The cock raised its’ red crowned head and crowed loudly. In the quiet early morning it roused men from deep sleep, ushering in a new day.
Sitting on the now worn wooden stool, his wrapper carefully wound around his robust frame, he heard it.
The sun was still trying to shoot out its rays over the early morning clouds. He could hear men and women passing by his window, heading to their farms. But he just sat there and stared into space.
In his large palm, he held firmly a small calabash filled with rich foamy palm wine. It was filled to the brim. By the side of his bare feet rested a medium sized gourd filled with the same substance.
He was not alone. At the other end of the courtyard sat Bingo. It’s mouth curled at the edge as if mourning with its’ owner. Like a loyal friend it sat on the red dust, keeping vigil from a distance.
The man raised the calabash to his mouth and swallowed half of the content in one gulp, smacking his lip in the process.
He was not afraid. He knew what he had to do. He had thought about it all through the night. He knew that anytime from now his creditors would start coming. He was going to be ready for them.
He reached for the gourd and poured more wine into his calabash.
* * * * *
The rain came crashing down without warning.
Heavy raindrops pummeled the road and walls of the houses. Thunder crashed overhead.
He ran through the little ponds and channels of water on the footpath.
‘ Thank God I am nearly there’ he said to himself as he as he hopped over a puddle of water.
He dashed round a large mango tree and ran onto the verandah of the house.
He paused in the shade to wipe water off his body. He looked himself over, sighing in the process as he surveyed the effect of the rain on his attire. He pulled his sandals and wiped them on the foot mat outside.
Satisfied, he looked up and knocked; gently at first, then he smacked the door twice more. He pulled on the knob. It was locked.
‘ Yes! Who is that trying to destroy my door’
He said nothing
The voice from inside bellowed, quite impatiently ‘ look who is there! If you do not answer I will leave you outside’
‘ It is me Osemeka’
‘ Who is me?’
The owner of the voice opened the door blocking the entrance with his large frame. His protruding belly spilled over the edge of the wrapper he tied. For a moment he looked at the rain soaked figure expressionlessly
‘Yes what can I do for you?’
‘Osemeka himself!’
‘ Look Okey this weather is not a good time to visit. I am planning to go to Lagos tomorrow and I need to rest’
‘ Osemeka I want to see you about something urgent and important’
‘ So important that it can’t wait?’
‘ Yes O.’
‘Ok why don’t you wait for me. I will be back in the next…’He turned to go in.
Through the small gap in the door Okey pulled him ‘ So you want me to wait out here in this weather?’
Osemeka turned and pulled his arm away. He thought for a second then he opened the door.
‘ Go and wait in the sitting room for me. I will join you shortly’
With that he left him standing there and walked away.
Okey found the sitting room and settled down.
Outside, thunder crashed overhead. The rain continued to pelt the wall.
* * * *
‘ Look Osemeka I will pay you back everything’
‘ But you have no job Okey. How do you intend to repay me? This money is for my business as I told you’
‘ Ossy… ok if you must know. My in-laws are coming for my daughter Chinyere’s wine carrying ceremony in a month’s time. I am taking nothing less than three hundred thousand Naira from them’
‘Ha! Okey !! Is that not too much…’
‘ Nonsense. My Chinyere is a trained lawyer. I must make the money I spent on her back. Besides my in-law is a Senator and his family is not complaining. You saw the young man the day he came to the village abi?”
‘ Yes’
‘ Did you not see his shoes and car he brought. Did you notice his wristwatch…’
‘Anyway Okey I thing you should be careful. You know that from the little I know about you and this your daughter she blames you for abandoning her and her mother when they needed you…’
‘ Enough of that. Who told you that stupid lie! I did not abandon them and my daughter is not going to quarrel with me. Besides it is tradition’ There was a short pause then he asked his host ‘ Anyway can I have the money?’
Osemeka knew Okey well. In fact everyone in the village knew Okey well. His laziness and unwillingness to work was a usual subject of discussion among men and women.
‘Okey you know that I charge interest?’
‘Yes but that is not a problem’
‘My interest is fifty thousand Naira’
‘What!’ Okey jumped up’ Fifty thousand Naira on one hundred thousand loan! Haba that is too much’
‘That is what I normally charge people’
‘ But even the banks charge far less’
Osemeka stood up’ Okey why don’t you go to the bank then’
‘ Sorry but it is just that…’ He paused in mid sentence and thought briefly
‘ Odinma. It is ok. Bring the money’
‘Very well. Wait for me while I get the money for you’
* * * *
It was the wild barking of Bingo that brought Okey to the front of his house.
It was only two weeks to the wedding and he was very busy handling the preparation in the village.
A black colored Rav4 Jeep was parked a few feet away. Three men were disembarking. He recognized them immediately
‘ My in-laws! Welcome, welcome. I wasn’t expecting you. Welcome, please sit down’ motioning them to the long wooden bench in front of his house.
The men nodded at him but said nothing. They looked far from happy.
Okey noticed.
‘ My in-laws I hope nothing is the matter?’
The oldest among the men motioned for them to go inside the house. Okey led them in stealing glances over his shoulder as the men took seats in the sparsely furnished sitting room. Bingo had followed the men in and resumed his barking.
Okey picked up one of his slippers and fling it at him. He missed and Bingo hurried outside.
The oldest man in the trio broke the news as briefly as possible.’ The wedding has been cancelled’
Okey farted quietly. His voice trembled ‘But why, my in-laws? What is the matter?’
‘ Ask your daughter’
‘ Please my in-laws don’t be angry. Please tell me what the issue is. What has Chinyere done to you?’
For a brief moment the men looked at each other. Okey, now visibly worried sought scanned the faces, seeking for an answer. The oldest man spoke again.
