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We played the game.
It entailed any number of men or women running about kicking any
roundish object. We had no special name for the game. Then the man from
overseas came. He brought balls and boots and talked of football and
soccer. Like most white men Coach Clemence came to Africa with a
mission—to discover the beautiful game of football.

Coach Clemence came
with many rules and regulations. And we all got hoarse complaining that
he was complicating a simple game with his many rules. The bounce of
the ball was beyond the ken of most of us. Kicking with boots put us in
all kinds of trouble: the ball flew everywhere but the goalposts. It
was all so cumbersome, like teaching a man to use the left hand in
grand old age.

“Keep the ball on
the ground!” Coach Clemence hollered, daring the noonday sun as he ran
from one goal to the other correcting us. “The birds in the sky do not
play football.”

We suffered at the
hands of this man. He made us run endlessly round the field building up
what he called stamina. After the marathon running, kicking football
was well-nigh impossible. Even so Coach Clemence insisted that we must
play football. There was nothing like impossibility in the man’s
dictionary. You cannot play the man’s game unless you have sapped all
your energy running like a madman chasing after dry leaves.

“Who ever heard of
the footballer with neither skill nor stamina?” Coach Clemence asked
rhetorically while pushing us ahead to more suffering. “You lot deserve
special places in the Football Hall of Shame!”

To give him his
due, Coach Clemence led by example. He ran all the rounds with us and
played ball like a maestro. He could keep the ball up in the air for an
entire day, juggling masterfully as though the ball were tied to his
boots. And he could whack a shot at goal. The goalkeeper once flew into
the net together with his thunderously wheezing shot. And the man cried
like a baby, ending his football career just as abruptly.

The first
competitive match we played was against a team of some tourist friends
of Coach Clemence. It was a massacre. We somewhat stood fixed watching
the soccer wizards from London do all the scoring. They ran like the
wind and danced past our ears like mosquitoes. They were more slippery
than catfish in water. Neither skill nor stamina was on our side, a
total mismatch. Coach Clemence had to stop the match after thirty or so
torrid minutes to save us from further punishment. Even he had lost
count of the number of goals scored against us.

“I quit,” my elder brother said to me moments after the game.

He was gasping for
breath, dying for oxygen. It had been his job to mark the fleet-footed
left-winger of the tourists. My big brother, big and proud fellow that
he is, was dusted on the corners of the field by the flying little
wizard on the left wing. The wee ball player drew circles round my
brother, dribbling, taunting and scoring. After the humiliation my
brother picked up his climbing-rope and returned fulltime to his trade
of tapping palm wine. All the entreaties from Coach Clemence could not
get my brother back on the field.

“I can’t afford to
spend all my life chasing the wind,” Brother Okoro said. “My younger
one is still there and he may yet catch the wind.”

“You can’t afford
to throw in the towel so early in your career,” Coach Clemence pleaded,
staring fixedly with imploring eyes on my brother Okoro. “You can still
make the grade and earn tons of money as a football professional.”

“It is a man who is alive that can earn money,” Okoro replied, unmoved. “Do you know how many times I died in that field?”

“The beginning of
every act is always difficult,” Coach Clemence said, patting Okoro on
the shoulder. “Once you have mastered the art, all the suffering you
took would look glorious in hindsight.”

“White man, I have
played my last match.” The finality in Okoro’s tone could not be missed
by Coach Clemence. “There is even no sense at all in fully grown adults
running all over the place chasing an inflated balloon!”

The exit of Brother
Okoro was an open wound felt by all our teammates. He was a natural wag
who softened our suffering with his many jokes. In his absence
everybody looked upon me to take up the mantle of team clown. I was a
profound failure on all counts. One statement assailed my ears
everyday: “If only your brother Okoro had been here …”

We played some
other matches. We lost all the matches. The score on each occasion was
scandalous. Coach Clemence had the same words for us after every
defeat: “You learn from losing.”

After one
particularly humiliating defeat, a game in which half of our players
scored own goals, one rugged man walked into our fold. Some said he had
been a coup-seasoned soldier while others said he was an expired
politician. Nobody was sure of anything about the man. A pudgy and
crafty old stager, he was gap-toothed and his goggles were darker than
midnight. He spoke quaint English that edged Coach Clemence’s for
incomprehension. He at first introduced himself as our Team Manager. In
the next practice session he appointed himself Defence Minister,
explaining that he had all the answers for all our defensive frailties.
Next he called himself Sole Administrator. Coach Clemence could not
hide his amusement as the strange fellow by and by took the titles of
Head of State, C-in-C, Life President etc. The title Presido fitted him
like a cap.

“They are my people,” the man said to Coach Clemence, pointing at us as we sat head bowed. “I know their psychology.”

In the football
field he spoke to Coach Clemence in English while he talked to us in
the native tongue. Some of his words to us were actually full-throated
insults directed at the white man.

“Don’t mind the white monkey,” the man said, pretending to be serious. “May he dissolve under the hot African sun!”

