You're listening to Imaginary Worlds. A show about how we create them and why we suspend our disbelief, American Molinsky. One of my favorite science fiction writers is Nettie Acorafore. She's Nigerian American and most of her books take place in Nigeria. In 2019, she coined a term called African Futurism, all one word. She wanted to distinguish her work from Afro Futurism. Afro Futurism is typically about the black experience in the diaspora.
African Futurism is set in Africa, and those stories deal with issues which are specific to the continent. The term took up immediately, which makes sense because she was not the only person writing African Futurism. Established writers could easily fit into that category, and the term could be an inspiration for up-and-coming writers. Nettie Acorafore and other writers have emphasized that this is a broad term, which is meant to cover a wide range of stories
about African Futures. But as it kept reading her work and other African Futurist stories, I noticed a pattern. Climate change comes up a lot in these stories. And the way that the characters adapt to climate change is different in African Futurism than a lot of science fiction stories written in the West. And there are reasons for that. Like for me, and I think probably a lot of people in the West, climate change can feel like an active imagination.
When I read an article where a scientist says this could be our future, it's terrifying, but it feels like science fiction because it's not my everyday reality, unless there's a strange weather phenomenon going on, that particular day or that particular week. But the ecosystems in Africa are at the forefront of climate change. It's not something that
people can easily put out of their minds. And I wanted to look at the intersection of these two genres, African Futurism and Clifai, which is short for climate change science fiction. How does Clifai play out differently in African stories? And at first I was thinking about technology, disaster preparation. But as a delved deeper, and I talked with African writers, I realized how we imagine the future isn't just connected to the present. It's
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Before we get to climate change, I want to explore a little bit further what defines African futurism. Now as I kept reading African futurist stories, I noticed that a lot of them take place in West Africa, especially Nigeria, even more specifically Lagos, the largest city in Nigeria. And then I realized a huge number of these writers are Nigerian. Well, they talibi is a Nigerian science fiction writer and even he was surprised by how many Nigerians
are working in the genre. I've also looked at the general statistics because I used to help manage a database for the African speculated fiction society of published African speculated fiction broadly fantasy horror science fiction, everything by far the largest amount of speculated fiction writing comes from Nigeria and South Africa. That also has to do with the bit of a legacy of colonial history.
Nigeria was a British colony. English is the most commonly spoken language there. It's also the most populous country in Africa with about 230 million people and there are about 2 million Nigerians living in the diaspora. In fact, everyone you'll hear in this episode is Nigerian living in another anglophone country. Well, LA is in Australia and the writer
Chinello Ohmwalu is living in Canada. I think there's a joke that says if you go to a place on earth and there isn't a Nigerian there, no, that that place is not habitable for human life. Because it's true because we are always looking for the next thing and I think I think that makes futurism just kind of a natural space for us. We are always thinking of something, always coming up with something and even if we can't put it in the now, what if we put it in the what's to come.
In 2014, Chinello co-founded a magazine of African speculative fiction called Ominana. She says the magazine was created partially out of a sense of frustration over the expectations that were being placed upon them by Western publishers. So there was an industry expectation that writing from Africa had to look a certain way, had to cover some issues and topics. It was all about dealing with government corruption,
changing societal expectations and the face of coming out of the colonial era. And we were finding that a lot of what we were writing was a lot more speculative than that. And we just didn't see a space where we could have our own voices represented. They were also tired of having to fill their stories with exposition for non-African readers.
So we were looking for stories where people just didn't have to explain themselves, where we all understood the context that we were writing in and then we could get to the business of just being cool and speculative. Well, I also has an African audience in mind in part to show the possibilities of African futurism.
I think people don't realize how much influence TV movies, just media in general have had on popular imagination to the extent that so many people, even on the African continent, struggle to imagine different anymore. I would say it's been centuries of colonial brainwashing constantly telling you that your traditional ways and ideas and philosophies are primitive, underdeveloped, useless, unscientific, coupled with here's our vision of the future.
It sinks into your brain that this is the way of science and technology. And some of us, at least myself, have been trying to kind of go back and say, well, what are the core philosophies and ideas and ideals in a lot of our traditional societies, if they have been allowed to evolve naturally? What would they look like now? And that's kind of one thing I try to do with science with my science fiction. So you, David Acumbwa, is a Nigerian writer living in Canada.
And he says a lot of writers like himself are very aware that they're in a privileged position to be able to think beyond the day to day and spend their time dreaming of the future.
