Samuel Kọ́láwọlé’s The Road to the Salt Sea is a novel that examines trans-Saharan migration. The Nigerian author does not shy away from depicting violence and suffering on the page, but his account is one of empathy, tenderness, and humanity.

The novel opens with Able God attempting to escape from his country because of his involvement in a murder. Able God and Akudo, a sex worker and victim of abuse, murdered Dr. Badero in an act of self-defense at Hotel Atrium where Able God works an underpaid job despite being a university graduate. In desperation, Able God has no choice but to submit himself to Ben Ten, a swindler and human trafficker, whose ploy he had earlier rebuffed. Alongside Able God are Mofuru and Ghaddafi who, frustrated by the poverty and emptiness of their lives, are placing their hopes on being ferried to Italy where they could begin life again, begin living for the first time. But that promised life, through the desert and the sea, becomes a gift of death and dying, as the immigrants end up in Libya as prisoners of hope. The Road to the Salt Sea reveals what happens to people, a people, when they leave home in search of a future. 

Darlington Chibueze Anuonye: Reading The Road to the Salt Sea made me think of Abdulrazak Gurnah’s remark that his novel Afterlives evolved from his deep interest in “the manner in which people retrieve their lives after trauma.” This is why Afterlives, indeed Gurnah’s works, embodies emotions that enable readers to empathize with even cruel characters. That sense of humane handling of violence manifests in your novel. I really want to know how you came to the decision to write this book.

Samuel Kọ́láwọlé: Before I get into my reasons for writing the novel, I’d like to address your insightful comment on the theme of violence in my novel. The discussion surrounding trauma and violence in African literature has always fascinated me. While I agree that there should be different representations of what is happening on the continent, as well as a diverse range of stories and voices, given the continent’s numerous difficulties, I find it disingenuous when critics attack a writer for simply serving as a mirror for society. That’s why terms like “poverty porn” or “trauma porn” bother me. Art does not exist in a vacuum, and artists live in a real world where people are confronted daily with violence and its consequences. Since violence is part of our collective experience and consciousness, shouldn’t it also be part of our art? I believe the legitimacy of writing about violence will not change, even if some people choose to disregard it, be unconcerned about it, or find it unpleasant. I also think it is an elitist element to the trauma porn school of thought. I love that you described my depiction of violence in my novel as “humane,” because there is a way to do it well. Violence should not be used simply for the sake of violence. 

Many years ago, on a road trip through four nations, I came across a group of migrants who had made the arduous journey over the Sahara and had been deported. They told me stories that had stayed with me for years until I did something about them. I am glad this novel exists because the trans-Saharan migration crisis is not only underreported in the media, but more so in literature. The Road to the Salt Sea is a story of hope and resilience. I like that Gurnah is interested in “the manner in which people retrieve their lives after trauma.” I am also interested in moving on, even when people are not sure how to.

DCA: Thinking about Able God who survived the violence of that movement, but whose survival is marked by a disfigured sense of the world, I wonder: how is it possible to live again after so much loss of friends, family and the self? 

SK: I am interested in journeys, movements and crossroads and the toll traveling the road takes on travelers. Aside from the physical exhaustion commonly connected with traveling, there is the psychological one. So, this novel is my attempt to map out the “psychological wear and tear” of my characters as they proceed along the journey, some more noticeable than others. However, there is a sense that each of them is relying on something to keep them going and to alleviate the unpleasant impacts of the journey. For Ghadaffi, it’s his family, while for Morufu, it’s his aspirations to play football.  At first, Able God is driven by fear and guilt, but his motivation gradually evolves into something more. He does things that he doesn’t even believe he is capable of.  In the end, he bears the scars of a survivor which makes him even more determined, I think. The Road to the Salt Sea shows us that redemption is always possible. For Able, God the novel ends with the possibility of a new life, perhaps even a new family. 

DCA: How come people like Ben Ten and Serge get away with the crimes they commit? We could say there was war in Libya at the time and that the country was stateless, but what of Nigeria, what kind of government remains ignorant of, or concerned about, such level of human abuse? 

SK: The world, like in the novel, is full of villains like Ben Ten and Serge. They were called “vendors of misery” by one reviewer. They prey on unsuspecting victims, and in many ways, both big and small. Serge suffers the consequences of his crime in the story as some bad people do in real life. Ben Ten, however, fades from the story. We don’t know what happened to him, but it’s safe to presume that his criminal activities will continue unabated. This illustrates the other side of the coin as well: some people can get away with doing terrible things.  