‘ Well your daughter has an incurable disease. We will not allow our son to marry her!’
‘ Incurable disease? What do you mean by that?’
The ceiling fan was on and the air was cool. It was late evening. Okey drenched in sweat, wiped his brows with his palm.
‘ I said you should ask your daughter. All we are here to do is to inform you that we are no longer interested. Period!’
The three men left as quietly as they had come.
Okey sat there, alone, as the sunset. He was still sitting there, alone, when the sun rose the next day.
* * * *
Bad news does not travel on the back of a snail; it soars on the wings of an eagle.
By evening the whole village had heard the news that the wedding had been cancelled
He had tried his daughter’s telephone number many times but it was always switched off. Finally he had sent Cletus; his younger brother’s son to Lagos to find his Chinyere.
Two weeks later and as he sat forlorn under the mango tree in front of his house, his emissary returned, not with his daughter, but with a letter written in her small handwriting he was so familiar with. He could not remember all that she wrote but the closing words burnt deep into his memory
‘…I am sorry father to have disappointed you but I will make it up. You will never see me again. I cannot live like this and I cannot show my face in the village again. I am so sorry’.
A day later he sent Cletus back to her to ‘…force her to come and see me. Remind her that since her mother died, she has been all that I have and still have.’
This time his emissary returned the next evening. Chinyere had packed her bags and left her house. There was more disturbing news. When Cletus entered the room he had found a suicide note. Her neighbors had no idea where she had gone to or when she was going to return.
* * * *
He heard him, before his eyes picked him up.
Standing in his doorway, with the early morning sun behind him, Osemeka coughed loudly
The man sitting in the middle of the courtyard half-turned.
He smiled when he saw the tall and robust figure blocking the warm rays of the sun. He beckoned to him to come, motioning him to sit on the wooden stool by his side.
‘Good morning Osemeka, come in, I have been expecting you’
‘Look Okechukwu, I am not here to sit down. Is my money ready?’
‘Ogini Kwanu? We are not quarrelling or are we. Come in and let us break kola, it is a new day and one does not know the opportunities that it will bring to us’
‘Thank you for the offer but I have three men waiting for me at home. Can I have the money now?’
‘Very well. Wait for me’ he got up gingerly, his arthritis causing him to wince a little with pain.
He walked past his visitor, heading for his bedroom. At the door he paused and turned ‘ By the way Osemeka did you bring a bag for the money?’
‘For how much? Don’t worry just bring the money and let me be on my way’
Okechukwu paused at the door to his bedroom, smiled at Osemeka who was looking away, a frown creasing his face, and then he walked in and shut the door.
* * * *
Hannah was a visibly angry woman.
At the first crow of the cock she had bounded out of her bed, grabbed a chew stick and left the house.
‘ Mama Franca where are you off to this early morning.’ Her husband asked as he came out of the bathroom. ‘Let us have morning devotion first’
‘ Not now. I am going to Okey’s house to collect my money. It is now over two months since he collected money from me and he is yet to repay. I don’t make money on trees’
Before the husband could respond, she pushed past him and headed down the path.
She arrived Okey’s house as he entered the bedroom.
She pushed past Osemeka and headed for Okey’s bedroom, cursing as she went
‘ Come out you shameless man! Come out and pay me my money! Today I will show you pepper!’
In the room, Okey heard them. He reached for the loft and brought down his rifle.
‘Mama Franca…’
She turned and noticed Osemeka.
‘Sorry O Papa John I did not see you. It is this stupid good for nothing man. Pay me my money, he refused. But today I am ready for him. I will tear him to pieces and …’
In the room, tears fell from his eyes. For a second his life flashed past him and he paused as if changing his mind, then he pushed the nozzle into his mouth, uncorked the gun with his toe and pulled the trigger.
Monday, September 24, 2007
He Saved Me
The date on the calendar on my wall read Friday November 11, 1993.
The day started like any other. Well maybe not like any other because I felt that life was very good to me. I did not walk I bounced along the street, feeling ten feet taller.
It was easy to understand why I felt so happy. Here was I, a fresh graduate from the University of Nigeria, about to conclude my one year compulsory paramilitary service and with two interviews scheduled for the next day. In a country where unemployment is so high, where people wait for years just to be called for interviews, one must be thankful for such mercies. They are rare.
That day was to mark the end of our compulsory one years national service to our ‘fatherland’. The highlight of the day was the passing out parade followed by the presentation of certificates to all those who had the good fortune to survive one year of being away from loved ones often working for peanuts. I could not wait for the passing out parade and by the time I received my certificate it was late evening.
I dashed out of the venue and headed for my apartment somewhere in the outskirt of Jos, Northern Nigeria. Mind you my bag was packed. I had spent the whole night looking forward to seeing my recently widowed mother and siblings and of course attending the interviews. .
The taxi that brought me to my apartment had strict instructions to return in half an hour to pick me up and ferry me to the Bus Station where I intended, that evening, to board a bus for Lagos, the commercial capital of Nigeria. Getting vehicles was usually difficult and I had made up my mind to charter the taxi can regardless of the amount.
More than an hour later and feeling very sore with the attitude of taxi drivers towards keeping appointment; I went, with a neighbour of mine, in search of another vehicle. I was hell bent on not missing my interviews the next day.
Then in the distance a taxi approached. ‘Thank God’ I muttered.
To my consternation however, after the taxi had dropped its passenger and we had negotiated the exorbitant fare he was charging me to the Bus Station, I got in but the stupid vehicle will just not start.
The driver was not amused at all ‘This has never happened before ’ he told me as he opened the bonnet of the old Peugeot 404 Saloon car. Unable to diagnose the problem and seeing that the time was quickly approaching six in the evening we decided to give the vehicle a good push. And so we did.
