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Was it bad
conscience about her colour, or a desire to assert pride in her race
and face, that led the Queen of Sheba to declare, “Nigra sum sed
formosa”? The line is telling- “I am black, but comely”- and lends
itself to both these interpretations; as if royalty and wealth were not
enough to ensure her esteem; as if she needed the refuge of her beauty
to escape the ghetto of her skin. None of this, of course, could have
mattered to Solomon, fair-minded sage and seducer, committed as he was
to building a large and racially diverse harem and lineage.

In our time colour
has mattered, nowhere more so than in America, where the theatre of
race has repeated itself for four centuries as suffering and tragedy.
Long before Michael Jackson morphed into a white man, and Barack Obama
entered the White House, there was another charismatic and talented
figure who sought to transcend race. Anatole Broyard is less well-known
today than the singer or the President, but at one time, at least in
America, his name too was “musical in the mouth of fame”.

He has been the
actual subject of an essay by Henry Louis Gates, and a memoir by his
daughter, Bliss Broyard, as well as the presumed model for Coleman Silk
in Philip Roth’s novel The Human Stain. Gates’ profile, the first to
appear, conveyed in its tenor the suggestion that Broyard had sloughed
off familial roots that were entirely black. Things were far more
complicated than that, and during his lifetime Broyard managed, to an
extent, to shield the details of his heritage with a natural bodyguard
of Caucasian- looking hair, skin, and eyes. The Broyards were descended
from a French soldier who came to America in the eighteenth century.
Intermarriage with mixed race women had produced a line of Broyards who
could pass for white, as Anatole’s parents, and eventually himself,
chose to.

One of the more
startling revelations in the biographical accounts concerns the fact
that Anatole Broyard’s two children had grown up unaware of their
father’s racial dissembling. His wife was Norwegian, and knew of his
family history; it was she who pressed him, to little effect, to
disabuse the children of their perceptions. He found any number of
reasons to put off disclosure. As he lay dying in 1990, Anatole Broyard
called his children to his hospital bed and hinted at a certain matter
he wanted to reveal. Even then he could not bring himself to speak, and
it was ultimately his wife who broke the news to their children.

This sheer
incapacity, or unwillingness, to tear off an elaborate veil of identity
prompts Gates, in his essay about Broyard, to call him “the
Scheherazade of racial imposture”.

The Broyard case
reveals just how fraught and futile can be the effort to untangle the
single, shining thread of individual identity from the knot of race,
genes, gender, cultural heritage, and vocation.

Anatole Broyard was
born into a society in which, like many others, the colour of one’s
skin improbably assumes a moral quality; it could be the virtue that
recommended one for social privilege, or it could be the vice that
damned one from birth. Broyard’s parents chose to pass for white when
they arrived New York from New Orleans because it was the only way they
could secure proper employment.

What Gates saw as
Broyard’s “racial imposture” could not have been gratuitous. Nor was it
without its cost. Anatole Broyard might have been, as T.E. Lawrence
said of himself, “a standing civil war”; and the victims of that
lifelong inner unrest were not only the darker-skinned siblings and
relatives whom he chillingly broke off contact with [and who appeared,
to much perplexity, at his funeral] or the blacks about whom he could
be bizarrely scathing, but ultimately the man himself. His writing
hand, exercised no doubt by the work he did for the New York Times,
seems to have been mysteriously inhibited, foreclosing on the full
fruition of a literary talent whose early offerings had bred
expectation in admirers.

Yet for all his
unwillingness to salvage any relics from a rejected heritage, from the
ghetto of his past, there were those who saw in his gait and physical
tics a distinct African – American air. The body may only go along so
far with its own evasions.

The ironies and
nuances which surround colour in our world were visible in the sequence
of events that brought Barack Obama to the American presidency. His
entire campaign persona was calibrated to give the impression of an
eloquent and outraged citizen, not, mind you, an eloquent and outraged
black citizen. But the mere sight of this biracial candidate was enough
to evoke the grim history of white injustice and black rage, with all
its implications. His demeanour may have been reassuring to many white
Americans, but there were some in the black community who felt that
Obama’s psychic share in their tortured patrimony was minimal at best,
and that his physical share, owing to a Kenyan father and a white
mother, was nil.