In a way, there's a duty, I think, to then invest in this future, succinctly thinking if it can actually do whatever work it needs to do, sound the alarm bells, influence policy, influence thinking, sprout even new imaginations, whatever work it does, I think that's the duty of the work and that's kind of like where I put my investment as a person as an artist, I'm thinking this needs to exist so possibilities can exist. Wynetti Accora for was defining the term African futurism.
She said that she was inspired by her many trips to Nigeria, where she was really intrigued by how easily people could incorporate modern technology into older, traditional ways of life. And she wanted to make sure that was reflected in her science fiction. Sui feels the same way. People still in rural communities, they go to a farm with the hoe and they tell the land in ridges pretty much as we have been doing for eons and eons.
And at the same time, they're tilling the farm with one hand with the hoe and the other, they have what's up on and or like a phone and they're chatting with someone on Snapchat or scrolling through TikTok. So she is right in the sense that a future where that doesn't exist feels strange to me, at least and I would see how it would be strange to anyone who actually exists on the continent because that is the reality of things.
And even when I was thinking about like my stories, the way the people in this space are thinking would differ, right? Those who have resources or access to those resources would still some of some rely on older technology because that's all they can afford, which is what the hoe represents, right? In farming, the hoe is technology. It's just much, much older for me. That mix of technologies to develop or exploit the natural resources has come to a head with the oil industry in Nigeria.
In fact, Wolley thinks the oil industry is one of the reasons why the environment comes up so often in these stories. I mean, we can't really escape our history. Ninjas are large oil producing country. They have huge petroleum reserves and for decades, oil companies have been operating in a region called the Ninja Delta. And it's kind of been terrible. And he puts it that way.
And he's not just talking about the environment, the relationship between the oil companies and the government has been plagued with corruption and abuse. So I think every Nigerian is well aware of that. I think almost every Nigerian science fiction writer probably has a story relating to the oil industry in some form talking about it. I have one for sure. Like we all think about it. The coastline is a big factor in Sui's upcoming book Lost Arc Dreaming.
It's a sci-fi thriller set in a future where sea level rises consuming Legos. The story is about a series of towers which are built on a privately constructed island. The premise was inspired by real life. When Sui was working in Legos, he noticed a version of these towers being proposed off the shoreline. Sea level rise is frightening enough, but Sui wanted to explore another theme. The Atlantic Ocean is not a neutral space for West Africans.
And I was thinking first of all, like what history is the Atlantic Ocean itself? It seems so. We're talking everything from transatlantic slavery to the history of communities that have existed on the water in Legos that have been many times removed for some of this hypercapitalist projects as well. Here's the actress Neca Acoye reading from Sui's book Lost Arc Dreaming. Making home in the heights is the future of luxury.
He says, as he takes me on a tour ahead of the grand opening of his newest project, the smallest of five towers he has named the Diekara Atlantic Community. The price is right. Diekara says, when I raise the public's concerns about the prohibitive costs of securing a spot on his towers. No product is ever meant for everybody. We have a target market. He talks me through construction. As a journalist and not an engineer, I only followed the phrases of interest and impact.
On the water electricity generating turbines, for instance, flood proof levels opts with a third of each tower's heights above sea level. I asked him why Diekara industries is so invested in preparing for a submerged future. As he thinks his island will be swallowed soon. Swallowed. He laughs. Listen. This is a project built to last generations, centuries. So yes, we need to prepare for all possible futures, including one of submedance. But that's not for us here.
No. It's for you all over there. We're standing at one of the expansive windows of the concourse. I follow his arm, pointing at the rugged city-scape of Legos that stairs back at us. This high up, the economic stratification is quite evident to any keen eye. Rosted zinc slums already have submerged by rising floods, stand next to glittering skyscrapers that spot paved elevated roadways, side-stepping the rapidly rising waters like a disgusted foot.
Nobody wants to live in that impending chaos, Diekara says, so they will fight to come up here when that is no more. They will stand in that same spot you're standing and see, thanks to Diekara, we escaped. Wellay wrote a short story called Ganger, which explores similar themes. It's part of his new collection of stories called Convergence Problems. Ganger takes place in a futuristic Nigeria where people live in a domed city to protect themselves because the air has been ruined.
Tech people, geoengineers, tried to fix the climate by developing this technology that could strip out CO2 from the air and then directed somewhere else. And what has happened in the background of the story is that that technology has gone hardly wrong and the solution has now become an even bigger problem and that has completely made the environment unlivable. The inspiration for this story also came from real life alongside being a fiction writer Wellay is an engineer.