After a few minutes and heavy perspiration, the engine roared to life and we set off for the Bus Station.
As we arrived and I paid him off, I noticed that there were only two vehicles left leaving Jos from that station. One was a bus and the other a Peugeot 504 Station Wagon.
‘The bus is full’ I was told by the driver who was already collecting the fare from the passengers.
Very unhappily I headed for the station wagon. There were still two spaces left so I paid for a seat. That was however not before I had spent a few minutes exchanging pleasantries with fellow youth corp. members in the bus. I told them I had interviews in Lagos and had to leave that night.
‘In fact this bus had been practically vacant until a few minutes ago they told me’.
I cursed my luck, if only that driver had come on time, if only that other taxi had not broken down.
Mind you I was interested in following the bus because they were generally faster, cheaper and I had a lot of colleagues that we could have shared stories together.
I settled down to wait for the last passenger that would complete the station wagon.
A few minutes after I arrived, the bus left the station. About fifteen minutes later we left.
Somewhere in the night, at about 9.00pm, close to a village called Saminaka in Kaduna State of Nigeria, we turned a corner along the unlit and dark Jos-Kaduna road and there stood a sight that I will never forget in my life.
The bus that only a few hours ago contained colleagues, people with hopes and ambition stood burning in the middle of the highway. It had crashed headlong into a bus coming from the other direction. No one came out of the bus that night. They all burnt while seated. We could see them from where we were.
The driver of my vehicle just sat there, motionless unable to utter a word. Someone walked up to us; another driver coming from Kaduna and whispered to our driver to please go to the park as soon as he arrives in Kaduna to break the news to the other drivers.
The drive to Kaduna after that was pretty quiet because we all knew that we could have been on that bus.
I had no reason not to be on that bus. In fact I worked so hard to be on it but somewhere in heaven God simply looked down on me with grace and preserved my life. I have come to realize that life is precious and every day spent here is a gift worth sharing.
It is difficult to explain in simple words what I felt and still feel to this day.
The day started like any other. Well maybe not like any other because I felt that life was very good to me. I did not walk I bounced along the street, feeling ten feet taller.
It was easy to understand why I felt so happy. Here was I, a fresh graduate from the University of Nigeria, about to conclude my one year compulsory paramilitary service and with two interviews scheduled for the next day. In a country where unemployment is so high, where people wait for years just to be called for interviews, one must be thankful for such mercies. They are rare.
That day was to mark the end of our compulsory one years national service to our ‘fatherland’. The highlight of the day was the passing out parade followed by the presentation of certificates to all those who had the good fortune to survive one year of being away from loved ones often working for peanuts. I could not wait for the passing out parade and by the time I received my certificate it was late evening.
I dashed out of the venue and headed for my apartment somewhere in the outskirt of Jos, Northern Nigeria. Mind you my bag was packed. I had spent the whole night looking forward to seeing my recently widowed mother and siblings and of course attending the interviews. .
The taxi that brought me to my apartment had strict instructions to return in half an hour to pick me up and ferry me to the Bus Station where I intended, that evening, to board a bus for Lagos, the commercial capital of Nigeria. Getting vehicles was usually difficult and I had made up my mind to charter the taxi can regardless of the amount.
More than an hour later and feeling very sore with the attitude of taxi drivers towards keeping appointment; I went, with a neighbour of mine, in search of another vehicle. I was hell bent on not missing my interviews the next day.
Then in the distance a taxi approached. ‘Thank God’ I muttered.
To my consternation however, after the taxi had dropped its passenger and we had negotiated the exorbitant fare he was charging me to the Bus Station, I got in but the stupid vehicle will just not start.
The driver was not amused at all ‘This has never happened before ’ he told me as he opened the bonnet of the old Peugeot 404 Saloon car. Unable to diagnose the problem and seeing that the time was quickly approaching six in the evening we decided to give the vehicle a good push. And so we did.
After a few minutes and heavy perspiration, the engine roared to life and we set off for the Bus Station.
As we arrived and I paid him off, I noticed that there were only two vehicles left leaving Jos from that station. One was a bus and the other a Peugeot 504 Station Wagon.
‘The bus is full’ I was told by the driver who was already collecting the fare from the passengers.
Very unhappily I headed for the station wagon. There were still two spaces left so I paid for a seat. That was however not before I had spent a few minutes exchanging pleasantries with fellow youth corp. members in the bus. I told them I had interviews in Lagos and had to leave that night.
‘In fact this bus had been practically vacant until a few minutes ago they told me’.
I cursed my luck, if only that driver had come on time, if only that other taxi had not broken down.
Mind you I was interested in following the bus because they were generally faster, cheaper and I had a lot of colleagues that we could have shared stories together.
I settled down to wait for the last passenger that would complete the station wagon.
A few minutes after I arrived, the bus left the station. About fifteen minutes later we left.
Somewhere in the night, at about 9.00pm, close to a village called Saminaka in Kaduna State of Nigeria, we turned a corner along the unlit and dark Jos-Kaduna road and there stood a sight that I will never forget in my life.
The bus that only a few hours ago contained colleagues, people with hopes and ambition stood burning in the middle of the highway. It had crashed headlong into a bus coming from the other direction. No one came out of the bus that night. They all burnt while seated. We could see them from where we were.
The driver of my vehicle just sat there, motionless unable to utter a word. Someone walked up to us; another driver coming from Kaduna and whispered to our driver to please go to the park as soon as he arrives in Kaduna to break the news to the other drivers.
The drive to Kaduna after that was pretty quiet because we all knew that we could have been on that bus.
I had no reason not to be on that bus. In fact I worked so hard to be on it but somewhere in heaven God simply looked down on me with grace and preserved my life. I have come to realize that life is precious and every day spent here is a gift worth sharing.
