NON-FICTION

Esther Omoye

                          CREDITS: LINA HISHAM

 

  DO NOT JUDGE A BOOK BY IT'S COVER BUT BY ITS OPENING LINES?

after Allegra Hyde Considers Love at First Sentence.

“In a single year, my father left us twice. The first time, to end his marriage, and the second, when he took his own life.” This has got to be one of the best opening lines in a novel ever (Troy Onyango on Twitter). From Do Not Say We Have Nothing  by Madeleine Thien.

As a writer, your opening lines can be described as your kismet. It is the summation of your learning experience, determines the course of your journey, an opportunity to showcase your style, introduce your main character, idea, incite emotions, convey the stakes or establish the essence of your narrative. While the opening line isn't necessarily the only reason why a work of literature would be considered important, it can often guide the feet of the work. 

It can also be the reason your work travels fast; why a stranger from across the divide, a novice to the work, will press for more details. It may be the reason readers place your work into every conversation and want to begin your story. How they can see right away, that they want to indulge in a lot of importance.

The opening line accomplishes something else: it gives your work a voice. Just like in music, when it works best if one imagine hearing as a straight line. Or in higher noises, like cymbals crashing together or a car stereo with the treble all turned the way up-- fall on the high end. But at the end of this spectrum, is how important this voice is, how well does it sound? Does it demand the ear's most eager attention? Or, is it jarring enough to get a room to snap to focus? Or is it just wrung through a speaker because you want to be heard?

When a reader picks up a work of literature, they want access to that distinctive quality. They want something in them that connects profoundly with it sometimes. And every writer has the  ability to create this connection and voice with their opening lines. Taking this intriguing context as an example: Recently, Redditors mostly voted Bonnie Tyler's 1984 classic “Holding Out for a Hero” as the song with one of the best written “intro words ever.” The first two lines sings:  “where have all the good men gone. And where are all the gods?/ Where's the streetwise Hercules to fight the rising odds?” Well it's the same way with literature.

Anyone who's read I.S. Jones know that lush, exacting voice that comes fast, clean and beautiful. "It comes to me when I struggle:

your hands learn a kind of mercy about my neck,

how blood rushes to the center of departure."~“Nocturne” and of course, it's also a quick introduction to the writer's resilient style. In “Nocturne” there's a telling that belongs to Jones, we know it is hers, the self-questioning and gory.

There are all sorts of theories and ideas about what constitutes a good opening line. It's a tricky thing and tough to talk about conceptually. I don't think there's a basis or procedure needed in writing a good opening line. All a writer needs to do, is to write, work on their draft and see their opening lines as their beginning points. It's the first thing that acquaints you, that makes you eager, that starts to enlist you for the long haul.

But there's one thing I'm sure about. An opening line should invite the reader into a writer's world. It should say: Listen. Come in here. You want to know about this. Like one of the poems from, Romeo Oriogun's poetry collection, Nomad reads: “In some folklore, birds would always meet at the edge of a town. It was how they knew they were on a journey to save themselves from the sudden loss of a season.” We can see right away how Oriogun hands over a tale that stirs alive and well. There's no floridity in his use of language. The narrative vehicle is lean, and not facedown. We are already intrigued by the imageries these opening lines paints of displacement - of location, of intimate physical spaces.

I've talked so much about the reader, but we can't forget the opening line is important to the writer, too. To the person who's actually making it possible. Because it's not just the reader's way in, it's the writer's way in also, and you've got to find a pathway that allows us both. There's incredible power in it, when you say, join me. And someone begins on that journey with you. Just as in Nnedi Okorafor's Akata Warrior: “Okay let's begin. Let the reader beware there is JuJu in this book. "JuJu" is what we West Africans like to loosely call magic, manipulatable mysticism, or alluring allures. It is wild, alive, enigmatic, and it is interested in you. JuJu always defies definition. It certainly includes all uncomprehended tricksy forces wrung from the deepest reservoirs of nature and spirit.”