“What’s that?” Coach Clemence asked quizzically after we had burst out in laughter.

“Oh I was telling
the boys to rise up to the magnitude of the British Empire,” the man
replied in grand English elocution. Then he turned to us and asked in
vernacular: “Can this white nobody give birth to a black somebody?”

We continued to laugh much to the puzzlement of Coach Clemence.

“Don’t mind the
native morons,” the man said, reverting to English. “They are laughing
at my lack of knowledge of the local lingo.”

Coach Clemence was
none the wiser but would not be distracted. He upped the ante by taking
us into the classroom to teach us football. He mentioned many
incomprehensible figures and numbers: 4-4-2, 4-3-3, 4-2-4 etc. He drew
many lines on the blackboard and plotted many graphs. He pointed and
directed through arrows and curves. We got more confused by the minute.
The classroom lessons continued interminably. If there was anything
worse than being defeated woefully on the field it was being made to
sit through the dreary lessons in the classroom.

“My people cannot
get the hang of this teaching of football inside the classroom,” our
self-appointed President challenged Coach Clemence.

“Without a sound theory there can be no good praxis,” Coach Clemence explained.

“How can somebody do on the blackboard what is played out there in the football field?”

“Presido!” We all rose in salute of our President for asking a question that we had all individually wanted to ask.

“Football is a game of the head rather than of the feet …”

We all shouted, interrupting Coach Clemence.

“In that case,” Presido was saying, “the game would have been called headball instead of football.”

Yes! We were all screaming in support of the thesis of our darling Presido, a true man of the people.

Coach Clemence
shook his head and announced the end of the day’s lesson. He then said
that the British Embassy Staff Club had challenged us to a football
match. Presido instantly volunteered to produce FIFA-graded match
officials and a record crowd for the special match.

“This match I take as your command performance,” Coach Clemence said, dismissing us for the day.

The football
stadium was a wild forest of people and spirits on the august day. The
pep talk of Coach Clemence minutes before the match dwelt much on the
anticipated style of our opponents. He talked of the speed and accuracy
of British football and asked us to watch out particularly for the
overlapping runs of the full-backs. He mentioned a certain footballer
of yore called Terry Cooper who by overlapping turned into a menacing
demon for all opponents of England.

“We know what you
mean,” said Presido, interrupting as usual. “Overlapping means that
somebody comes as a missionary and then overlaps as a colonial master!”

“Don’t mix football with politics,” Coach Clemence said.

“Don’t listen to the white man,” Presido said to us in the native tongue. “When we get into the field we shall play our style.”

“Our style is
home-grown freestyle soccer democracy played with military boots,”
shouted our dancing goalkeeper who had for some time been taking some
private lessons at the insistence of Presido.

The match was not
yet a minute old when the British left-back, overlapping, scored. He
would have scored again in the very next minute but for the agility of
our goalkeeper. Now instead of putting the ball into play according to
the rule of the game our goalkeeper ran the full length of the field
and threw the ball into the net of our opponents!

“The overlapping goalkeeper!” roared the crowd.

“Unprecedented! Fit for the Guinness Book of World Records! First in history!” I heard so many exclamations.

The referee looked
at his assistants and at the excited crowd and then pointed to the
centre of the field, thus counting our goalkeeper’s caper of a coup as
a goal. The British Embassy Staff Club players were dumbfounded. I
could not understand what was happening. The referee was asking the
Embassy boys to restart the game, but they refused to. Suddenly our
goalkeeper picked up the ball and ran all the way to score again. The
referee blew a blast on his whistle, jumping up in excitement like
Presido and the crowd. The overlapping goalkeeper scored many more
times, and the spectators could no longer be controlled for joy. They
encroached into the field, passing the ball to us with their hands and
feet. It was a melee. Nobody could leave the field of play. I looked in
the direction of Coach Clemence but his place had been taken by
Presido. And how Presido enjoyed the game! He actually came into the
field to score a handful of goals with his hands and feet and head. How
he gloried in “our style” of total football! He jumped and screamed and
laughed, urging us on with his hands and feet and mouth. And we obeyed
him, playing with all parts of our bodies and scoring with every
section of our anatomy. It was indeed an original never-ending game.

Uzor Maxim Uzoatu
was born in Nigeria on December 22, 1960. He was the 1989 Distinguished
Visitor at the Graduate School of Journalism, University of Western
Ontario. He is the author of the collection God of Poetry. In 2010, his
play Doctor of Football will be produced across Nigeria. He was
nominated for the Caine Prize for African Writing in 2008.

I usually approach
Helon Habila’s books with dread. His novels are too long, even when
they are just two pages. I just finished reading his new novel, ‘Oil on
Water’, ostensibly about the hell that is the Niger Delta. Habila
doesn’t disappoint. The novel is too long. He should have stopped right
after the first page and directed us to YouTube to gawk at gas flares
and military goons drawing, hanging and quartering hapless civilians.
‘Oil on Water’ offers absolutely no new insights on the issue of crude
oil and the Niger Delta. In any case, everything has been said; all
that is left is purposeful rage directed at the myrmidons of Nigeria’s
hell-delta.

