Without giving it a second thought, I have long instinctively said that my favourite novel of all time is Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels. After it leaves my mouth, I always wonder to myself if it is actually true and if so, why?
After reading Amos Tutuola’s My Life in the Bush of Ghosts I can at least answer the why: I love travel literature with a heavy helping of absurdity. In this novel, which is monumental for Nigerians, Africa, and the Western literary tradition for several reasons, follows a young boy (I believe he is only six years old at the start) who wanders accidentally into a bush populated by odd, fearsome, magical ghosts. Each chapter he makes his way to a new ghost town, or meets a new type of ghost community, or is transformed into some strange or familiar creature.
I had an absolute blast reading this. I could hardly put it down, and throughout lamented my childhood imagination that developed without this novel in its orbit. What would it have meant to have Yoruba fairytales be a part of imaginary and mythology from a young age, instead of only Harry Potter or Middle Earth? Tutuloa wrote several other novels, namely The Palm Wine Drinkard which is often hailed as his most successful. I can hardly wait to dive into that one and others. Move over Johnny Swift.