Issue 9: There Are No Happy Endings

All endings are just that - endings - and sometimes, they happen to be happy or sad.

One of my greatest dilemmas as a writer is determining how to end a story. I'm always sure of the beginning, sometimes sure of the middle, but never about the end. Sometimes when I write speculative fiction, I'm tempted to resolve the entire story as a dream or end it with death — ‘Just kill off everyone and move on with your life,’ I say to myself. When I do either of this, I acknowledge how lazy and tacked-on it is.

I've been studying endings in the past few weeks, how writers and novelists end their short form and long form work respectively. There seems to be one truth that many readers ignore and writers miss: real life is a continuum and when we write, we often mirror that in some way in our work.

Last week, I wrote about no longer working full-time at Zikoko. That was an ending I didn’t want to fall as flat as it did; it was after all one of the best things (i.e the past one year) I did in my life. But it did, and life moves on. 

Thinking about this made me realise it's okay not to make the end of your story neat or tie it up together. On the other hand, as a reader or consumer, we must understand the parallels between life and works of fiction. To illustrate this, I'll share some work with endings I enjoy(ed) because of how open to imagination they left me. 

‘Half of a Yellow Sun’ by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Perhaps I once succumbed to pressure and clamored for Adichie to tell me where Kainene was. Truth is I know that we’ll never find her. This doesn’t mean that Adichie’s work and the Biafran war didn’t leave an impression on me or that I don’t understand the metaphor Kainene presents in the soul of Biafra. It doesn’t mean that I didn't feel the pain or have an affinity for Kainene.

One day, she sets off to try to trade across enemy lines — and that’s the last we see or hear of her. Not very long after, the novel wraps up, and we don’t have our answers: Is she dead? Is she alive? That’s what happened during the war. Several people lost their loved ones, never saw them or heard from them. That’s real life. We don’t have the answers, neither does Chimamanda. So instead of hating that ending, I’m grateful that it tells a difficult story.

The School by Donald Barthelme

When I read this story a few weeks ago, I thought, WTH is this story? If you’re a fan of short stories, you’ll understand how every story will make you imagine what happened before you got there and what happens after you read the last word. I’m not going to say much about this story because I want you to read it, but let’s imagine: it’s December 28th, you’re out with your guys, or at this festival (obviously observing rules of social distancing) or maybe at a religious gathering, and then you hear that there’s a new virus spreading from say, Egypt? What would you do? That’s not what happened in the story of course, but that’s the feeling I left with after reading it: in real life, strange things will keep happening — even at points you call the end. 

Òlòtūré

Òlòtūré had its promises and its flaws but the end has stayed with me. Tired of fairytales and romcoms where everything comes together nicely at the end? Or just interested in how reality plays out when you’re desperate and there aren’t real viable solutions in place to help you? Then watch it. Fun fact? It’s based on a true story, and so largely, the way it exposes the way sex workers are exploited is true. The frustrating end is real. Feel the frustration.

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PSA: I’m a big fan of romcoms, fairytales and sitcoms for their ideal and perfect endings. I don’t think that all of fiction whether in movies or in written word needs to be a mirror of real life — it’s after all fiction and one of its many uses is for readers to escape the real world and when you’re Nigerian, it’s essential.

One of my favourite childhood stories is of the little girl whose mother gives her money to buy meat after school. Instead, she uses the money to buy sweets and biscuits. When it’s time to go home, she goes to toilet, cuts one of her butts out, packages it nicely and gives it to her mother as meat at home. Her mother cooks the meat and says, ‘hmm, this is really sweet. I’m going to send you to get some more meat again tomorrow, make sure you buy from the same woman you bought this one from. You hear?’

‘Yes, Mother,’ the girl replies.

She does the same thing the next day: she cuts her second butt and gives it to her mother. I think the next few times, she buys real meat and lies about the meat vendor who sold her the sweet meat not being around, I can’t remember. One day, about a few weeks later, her mother asks to bath for her (for whatever reason), the girl protests, her mother insists and wins (as all mothers do). While in the bathroom, her mother notices that the girl is flat as a board behind. After berating her, the girl confesses: ‘I used my bumbum as meat.’

Her mother scream! ‘Mogbe!’ (Not really, I added this part.)

She takes the little girl to the doctor and they gave her ‘plastic yansh’. From that day on, she becomes known as the girl with the plastic yansh in school. It never struck me as odd that the mother (in this odd world where you can cut you butt and not bleed to death) didn’t react to having ate ass.

Question: how would you rate this ending? Good or bad? Sad or happy?

Interestingly, it was one of those tales told to teach a lesson on why greed is bad, etc. But it’s one of those tales I’ll never forget because ‘girl with the plastic yansh’ has a nice ring to it. I hope you’ve had a better week than I’ve had. Talk soon. ❤️