In this novel, a
white British lady has been allegedly kidnapped for ransom by the
militants of the Niger Delta. Inexplicably, two journalists, Rufus (the
main character) and Zaq (a has-been journalist and a raging alcoholic
who has no business being anywhere but in a hospital) are commissioned
to go establish contact with the militants and the woman. The awful
plot does not allow any room for the thriller that the book loudly
advertises. It does however start on a thrilling note borne on wings of
well crafted prose-poetry. I adore the first line: “I am walking down a
familiar path, with incidents neatly labelled and dated, but when I
reach halfway memory lets go of my hand, and a fog rises and covers the
faces and places, and I am left clawing about in the dark, lost, and I
have to make up the obscured moments as I go along, make up the faces
and places, even the emotions.” Right after these memorable lines, the
book promptly dozes off and never awakens, despite Habila’s gallant
attempts.

It is as if
Penguin Books, Habila’s publisher, needed another African novel and the
author complied with another sleepy-eyed, rheumy riposte on Africa’s
problems. The misfortunes of the people of the Delta have been a boon
to anyone with a laptop and a camera. My eyes have endured some pretty
bad writing, atrocious cinematography and plain bad pictures in honour
of the devastation. There are several books you must read if you are
interested in Nigeria’s war on the beautiful people of the Niger Delta,
for example, Michael Peel’s excellent book, ‘A Swamp Full of Dollars’.
The oppressed people of the delta should rise up in song and strangle
all her oppressors.

Part of the
problem, besides Habila’s challenges with the novel as a medium (he
should stick to writing extremely short stories) is that blogs,
Facebook and YouTube are making books struggle for relevance when it
comes to contemporary issues. In a few lovely places, ‘Oil on Water’
promises to gather up the rage in the reader until it is an inferno
billowing out dark acrid smoke from the conscience’s ears. In a few
precious instances, Habila is priest-like, in a trance, churning out
dark, brooding, gorgeous prose that offer delectable hints of Ben
Okri’s ‘The Famished Road’.

In the beginning, the book is engaging; it
doesn’t sound contrived and there is abundant evidence that Habila did
some research for this novel. There is enough detail to provide
memorable scenes. His greatest strength is deployed to descriptions of
the apocalypse that is the Niger Delta. Dreamy and haunting are the
lush descriptions of the roiling waters and forests. Habila loves water
and he finds a peaceful kinship with the seas and the rivers. When he
is good, the scenes remind one of Vietnam, Napalm bombs, children on
the streets fleeing fires roasting them, and My Lai.

But then it is
hard to overcome the main characters’ self-serving, unctuous
narcissistic self-absorption. Like many of Africa’s intellectual and
political elite, it is always about them. In the end, where is the
rage? Indeed, where is the beef? Habila is perhaps guilty of
romanticising common thugs pretending to be “freedom fighters.” These
are not freedom fighters in the mould of Isaac Adaka Boro and Che
Guevara. As Peel shows in his lovely book, these are mostly greedy,
self-serving thugs. It is the case that the people of the delta are
victimised by their own leaders also. That point seems lost on Habila.

The author does not have the investigative instincts and skills of a
journalist and it shows rather painfully. ‘Oil on Water’ is a gentle
disaster of a story lolling about wishing it was a very short story. As
an aside, the Pidgin English here is a distraction, a tool struggling
for meaning. Inchoate, the Pidgin hangs in the air, squirming in
mid-sentence, as if unsure of its legitimacy. The unintended
consequence: The characters are thus diminished as half-humans.

The
drama and dialogue are forced, and insincere. The book features
editorial issues, jerky disjointed dialogue, awkward attempts at humour
and improbable twists and turns lifted right out of a third-rate MFA
curriculum. Habila, like Rufus, the main character is in pursuit of the
elusive “great story.” He should continue the hunt. This story is
definitely not it.

South Africa is a
country of songs, and those who can belt out great tunes are adored by
millions. We saw a demonstration of this during the Divas Concert at
the Performing Arts Centre for the Free State (PACOFS) in Bloemfontein,
South Africa, on October 8.

PACOFS is a massive, luxuriously fitted and
well maintained art infrastructure that sparked off debate among
Nigerian journalists present about the dearth of similar venues in our
country. Within the complex, the Sand du Plessis Theatre was packed the
people of all ages, a large percentage of whom were in their 20s, the
kind of demographic that would only turn up for a gig in Nigeria if the
programme is chock-full of hip-hop acts. Yet, here were young people
going wild for real musicians, and singing along at the top of their
voices to old favourites like ‘Paradise Road’, ‘Leave Me Alone’ and
‘Too Late For Mama’. The privileging of songs was hardly surprising,
perhaps, for the nation that gave us Miriam Makeba, Yvonne Chaka Chaka
and Brenda Fassie.

