The Comedy of Nigerian Novelists

Janitor Tobe Adeoyo trudged through the dimly lit halls of 50 East 34th Street. The clock had just struck 8 pm, and he proceeded wearily from office to office, ready to clean any mess left behind by the editors, sub-editors, publicists, and literary agents of New York’s publishing community.

Fourteen long years have passed since he left the small town of Otukpo in Eastern Nigeria to chase the American dream. Life in the Big Apple was like a bad plate of jollof rice: spicy, unpredictable, and occasionally burnt. One thing remained certain –Tobe’s unwavering integrity. No matter how tough things got, Tobe Adeyeo from Otukpo would not tell a lie.

As he pushed open the door to yet another office, Tobe was met with an unexpected sight. An older white man sat behind a desk. “Welcome, Tobi Adeyeo, from Okpoko! I’ve been expecting you,” the man said, his voice oozing warmth.

Tobe furrowed his brow. “I am Tobe Adeyeo from Otukpo.”

“Yes, you are!” The man rose from his seat and extended his hand. “I’m Greg, your agent.” He tapped a brand new hardcover book on his desk. “Over one million copies sold. You are a literary sensation in America!”

Tobe blinked. Literary sensation? He’d dabbled in writing, but had never published a book. “This book, what is it about?” 

“What is Najia Nexus about? You wrote it!” Greg said, his eyes twinkling. “Checking if I read it? Yes, I have. Your book is a brilliant African futurism novel about a man’s journey to Nigeria to search for the creator of the best avatar on the Galactic Web. I’ve read it cover to cover, and it’s truly remarkable.”

Tobe’s heart raced as he glanced at the book on Greg’s desk. “How much money did selling one million copies make?”

“Oh, the book has done quite well,” Greg answered, pride dripping from his words. “Net profits of $1.3 million, minus my 20% cut, of course.”

Tobe picked up the book, flipped it over, and studied the author’s photo on the back cover. The man staring back at him was Nigerian and around his age. Did he resemble him? He didn’t think so. But we are all blind to how others see us, he thought. He reminded himself that he was an honest man and could not lie.

“I work long hours,” he offered. 

“Yes, writing an 800-page sci-fi novel is hard work.”

“Writing is hard work. That is a fact.” Tobe grinned. 

“Yes. It is. Now, let's get down to business.”

He nodded, his mind racing. A part of him wondered if he could use this misunderstanding to his advantage, without actually lying. He had toiled his entire life, and this could be his chance to finally get ahead.

Tobe realized the missing author was bound to appear soon. He excused himself to go to the bathroom. Outside, he cornered a newly hired janitor, handed him a $20, and told him, “Don’t let anyone, under any circumstances, enter the offices of Kerman Media. Especially someone with a Nigerian accent who looks like me.”

“I like you, bro,” the young janitor said, pocketing the twenty.

He returned to the agent’s office. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Greg,” Tobe said as he opened the door again.

Greg was grinning with delight, obviously pleased to meet the famous author, Tobi from Okpoko. Looking at how happy he was, Tobe didn’t want to disappoint him. 

“I’m pleased you enjoyed Najia Nexus so much,” Tobe said, reading the book’s title off the cover.

“And this is yours.” Greg handed him an envelope.

“Thank you.” Tobe looked inside. The envelope was full of money.

“Spending money for your New York trip. You mentioned cash is better to avoid the Tax Authorities in Lagos. Beautiful house over there, by the way!”

“You like it?”

“I saw your photos. 6 bedrooms and 4 servants! I would live in Nigeria too if I spoke the language. Money goes farther there.”

“The language we speak in Lagos is English.”

“Interesting.” Greg gave him an approving nod. “I like you.”

Tobe had heard that twice today. People said it to him often, perhaps it was the only thing going for him.

“Remember, Tobi, tomorrow we have the Barnes & Noble book signing at 8am, and you will receive the Emerging Fiction award, and give your acceptance speech at the Rockefeller Center at 8pm.”

Tobe shook hands in parting, stuffed the envelope nonchalantly into his pocket, and said he would see him again the next day.

Tobe sashayed with new confidence toward the front reception exit. 

His assistant blocked his path and breathlessly told him, “There was a man outside, shouting in a Nigerian accent , asking me to open up. I turned off the lights and locked the doors just like you said.”

“Good work,” Tobe said, slipping him another twenty dollar bill. “That is a dangerous man with a delusion he is the top author in Nigeria—” Tobe realized he said the first lie in his life. “Or so someone might say about a man banging on a publishing company’s door at 10pm.”