Okorafor seamlessly extends the lessons and knowledge from her first book, giving  readers a glimpse into the mystical worlds of Nigerian culture with the most imaginative, gripping and enchanting tale of JuJu. She skillfully guides her readers into a distinct, coupling experience of African culture and fantasy alongside her. 

In preparation for everything I have said, I decided to ask around, to research, specifically, in the stronghold of creating an inclusive list of some of the best opening lines from African poems, classics, novels, memoirs, flash fictions, plays and essays around. And there was plenty to say. The openers came from a breadth of genres and in all varieties of writers. There were first lines from winning short stories and novels such as:

“My grandmother always reminded me of Ursula, from the Disney version of The Little Mermaid.” ~Granddaughter of the Octopus by Remy Ngamije.

“When Baba Segi awoke with a bellyache for the sixth day in a row, he knew it was time to do something drastic about his fourth wife's childlessness.”  ~ The Secret Lives of Baba Segi's Wives By Lola Shoneyin.

And there were long opening sentences such as: “It was the year of the sun, the year Agu’s body was found in the forest of Amanuke, covered in a mash of red sand and dry blood, the year pythons roamed Akpulu in numbers never before seen, swallowing almost hatched eggs and strangling mother hens until at last, the men of Akpulu trekked the dusty paths of the land in quiet desolation, under the harshness of the midday sun, to Ezemmuo’s nkolo, to ask him to ask their gods what was making them angry.” ~The Year of the Sun by Esther Ifesinachi Okonkwo.

There were openings from memoirs and plays too: “Grief is a cruel kind of education. You learn how ungentle mourning can be, how full of anger. You learn how glib condolences can feel.” ~Notes on Grief  by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.

“Courtroom. A white judge presides. Near him is seated a fat important looking African clerk, fiddling nervously with papers. Kimathi, chained, is in the dock. Guarding him, Waitina-a European District-cum-police officer-and two African K.A.R. soldiers, heavily armed. The courtroom is overcrowded. Africans squeeze around one side, seated on rough benches. Whites occupy more comfortable seats on the opposite side.” ~The Trial of Dedan Kimathi  by Ngugi Wa Thiong'o.

And then, there were openings from poems: “This hole I dug up for myself. I have known loneliness for so long my friends think of me as a refugee camp. I could be a lover too, when I am not a prerequisite.” ~“i could be a lover too when i am not a prerequisite” by Ejiro Edward.

“Tell it this way: depression is the 30cm nail driving into the walls. If  you ever read about Plath, ever kept a lantern from dying,             ever tended a garden it grew so wild to swallow god, ever kept    dressing the fire in your bones, then you must know about grief,                              possibly how to end it.”~ “Sylvia Plath as an Old Story Title for Learning to Fight Depression Where the Semiotics Simply Suggest That a Garden Illustrates Peace as a Foreshadow Rather Than as a Vivid Depiction of an Ancestral Society of Sad Mothers & Helpless Fathers” by Nome Emeka Patrick.

Then there was fan favourite: “In vain your bangles cast Charmed circles at my feet I am Abiku, calling for the first And the repeated time.” ~“Abiku” by Wole Soyinka.

They were short, punchy openers like: “The flavour of life is love. The salt of life is also love.” ~So Long a Letter  by Mariama Bâ.

As well as: “The plane held itself up. Weighed down by a hundred souls. Perhaps more.” ~A Language of Silence by Nzube Nlebedim.

And then, there was God's own blessing: “Okonkwo was well known throughout the nine villages and even beyond. His fame rested on solid personal achievements.”~Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe. 