A rising stars of
South African music, is the Afro-Soul singer, Lira. A headliner for the
Divas Concert, she also featured in the Main Jazz programme of the
annual Mangaung African Cultural Festival (MACUFE), held on October 9
inthe Loch Logan Rose Garden. Making our way to the open-air jazz
festival, the size and beauty of the venue, incorporating a scenic
lake, told their own story of the sheer scale of the musical jamboree.
A thick, queue of people waiting to get in, seemed never ending, and
recalled scenes of great British summer festivals like Glastonbury.
Concert-goers had brought their own coolers of food and drinks; many
also brought their own deck chairs to sit in the crowd space that
stretched on and on in from the stage. At Mr Price, a popular store
chain in South Africa, the fastest selling items are these chairs, as
they are in constant demand for the Braais that bring people in
Madiba’s country together over roasted meat and drinks. The chairs also
come in handy for festivals like MACUFE; and the coolers, we would
later discover, doubled as seats too.

Again, one
wondered: can a mammoth crowd of this size come out in Nigeria for
anything other than a Gospel concert? A stadium-sized audience was
already enjoying the performances as we looked around. There are a
number of hospitality packages that bring people across South Africa to
Bloemfontein for MACUFE. We had come on the Premier Classe train from
Johannesburg to Bloemfontein, which entitled us to VIP tickets to the
Main Jazz Festival. A short walk across a bridge over the lake, led
from the main festival grounds to the VIP Village, where, in the large,
air-conditioned Premier Classe tent, we could watch the performances on
a large screen. Over a continuous flow of food and drinks, we watched
Lira on the screen; and considered whether the lilac-toned separates
she wore were too casual for this high profile gig.

Jonathan Butler

MACUFE is a truly
international festival, and of particular interest this year was the
scheduled appearance of ‘Africa’s Golden Voice’, the great Malian
singer, Salif Keita. This edition also promised the return home of
South Africa’s son for whom America has been home for many decades,
Jonathan Butler. The beginning of his set got several of us to venture
out of the Village for the immediate festival experience side-stage,
alongside the crowds. Playing in the same set was American Jazz
saxophonist, Gerald Albright. Introducing one track, Albright said, “I
borrowed it from a friend who’s no longer with us but left a great
legacy of music. He travelled the world by one name, and it’s Luther.”
The crowd roared and many rose for ‘So Amazing’ – and sang Luther
Vandross’ lyrics to Albright’s instrumental rendition. Things got
better with the next track, ‘My My My’, originally sung by Johnny Gill.
“You know the words to it, let me hear you sing it” – encouraged the
jazzman, and the crowd obliged.

With a fine head of
short, grey hair, Jonathan Butler is a far cry from the youthful singer
with the flat-topped haircut who scored an international hit with
‘Lies’ over two decades ago. The guitar remains a constant feature, and
the gospel-infused soulfulness of his voice has lost none of its power.
“It’s good to be back home. So many memories here, this town,” he told
the audience. The following day, October 10, was Butler’s 49th
birthday, so he sang them a medley including ‘Take Good Care of Me’,
because – by his explanation – he wanted them to remember what old age
may cause him to forget. The singer-songwriter’s backing vocalist was
his daughter, Jody, who partnered him on a duet onstage, ‘Be Here With
You’.

“Jody Butler’s not
bad, wha’you think?” he asked the audience. The emotional high of the
concert thus far, came when Jody asked the MACUFE thousands to help
sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to her dad.

Tsepo Tshola

Expectations were
high for Salif Keita’s appearance, but there were memorable
performances meanwhile, including one by Ringo Madlingozi. After
another short dash for refreshments and discussions in the Village, and
we were back side-stage for a rousing performance by the much loved
Tsepo Tshola, a kind of ‘musical father of the nation’. A great moment
it was on ‘Ho Lokile’, when it seemed the whole country was singing in
unison with Tshola.

As an ecstatic
dancer nearby explained, the song’s title means ‘We Are Fine’. She also
gave some insight into the appeal of the man responsible for many
“beautiful, traditional” songs: “He is like the father of Soul in South
Africa. Every single South African knows who Tsepo Tshola is.” It is
also a public image shaped by suffering and human fallibility. “He used
to be a drug addict. While he was singing all these beautiful,
traditional songs, he was hooked on cocaine. Then he came out and said,
‘I’m hooked on cocaine. I’m going into rehab.” The admission further
endeared Tshola to South Africans, especially as it was seen as a show
of solidarity with Hugh Masekela and the late Brenda Fassie, who had
fought public battles with addiction.

