I could listen to this man for hours. He is magical. I want him to tell me stories about everything in the world. I want him to talk to me about love, about Africa, about war, poetry, tragedy, song. But he is frail, he is tired, and I have to let him go. He thanks me unduly graciously and tells me to come and visit him in New York soon. And then, on a final note, he suddenly says, ‘It was all because of The Spectator, you know. I was working at the Nigerian Broadcasting Corporation and I had a subscription to the magazine. One day, I saw an advertisement for a manuscript typing services firm in there. I had written this novel, so I sent them the only copy in the world. I didn’t hear back from them. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. They stopped taking out their advert in The Spectator, which really scared me. Fortunately, I told my boss, a no-nonsense Englishwoman, what had happened. She went back to England on leave, armed with the name and address of the typing company. Shortly afterwards, they sent back my manuscript. The novel was called Things Fall Apart.’ What happened next, we all know. And this week, its author will finally get the recognition he deserves.
Clemency Burton-Hill is a contributing editor of The Spectator.
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