Several of Achebe's opening lines were highlighted again and again. Other frequent repeats included:

Reassessing these responses of favourite opening lines, I was struck by another reappearing attribute, placed side by side between the coherence and curiosity in opening lines. Maybe you have already noticed from the examples given in this essay — but it seems that many of these memorable opening lines has a sense of grief, loss, pain and a whiff of identity. Though at first I found the presence of these attributes in people's favourite openers a touch intriguing, upon reflection these attributes made perfect sense. In all these sentences, identity and pain is presented alongside some mention of loss; identity and pain, one could argue, are coherence and curiosity  pushed toward a logical end point. Information about identity offers readers a sense of insight into other people's experiences, understanding these experiences and their place in the world. It is also important for breaking down stereotypes. 

“From Flesh into phantom on the horizontal stone           I  was the sole witness to my homecoming...” ~“Distances” by Christopher Okigbo. 

“Sometimes, the pain and the sorrow return

particularly at night.

I will grieve again and again tomorrow

for the memory of a death foretold.”~ “A Death Foretold” by Kofi Awoonor.

“Hajiya Binta Zubairu was finally born at fifty-five when a dark-lipped rogue with short, spiky hair, Like a field of minuscule anthills, scaled her fence and landed, boots and all, in the puddle that was her heart.” ~ Season of Crimson Blossoms By Abubakar Adam Ibrahim.

And: “i have come, Maame—  

to where the trees stood

& made a shade for your kitchen—  

to the sweet-sour taste of atɔma

to the mangoes you gathered

on your way from the farm—  

to roasted maize

& the smell of leftover ampesi on fire.”~“Ode to Gonasua” By Henneh Kyereh Kwaku

Then there was Eloghosa Osunde's cult following, Vagabonds! “As in Nigeria, vagabonds are those whose existence is literally outlawed: the queer, the poor, the displaced, the footloose and rogue spirits. They are those who inhabit transient spaces, who make their paths and move invisibly, who embrace apparitions, old vengeances and alternative realities.”

The research and responses to my inquiry consolidated the theory I'd been holding, that though there are no specifics needed in writing a good opening line, but there are certain first lines that become memorable, although the sentences come in all varieties, a pattern emerged. Nearly all the favourite line openers gave readers a sense of coherence and stimulation of deep interest. Or to put it this way: memorable first lines ground a reader in a situation, it's a little do-or-die there, and an unappealing style in the first moments is reason enough to scurry off. 

What invokes curiosity in a reader, and thereby keeps them reading? In my opinion: identity, grief, pain, loss, any whiff of struggle, a compelling narrative voice, the extraordinary or the constant anxiety of being surrounded by the anticipation of opposition. Reading Sọyinka's first sentences for “Àbíkú,” I found myself asking big questions:  Why does the Àbíkú keep returning? What happened each time they returned? Where do they return to and why? But I also found the narrator's tone to be a little boastful, callous, dispassionate and unfeeling. The child revels in his/her unlimited powers. This visibly will make any reader willing—no, eager—to read more. 

Is it possible for a sentence to be overly coherent? Too depending on the context of information? Absolutely. We've all read sentences so heavy with detail that the narrative momentum comes to a standstill. Just as the excitement of intro words necessitates a degree of mystery in music, so does a compelling opening sentence require certain breaches in information. Something has to remain unanswered, unexplained- because there lies in the intricate connection between coherence and the stimulation of deep interest. We need to know enough to wonder more.

This might seem simple from the initial stage, but coherence and curiosity can be conflicted if not adjusted carefully, too much of one attribute can overwhelm the other, diminishing the overall power of the first sentence.   

But let's delve into these terms more thoroughly before going any further. By “Coherence,” I mean the ability of an opening line to give readers an early grab of attention, place, time, character and plot. Coherence is important for a first sentence because, at the start of any literary work of art/ except whatever miniscule form of information a reader might have encountered, the reader's mental faculty should be considered void. A jigsaw puzzle. An oblivion. Every word in that first sentence is an opportunity to liberate on what is to come- to give a reader enough information to stabilize them in some degree of where, what and who your work is all about.

 Returning to Wole Soyinka's opener for “Àbíkú,” we see a beautiful example of coherence in action:

 “In vain your bangles cast

Charmed circles at my feet;

I am Abiku, calling for the first

And the repeated time.”