Salif Keita

We relaxed in the
Village during other performances, while we awaited Salif Keita. When
as if by magic he appeared on the screens close to midnight, a whole
band of us headed across the bridge to be closer to the famed ‘soaring
voice’. But it was not to be. Crowd concerns had led security men to
shut the gates between the VIP Village and the concert. We could not
get through. On many screens around the Loch Logan Rose Garden, Salif
Keita played on. Like Moses and the promised land; so near and yet so
far. Downtrodden, we headed back to the Village, where in what seemed
like the town square, scores of fans gathered to watch the performance
on a giant screen. Keita wore a slim-fitting white shirt and trousers
with matching cap. His two backing vocalists, complete with elegant
headscarves, were the best presented back-up singers all day. The beat
over which Keita’s voice rang out, was a mellifluous blend in which
traditional Malian instruments, chief among them the Kora, stood out.

Many were soon
getting jiggy with it as the magic of Keita’s sound spread through the
gathering. How must it have been in the concert across the lake? One
could only wonder. It was poignant that, among a group of trendy young
women who danced energetically to Keita music nearby, was an albino,
like the musician himself. Keita’s latest album, ‘La Difference’ calls
for compassion on the plight of albinos, who are killed in many parts
of Africa for ritual purposes.

When the irresistible, ‘Africa’ from Keita’s 1995 album, ‘Folon’
came on, there were jubilatory scenes in the MACUFE village, as most
danced with abandon, singing to Africa. Not just concert attendees or
VIPs but waitresses and bouncers, danced and sang along. The track
ended, only for Salif Keita and band to strike it up again, perhaps at
the behest of the crowd across the lake. Cue even more joyous dancing.

The musician’s 45-minute set came to an end and he exited the stage
with his band. But they must have been calling for more and Keita,
astonishingly, came back out and sang ‘Africa’ for a third and last
time. The disappointment of earlier was nearly forgotten as we left the
venue. We could not see Salif Keita up close as we had wished, but a
memorable experience was had all the same.

The official
Nigerian coat of arms; two golden horses on their hind legs in a field
of flowers perching circus-style with their front legs on either side
of a shield with a red eagle atop, denotes inspirational symbols of
nationhood. A prominent Y on the shield stands for the bifurcation of
the Rivers Niger and Benue. The horses, I presume, stand for strength
and, the eagle according to dictionary definition is ‘a large bird of
prey, of great powers of flight and vision; a military standard.’ One
can cynically insinuate that the last part of the eagle’s description
has been the ‘magnet’ that has always drawn our military to seize power
and control; unfortunately woefully, the vision of Nigeria whilst
preying with impunity on its great wealth!

Unlike our bland
green white and green national flag and, our first national anthem
composed by a British woman, the Nigerian coat of arms has not been too
controversial. It has been a successful seal of unity as it serves as
the official coat of arms and symbol of authority for the federal
government as well as all the other 36 States and Federal Capital
Territory.

It is instructive
that Nigeria’s foremost official/ceremonial parade grounds, the Tafawa
Balewa Square-TBS, Lagos, named after Nigeria’s first Prime Minister,
is decorated along its peripheries by huge sculptures of horses and
eagles. When General Olusegun Obasanjo handed over to President Shehu
Shagari at the TBS in 1979 the ceremony featured horsemen of the
Nigerian Army bearing flags and colours. The Abuja equivalent of TBS is
named Eagle Square (incredibly without a single monument of an Eagle)
and, again at the Eagle Square Abuja in 1999 when General Abdulsalam
handed over to a now-civilian President Obasanjo, horses (white) were
an integral part of the ceremonies.

That the national
teams of Nigeria’s most popular sport, football, are named Super
Eagles, Flying Eagles and Golden Eaglets completes Nigeria’s total
commitment to this special bird; the King of the Skies! Whether
Nigeria, in 50 years of nationhood, has achieved the sterling qualities
of both the horse and eagle, is at best very doubtful. All the same,
they remain very valid symbols Nigeria should aspire to faithfully
emulate.

Celebrations for
Nigeria @ 50 threw up so many possibilities to create lasting and
outstanding national monuments to commemorate half-a-century of
nationhood. Predictably, there were many celebratory creative events;
music, drama, art and photography exhibitions, symposia, workshops and
dinners all culminating in a grand parade at Eagle Square on Friday,
October 1, 2010.

Without doubt, one
of the most outstanding creative statements to celebrate Nigeria at 50
was appropriately made by one of Nigeria’s leading monumental sculptors
Tony Akinbola in Calabar, a city that is arguably regarded as the first
capital of Nigeria. Akinbola achieved a first when he sold the idea of
sculpting the Nigerian coat of arms for the first time; to Governor
Liyel Imoke of Cross River State. He was commissioned in early August
and completed the history-making 3-D sculpture in time for its official
unveiling by Governor Imoke on October 1, 2010.

According to
Akinbola who already has the Calabar Calabar and Monolith monumental
sculptures at two major Calabar roundabouts to his fame, his 3-D
sculpture of the Nigerian coat of arms is a combination of historical
and cultural realities. “I felt that to celebrate Nigeria at fifty we
needed to revisit where the whole idea of making Nigeria into one
entity began and, decided to use Art as a platform for rebranding
Nigeria and as a pedestal for reconstructing our Nigerian symbols. I am
interested in the idea of standardising and, monumental art is a strong
tool for making statements and elevating the psyche of the people.”