It is difficult to explain in simple words what I felt and still feel to this day.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
The African Playwright: Old Stories, Present Day realities
The playwright, like every author, is a story teller. Whether writing fact or fiction, he takes his society and using the medium of drama expresses his feelings, emotions and experiences.
Drama itself is an art that brings the playwright’s story to life, to an audience using the creativity of the director, producer, artistes, set designers, choreographers and so on and so forth.
Drama over the years has therefore become a tool through which society is mirrored. Drama is a tool through which the critical playwright can criticioe society, government and individuals alike.
In Africa, agitation for self-determination especially in the 1950s and 1960s provided the right atmosphere for the new breed of militant playwrights. Mostly educated abroad, these young men and women created drama pieces that agitated for the rights of the people to self-govern. Dr Miuke Aliu in his paper ‘ CRITICAL DIMENSIONS IN NIGERIAN DRAMA BEYOND YEAR 2000’ stated that ‘…the use of the dramatic medium as a means of propagating ideologies and the struggles for the control of the conscience of man has been noted by writers like Ngugi Wa Thiong's …who sees drama as one of the most potent media in the struggle against cultural and neo-colonialism in Africa.It is also a decisive weapon of galvanizing the masses towards radical socio-economic changes’
As one after the other African states became independent, the envisaged ‘new dawn’ of African development became a mirage. The exit of the colonial masters only created a vacuum that the new elitist political class that fought each other; often to the death, thankfully filled. The era witnessed civil wars, military takeovers and general political upheavals. The African playwright quickly adjusted, shifting its theme to the pervading social and economic malaise of the continent. This was the period when the playwright tried to touch our conscience and put all of us in front of a mirror. The image we saw was not good.
Sadly however, after more than 30 to 40 years some of these drama pieces were written, the same image we saw on our mirror then, has changed little, if at all. In some cases we have grown uglier. The same issues of corruption, political instability, excesses of the political class, poverty and disease still remains as relevant then as they are now. Then most African countries were not as poor as they were then.
Written in 1983 by the notable Nigerian playwright, Professor Femi Osofisan, the play ‘ If: A Tragedy of the Ruled’ draws inspiration from the political experience at that time in Nigeria.
Nigeria was in an election year. The military had handed over to the National Party of Nigeria with Alhaji Shehu Shagari as President in 1979. The election result then had been hotly disputed. As the nation prepared for another election after 4 years of alleges misrule by the party in power, tension was understandably very high.
The stories told within the play addressed such issues as corruption, misrule by elected officials, poverty and above all the very lack of basic social amenities such as affordable and adequate heath care.
Set in Diobu, a slum area in Port Harcourt, southern Nigeria, the play is woven round a tenement apartment. The tenants were from diverse ethnic background but were all united in their search for a better life.
Opera Wonyonsi was written in 1981 by the Nobel Laureate; Professor Wole Soyinka It focused on such issues as bribery and corruption, smuggling, armed robbery and most importantly the misrule of African political leaders.
Set in Bangui, the capital of the Central African Republic when Emperor Jean Bokassa was that country’s leader.The cast comprised who is who in an average African urban setting. There was the despotic ruler Emperor Bokasa, Dago (the jailer) and Colonel Moses ( the Nigerian ambassador to the Central African Republic). There were also men of the underworld; Anikura; the Chairman of a company that was into begging (but he is shown as being very influential in Bangui) and others.
‘ Who is Afraid of Solarin’ was written in 1978. It tells the story of bribery and corruption within the political class. It includes stories of misrule and abuse of political office. No one is spared, not even members of the clergy. It also tells the story of the fear the political class have of a probes and any attempt to expose their ill gotten wealth.
These stories told in the period 1970 and 1985 all have the same theme. They told stories of a Nigeria then that was corrupt and where bribery reigned. They showed a picture of a political class that was inept, incompetent and corrupt. Many organs of government where exposed as being infested with this evil. Twenty five years ago they said Nigeria was a place where there were the social infrastructures were not working; where electricity, good roads, good affordable housing and heath facilities were lacking. That was over twenty years ago.
In 1983 the tenants in If were so poor that they were resisting a mere ten Naira increase in house rent. Today nothing has changed. Poverty is rife in Nigeria in particular and Africa in general, and it is the abject type at that.
In 1983, Onyema; the little asthmatic boy in If died as a result of the inability of the hospitals to provide medical care. Today our public hospitals are mere consultation rooms. Those who are lucky enough to patronize the private ones or be flown abroad for treatment are luckier.
Opera Wonyonsi exposed bribery and corruption in Africa. That characteristic has not left us. Today Africa as a continent still provides a major part of Transparency’s corruption first eleven. Nigeria is one of the few places on earth where a policeman can stretch out in hand in broad daylight to demand for and forcible collect bribe.
To remind ourselves, these stories and others told during the period reflected a society that had a myriad of problems such as:
Pervasive poverty
Bribery and Corruption in all facets of the society
Unemployment
Armed Robbery and crime
Smuggling and other economic crimes
The negative approach of the political ruling class to the needs of the electorate
Twenty odd years after, the stories told then are still with us in flesh and blood today.
Any one in doubt only needs to look at Zimbabwe and appreciate the problems of history in Africa. We do not learn anything from our past.
The playwrights told us that in the 1970s and 1980s, Africa was bedeviled by a general air of political misrule. Today things are no better in many parts of the continent. Unpopular governments still hold sway and elections are a means of legitimizing an unwanted regime.
We can only pray that these stories will still not be real in Africa in the next decade. The sighs today are ominous but Africans have always been known for our faith in God to come to our aid. Faith is all that we have to hold onto
Drama itself is an art that brings the playwright’s story to life, to an audience using the creativity of the director, producer, artistes, set designers, choreographers and so on and so forth.
