An Interview with Jerry Chiemeke, Author of “Dreaming of Ways to Understand You”
By Adedayo Onabade
Jerry Chiemeke is a writer, communications specialist, film critic, journalist, and lawyer. His works have appeared in Die Welt, The I Paper, The Africa Report, Culture Custodian, Inlandia Journal, Nightingale and Sparrow, The Maryland Review, Kissing Dynamite Poetry, The Republic, The British Blacklist, and Statement Africa, among others. He has been selected for international film festivals like Sundance, Berlinale, Durban International Film Festival, and Blackstar Film Festival in Philadelphia.
Jerry lives in London, where he writes on Nollywood, African literature, and Nigerian music. He is the author of Dreaming of Ways to Understand You (a collection of short stories) and Notes for Nnedimma (a poetry chapbook). He is the winner of the 2017 Ken Saro Wiwa Prize, a recipient of the 2019 Connect Nigeria Award for Excellence, and a nominee for the 2021 Best Small Fictions Award.
THE INTERVIEW BY ADEDAYO ONABADE
Q: Dreaming of Ways to Understand You addresses a wide range of social issues. What inspired the book, and why did you set out to write it?
A: I always knew I was going to write a short story collection when I stumbled on Adichie’s The Thing Around Your Neck in 2012; say what you will about that book, but I think it ages well.
However, it was when I read Lesley Nneka Arimah’s What It Means When A Man Falls From The Sky that I told myself, “Ah, I want one of those!” I had written a few stories in the past, but that collection (which I think everyone should read, by the way) gave me the impetus to work towards sending out this one to the world.
I was also looking to create a body of work that captured lived experiences in urban contemporary Nigeria, something with grit, garbed with the flavour of pop culture. You are right when I say I touch on several social issues, but I’d tell you for free that I wasn’t necessarily looking to be socially conscious; I just wanted to mirror life in these parts with its attendant complexity.
Q: The nameless narrator of the first story, ‘Not for Long,’ attempts to give some insight into the dangers of online relationships and why people like him do what they do. Why was it important for you to spotlight this perspective?
A: I have seen certain theories about the intent of this story spring up on Rihanna’s internet, but let me make it clear that in writing “Not For Long,” I wasn’t necessarily setting out to teach any “morals.” I am no Sunday school teacher, and I have never tried to churn out “didactic literature.” I work with a feeling or an idea, and if, by chance, there are “life lessons” to be gleaned from what I write, it’s coincidental.
I wrote the first draft of this story in 2015, and at the time, all I was trying to do was capture a dark story from the perspective of a mindless killer; I was part of a writing community on Facebook in the early 2010s, and I had a knack for writing romantic shorts, but someone challenged me to conjure something different. It just happened that the story involved a dating app, and to be fair, online romance had gained a lot of momentum in those years.
By the time I revisited the draft in 2019, I felt that the story was flat and wanted to give it a little more form, so I tweaked a few things, and maybe that’s why it reads as quite…”vivid.” I wasn’t trying to pass any “message,” and in retrospect it’s probably too graphic, but all I was aiming for was a dive into the mind of a demented, sadistic individual.
Q: The titular story touches on mental health issues, which you actively advocate. You say, 'You can't sink yourself trying to save others.’ How can one strike a healthy balance in this regard, bearing in mind the stigma that plagues survivors in this part of the world?
A: You are correct when you allude to my mental health advocacy. I have watched the ones I love suffer from mental illnesses, and I am quite vocal about my struggles with anxiety and acute depression. It was not for nothing that I joined MANI (Mentally Aware Nigeria Initiative) in 2016, and even recently, I contributed a column for Cambridge’s BJ Psych Journal. I feel these conversations are necessary because there are people who simply don’t get it, especially in a society like Nigeria, where vulnerability is sneered at, and being expressive about mental health struggles is seen as “weakness.”