This sentence tells the readers that the poem features a first-person narrator who has some kind of relationship with reincarnation. The lines discusses the the title child who returns to haunt his family after dying at a young age. However, the primary use of these opening lines in Abiku is to demonstrate the many lives of the Abiku as it continues to torment its mother. This also adds to the belief in incarnation of the African people.

 This is an astonishing amount of information to be delivered in the space of a short sentence. Few readers would get entangled in Sọyinka's use of diction; in the way it moves line by line without losing implication, moreover, despite the unexpected manner the line ends up. Though there are unknowns in the opener, there are not abstractions—which would have been the case if the sentence wasn’t diligently specific.

And the mention of pain— the suffering—the loss makes us bend and break, which generates narrative momentum. Just as in the iconic and deeply enigmatic opening lines of Femi Osofisan's Women of Owu  

“It is the day after the sack of the town of Owu Ìpólé by the Allied Forces of Ìjèbú, Oyo and Ìfẹ. The night before, the king, Oba Akinjobi had fled from the Town, with some of his high chiefs and soldiers, leaving his family behind. The Allied Forces slaughtered all the men left in the town, including the male children, and only the female children, and the female children have been spared, and made captives.”

Osofisan in what, should be considered one of his best living words, reflects a sordid tale of unimaginable grief and the intense bemoaning of the fate of some helpless women. A story that tells the pillage and dehumanization, especially of womanhood in his adaptation of Euripides' The Trojan Women. 

These two components can be observed once again in So Long a Letter by Mariama Bâ. “The flavour of life is love. The salt of life is also love.” Ramatoulaye goes on to reflect on her marriage to Modou. She cannot understand what led him to lose interest in her and getting a second wife, Binetou. Their first years together, as sweethearts and then as a young married couple, seemed hopeful. They married despite the protestations of Ramtoulaye’s family, who saw Modou as something of a loaf. 

 Grief and loss also appear in Adedayo Agarau's “levitate”: “The body first learned of ground before it/took cognizance of sky. Where do the birds/ go when it’s dark? I am asking because/ when at night, everything becomes a/ dream. My grandmother’s body rising from/ its grave with a song.” In “levitate,” we learn of the speaker's connection to familial loss. Also, through the use of serene prose poetry lines, we could easily characterize the narrator's grief and the griefs of those connected to him and with all that tinge of little spirituality.

" I am a tornado child.

I come like a swirl of black and darken up your day;

         I whip it all into my womb, lift you and your things,

         carry you to where you've never been, and maybe,

         if I feel good, I might bring you back, all warm and scared,         heart humming wild like a bird after early sudden flight."          

 Kwame Dawes remarkably paints a self portrait of himself here, he tries to convey the feeling of vigorous life he has to the strength and wild nature of the tornado in himself. The idea of the tornado is expressed literally but every line carries a deeper connection to Dawes himself. The poet was born and raised in Jamaica, later moving to the States. Dawes writes the poem, transitioning from a colour-dominated country to a white-dominated country. The writer also expertly draws different ideas of the theme using the influence of possible experiences of  the readers.

In case, you find this too easily deduced that identity, pain and (at least a miniscule part) of loss make frequent appearances in many memorable lines, here a few more from my response-inquiry and beyond: 

 “My twin sister’s name is Nkemakonam. Mine, Nkemjika. Both names are twin siblings of the word ownership. Silly names from silly parents with no things, given to girls with no one, maybe, a quarter-parent.” ~ You Girls Are Good  by Adachioma Ezeano.

“I have found myself leaning heavily on this pain. At first I tried to silence it, thinking it would go and leave me to my agitated content. That it would linger for a season, a firm reminder of the disquiet that lurks and coils below the surface of the stubbornly self-gratifying vision of our lives.” ~Admiring Silence  by Abdulrazak Gurnah.