Drama over the years has therefore become a tool through which society is mirrored. Drama is a tool through which the critical playwright can criticioe society, government and individuals alike.
In Africa, agitation for self-determination especially in the 1950s and 1960s provided the right atmosphere for the new breed of militant playwrights. Mostly educated abroad, these young men and women created drama pieces that agitated for the rights of the people to self-govern. Dr Miuke Aliu in his paper ‘ CRITICAL DIMENSIONS IN NIGERIAN DRAMA BEYOND YEAR 2000’ stated that ‘…the use of the dramatic medium as a means of propagating ideologies and the struggles for the control of the conscience of man has been noted by writers like Ngugi Wa Thiong's …who sees drama as one of the most potent media in the struggle against cultural and neo-colonialism in Africa.It is also a decisive weapon of galvanizing the masses towards radical socio-economic changes’
As one after the other African states became independent, the envisaged ‘new dawn’ of African development became a mirage. The exit of the colonial masters only created a vacuum that the new elitist political class that fought each other; often to the death, thankfully filled. The era witnessed civil wars, military takeovers and general political upheavals. The African playwright quickly adjusted, shifting its theme to the pervading social and economic malaise of the continent. This was the period when the playwright tried to touch our conscience and put all of us in front of a mirror. The image we saw was not good.
Sadly however, after more than 30 to 40 years some of these drama pieces were written, the same image we saw on our mirror then, has changed little, if at all. In some cases we have grown uglier. The same issues of corruption, political instability, excesses of the political class, poverty and disease still remains as relevant then as they are now. Then most African countries were not as poor as they were then.
Written in 1983 by the notable Nigerian playwright, Professor Femi Osofisan, the play ‘ If: A Tragedy of the Ruled’ draws inspiration from the political experience at that time in Nigeria.
Nigeria was in an election year. The military had handed over to the National Party of Nigeria with Alhaji Shehu Shagari as President in 1979. The election result then had been hotly disputed. As the nation prepared for another election after 4 years of alleges misrule by the party in power, tension was understandably very high.
The stories told within the play addressed such issues as corruption, misrule by elected officials, poverty and above all the very lack of basic social amenities such as affordable and adequate heath care.
Set in Diobu, a slum area in Port Harcourt, southern Nigeria, the play is woven round a tenement apartment. The tenants were from diverse ethnic background but were all united in their search for a better life.
Opera Wonyonsi was written in 1981 by the Nobel Laureate; Professor Wole Soyinka It focused on such issues as bribery and corruption, smuggling, armed robbery and most importantly the misrule of African political leaders.
Set in Bangui, the capital of the Central African Republic when Emperor Jean Bokassa was that country’s leader.The cast comprised who is who in an average African urban setting. There was the despotic ruler Emperor Bokasa, Dago (the jailer) and Colonel Moses ( the Nigerian ambassador to the Central African Republic). There were also men of the underworld; Anikura; the Chairman of a company that was into begging (but he is shown as being very influential in Bangui) and others.
‘ Who is Afraid of Solarin’ was written in 1978. It tells the story of bribery and corruption within the political class. It includes stories of misrule and abuse of political office. No one is spared, not even members of the clergy. It also tells the story of the fear the political class have of a probes and any attempt to expose their ill gotten wealth.
These stories told in the period 1970 and 1985 all have the same theme. They told stories of a Nigeria then that was corrupt and where bribery reigned. They showed a picture of a political class that was inept, incompetent and corrupt. Many organs of government where exposed as being infested with this evil. Twenty five years ago they said Nigeria was a place where there were the social infrastructures were not working; where electricity, good roads, good affordable housing and heath facilities were lacking. That was over twenty years ago.
In 1983 the tenants in If were so poor that they were resisting a mere ten Naira increase in house rent. Today nothing has changed. Poverty is rife in Nigeria in particular and Africa in general, and it is the abject type at that.
In 1983, Onyema; the little asthmatic boy in If died as a result of the inability of the hospitals to provide medical care. Today our public hospitals are mere consultation rooms. Those who are lucky enough to patronize the private ones or be flown abroad for treatment are luckier.
Opera Wonyonsi exposed bribery and corruption in Africa. That characteristic has not left us. Today Africa as a continent still provides a major part of Transparency’s corruption first eleven. Nigeria is one of the few places on earth where a policeman can stretch out in hand in broad daylight to demand for and forcible collect bribe.
To remind ourselves, these stories and others told during the period reflected a society that had a myriad of problems such as:
Pervasive poverty
Bribery and Corruption in all facets of the society
Unemployment
Armed Robbery and crime
Smuggling and other economic crimes
The negative approach of the political ruling class to the needs of the electorate
Twenty odd years after, the stories told then are still with us in flesh and blood today.
Any one in doubt only needs to look at Zimbabwe and appreciate the problems of history in Africa. We do not learn anything from our past.
The playwrights told us that in the 1970s and 1980s, Africa was bedeviled by a general air of political misrule. Today things are no better in many parts of the continent. Unpopular governments still hold sway and elections are a means of legitimizing an unwanted regime.
We can only pray that these stories will still not be real in Africa in the next decade. The sighs today are ominous but Africans have always been known for our faith in God to come to our aid. Faith is all that we have to hold onto
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
"Honest, It's true...!" But Is It?
This is a true life story...honest, it happened to me on a bus travelling between Manchester and Rochdale.
It was a cool sunday morning. Some folks were off to church, others in bed, some just on their way to and from work and others still just out to visit friends/family or to see sights. Tooe arly for shopping i daresay.
There were others too on the bus who like me, were just out minding their own business.