That being said, it is tricky to seek help for someone you care about, and it’s easy to (unconsciously) start centering yourself while you think you are trying to save someone else. You need to learn to move at their pace, even as you take active steps. You have to handle it delicately and be careful not to develop a Saviour Complex while at it. They need to feel safe, and sometimes safety involves giving a little space so you don’t smother them. More importantly, you have to ensure that while you empathise, you do not internalise, or else you’ll end up trying to pour from an empty cup.
Q: In the same story, you leave the narrative open-ended about the accountant's identity in the news headline. Why did you choose to do this?
A: My favourite novels and films are the ones that leave me with open endings; that way, my imagination gets to work a little bit: do the two leads ultimately end up together? Does he die? Does she ever return? I love experiencing those conclusions, and I wanted to evoke a similar emotion (though it tilts more towards one end of the spectrum, to be honest). I was going to end the title story with a definite finish, but then I asked myself, “Where is the fun in that?”
Q: We see some of the dark and downsides to social media in your stories, from onlookers in ‘Coming to Terms’ to bed-hopping in ‘It's all just periwinkles, really.’ What do you think is responsible for this, and how can we reorder our steps to more positive Internet use?
A: Again, I was not trying to hand out some cutesy “moral instructions,” but I have seen how the world has not necessarily changed for the better since I first wrote both stories in 2016. “Coming To Terms” was a ghost story that (in hindsight) I should have fleshed out, but I also wanted to illustrate how we sometimes react to emergencies, and if you scroll on X (formerly Twitter), you see these things play out on a weekly basis. I wasn’t preaching for change; I was just beaming the spotlight. It’s a do-with-this-what-you-will situation.
“Periwinkles” was an in-joke directed at Lagos’ creative scene; writers have been “accused” of being lascivious and quick to indulge in debauchery, so that was me sinking my tongue deep into my cheek. It wasn’t a dig at women; you can liken it to a “What Happens At Art Festivals” diary entry, only in smirky prose. I’m aware it’s not the strongest story, but my desire was to throw in something light amid the heavier themes I was exploring.
Q: Music, pop culture, and new media play pivotal roles in the book. Is this a result of your personal taste?
A: As far as my life goes, music is integral to the core of my being, and it’s almost spiritual for me (even though I’m not a recording artist). My earliest memories are tied to 90s RnB songs, and in curating my thought processes, music performs the double function of a conveyor belt and a time capsule.
I consume a lot of music when creating work, so it’s normal for a sizeable chunk of it to seep into the writing. There is a Spotify playlist someone in the ether, which I created with the songs and artists referred to in the book - there are at least 22 of them. I was also a prolific music columnist between 2017 and 2021, which would definitely reflect in the fiction or creative non-fiction I write.
The synopsis of my book described it as being “heavily immersed in pop culture,” and that’s no accident. We interact with music and the news every time, from car radios to restaurants to sports bars, and I wanted that atmosphere to pervade the entire collection.
Q: ‘The river brought us here’ wraps up with a homecoming for those who were sold in the transatlantic slave trade. Was this an experimental approach or simply an optimistic outlook for what is ahead of us as a continent in terms of reconciliation and reparations?
A: In 2002, a spiritual ceremony was held at Dunbar Creek to celebrate the 199th anniversary of the 1803 Igbo Landing. It was attended by Americans as well as people of Nigerian and Haitian origin. They designated the place as “holy ground” and, as the account goes, finally provided rest for the souls that had been roaming the seas for nearly two centuries.
Between Africans, Black Americans, and natives of the Caribbean, we are aware of our dark history, but the debates go beyond reparations. The problems are as psychological as they are structural. “Year of Return” initiatives are cute, but there is a lot of collective and individual introspection to do. Reconciliation goes beyond dancing at Notting Hill Carnival or eating jerk chicken at an outdoor function. It’s a huge subject, one which I would need a long thesis to unpack…but the least I can do is be optimistic.
Q: In ‘On getting around to confidently taking my shirt off,’ you give voice to the experience of many regarding body image issues. With the body positivity wave gaining ground, where would you say we are, as a people, in terms of empathy, awareness, and willingness to unlearn and relearn what we understand as truth?
