ memory of his mother had grown fuzzy, and “All of his memories of her were sketch and had been supplemented by the fantasies he built around the things he read in her journal” (104). When Oye mentions that his mother loved listening to Elvis Presley, Elvis asked, “So that is how I got my name” (105). Oye tosses him a stern look and reminds him not to be foolish, but Elvis says it as if he’d never realized that’s where his name came from. Therefore his name connects him to both the American Rock and Roll singer, and to his mother. 

But what does it mean to be the namesake of Elvis Presley? I’ll discuss this in the next post.