Novelist José Eduardo Agualusa: Xenophobia is a universal problem

In your novel Creole you explored the themes of colonialism, slavery, and race through the relationship between Carlos Fradique Mendes and Ana Olímpia de Caminha, a former slave who became one of the wealthiest persons in Angola. Tell us more about this novel.

I wrote Creole many years ago, fascinated by the true, but at the time very little-known story of a former slave who became a wealthy slave trader. Curiously, in Angola, some of the country's greatest fortunes in the 19th century were African women who became rich from the slave trade. The best-known case is that of Dona Ana Joaquina, who owned a huge palace in downtown Luanda, which now serves as a courthouse.

Daniel Hahn is tasked with translating your work from Portuguese to English. Could you share what that relationship looks like, between writer and translator?

Daniel has been with me from the beginning. In other words: my first book published in England, "Creole", was translated by him. It was his first literary translation. I was extremely lucky because Daniel is an exceptional translator – a great writer. I owe much of the success of my novels in the English-speaking world to Daniel.

You also host a radio programme about African music and poetry. From your perspective, who are the most important voices in African music and literature?

African music is a huge world, extremely diverse, so it's very difficult to answer that question. I can only mention a few of the names that are most significant to me: Abdullah Ibrahim, Manu Dibango, Richard Bona, Bonga, Ngola Ritmos, Cesária Évora, Geoffrey Oryema, Ali Farka Toure, Zap Mama, Rokia Traore, José Carlos Schwarz, Miriam Makeba, and many, many others.

Let's discuss A General Theory of Oblivion, which won the prestigious 'International Dublin Literary Award' (and is also being adapted into a Palestinian movie). Was the appearance of the young boy Sabalu in Ludo's story symbolic?

Ludo, an orphan of the Portuguese empire, is saved by this boy. He helps her realise the obvious – we, too, are the other. There is no other. There are people, and they all fit inside us. Sabalu, which means Saturday in Quimbundu, is what comes after Friday – in other words, after the complete wreck of the colonial system. Naturally, this is a novel that owes a lot, in many ironic senses, to Daniel Defoe.

How was the process of writing a female voice as a narrator?

As I said, I was Ludo for many months. A woman, and from a certain point on, an elderly and sick woman, in a context that, from her point of view, is antagonistic – it isn't, as you'll see later – which emphasises her fragility. She was the narrator, and I needed to tell that story.

Palestinian director Annemarie Jacir is turning your novel into a movie, transforming Ludo into a New Yorker who found herself in Gaza at the outbreak of the First Intifada; the project won the top prize at the 'Berlinale Co-Production Market'. Do you think that humanity suffers from the same fears at different times and places?

No doubt. This is a universal story. Since I published the novel, I've received many messages from readers telling me about similar situations in very different territories. The problem of xenophobia, of fear of the other, is universal. Loneliness is universal.

Are you currently writing a new novel?

Yes. It begins in Bailundo, in the Central Highlands of Angola, at the beginning of the 20th century – when the African kingdoms of the Central Highlands were still independent.