The right use of irony: "The Armed Letter Writers" by Olufunke Ogundimu

I didn't blog about it, because I'm only covering the fiction in the 2019 Pushcart Anthology, but the opening entry in Pushcart this year was a non-fiction piece called "What Has Irony Done for Us Lately?" It was about how we try to use irony to keep ourselves from feeling the loss of something we care about, but in truth, irony not only doesn't allow us to escape the pain of loss, it keeps us from appreciating what we have when it's with us.

It was reminiscent of David Foster Wallace's thoughts on irony. Wallace thought irony was a useful tool for undermining those who use power illegitimately, but ultimately wasn't good for the happiness of those who used it. He saw many of the problems that plague us as a society as tied to a culture where irony has become so widespread, there is nothing we care about or hold dear other than tearing down what others care about or hold dear. I've posted this before, but this video is a pretty good summary of Wallace's thoughts on irony and what they mean for us.

Olufunke Ogundimu's "The Armed Letter Writers," however, is an example of the right use of irony, the kind meant to tear down those who use power in a way that does not benefit society. It's about a housing community in Nigeria that awakes one morning to find a note attached to the sign on the community's entrance. The note, signed by "Mr. God-Servant," announces the intent of the Armed Robbers Association (ARA) to rob the community. The note is straightforward: we will be coming to rob you soon, and we'd like your cooperation when we show up.

The community shows the note to the police, who bungle their way through investigating it. They imprison and beat a community resident for complaining about their investigation. Anyone who seems to know too much about the crime is suspected of being involved, and so no community members help the police to investigate. In general, the police are corrupt, under-resourced, and incompetent.

The community members themselves aren't painted in a flattering light, either. They fail to cooperate because they are stupid, selfish, and timid. Everyone can see what needs to be done, but nobody wants to be the one to do it. When the attack finally comes, at exactly the moment a second warning note said it would, the residents of Abati Close all try to call the police at the same time, which overwhelms the shaky phone lines and ensures that they all get robbed.

The only group that doesn't get the ironic treatment in the story are the robbers. They do exactly what they say they will. They even refuse to rob items that weren't on their list.

It seems like a good story, and a believable depiction of what life can be like in parts of the world where the political structures aren't living up to their end of the social contract with their citizens. My initial reaction is to think that the story succeeded and that I've learned something about life in Nigeria from it. Maybe I can even think I've learned a little bit about human nature when government control breaks down.

I could end this brief review of the story here, but as an aside, I wonder, when I read stories about other parts of the world, what it means for an American audience to judge the quality of the work. Of course, we can judge the parts of the work that are independent of setting: the quality of the prose, the vividness of the action, how real the characters seem. But to what extent can we judge how well it gets at truth? I can certainly judge how well I think this story reveals truth, but what do I know? I probably know more than an average American about Africa, but most everything I know is on the other side of the continent from Nigeria. Without Googling, here are the top five facts about Nigeria that come to mind:

• There are a lot of languages spoken there, but I think three big ones, one of which is Yoruba and the other two I've forgotten. Igbo? Is that Nigeria?
• The country has a lot of oil, which brings both the blessings and curses of foreign interest.
• Boko Haram.
• Most populous country in Africa
• They have a mix of Muslim and Christian population, but that isn't the main source of conflict

That's probably at least 85% correct, and it's probably more than most Americans could do, but it still means I know practically nothing about Nigeria. I can't judge Ogundimu's story for how well it gets at the heart of Nigeria's problems. The fact that it is well written speaks to the author's reliability, but it's possible to write well be totally wrong about the thing you're writing about. 

When I reviewed a story by a Korean-American a few months ago, there were things I realized about the story most American readers wouldn't, because I know a thing or two about Korea. I wondered how a Korean audience would have responded to the story. When I read "Armed Letter Writers," I wonder how a Nigerian audience would respond to it. I assume it would get a good reception, but I don't know. Maybe it doesn't matter; maybe the point for a story aimed at an American audience is how the American audience perceives it. But then, that makes me wonder if this attitude ensures we are getting the best literature from the rest of the world, or just the literature that we happen to like. If the latter, then we end up locked in a cycle of perception about the rest of the world we can't escape.