The bus was about a quater full and after a few minutes i noticed that i was the only colored person on board. Not that it mattered. However the conversation that was to ensue between a father, his son and wife were to make that issue very important.
It all started when the son looked up from the newspaper he had been sharing with his sister and asked his father innocently
"Dad? which country is Tal Ben Haim from?''
Simple enough, i thought... Isr...
"South Africa" came the reply from the father smugly.
I shuddered. I thought everybody knew that Tal Ben Haim is not from Africa; not by any distance. In fact he is an Isreali soccer international. I thought that had ended the misinformation when the son asked again.
"Where is South Africa?''
"Africa" came the reply from the father . That in itself was correct and would have earned him full marks except that the very next minute, he went and put his foot right in his mouth " You know that country where you have monkeys flying from tree to tree!''
I shuddered inwardly. Not that there are no monkeys in South Africa but to think that was used to describe a country was to say the least unbelievable. Then the man looked straight at me.
Then Mrs Wife came into the picture
She nudged Mr Husband in the rib cage and speaking just under her breathe said "Careful.." and gestured with her head at me, as if saying there is one of them in close by...dont say too much. "Thank God" i thought madam would, at least, put him at rest but Mr Husband was not to be deterred.
He looked again straight at me and told his wife "But that is true"
That ended the conversation because Mrs Wife simply smiled apologetically at me and i decided to switch my mind to other things.
I felt sorry not for the man; he perhaps is too old to change his opinion. I also reckoned that he had not seen too much of the world. Perhaps the only colored people he had ever come across are those who clean the streets and carry out menial jobs; with dignity i must add, in the United Kingdom. He also might have had his opinion clouded by the many television programmes showing the malnourished in Sudan and the chaos in Congo DR etc.
My sadness however was directed at the son. I assume his age to be about eight to ten. To grow up in the shadow of a father who fed him wrong ideas and information about other races is most unfortunate.
Do you have similar experiences?
It was a cool sunday morning. Some folks were off to church, others in bed, some just on their way to and from work and others still just out to visit friends/family or to see sights. Tooe arly for shopping i daresay.
There were others too on the bus who like me, were just out minding their own business.
The bus was about a quater full and after a few minutes i noticed that i was the only colored person on board. Not that it mattered. However the conversation that was to ensue between a father, his son and wife were to make that issue very important.
It all started when the son looked up from the newspaper he had been sharing with his sister and asked his father innocently
"Dad? which country is Tal Ben Haim from?''
Simple enough, i thought... Isr...
"South Africa" came the reply from the father smugly.
I shuddered. I thought everybody knew that Tal Ben Haim is not from Africa; not by any distance. In fact he is an Isreali soccer international. I thought that had ended the misinformation when the son asked again.
"Where is South Africa?''
"Africa" came the reply from the father . That in itself was correct and would have earned him full marks except that the very next minute, he went and put his foot right in his mouth " You know that country where you have monkeys flying from tree to tree!''
I shuddered inwardly. Not that there are no monkeys in South Africa but to think that was used to describe a country was to say the least unbelievable. Then the man looked straight at me.
Then Mrs Wife came into the picture
She nudged Mr Husband in the rib cage and speaking just under her breathe said "Careful.." and gestured with her head at me, as if saying there is one of them in close by...dont say too much. "Thank God" i thought madam would, at least, put him at rest but Mr Husband was not to be deterred.
He looked again straight at me and told his wife "But that is true"
That ended the conversation because Mrs Wife simply smiled apologetically at me and i decided to switch my mind to other things.
I felt sorry not for the man; he perhaps is too old to change his opinion. I also reckoned that he had not seen too much of the world. Perhaps the only colored people he had ever come across are those who clean the streets and carry out menial jobs; with dignity i must add, in the United Kingdom. He also might have had his opinion clouded by the many television programmes showing the malnourished in Sudan and the chaos in Congo DR etc.
My sadness however was directed at the son. I assume his age to be about eight to ten. To grow up in the shadow of a father who fed him wrong ideas and information about other races is most unfortunate.
Do you have similar experiences?
The Last Chance
He sat in the room, alone; yet surrounded by a large crowd of people. He was oblivious to the faces around. His mind was far away.
The feeling of anxiety was palpable in the air. Though some talked as if they had no care in the world, others sat like him staring into space. If this fails; what next, he asked himself.
The time was ten o’clock in the morning and this is the Visa Office of the British Deputy High Commission in Lagos, Nigeria.
‘Next’ the feminine voice boomed over the hidden microphone. The person at the head of the queue got up and walked into one of the booths.
His though strayed to the conversation he had with his father a month ago.
‘Son what is your plan for this year?’
He understood his father’s question and he sighed deeply for a moment as he reflected on his twenty nine years on earth.
He had graduated as the second best student in his faculty a little over six years ago. Two years later and without a job, had returned to school for his masters degree. But he soon found out that in the part of the world, nobody wanted a qualified psychologist.
‘Next to booth 2 please’ the visa officer called over the microphone, interrupting his trail of thought.
‘I want to travel to Britain. It should be better than this’ he replied
There was silence. His father understood his son’s frustrations.
‘If that is what you want. But you know you will be working illegally?’
‘But what choice do I have?”
There was a brief pause’ Anyway you will need to come so we can go to Baba and collect some spiritual assistance. We must be prepared’
‘Ok father. I will come next week’
* * * *
His palm was clammy. He looked at the different doors behind which he knew sat the visa officers.
One of the doors opened and a man walked out. He held his passport loosely. His eyes were bloodshot, his shoulders hunched.
‘Another one bites the dust’ the man in front of him quipped.
He scanned the faces around him again. As they drew near the doors, the faces had become more apprehensive.
