A whole section of the novel, in which Furo’s sister uses Twitter to publicise her search for her missing brother, is written in tweets: it’s clever, but at the end feels pointless and too long. But his handling of plot is not so masterly the introduction of Morpheus is one too many transformations. His characters’ every foible is captured and amplified for effect. Igoni Barrett’s greatest asset is his ability to satirise the ridiculous extents people, especially Lagosians, go to in order to appear important.
Here the novel, which began as a bold riff on Kafka’s Metamorphosis, begins to turn into a comedy of manners – which in itself, if sustained, wouldn’t have been a bad thing. She feeds him, sleeps with him, buys clothes for him, all for the privilege of showing him off to her friends, most of whom are married to white men. A kept woman herself, Sareeta makes Furo her kept man. He is offered a room by a beautiful woman in the posh neighbourhood of Victoria Island, where white people are not such a strange sight. Random women step forward on the streets to help him get a taxi, because the drivers always jerk up their fare at the sight of a white passenger. “You’ll be my point man, my big gun, the person I send out to bring in important clients,” the director tells him. At a job interview he is directed to the head of the queue, and not only does he get the job, he is offered a more senior position, with a company car and a driver, even though he never completed his degree. After the stares and the whispers and the snide comments, the mild-mannered and insignificant Furo finds that he compels attention and respect, because he is white. The second effect of the transformation is not so bad, Furo soon finds out. “I am Nigerian,” he insists to people who marvel at his Nigerian name and Nigerian accent. This immediately brings to mind James Baldwin’s essay, “Stranger in the Village”, about his 1951 visit to the remote Swiss village of Leukerbad, in which he describes how frightening being a visible “other” can be.
And he learnt how it felt to be seen as a freak: exposed to wonder, invisible to comprehension. To ignore the fixed stares, the pointed whispers, the blatant curiosity. To keep his gaze lowered and his face blank. To walk with his shoulders up and his steps steady. Lone white face in a sea of black, Furo learned fast. Children want to touch his skin adults shout out to him “Oyibo”, meaning white man. A white man walking is not a common sight on working-class Lagos streets. He sneaks out of his home without letting his family see him, but more disorientation awaits him outside. He is understandably disoriented and confused.
The first effect of Furo’s transmogrification is on Furo himself.
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