Akinbola points to
China, North Korea and Russia as good examples of using monumental art
for historical and cultural branding. “When America celebrated its 100
years of Independence the French government gave America the Statute of
Liberty and when France itself celebrated its 100 years of the French
Revolution it built the Eiffel Tower in Paris,” he points out. For him,
“rebranding means standardisation and making things more
representative.” Rebranding, he also believes, “should start with our
flag and coat of arms.”

The Calabar 3-D
Coat of Arms is strategically located. It stands ten feet in height at
the roundabout in front of the old Residency (once the headquarters of
the Royal Niger Company) now the National Museum and, near the
Presidential Guest House and leading to the Governor’s Residence.

The sculpture is
made of fibreglass and weather-protective materials and the artist
assures that it will be in good shape for a long time. “It will need
minimal maintenance every three or four years. We will partinate it to
re-embellish it.” He is now working on his fourth major sculpture, the
Cross River Brand Logo Monument in 3-D.

Akinbola strongly
believes that his 3-D Coat of Arms is a positive statement about
consistency and detail. “It is done in realism to capture all the
essence of the symbols; the stallion and eagle in particular. It is a
statement about rebranding in detail. Every entrance to a major
government building should be standardised with a 3-D Coat of Arms at
the national and State levels. We must emphasise a standard green in
our national flag and have a standard length for the pole on which to
fly the flag. Sometimes you see white stallions and a red eagle on the
coat of arms. Again we need to standardise so our national symbols are
the same in Abuja and the States.”

Abuja remains a
sore point for Tony Akinbola for its glaring lack of monuments. “We
should revisit the issue of monuments in Abuja,” he emphasises. “As you
approach the Abuja City Centre there should be monuments representing
each state in alphabetical order from Abia to Zamfara, to capture the
people’s aspirations and culture. We must be proud that we are the most
unique country in the world with as many as 250 nationalities.”

He is also at a loss as to why, as the world’s most populous Black
nation, we do not have Cultural Centres abroad. Meanwhile he suggests
that a Visual Touring Exhibition of 50 Art works to visually represent
every year of our independence should be put together as a global
exhibition. “1973 was All-Africa Games that gave birth to Surulere;
1977 was FESTAC that resulted in Festac Town and these are landmarks
and brand marks. It is very interesting how Lagos State has cleverly
rebranded the horses at TBS by placing Eyo masquerades under them and
all over Lagos. This is the beauty and power of Art in rebranding!”

The inaugural Lagos
Jazz Series, an extravaganza created to bolster the prospects of the
music genre in the city, kicks off next month. Organisers say the event
is an opportunity for jazz connoisseurs and buffs alike to enjoy first
rate concerts by international performers without having to leave
Nigeria. It is billed as the ultimate lifestyle event right in the
heart of Lagos, where previously Jazz enthusiasts had to travel to New
York, Paris, London and Cape Town to see live performances.

Events in the
series will be held at choice Lagos locations. “Jazz enthusiasts will
have the opportunity of listening to the best of Jazz music in the
garden, on the creek and on the waterfront,” says a press release by
the organisers. LJS begins in the Japanese Garden of the Sofitel
Morehouse Hotel, Ikoyi, on November 5. Other venues are The Federal
Palace Hotel waterfront and the Muri Okunola Park, which is fast
becoming an open-air arts venue in Lagos.

Major Jazz artists
from Europe, America and the African continent will take centre stage
during the first LJS. Among these are: Randy Weston, Karen Petterson,
Simone (daughter of Nina Simone); Nneka, Morrie Lode, Mike Aremu, Bez,
Aiyetoro and Femi Kuti. More performers are expected to be added to the
playbill.

The event’s
founder, Oti Bazunu, said, “The Lagos Jazz series is a singular
experience. We’re inviting some of our favourite Jazz musicians from
all over the world to come and play for us, in intimate and exciting
venues. Since they’re coming, we might as well put on a bit of a show
and invite all our favourite people to attend… The show is coming
together and it’s going to be wonderful.”

Bazunu acknowledged the support of the Lagos State government (which
sanctioned the use of Muri Okunola Park), Lufthansa Airlines, Sofitel
Morehouse and other groups in ensuring the success of the events.

After a packed week
of events including debates, lectures, book readings and gigs featuring
a wide range of musicians who identify with the Fela Anikulapo-Kuti
legacy, this year’s Felabration came to a close with a bang at the New
Afrika Shrine in Ikeja, Lagos, on Sunday, October 17.

There were
unbelievable scenes outside the New Afrika Shrine on the night, with
hundreds of people milling about on the street, hoping to get in or
just soaking up the atmosphere. And what an atmosphere it was. It was
night time, yet a bustling ‘market’ was in place, with rows of traders
selling liquor in small bottles and sachets. Food and stick-meat were
also on sale. Hardly surprising, for the grand finale of the
celebration of a man known for his use of marijuana, it was an
igbo-drenched night, as music boomed out from the Shrine.