I wanted to use what happens in that novella to kind of talk about something. I encounter my day job as well, something I do, which is this idea of CO2 storage as a geoengineering solution to climate change where we can basically take out CO2 from the environment and shove it underground. My philosophy of it is that it's a temporary measure while we figure out a better way. But in itself, it is not the solution.
And I kind of feel pursuing a purely technical approach to just say, oh, we'll just come up with a new technology to fix the problems we created with our old technology is just repeating the cycle. The main character is a teenage girl. In this scene, she's gone outside the domes city with her medical droid, LG 114. But she stayed outside too long.
Lighted turned around sharply and ran back the way she'd come, tearing past leaves and tassels and silks and stems as she bounded with great big steps of the droids frame, throwing soil up into the CO2T saturated air. She wanted to take it all in as she had before the sunrise, but she was now too worried to enjoy the feeling of flying through the field. She had to get back.
She tore past the cut-out of stocks and back onto one of the radiating tracks, leading back to the clearing that surrounded the dome. There was a giant Havestam machine ahead of her. She followed it, the feet of the LG 114's frame digging into the loamy red and brown soil with every powerful step. The dome loomed ahead, its smooth surface of gone turrets, more imposing than ever in the cold clarity of daylight. What if Mama Pedro woke up to eat already and panicked when she didn't see LG 114?
What if the guns turn on me? Lide forced herself to slow down as she approached the dome, bringing LG 114 to a brisk walking piece close to the edge of the field. She was trying not to panic, but it was hard to keep her composure despite the uncertainty. The gates of the sanitisation chamber at the base of the dome opened ahead of them like a lazy mouth. Lide thought she saw the guns angle slightly down toward them, but she was sure it was just her imagination. Don't panic.
Lide thought herself calm and kept moving behind the Havestam with the convoy until she declared the gate. There was the hiss of venting and a flood of red lights. Her mind was overcome by the sensation of her skin crawling as she imagined the nano bots pouring over every nanometer of LG 114's frame again, hunting for the viral CO2-T nano particles she brought with her. When the lights turned green and the exit opened, she wanted to sigh with relief, but she couldn't.
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Earlier, we heard from the writer, Chanelo Onwalu, she's given a lot of thought to the crossover of African futurism and Clifai. And she came to realization. I had an interesting discussion with the author, Tobio Gondira, in which we were talking about what is it that Africans fear. And it was premise from the understanding that when you look at what the West fears, it fears that the things that has done to others will be done to it.
Something like we will be enslaved and our physical autonomy and freedom will be curtailed by something outside of ourselves. But what do Africans fear? He had a great answer because it was the fact that you will, you have profined the sacred spaces, you have abandoned the sacred ways and you are being punished.
That really got me thinking that like what I think so many of us are reaching for when we sometimes write these futurisms are ways of which we have rediscovered and visioned that equilibrium that we used to live in, you know, that we've lost because those sacred spaces were destroyed in, you know, acts of colonial genocide and the cultural and cultural ecocide, right? And so some of us are rediscovering how to bring these things back.
If we look to our past, we will find some of the answers that we need for our future. She thinks a great example of this is a short story called the Leafy Man. It's by Ugandan writer named Dilmond Dilla. In this story, a bioengineering company has created a genetically modified mosquito that doesn't carry malaria. They actually gave it a nickname, Mistdo. The government decided to try Mistdo in a village to see if it could replace the regular mosquito population.
But Mistdo ended up mutating into a monstrous swarm which devours people. The main character is a survivor of the village and he used traditional knowledge to protect him. Even though Mistdo has mutated, the mosquitoes are still repelled by the smell of citrus. So he covers himself with orange leaves. Here's the actress Neca Acoye reading from the Leafy Man. The chopper touched down. He could barely see it through the smoke. The engine shot down.
The buzz of Mistdo was faint but still eerie coming from the sky. As he started toward the helicopter, four men came running out of the mist. They wore protective white clothing that covered every inch of their bodies. Each had a small tank on the back and a spray muzzle in one hand. And blazoned on their breasts were four letters in bright green. PGCC. JAPIA's legs turned to water. These men walked for PGCC. The people who brought these apocalypse to his village. It was not a rescue.