“Last week, they burnt two boys blocks away

from my balcony. The neighbour said

they were found twirled in an embroidery

of flesh, black skin whetting black skin.”~ “Phoenix” by Samuel Adéyemí.

“play         the pressure points         the way pain could have been pleasure        the volume turned up          the song you once loved.” ~ “Stereo” by Sihle Ntuli.

“3 A.M. HAS become a recount of things heaving in the pit of my stomach. Sometimes, it’s the defiant stare of my handprint-stained walls, daring me to let out the unsaid words growing algae in my throat. Sometimes, it’s the memory of pretty sentences from a past conversation echoing in my head, drawing out a smile only the darkness can see.” ~Missing Wombs and Closer Wounds  by Ama Asantewa Diaka.

“Tonite I am complete with all the deaths my country has gifted me. & I shall be          a hedonist one last minute before it gifts others mine.” ~ “Tonite I Am Complete With All the Deaths My Country Has Gifted Me” by Carl Terver.

“When I was a child and in communion with the earth, I used dirt to stop myself from bleeding and watched it turn to clay, a red —sometimes black— hardening, proof of a creation

Of some sort.” ~ “Communion” by Loic Ekinga.

 Of course, identity, grief and loss are not absolutely essential for every memorable line. Many would consider Amos Tutuola's witty opener to The Palmwine Drinkard, one of  the most richly inventive in African fantasies, and it contains no specific mention of pain, grief or (loss). “I was a palm-wine drinkard since I was a boy of ten years of age. I had no other work more than to drink palm-wine in my life.”

Though I could also make the case that the narrator is soon to experience a sense of loss and perhaps grief. Since the narrative is a telling of a palmwine drinkard, Lanke who loses his palmwine tapster, Alaba to untimely death while trying to host his fellow drinkards. But what is more worth mentioning here is that, coherence/curiosity holds true. Tutuola establishes a rather simple truth that grounds readers in the themes of the novel to come, while also adding a stimulating amount of humorous context with the phrase “I had no other work more than to drink palm-wine in my life.” His extent of coherence and curiosity is flawless and unerasable.

To an extent, humorous truths are one approach to first sentences but there are many other ways of enthralling your readers while still making the previously mentioned attributes a stable. Take these openers which are all in the form of a statement of simple fact:

“In funtua where grandpa was

a railway worker & women

experimented the act of kunya

grandma learnt to tie her tongue

and never spoke her daughter's name.”

 ~ “This child, this girl: why my grandmother never spoke my aunt's name” by Abubakar Sadiq Mustapha. 

The poet expertly ensnares readers with the entire weight of his narrative ( that in Nupe culture, mothers do not call their children by their first names.) In a single statement.

“The smallest unit of hope

is fantasy—”~ “Disillusionment Suntra” by Pamilerin Jacob.

“Milan was the first person Feyi had fucked since the accident.”~You made a Fool of Death with your Beauty  by Akwaeke Emezi.

 In these sentences, readers are given a hint of the narrative and the intriguing pitch of stating a fact. As readers, we are thrown hook, line and sinker wondering who Milan is, how does he look, what does he do, how did they meet—while also hoping for more joie de vivre. There is a sudden jerk of certainty to these lines and the way they demand connection, hurrying us into the narrative ahead.

Then there are works that fondle readers with a statement of paired facts: “Day never even clear eye finish when the whole air gather weight unto say person dey cry.” ~“Ugborikoko” by Jerry Chiemeke.

“I’ve always had a strange relationship with the sense of touch. My earliest memories are of gripping my mom in an attempt to shield her from my dad’s hands.” ~ A Sense of Touch  by Nneka Nora.

Curiosity is made specific in these examples, since a statement of paired facts can help ground a reader into analyzing and applying these facts to the instant narrative. Meanwhile, coherence in Nneka's opener, comes through the expression of theme—just like in Jones' first lines to Nocturne. Chiemezie's opener is admittedly abridged —especially given the ambiguity of "person"—but one could argue that the colloquial tone of the story, the impressionable linguistic vibe, offers contextual orientation that makes sense for a well-written, original African short story like “Ugborikoko.” Readers get a sense of what they're in for.

