edited by Francis B. Nyamnjoh
Cannibalism as Food for Thought
This innovative book is an open invitation to a rich and copious meal of imagination, senses and desires. It argues that cannibalism is practised by all and sundry. In love or in hate, fear or fascination, purposefulness or indifference, individuals, cultures and societies are actively cannibalising and being cannibalised. The underlying message of: ‘Own up to your own cannibalism!’ is convincingly argued and richly substantiated.
The book brilliantly and controversially puts cannibalism at the heart of the self-assured biomedicine, globalising consumerism and voyeuristic social media. It unveils a vast number of prejudices, blind spots and shameful othering. It calls on the reader to consider a morality and an ethics that are carefully negotiated with required sensibility and sensitivity to the fact that no one and no people have the monopoly of cannibalisation and of creative improvisation in the game of cannibalism. The productive, transformative and (re)inventive understanding of cannibalism argued in the book should bring to the fore one of the most vital aspects of what it means to be human in a dynamic world of myriad interconnections and enchantments. To nourish and cherish such a productive form of cannibalism requires not only a compassionate generosity to let in and accommodate the stranger knocking at the door, but also, and more importantly, a deliberate effort to reach in, identify, contemplate, understand, embrace and become intimate with the stranger within us, individuals and societies alike.
| ISBN | 9789956550968 |
| Pages | 358 |
| Dimensions | 229 x 152mm |
| Published | 2018 |
| Publisher | Langaa RPCIG, Cameroon |
| Format | Paperback |
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It was a slow day at a University of Johannesburg conference, where celebrated professor of communication studies and social anthropology, Francis Nyamnjoh, was giving the final address.
Despite the 30-degree heat and fleet of Ubers waiting around the corner, many had stayed to hear Prof Nyamnjoh in the hope that he would reveal the results of the latest worldwide survey of social media, or give some hope that the dying art of public-interest journalism would survive.
Instead the Honorable Professor launched into a discourse about a novel, The Palm-Wine Drinkard, written in 1952 by Nigerian author, Amos Tutuola, possibly the first African novel published in English outside of Africa.
In this fantasy book, a community of disembodied skulls exists. One of these skulls desires the affection of a beautiful maiden, who has so far rejected all suitors. To obtain this, the skull conspired to borrow/ hire body parts from various humans, until he was the perfect-looking gentleman.
The rest is predictable. The skull, now covered in borrowed muscles, organs, sinews and hair, charmed the maiden and won her hand in marriage. But of course the time came when he had to pay his bills and return all the borrowed body-parts. Needless to say, the ‘gentleman’s’ new wife was not impressed…
By the way, you have to be a big-time professor before you talk this way at an academic gathering: a junior lecturer who put this kind of thing in his abstract would be accused of smoking something in-between seminars. But I digress.
Nyamnjoh’s argument, which I think was totally on point, is that capitalism makes us all like the skull who became a slay king in Amos Tutola’s fantasy. We live in this world of ours by exploiting the bodies of others.
Children in some sweatshop in Asia likely made some part of those Nikes you love. The kapana you buy on Sundays represents the sweat and tears of people laboring over fires, and the blood and suffering of animals. That iPhone contains rare metals that a small-scale miner in the Congo risked his life to obtain.
As Prof. Nyamnjoh pointed out, as a consumer, it’s very easy to see the global capitalist economy as the perfect gentleman. It takes a lot of critical investigation before you see the skull.
The time came for questions. Someone asked about how Nyamnjoh’s metaphor relates to colonialism, imperialism and decoloniality.
Prof Nyamnjoh’s take was an interesting one. Perhaps colonialism is the skull refusing to send back his body parts. And decoloniality involves that process of the skull stripping away its body parts, sending them back to the rightful owners.
If so, then perhaps we can understand why moving on from colonialism is so hard for those of us who were beneficiaries, or partial beneficiaries, of it.
Moving on means admitting that the six-pack is not yours; that you can’t guarantee people were not fired to keep the price of your Gap jeans down.
It means letting people see your ugly side. Letting people know that, at the end of the day, you’re just a slimy old skull in a beach hat.
But here is the upside. Nyamnjoh suggested this kind of cannibalism may be unavoidable. We can’t function as disembodied skulls, and we need our Yeezys to get around.
As long as we live in a complex society, we will need to live off each other’s labour.
But there is a time to give back, even if it offends your family. There’s a time to reveal you’re really just a skull, and your claim to be a ‘self-made man’ really means ‘someone made from others’ bodies and sacrifices’.
At times, there’s a need to scandalize the community and strip off those toned muscles, or at least those Nike pants, in order to regain a semblance of humanity.
I have a poet’s weakness for metaphor.
My Uber driver was a twin from Zimbabwe. She and her sister were two of many Zimbabweans who fled hard times in that country, and later benefitted from laws that enabled Zimbabweans in the country to get South African IDs.
Now, of course, she’s one of many in the precarious ‘gig economy’. I wondered about the ways in which she and I both benefitted and suffered from this capitalism of cannibals.
Are you eating? Or are you being eaten?
Hugh Ellis is a lecturer in the department of communication at the Namibia University of Science and Technology. The views expressed here are personal. Follow him on Twitter: @ellis_hugh