A: I think we are still far off from where we need to be in terms of perspective on body image; the conversations are still not honest and balanced, and we need to be louder about how bullying (on account of physical attributes) impacts mental health. I wanted to tackle the subject from a different vantage point: Gynaecomastia is a medical condition that is not often discussed, but men suffer from it and are shamed for it. I wasn’t redirecting the discourse to focus on men’s bodies; rather, I was holding up a mirror to illustrate how we still have a lot of soul-searching to do when it comes to how we see people’s bodies. There is still much to unlearn.
Q: Your father worked with the Federal Ministry of Environment and a few fathers in Dreaming of Ways to Understand You also tow the civil service line. Was this deliberate on your part?
A: Growing up as a child in the late 1980s and early 1990s, one would find that breadwinners of families in the lower-middle class took up certain jobs. There were parents who were doctors and bankers, but a lot of us saw our fathers rise through the ranks of the civil service or the educational system. They were seldom available on weekdays, and Saturdays were golden as we tried to make the most of the few hours we had for bonding.
Inserting this reality in some of the stories wasn’t exactly deliberate, but it seemed to work, so I felt there was no need to fix what wasn’t broken.
Q: Three stories, ‘Ugborikoko,’ ‘Pining for the Hands That Tied Me,’ and ‘The Roads Get Thirsty, Too,' indict the government in making society's monsters—human and systemic. Where do we begin on the road to restoration from these problems?
A: I don’t enjoy talking about Nigeria because the polity gets progressively worse year after year. The country needs an overhaul from top to bottom and then top again, but the saddest part is that those in positions of power and influence have no willingness to effect change. The best we can do is watch the implosion from the sidelines while hoping for a miracle or (redacted).
Q: Are there any character(s) that resonate with you? If yes, which one(s), and in what sense?
A: Three of the stories in this collection - “What Am I Supposed To Say To You,” “On Moshalashi Street,” and the title story - are drawn from true events. I connect with “On Moshalashi Street” the most because I have always wanted to talk about father-son relationships and the nuances of Nigerian masculinity, and from my personal life, I was able to find a hook.
Q: Casting a backward glance at your writing journey from The Colours in these Leaves till now, what stands out the most for you in terms of your growth?
A: I wrote The Colours In These Leaves from a place of despair: if you ever get to read it, I’m sure you will be able to taste the darkness. A lot of the short essays and poems in that manuscript were belted out in one draft; they were raw and unrefined (which I felt was what I needed to capture the emotion). My writing has evolved since then (or so I like to think); I think my work now possesses a greater sense of place and travels with a more concrete semblance of form. I miss poetry sometimes, but I have a clearer idea of what and where I excel.
Q: You are both a critic and a creative. How do you strive for a balance between both worlds?
A: Navigating both worlds is as interesting as it is overwhelming. I have evolved from my acerbic, cynical approach to criticism in 2016/2017, and I am now circumspect when I engage art in whatever form. You also become your own biggest critic because if you are going to hold such strong opinions about what people create, then you need to make sure that your own work is (to a large extent) beyond reproach. Internal and external scrutiny aside, I think it’s beautiful, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to thrive and be celebrated in both capacities.
Q: Please share a striking quote from your current read(s).
A: “I couldn’t keep them away from me and I couldn’t save her from the torrent that made her run down the track that would inevitably lead her down the same road she had been on many times in the past. The finish line, the hospital door. Instead of cheering, her marathon would be met with the opposite: a quietness so loud it could extinguish the past and the future.”
- Like Water Like Sea, Olumide Popoola (Cassava Republic Press, 2024)
Interviewer’s Biography
Adedayo Onabade is a Nigerian essayist, fiction, and poetry writer. She holds a B.A. from Olabisi Onabanjo University and an M.A. from the University of Lagos, both in English Literature. Her works have been shortlisted for SynCity's 'Poetry in Times of Corona' and #TwitterWritingContest.
Adedayo volunteers with STER (Stand to End Rape Initiative), a social justice organization that works to combat sexual and gender-based violence against women, girls, and vulnerable people. Outside writing, she is fascinated by NatGeoWild, art galleries, reading, and documentaries.