His mind wandered again to how far he had gone to prepare for today.
The Baba his father took him too had given him a small gourd with a dry black substance that tasted like charcoal.
‘Lick it in the morning before you go to meet the white men’ he had told him
‘Next to booth 3’ the visa officer called over the microphone.
The next person out of the booth smiled a slight swagger in his step. He must have been given his visa; Lucky guy.
The person in front of him walked into booth 4. I am next!
‘Next’ He got up smartly and walked in.
The lady behind the booth was bereft of any niceties
‘Your name please…’ she demanded
‘ Rufus Aiyedun..’
He stood; waiting with bated breath as she looked at the Stack of documents in front of her. After a short while; but what seemed an eternity to the young man at the other end, she pulled out his documents.
‘What is your purpose of going to the UK?" she asked staring into his eyes
"Postgraduate studies" he stammered. He felt himself starting to sweat "No please God Not now" he told himself Sweatibg; a "veteran" of the embassy had told him usually told a case worker that the applicant may be lying.
"Who is responsible for your fees?' She asked
"My Uncle" He looked at the documents she was holding as if directing her attention to the fact that he had noted that on his application.
"What is the relevance of a postgraduate in MBA to a first degree in Psychology?" she asked again
Stupid woman! the voice in his head screamed but outwardly he said " I want to go into banking and finance and that will help me in securing a job"
She seemed to chew on that information for awhile and then as suddenly as the terview had begun she told him "I will be refusing your application as i am not convinced that you intend to come back after your studies!"
The world spun wildly. He could see her mouth moving but he heard nothing.
He tried to sit down but his legs gave way, he crashed heavily against the table. In the distance he could hear someone shouting ‘ Security!, security!...’
The feeling of anxiety was palpable in the air. Though some talked as if they had no care in the world, others sat like him staring into space. If this fails; what next, he asked himself.
The time was ten o’clock in the morning and this is the Visa Office of the British Deputy High Commission in Lagos, Nigeria.
‘Next’ the feminine voice boomed over the hidden microphone. The person at the head of the queue got up and walked into one of the booths.
His though strayed to the conversation he had with his father a month ago.
‘Son what is your plan for this year?’
He understood his father’s question and he sighed deeply for a moment as he reflected on his twenty nine years on earth.
He had graduated as the second best student in his faculty a little over six years ago. Two years later and without a job, had returned to school for his masters degree. But he soon found out that in the part of the world, nobody wanted a qualified psychologist.
‘Next to booth 2 please’ the visa officer called over the microphone, interrupting his trail of thought.
‘I want to travel to Britain. It should be better than this’ he replied
There was silence. His father understood his son’s frustrations.
‘If that is what you want. But you know you will be working illegally?’
‘But what choice do I have?”
There was a brief pause’ Anyway you will need to come so we can go to Baba and collect some spiritual assistance. We must be prepared’
‘Ok father. I will come next week’
* * * *
His palm was clammy. He looked at the different doors behind which he knew sat the visa officers.
One of the doors opened and a man walked out. He held his passport loosely. His eyes were bloodshot, his shoulders hunched.
‘Another one bites the dust’ the man in front of him quipped.
He scanned the faces around him again. As they drew near the doors, the faces had become more apprehensive.
His mind wandered again to how far he had gone to prepare for today.
The Baba his father took him too had given him a small gourd with a dry black substance that tasted like charcoal.
‘Lick it in the morning before you go to meet the white men’ he had told him
‘Next to booth 3’ the visa officer called over the microphone.
The next person out of the booth smiled a slight swagger in his step. He must have been given his visa; Lucky guy.
The person in front of him walked into booth 4. I am next!
‘Next’ He got up smartly and walked in.
The lady behind the booth was bereft of any niceties
‘Your name please…’ she demanded
‘ Rufus Aiyedun..’
He stood; waiting with bated breath as she looked at the Stack of documents in front of her. After a short while; but what seemed an eternity to the young man at the other end, she pulled out his documents.
‘What is your purpose of going to the UK?" she asked staring into his eyes
"Postgraduate studies" he stammered. He felt himself starting to sweat "No please God Not now" he told himself Sweatibg; a "veteran" of the embassy had told him usually told a case worker that the applicant may be lying.
"Who is responsible for your fees?' She asked
"My Uncle" He looked at the documents she was holding as if directing her attention to the fact that he had noted that on his application.
"What is the relevance of a postgraduate in MBA to a first degree in Psychology?" she asked again
Stupid woman! the voice in his head screamed but outwardly he said " I want to go into banking and finance and that will help me in securing a job"
She seemed to chew on that information for awhile and then as suddenly as the terview had begun she told him "I will be refusing your application as i am not convinced that you intend to come back after your studies!"
The world spun wildly. He could see her mouth moving but he heard nothing.
He tried to sit down but his legs gave way, he crashed heavily against the table. In the distance he could hear someone shouting ‘ Security!, security!...’
The Hostage
She sat staring into the pitch darkness trying hard to see if, by chance, she could see the eyes of her son. She could see the outline of the gun, waving loosely in his left hand, his body outlined by the light of the moon flickering in through the blinds.
The room was purposely unlit.
She knew that she had only a few minutes left. They had told her ten minutes was all she had to convince the man to give up his hostage and come out. Five minutes to save her son.
‘Where is the hostage son? They said you are holding a woman’
‘Somewhere at the back. Cant say more’ he sounded cold and distant
‘Why son?’ she sobbed’ tell me what do you aim to achieve? What happened to …’
‘Its’ time to leave mum. It will get bloody soon’ his voice had a cold chill. A finality she knew.
‘But son…’
She did not see him come, in the brief moment she dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief he felt a hand on her shoulder. Firm and strong.
He hoisted her up and led her to the door.