He turned and fled. Hey! One man shouted, don't run! What's that? The radio said, the Leafy Man ran. JAPIA had the reply coming out of the radio and from behind him. Why? I don't know. He just saw us and ran. JAPIA was weak from hunger but he was faster than the four men who were burdened by the heavy tanks on their backs. He knew it was foolish to run. They probably meant him no harm. They might have come to rescue him but he could not trust them. But after what they had done to his village.
What I liked about that story was the fact that it was being told from the perspective of someone that you usually would not hear from. Even in African futures, it's often written by people who have a Western education, so have a particular class background that we're coming from. And so we without thinking of it, we without necessarily realizing it. We tend to privilege middle class or upper middle class voices. People who have the experiences that we have.
So it was very interesting to read that because it was such an inversion of who are the usual voices we're here from. Even in African futures and particularly in Clifal, a colorful side character in the story of the NGO person on their way to doing the great work. The guy who opened the gates and smiles gives you the big smile and the hellosa. But a story told from his perspective looks very, very different. There's another way that African Clifi is different than Western Clifi.
In a lot of African futurism, climate change is more in the background of the story, but that doesn't mean it's unimportant. When we're talking about Clifi, a lot of the writers that I've encountered are not approaching it as the sort of subgenre of a subgenre. It's kind of built into how many of us understand our future. We are seeing the effects of climate change in ways that are much more immediate. That's our sheer approach is writing about climate change and her work.
What often happens with me is trying to marry this outside thing with this inside thing. The outside thing might be climate change and population changes, but the inside thing is what happens in a family when something terrible happens and we all cook really, really badly with it. Chinello wrote a story called Letters to My Mother. It's about people in a world that's been reshaped by climate wars.
In this scene, an archivist finds a letter from the climate wars, which has heard distant past but are future. It's a heartfelt letter addressed to somebody's mother, but the archivist doesn't know anything about the person who wrote it. Some objects from the old world, the ones that still carried the anguish of those who had made use of them, were too dangerous for my people to touch. These were usually items from the drowned cities.
I'd never had of something from the archives bearing such effect. We had been taught that the founders of the homesteads were enlightened ones who had evolved beyond the vagaries of the egoistic self. After the climate wars, they had seen the dark feats awaiting humanity and took the bold steps necessary to avoid the extinction of our species. But the longing and grief of that short letter was unlike anything I had ever felt. Could such raw emotion truly have belonged to a founder?
I avoided touching the book after that. I retorned it the next morning, wrapped in cloth, and hurried from the record's room as if it was also to blame for what had happened. Returning to the forest, I thought I had left the book behind. I was wrong. It was something in it remained in me. Chinello didn't want the characters to fit the stereotype of lone survivors battling each other for resources.
When I see the issues of climate change tackled in the West, it's often with a sense that this is going to bring doom upon us. We're going to lose all these comforts that we are used to, and suddenly the first world will look like the third world, and you do see the sense of life we have to hold on to everything that we can because God forbid we lose 24-hour access to power.
God forbid we might have to start fetching water from the central water source, which are both facets of everyday life in many other parts of the world. Whereas I think that when you have been through the apocalypse, when you have the apocalypse as part of your past, it can injure you almost to some of that doom and gloom because you know you survived the worst. You will survive again. Sui agrees. They know how to survive in apocalypse.
This is thinking about the African continent, not even just in general, but specific places that I am from. I'm thinking of how people would typically react to things like this, and there tends to be a stronger community-driven approach.
And so even in interpretations of the future or projections of whatever iteration of this stuff here manifests itself, there tends to be an imagination, therefore also from a communal standpoint in terms of how do we tackle this as a group, how do we tackle this as a collective unit, as opposed to what is my specific role as a person, or how can I save these people? And I would say I tend to see that collective voice in the telling of the story in itself as well.
And so even on a craft level, the manner of narration, the manner of voice, the manner of approach tends to sort of come from a collective place rather than individualist, soul survivor, soul savior, mesaionic type. When the problems of the world feel overwhelming, sometimes you want to have comfort food, like sugary cereals, but we're grown-ups we don't eat stuff like that anymore. Well you can, with Magix Boone.
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Now I've been looking at Clifi that has a ray of hope in ominous skies, but woole says there are still plenty of depressing dystopias in African futurism. And I think that comes from another place as well, which is also not a place to be ignored. I think that comes from living with the direct impact of climate change right now, and of largely being powerless to do much about it.
The entire continent of Africa contributes a small fraction of global carbon emissions, but they are bearing the brunt of climate change. The cause of these problems has been mostly out of their hands, but the solutions are not. That's why woole sees a lot of DIY technology and solar punk in these stories. Well, what's that would even call?
