Laughter of Demons

This is not a literary study. It is a collection of thoughts by one writer about another writer whose company he enjoys. I believe these things are permitted and good. Actually, this is about laughter, plain, conversation-interrupting laughter, the laughter of a particular man, the laughter of Ben Okri. Why? Well, whenever I think I haven’t seen Ben Okri for a while, that it would be nice to see him, I think primarily of his laughter. That is not to say that there is nothing to Ben but his laughter, far from it, but for me it is his mirth that carries the rest of him—the hat, the steady gaze, that gluttonous intellect. It is the lightness that inhabits his laughter that ennobles his best work; insight is a hard sell when you’re frowning.

There is an encounter in Ben’s book of impossibility, Dangerous Love, where Doctor Okocha, wizened by ogogoro, tells the hero that his life will be full of surprises, that miracles happen where there has been suffering. In a way, Okocha’s words reflect my experience of Ben’s laughter; his brooding look makes his gregarious laughter a miracle, a surprise of gaping proportions. Our first meeting was a solemn affair, dictated by the weight of the occasion—we were both speaking at the mayor’s vigil for victims of the July 7, 2005, bombings in London. There was space for defiant smiles, not buoyant laughter. Our second was almost four years later in April, a perfect fourth pitched atop Kensington’s Roof Gardens. We were there at the invitation of the British Council, celebrating innovation. I identified him across the room by his iconic black beret and made my way over to pay my respects. It was only meant to be a quick hello—just a quick hello and a retreat; I didn’t want him asking me the kinds of questions that established writers ask writers whose books are about to be published.

He was speaking to a lady who was completely in his thrall. I cut in awkwardly; waiting has never been my forte. To compensate, I made a wry comment. The lady giggled. Ben began to laugh. Now, I must make my position on the word “began” in narrative clear: I don’t like it. I tell my writing students, they either do or they don’t; if they begin, you have to tell us when they end. However, in this case, it is appropriate. Ben began to laugh. I say that because he laughed in waves. He started, stopped, and started again. Watching his eyes, I realized that I had triggered something; the joke for him was beyond my comment—he was mentally riffing. I caught his fever and fell into laughter too. Musically, Ben’s laugh has a wonderful quality—it’s a mellifluous, rhythmic explosion that carries well, a joyful call, a call for the community to share. Even in that room, abuzz with pockets of conversation, clinking glasses, mobile phone beeps and rights, the sound of air kisses and expensive heels clicking in the direction of opportunity, it caused a stir. People stopped to stare.

The ability to laugh like Ben did on that Kensington Roof—like Ben does often—signals humility and a capacity for abstraction, the ability to empathize with someone’s perception of the world for long enough to “get it.” Let’s face it, there are more bad jokes in the world than good ones and even the good ones have to be delivered well. I happen to know I don’t tell jokes at all, the odd sly comment is about as funny as I get. What I realized in that moment was that our humor-triggers, like our stories, don’t belong to us.

In 2011, twenty years after The Famished Road was published, Sam Jordison wrote something in the Guardian that made me wonder if he lacked a basic capacity for understanding. I can relate to someone not liking The Famished Road, no problem. What I can’t understand, as someone who has lived through drought, is...