For a brief moment they stood still in the doorway, they could hear the activities outside; a helicopter hovered overhead. Men were shouting instructions back and forth.
‘Please son just come with me. The police chief said he can work something out…’
He kissed her gently on the forehead
‘Too late ma… I shot a man dead. There is no going back’
‘But son, why did you shoot. At least tell me who was this man’
‘He opened the door slightly, allowing her to step out, his body shielded away from the possible range of fire of the snipers he knew were out there.
‘You really want to know?’
She nodded, sobbing
‘It’s my father. I found the fucking bastard and I shot him. I have his mistress in the back room and she is next. I am going to make him pay for all those years he left us mama. Pray for me”
He shoved her gently and slammed the door shut.
As she turned and ran towards the police cars she heard a shot.
Suddenly everywhere seem to come alive. She could remember police Chief Douglas grabbing her S.W.AT team members pushed past the gate and headed for the house.
* * * *
From where they sat they heard the car pull into the driveway. They sat, waited, in the darkness. They could see their mum seated in the sitting room, her housecoat pulled around her small frame.
A few minutes later the door opened and Dr Long walked in. He stood transfixed for a moment, apparently surprised by fact that she had waited up for him.
‘Sorry did I wake you?’ He asked
She shook her head
‘Anyway I just came in to take some of my stuff. I am leaving. This time for good’
He made to walk per her and headed upstairs.
‘Darling’ she swallowed hard. Daniel could see that she was crying. He looked at his sister who was seated beside him watching intently the scene unfolding below them.
‘I thought we could work this out…for the kids sake…for old time …’
He looked at her, and just continued up the stairs.
Mrs Long simply broke down and cried. She grabbed a cushion and muffled her sobs with it.
The whole house was in deep silence broken only by the noise of the grandfather clock in the sitting room.
Ten minutes later, he came down the stairs and walked past her.
‘Tom!’ She cried from her soul. The sound seem to fill the whole house and for a brief moment he stopped and his eyes flickered. She tried to stand up, to grab the man sheloved, looking into his eyes trying to see if something, no matter how little remained. Something she could hold onto.
Then he turned and left. They heard his car take off into the night air.
Daniel pulled his little sister up and motioned her to follow him.
He tucked her in that night.
‘Why was mummy crying? and is daddy leaving us?’
‘Don’t know Jane but I am sure they will work things out. Now say your prayers and go to sleep’
As he laid in the darkness he could hear Jane praying for daddy and mummy. He turned to the window and looked straight to the moon." I hate you dad" was the last thing she said before falling into sleep.
The room was purposely unlit.
She knew that she had only a few minutes left. They had told her ten minutes was all she had to convince the man to give up his hostage and come out. Five minutes to save her son.
‘Where is the hostage son? They said you are holding a woman’
‘Somewhere at the back. Cant say more’ he sounded cold and distant
‘Why son?’ she sobbed’ tell me what do you aim to achieve? What happened to …’
‘Its’ time to leave mum. It will get bloody soon’ his voice had a cold chill. A finality she knew.
‘But son…’
She did not see him come, in the brief moment she dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief he felt a hand on her shoulder. Firm and strong.
He hoisted her up and led her to the door.
For a brief moment they stood still in the doorway, they could hear the activities outside; a helicopter hovered overhead. Men were shouting instructions back and forth.
‘Please son just come with me. The police chief said he can work something out…’
He kissed her gently on the forehead
‘Too late ma… I shot a man dead. There is no going back’
‘But son, why did you shoot. At least tell me who was this man’
‘He opened the door slightly, allowing her to step out, his body shielded away from the possible range of fire of the snipers he knew were out there.
‘You really want to know?’
She nodded, sobbing
‘It’s my father. I found the fucking bastard and I shot him. I have his mistress in the back room and she is next. I am going to make him pay for all those years he left us mama. Pray for me”
He shoved her gently and slammed the door shut.
As she turned and ran towards the police cars she heard a shot.
Suddenly everywhere seem to come alive. She could remember police Chief Douglas grabbing her S.W.AT team members pushed past the gate and headed for the house.
* * * *
From where they sat they heard the car pull into the driveway. They sat, waited, in the darkness. They could see their mum seated in the sitting room, her housecoat pulled around her small frame.
A few minutes later the door opened and Dr Long walked in. He stood transfixed for a moment, apparently surprised by fact that she had waited up for him.
‘Sorry did I wake you?’ He asked
She shook her head
‘Anyway I just came in to take some of my stuff. I am leaving. This time for good’
He made to walk per her and headed upstairs.
‘Darling’ she swallowed hard. Daniel could see that she was crying. He looked at his sister who was seated beside him watching intently the scene unfolding below them.
‘I thought we could work this out…for the kids sake…for old time …’
He looked at her, and just continued up the stairs.
Mrs Long simply broke down and cried. She grabbed a cushion and muffled her sobs with it.
The whole house was in deep silence broken only by the noise of the grandfather clock in the sitting room.
Ten minutes later, he came down the stairs and walked past her.
‘Tom!’ She cried from her soul. The sound seem to fill the whole house and for a brief moment he stopped and his eyes flickered. She tried to stand up, to grab the man sheloved, looking into his eyes trying to see if something, no matter how little remained. Something she could hold onto.
Then he turned and left. They heard his car take off into the night air.
Daniel pulled his little sister up and motioned her to follow him.
He tucked her in that night.
‘Why was mummy crying? and is daddy leaving us?’
‘Don’t know Jane but I am sure they will work things out. Now say your prayers and go to sleep’
As he laid in the darkness he could hear Jane praying for daddy and mummy. He turned to the window and looked straight to the moon." I hate you dad" was the last thing she said before falling into sleep.
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