On the way home, alone on an empty subway car, he peeked into the envelope. There was more money inside than he had ever seen in his life. He wrote a short story once. He was a writer, and he was from Nigeria! He did not tell a lie. Tobe drifted off to sleep blissfully happy. When he woke up, it was 11am. 

Tobe’s fingers hovered over the digits on Greg’s business card.

“This is Tobe. I’m afraid I overslept,” he said when the call connected.

“That’s bad news,” Greg’s voice groaned over the line. “This morning’s event was a disaster. Someone pretending to be you took the stage, mansplained your entire book for two hours, and then didn’t take any questions.”

“Nigerians sometimes take credit for writing other people's books. That is a fact.”

“Is that so? Just make sure you’re early for tonight’s award ceremony. No more mix-ups.”

Tobe called in sick, then arrived at Rockefeller Center well before 6pm. He discreetly alerted security–fellow Nigerians–to let them know a wild-eyed man claiming to be Nigeria’s top novelist might try to sneak into the venue. 

The head of security said lunatics were always trying to get into the Tonight Show, and he knew how to handle them.

Soon, in front of a crowd of thousands, Tobi Adeoyo’s name was called. He had prepared a speech, carefully crafted to avoid any references to the book he hadn't written, or read.

“Good evening! The Emerging Writers Award is an incredible honor. Our, um, my country deserves more recognition.”

Tobe adjusted the microphone. The audience leaned in, eager to listen.

“I’ve got a story for you. My American friend recently flew into Lagos to do some charity work. It was an eye-opening, shocking experience. The poverty, the starvation, the fighting, the smell, the noise. My friend is never flying economy again.”

The crowd chuckled. Everyone understood the horrors of economy.

 Tobe held up the book he hadn’t written but was now promoting. 

“You might not know much about Nigeria, but my country is developing. Rising up. We are finding our voice. Someday, Nigeria will be the country in this book.” 

Applause thundered through the auditorium. He felt invincible. Then Greg’s voice crackled over the sound system: “Questions for Tobi?”

A hand shot up. “Adanna,” a woman said, her eyes curious. “Her experiences in Kaduna—what do they symbolize?”

“Adanna.” Tobe's mind scrambled. He’d drawn a blank. “Adanna,” he repeated, stalling for time. “In Kaduna…” His throat tightened and froze.

The silence was inescapable, beads of sweat dripped down his forehead.

Then, from the back of the room, a voice rang out, “Boycott Tobi!” Heads turned. A group of young activists held up signs, and a young woman raised a megaphone. “He can’t answer the question, because Tobi is a fraud.”

Tobe’s body went cold. He had been exposed.

The protester pressed on with her attack, “Tobi’s books are written by ghostwriters, most of whom are in Nigeria and are never paid.”

Greg sprinted to the stage. “I know this man, and he would never do anything like that.”

Greg whispered in Tobe’s ear, “deny everything.”

“I refute these allegations!” Tobe faced the audience. “I have never used a ghostwriter. That is a fact.”

He launched into an impassioned speech about his love for his country. His integrity. Nigeria’s bright future. A theme that paralleled the Najia Rising Series. The protesters remained unmoved, but Tobe managed to slip off the stage with polite applause from the rest of the audience, and most importantly, without having to answer questions about Najia Nexus.

As he left the conference hall, he encountered an angry man being held back by security guards.

“I’ve got no money to return to Lagos!” he shouted with a think Nigerian accent panic in his eyes. He pointed at Tobe. “Who are you?”

“I am Tobe.” A deep anger rose within him, Tobi Adeyeo made millions from book’s he didn’t write. “If you don’t have money, then work in a restaurant, or cleaning offices.” 

“Me, work?” Tobi from Okpoko erupted into mad laughter. 

Tobe’s heart raced as he put distance between himself and his doppelgänger.

Greg chased after him. “With today’s publicity, your Najia Series is poised to dominate the bestseller lists for years. I snagged you a First Class upgrade for your flight back to Lago tomorrow.”

His agent handed him yet another envelope.

“When is the next book dropping?” Greg’s eyes bore into Tobe’s.

Tobe’s mind raced. He imagined the big house in Lagos–servants bustling, Nigerian cooks preparing jollo rice, his family visiting. He would win them all over. Tell everyone he was Tobi’s replacement, sent from New York. 

And the ghostwriters–the unsung heroes behind his success– they would finally receive their due. They would be paid in full and on time, and have their names on the next edition.

Writing is hard work. That is a fact. The best writers of Nigeria? He would become their agent.

“The next book?” Tobe smiled with equal parts excitement and trepidation. “Is coming soon.”

**

Epilogue:

While living a lie, Tobe does not tell a lie, and becomes Nigeria's most beloved literary agent, and propels dozens of previously unknown Nigerian writers to international stardom.