The Road to the Salt Sea is set some years after U.S./NATO’s violent intervention in Libya and the assassination of Muammar Gaddafi. Libya has become ungovernable and fractured since Gaddafi’s ouster, now ruled by warring factions and regional militia groups. Remember that Libya is the most perilous nation on the route to Europe. Nigeria and Libya are two nations plagued by political crises. The Nigerian government cares nothing about its citizens, except for the elites, and fosters ineptitude and corruption. Conditions are sometimes so dire for people that they believe their only alternative is to escape.

DCA: What has Nigeria done to make its citizens so desirous of escaping the nation so much that Mofuru and Ghaddafi saw a messiah in Ben Ten? Even in the Sahara, the immigrants chanced upon a decaying corpse beside whom a Nigerian passport was buried. Yet, the journey continued. But this is even beyond Nigeria. The number of passengers from other African countries that joined the trip on the way is heartbreaking. Your narrator offers some hints on why these characters were determined to escape their homes. War, economic hardship and political crises recurred frequently and loudly. But there’s even the strange example of Billy who believed he was “born in a body with the wrong nationality—he was born Senegalese, but he had always known he was French.” Isn’t it terrifyingly sad how the failure of a continent leaves its people vulnerable in the world?

SK: Absolutely. The continent’s numerous problems often inspire a certain kind of desperation among individuals, particularly the youth. There is also the idea that anything Western is better because of a deeply embedded colonial mindset. Since the 1990s, military dictatorships, interventionist policies by foreign governments, poverty, corruption, famine, and violence have pushed many sub-Saharan Africans to search for a better life in Europe and North America, continents widely perceived to be safe and prosperous. Yes, we have bad leaders and need attitudinal changes in Africa, but the global migrant issue is a crisis of inequality. Europe underdeveloped Africa and continues to do so in many respects today. Ama Atta Aido once said that Africa gave the west five hundred years and received nothing in return. In recent years, there has been a surge of military coups on the continent, toppling regimes governed by Western-backed politicians. These nations are now turning to countries such as Russia and China. I can see the motivation behind it, even if I think it’s a bad idea and they are trading one slave-master for another.  

DCA: Do you think the artist has any responsibility in fixing a failed system of justice or to a failed nation?

SK: Making art is what we do as artists. In addition, we are members of society and citizens. We have societal responsibilities. Occasionally, the things we create serve as a mirror for society. It’s okay for artists to get involved in making change. Activism and the arts can be excellent allies, but not always. I think there is an unfair burden on African writers and Black writers in general to be political activist, to fix things. Artists should be free to do whatever they like. There is also an idea that art is inherently political. 

DCA: Back to Able God, I almost wanted to say: what really is the onomastic impact of his name, since he had to suffer so much even though his god is able. Then, I thought about his life again: he survived. That matters, too. But I want to know your thought on this: how able is Able God’s god, that god his mother so melodramatically depended on?

SK: This is a book of paradoxes, one of which is the religious symbolism in his name and how it contrasts with his life events. I like characters with distinctive names, so the name Able God sprang to mind while I was considering renaming my protagonist—he had a different name in an earlier version of the work. I also realized that the name I chose resonated with one of the novel’s primary themes. The novel grapples with the idea of choices and predestination. Can our decisions influence our outcomes in life, or is there nothing an individual can do throughout their mortal life to change their fate? Able God battles with many forces in this novel including his own demons. 

DCA: The silence that shrouds Dr. Badero’s abuse of Akudo is ominous. It was only from Able God’s sensitive observation of the sexual partners that we suspect, like Able God himself, that something was wrong in their relationship. I like how you rendered the passage: “A light-skinned woman was hunched up in the corner of the bed, sheet drawn to her chin… The corners of her lips were bloodied, and a long welt ran across her shoulder. She glanced up at Able God. As their eyes met, she quickly pulled the sheet over her shoulders and then resumed her gentle rocking. His mind strolled through many questions. From what he could see, there was no latext bodysuit, no manacles or whips. This was something else—something reprehensible had just happened.” What really happened?

SK: Badero is not only a sadomasochist but an abuser. He can get away with his crimes because of his societal status. This highlights the pervasive sexist culture of our clime, as well as the role of money and power in enabling abusers. There is a passage in the book that describes what I am talking about: “In a way, Able God felt wronged. He had known men like Dr. Badero all his life, men who dominated women—and who hurt them—men who thought sexual conquest was a God-given right.” I also wanted to explore the connection between sex trafficking and trans-Saharan migration. I attempted to explore how the circumstances are set up for sex trafficking to occur because my research found it to be a significant component of the global migration crisis. Nonetheless, Akudo has some autonomy in this novel which every character going through a bad situation should have.