Cars had to
negotiate a tight passage through the largely male crowd and the
‘market’ that had claimed most of the road. Those seeking to enter, had
formed a long queue. Security was tight, and crowd control measures and
stoppers that allow entrance only one-at-a-time, prevented any kind of
stampede. “From one chicken point to another,” remarked one punter, as
we waited to clear the final hurdle into the inner compound that
surrounds the concert ‘main bowl’ that is the Shrine.

The last tribute

Inside, the venue
was an impressive, well fitted one, and it seemed a shame that more
concerts do not currently hold there. At the height of the Felabration
finale, the Shrine’s ‘The Last Tribute’, commemorative images streamed
on large screens above the stage on both sides, paid homage to Fela,
showing photographs from his life, including shots of his mother,
Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti. Alternating with Fela were images of Dagrin,
whose untimely death from a motor accident earlier this year served to
take his fame through the stratosphere. Like Fela, Dagrin is bigger in
death. The tribute was also a well judged emotive factor with many in
the crowd, the generation that adores Dagrin.

Comedian Omobaba
pepped up the audience with jokes while introducing new acts onto the
stage. The batik-clad Gangbe Brass Band came on with an array of
instruments, including a stand-out tuba, borne by its player. “My
English is not so good,” said the jovial bandleader, who nonetheless
found another common ground with many in the audience, greeting them in
Yoruba, which is also spoken in Benin. The group played several numbers
in Yoruba and French, before bringing out a real crowd-pleaser, Fela’s
son, Femi Kuti. He had been on the bill, but no one expected him to
take the stage so early in the programme. Clad in a Fela T-shirt under
unbuttoned orange batik shirt and matching trousers, Femi launched into
a blistering performance on his saxophone, bringing the audience to its
feet. He wore neon-yellow plastic ‘clown’ glass-less eye-wear,
underscoring the ‘fun’ factor of Felabration (his sister, Yeni, would
later be seen in the crowd with similar ‘glasses’ in orange).

Femi carried on
blaring the sax for several minutes and the crowd whooped in
excitement. Stage smoke billowed onto the stage and photographers
crouched to the left and right of Femi to catch the best shots, adding
to the spectacle. That Femi came on so early, confirmed the agreement
of all that the headliner of the night was a man that would not make an
appearance for a while: D’Banj.

After Femi and the
Gangbe Brass Band came a succession of multi-genre acts. Mallam Spicy,
his stage show accompanied by two female dancers who jiggled
frenetically to the Dancehall star’s ‘Free Cure’. Solid Star, sporting
a Mohawk, followed close behind. Then came Tunde and Wunmi Obe, better
known as TWO, who performed an exuberant set with their band. Dressed
in white and black, the clean-cut duo got great reactions from the
crowd as they rendered ‘old school’ hits before performing their own
material, including ‘Fine Bara’ and ‘Mo Gbo, Mo Ya’. A juju band began
and ended their set by singing humorous lines from Saint Janet’s
notorious album, ‘Olope Plus’. In-between, the band played Yoruba dance
music in praise of the Egbas, the Yoruba sub-group of the
Ransome-Kutis.

Mo’Hits Crew

It was a well
behaved crowd, and there was evidence of swift action by staff to eject
troublemakers. Anticipation reached fever pitch with Omobaba’s
announcement of Wande Coal, Don Jazzy and D’Banj onto the stage. D’Banj
didn’t show, but a number of Mo’Hits Crew stars stormed the stage,
including D’Prince (‘Who am I?’ he asked, and the crowd chorused: ‘Omo
Oba’). The set was mostly dominated by Coal who performed his highly
popular hits.

The audience was
going to have to wait a bit longer for D’Banj, but no one seemed to
mind. All the high energy of Wande Coal and others slowly dawned as
mime acts to the detached observer – no instruments played, no backing
band. Was this to be the extent of musicianship on displayed at the
climax of this show? Surely D’Banj would have to do more than this? It
was not long to wonder, for just as the Mo’Hits bravura started to grow
a bit thin, the real deal came.

Superstar

To behold the
spectacle of D’Banj’s arrival onstage, was quite something. Watching
from the raised VIP balcony, the eyes swept over the two thousand
strong audience as D’Banj emerged, clad in white, his tight trousers
reminiscent of the style favoured by Fela. There were unbelievable
scenes as, with Fela’s signature two-fisted Black Power salute, the
singer soaked up the adulation of his fans, as heraldic music wailed a
crescendo. This was the most important performer of the final night of
Felabration, the star attraction, and everyone knew it.