I don't want to invent a new thing, but maybe even culture punk in the sense that the idea that considering the environment as a person and entity or even a spirit, which is something that comes from a lot of traditional African just practice of community tends to show up in a lot of African futurist work. Woole edited a collection called African futurism and anthology. And one of the stories of the book is called Lucky Lucky.
It's by a Senegalese writer named Mom Bogumba Dianne, in which basically humans converts themselves into a kind of biological information matrix and merge with nature. So it's this idea that we are part of nature, not apart from it. It's an idea I personally really like just for the kind of radical reframing that it performs in your mind once you start from that position. The environment is not a victim of your actions.
It is a person or a spirit to be respected and you just haven't been doing that. In this scene, the main character has a trial run, projecting her consciousness into a tree. But these characters in the distant future are not doing it as a thrill ride. Some people in the community think this is the only way they can say a humanity, because human life has become more and more unsustainable. You'll be scanned and fitted into a transmission port for testing. Today and on the day of.
Don't worry, it's painless, we just need to verify a few things. Many of you are married women. We need to check that you are not with child before we can try the machines. We must also ensure that your own brain waves are compatible with the biochemical network matrix. Is everybody with me? They all nodded agreement, some slower than others. The pods had slid shots and the red cushion squeezed her warmly into darkness, not sleep, not quite sleep. Fully at rest, yet, are aware of herself.
She'd sunk deeper into the darkness, her head bursting through the soil into sunlight, a city gleaming in the distance where the desert stood now, a river streaming through it to a sky of deep blue abyss. In a flash, she stood fifty feet above, in another eight hundred, and as she grew, the city shrunk, her arms impossibly long and stiff, until there was nothing but dust swirling woolly death to the horizon, and all the while a mama, soft with radiant energy, calling her into its roots.
Jewelde, Jewelde, dammit, wake up! Shake! She screamed, throwing her arms around him, her head on his chest. Did you hear? Did you see? Don't you see now? It's real. All of it! Shake pushed her back and turned around. I didn't hear anything. I'm not going. Seeing that story, I kept thinking about the singularity, this dream of Silicon Valley tech moguls and some sci-fi writers that they could someday upload their consciousness to computers. This is a very different kind of thought experiment.
African futurist views, especially when it comes to Clifix, helps, you know, do what they call diversify the anthropocene imagination of being able to think of alternatives, of realizing that sometimes alternative philosophies have existed already. I am that person that whenever I come up with an idea that makes me feel like, you know, some part of my mind has been on lock. Like I've never seen it presented in this way. I've never seen this idea, you know, established so clearly to me before.
I literally go like, oh, that's so good. And it's like I get this almost like a high from my mind being unlocked. And I think African Clifix, just global Clifix in general, will help us move away from a kind of fixed mindset of what the future could be. Although Tinello thinks that African futurism could be even more original in its thinking. One of the things that I think those of us writing African futurism's can sometimes fall prey to is the idea that the future has to look like the West.
I think there are more varied understanding of what a good future looks like. Another thing that I would love to see less of is the idea that will keep certain traditions wholesale and not enough reimagining of how cultural shifts will also be reflected in the future. So I think I would love to see more African futurisms where patriarchal systems that aren't very much traditionally entrenched and maybe even beloved are challenged a little more. Now I didn't actually use to read a lot of Clifix.
I'm already very worried about this issue. When I see a description of a new novel that says, set in a future ravaged by climate change, I just can't read it because I assume it's going to fill me with despair. What I like about these stories is that they're presenting a future that's not hopeless, but it's not painless either. In fact, Tinello wrote an article called, The Case for Reckless Climate Optimism. She based it on what she describes as a Nigerian practice of suffering and smiling.
The attitude of suffering and smiling, it comes from a phrase by the musician fella. It's the sense of, it's going to get bad. You keep your humor about you and you just keep at it. You still have to wake up every day, feed your kid, go to work, do the things you need to do, and get through it. Even if things get really, really bad, life is going to go on because what's the alternative? When I hear people say life goes on, it's usually a sense of cynicism or resignation in their voices.
But when it comes to climate change, life goes on. Can feel like a victory to me. That is it for this week. Thank you for listening. Thank you to Bole Tullaby, Tinello Onwalu, Sui Davies Okomboa, and Nekka Akoye who did the readings. I have links to their works and all the other stories we talked about in the show notes. My assistant producer is Stephanie Billman.
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