The second line of A Sense of Touch is also an example of  starting with the descriptions of an act or action. It is one of the most defining ways to begin a literary work. This is because, the use of descriptive language to depict a character, setting, feeling or scene in a work creates an image in the reader's mind. It gives a narrative more depth and credibility by allowing readers to imagine on their own through the sequence of the writer's words. Here are two examples of such openings: 

“Olumba was in his reception hall mending some fish-traps. He sat with his back towards the main village road and seemed engrossed in what he was doing.” ~ The Great Ponds  by Elechi Amadi.

“One night, you will calmly put a knife to your husband’s penis and promise to cut it off.”~ Nearly All The Men In Lagos Are Mad  by Damilare Kuku.

Both Amadi’s and Kuku’s openers give readers the contextual support necessary to stabilize readers in a scene, and throw open the door to intrigue. These sentences show, once again, that the form or style of a first line is less important than how the author generates a blend of coherence and coherence. After all, though Amadi’s and Kuku’s lines both gesture towards physical action and the specter of doing, a first line can also simply be brilliant for being a statement that serves frame. Take these examples, which begin a narrative by announcing the narrative frame to the reader while still maintaining the momentum:

 “IN THE BEGINNING there was a river.” ~The Famished Road  by Ben Okri.

“We were fishermen:

My brothers and I became fishermen in January of 1996 after our father moved out of Akure, a town in the west of Nigeria, where we had lived together all our lives.”~ The Fishermen  by Chigozie Obioma.

“I wake up late the morning I’m meant to go to the consulate.” ~Every Day Is For The Thief  by Tẹju Cole.

Other well-loved sentences use love as a vault of interest—giving readers just enough clarity to keep them engaged. Sentences like:

“This girl you loved

Was she a river?

Quietly going downhill

Where you led?”~ “Waterfall” by Jakky Bankong-Obi.

“Yemenya has your heart now. May she be merciful. May she love you. The wound bleeds no more.” ~“Poet Of An Ordinary Heart Break” by Chris Abani.

“you are holding him across a heart, a

sea, a life,

trying to tell him that you love him

but it is sounding a lot like ruin.”~ “lover” by Hauwa Shaffii Nuhu.

“because a god cannot separate our bond that is

stronger than him,”~“Acknowledgements” by Jeremy Karn.

Then there are sentences that start with a dialogue “What were we thinking?” She asked, her eyes fixed on her mug of coffee, face pinched with disdain.” ~We Were Married  by T. J. Benson.

Or an instruction and are simply disarmingly contextual: “Read this between clenched teeth, a taut smirk plastered on your face.”~When A Woman Renounces Motherhood  by Innocent Chizaram Ilo.

What I am getting at here, at the end of this essay, is that powerful opening lines and literature is an open vault. There are many kinds of sentences, many kinds of  attributes from a literary work—just like there are many kinds of attributes —that might beguile a reader if they present the right blend of clarity and curiosity, perceptibility and mystery. There may be certain sentences or other attributes that catch more eyes—sentences and attributes featuring or not featuring identity and grief, in particular—but ultimately (What is important, in the end, is that the right literary work finds the right reader. Because what is the essence of a literary work (it's sentence or attributes) if not one step in an ongoing series of steps? And what is a relationship except one moment of connection followed by another, and then another—as long as the connection lasts? In the case of any literary work, this is a relationship that hopefully extends all the way from cover to cover, line to line, scene after scene without solely depending on its opening lines.

                                           

Esther Omoye is a student at the University of Benin where she studies English and Literature Education. Some of Esther's work, including poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in Green Black Tales, My Woven Poetry, Indian Feminist Review, Punocracy, Pink Plastic Journal and Vanguard Nigeria. She can be found on Twitter @OmoalukheOmoye