Much earlier in the
evening, posters of D’Banj had been distributed free through the crowd.
Then, minutes before his arrival onstage, he signalled a departure from
his Mo’Hits contemporaries’ performance mode, as his band took up
positions behind musical instruments onstage. After several minutes of
star-worship, D’Banj playfully lifted his ubiquitous shades to take a
playful peek at his adoring fans. Then the band struck up the beat, to
which he sang live.

To watch him was to
observe a star at the height of his powers. With D’Banj’s incredible
stage presence, there were echoes of Elvis Presley at the crest of his
fame. When someone brought D’Banj a face towel – white to match the
outfit, of course – one thought a James Brown cape-drama was in the
offing. D’Banj just needed to wipe the sweat off his face now and then,
and the towel also became part of the showmanship, flicked from time to
time as traditional dancers do with their handkerchiefs. He didn’t have
to do much; wowing the crowd effortlessly. There were no sexy dancers,
no gimmicks; and Wande Coal deferred to a bigger star, singing backing
vocals for D’Banj. There were Fela touches here and there in the
movement, as D’Banj sang his own hits and played the crowd, who lapped
up everything he said or did. “I said it before; I’ll say it again,” he
half-sang, about God-knows-what. He can say it anytime he wants: a star
is born.

There was some talk recently about D’Banj possibly playing Fela in
the hit Broadway musical, and it seemed he came onstage determined to
settle the argument. Anyone resistant to the idea of D’Banj as Fela,
would have had a rethink, seeing his reign at the Shrine. By now it was
1.30am – thousands were inside, many more outside. We decided to leave
in the middle of D’Banj’s set, regrettably, to avoid the crush of the
crowd at the end. As we exited the New Afrika Shrine, D’Banj said over
the loudspeakers, “We all know why we’re here.” Then from the street,
we heard as he launched into Fela’s songs proper, a fitting conclusion
to the evening.

Full artists’ line-up, venues and dates:

November 5 -Sofitel Moorhouse Hotel:

Karen Patterson

Chinaza

Morrie Louden

Randy Weston

November 5 – Federal Palace Hotel:

Mike Aremu

Morrie Louden

Simone

Somi

Randy Weston

November 7 – German Consulate (Sunday jazz breakfast):

Karen Patterson

Chinaza

Nneka

November 7 – Muri Okunola Park:

Bez

Ayetoro

Nneka

Somi

Simone

Femi Kuti

Lagbaja: Gig by the masked musician – Motherlan’, Opebi, Ikeja, Lagos. Tickets: N2,000. Time: 10pm. October 29.

Jude Dibia: Author reads at Infusion – JB’s Grill, Maitama Amusement Park, Abuja. 6.30pm. October 28.

Kunle Filani: Solo exhibition by the artist – Quintessence, Falomo Shopping Centre, Ikoyi, Lagos. Ends November 13.

Lagos Photo Picnic: Including performance by the Crown Troupe of Africa – Muri Okunola
Park, Victoria Island, Lagos. 2pm. October 24.

Lagos Photo Opening Event: Netherlands Embassy, Walter Carrrington, Victoria Island, Lagos. 7pm. October 29.

Lagos Photo
Exhibition: Festival of images by 28 photographers- Eko Hotel, Muri
Okunola Park, Professor Ayodele Awojobi Park and MKO Abiola Gardens,
Lagos. Ends November 9.

Tarzan & V-Monologues: The Ultimate Face-Off 2 – Terra Kulture, Tiamiyu Savage, Victoria Island, Lagos. 3pm. October 24.

Movie Premiere: Muyiwa Ademola’s ‘Iyo Aiye’- Silverbird Cinemas, Victoria Island, Lagos, October 31.

Spirit Worlds: Julien Sinzogan’s exhibition on slavery and the ‘Transmigration of
African Souls’- October Gallery, 24 Old Gloucester Street, London WCIN
3AL. Ends November 6.

Abuja Writers’
Forum: With poet, Kabura Zakama – Pen and Pages Bookstore, White House
Plaza, Plot 79 Adetokunbo Ademola Crescent, Wuse 2, Abuja. 4pm. October
30.

Abuja Film Festival: 7th annual event – Silverbird Cinemas, Abuja. October 26 to 29.

Andrew Dosunmu
Exhibition: Photography on ‘Music, A symbol of Nigeria’s Independence’
– The Palms Shopping Centre, Lekki, Lagos. Ends November 30.

ANA Convention: 29th annual meeting of Nigerian writers – Babafunke Ajasin Auditorium,
Igbatoro Road, Akure, Ondo State. October 28 to 31.

Celebrity Reads
Africa: Readings and discussions on books – Terra Kulture, Plot 1376,
Tiamiyu Savage, Victoria I, Lagos. 3–6pm. October 30.

Night Out With The Arts: SPAN dance finale – Eko Hotel & Suites, Victoria Island, Lagos. 7pm, October 29.

National/Cultural Historical Exhibitions: 50 years of Nigerian Art- Velodrome, National Stadium, Abuja. Ends October 31.

Please send details of art events 10 days in advance by SMS 907034086014) or email: culture@234next.com.