THERE is something intensely joyous about travelling with Connie Jean Aremu, legal giant, businesswoman and Senior Advocate of Nigeria (SAN) on the pages of Harsh Realities, in many ways a magnum opus: the utter lack of guile. Traversing countries and continents—Ghana, the UK, Rome, the United States, Nigeria—and literally making a movie of life in Ghana, the United Kingdom and Nigeria from the 60s to the present day, Aremu’s Harsh Realities, an autobiography written in the third person, comes across as the presentation and apprehension by an intensely beautiful, affable, even if overly indecisive and submissive soul.
The story is so beautiful: the author simply wants to tell her story as she felt/feels it, with all the trappings of her seemingly weak, yet intensely courageous, charming, tried but unbowed character. Confined to an island, you will never be lonely with Harsh Realities: intensely lyrical, feminine without being feminist, critical of society’s depravities without being cynical; it is the testament of a ridiculously passionate lover, hardworking and loyal wife; brilliant legal officer, accomplished farmer, university administrator, and practising lawyer who has found out that life does not necessarily have to be fair.
Like Ebenezer Obadare’s Pentecostal Republic, Harsh Realities, this story of a Ghanaian woman married to a heady yet profusely passionate Nigerian student in London and permanently divorced from her ancestral land, and from the expectations of her wealthy parents who sent her to London to earn a law degree, is the only book in years that this writer has read at one go. As a slice of life, Harsh Realities holds nothing back: it is the story of the wedding of a princess, Becky, arranged without parental consent after a rollercoaster romance;of her husband Liad’s dictatorship, of the loss of a prized job through bad advice, of rejection by the Nigeria Law School, of life and politics at the University of Ife campus; of life in Ibadan as the wife of a publicly hounded electoral officer; of a happy girl fully attuned to the pleasures of life in the UK.
Though, by self confession, not a novel, the book contains long stretches of historical details, and presents England of the 60s-70s in extraordinary light. Above all, it is a story of courage and hope, of tears and triumph, and of a woman’s weak nature and its exploitation by a man who, with all his faults, is still a wonderful lover. The measure of detail is astounding: the story leaves nothing out, including the narrator’s act of utter naivety and bedroom manners. It contains familiar stereotypes (“Nigerians chased everything in skirts’’), but it is clinical in the way it recalls Zakes MDA’s Sometimes there is a void, but with a decidedly feminine, sometimes preachy voice. It is a compelling read, the triumph of international wedlock, a joyous celebration of life with its package of pain and pleasure.
When Harsh Realities tackles racism it is without guile, and the author goes to great lengths to make excuses for her husband and lover and his bulldozer temperament, the husband who treats her so badly, yet so well with bouquets of flowers, poems and fragrances, winning her heart time and again after breaking it. Harsh Realities thrives through gentleness and humility– the author speaks ill of no one even when outright censure has been fully deserved: for instance, another person would not have paid for bread not eaten at an exotic hotel. The book leaves the impression that what will be will be, but the author could have done with some decisiveness.
As a wife, Becky does not disagree: “Only The Lord can bring consolation when people meet disappointments. Becky felt let down by the authorities at the Nigerian Law School. But as usual, she took it all in her stride.” (p64) and it does seem that she is always the one to make sacrifices:”After marrying and having a baby, Becky feared that the life she envisaged as a young girl was lost forever because she now has to go and live in a strange country altogether.”Liad, a PhD holder who scoffs at his wife having one, is the one who permanently has his way. Hehad prevented her from selling fabrics that would have made her a fortune (p.66): “she had to give up the business. She missed life as an unmarried girl. p.66), yet she loves him so passionately and he loves her so affectionately.
The following lines are quite typical: “She looked forward to qualifying as a barrister and renting a flat in the Mews, like some of her friends. P.67. Becky had promised her parents that she was going to make them proud by studying Law up to the PhD level. Liad had however always advised her against undertaking a postgraduate degree because, as he always said, he felt that she had no desire to teach, so the postgraduate degree would be a waste. Becky really desired it but for the sake of peace and family unity, she accepted to forego her ambition.” She then justifies this outrageous act of timidity with the following drivel: “There are times when one finds oneself in situations where one has no control over. That seems to be one of the Harsh Realities of life.”
A stylistic review of this book will have to come later: the point for now is that it is such a wonderful reading, an outburst, an escape from suppressed emotions, asking questions the author should have asked many years ago. It is such a beautiful story that makes you fall in love with the author even when you see all her faults laid bare in candid strokes. Harsh Realities is no fiction, but it is more lyrical than many novels.
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