George Berkeley
wrote that “to be is to be perceived”. The strange workings of being
and perception were brought home to me in a peculiar manner. A few
years ago I encountered, by chance, a man with whom I had been at
university. We were participants at a two-week event, and over that
time renewed our acquaintance amid much bonhomie and reminiscence. One
day, quite casually, he revealed that when we were at university he had
disliked me fiercely because he thought I looked Igbo.

For some reason he
did not explain, the Igbos had incurred his enmity, and I, with my
Igbo- looking skin [if such a thing exists] and my Igbo circle of
friends, was guilty by resemblance, if not in fact.

To hate, after all,
is human, but I found his past, secret animus somewhat ridiculous
because of its tenuous connection with anything that I had actually
done, any act that had struck and inflamed the flint of his tribal
grudge. On my own part I thought it would be logical for me to dislike
him not for being from his tribe, or for being squat, bald and
potbellied but for being talkative and crude.

The human eye
trained in recognizing difference is nothing if not the window of
discontent, of dissatisfaction with another, or oneself. This is a
world not only of mirrors but also of other people’s eyes. Among black
people, among Nigerians, the tendency has been to adapt to the judgment
of other people’s eyes, to derive our sense of being not from anything
inherent and authentic, but from what the overt and insidious catechism
of the white West. How else to explain the legion of black men and
women with bleached skin, with blonde wigs and blue contact lens if not
as individuals seeking to escape the perceived ghetto of their skin by
being aesthetically beholden to the ideal beholder?

Going beyond
sartorial imitation, beyond acquiring a foreign language- none of which
I carp against- to actually attempt to usurp the legacy of white genes
defies comprehension. Self contempt has many guises.

All of the foregoing invariably serves to illustrate a sense that by
creating societies where colour is a crucial emblem of difference and
individual worth, by persisting in judging a mind by its cover, we are
condemned to making, and acquiescing to, wholly untenable distinctions
between amateur and professional human beings.

Dear Father, he began.

J Mensah was
drafting a reply to the letter from Kojo’s principal. He raised the
wick of the paraffin lamp and drew the blank sheets of paper closer to
the brightened copper glow, bemused as it threw the shadow of his
bespectacled head in a grotesque oblong on the wall. The house was
silent at last, the area around the dining table where he sat stood in
partial shade. The children were asleep, huddled on mats on the cold
floor; now and then a sleepy chest revved with cough.

Father George
Fraser’s cursive Latin-sequined prose resounded in J Mensah’s head with
all the sonority of a Sunday morning hymn. With paternal relish he
recalled the phrases about Kojo being an outstanding student who had
time and again repaid the attention of his teachers; a young fellow of
undoubted promise who Fraser would have no hesitation in recommending
for a scholarship when the day arose eventually deo volente.

The reek of
fermenting cassava frothing in clay vats at the backyard wafted citric
through the window and J Mensah longed for a shot of scotch to dull the
whiff. In his father’s time, a life such as he now lived and one such
as he hoped for his son lay beyond dream. Chosen as a boy for a
Presbyterian school education, he had risen gradually in Her Majesty’s
service. He commanded deference and admiration, solely on the strength
of a Presbyterian school education and a gradual rise in Her Majesty’s
service. In his mind’s eye he saw Kojo – official-looking, achievement
embodied, almost regal in wig and gown, like the young England
returnees whose photographs he had seen in the West African Pilot. It
could be a life without precedent in their family.

Two years earlier,
Kuffour, his nephew, had left Fourah Bay College and sailed for
Liverpool en route to beginning a medical degree at London University.
Much to J Mensah’s puzzlement the boy had gone incommunicado for the
first year, only to resume contract with a brazen telegram requesting
an urgent transfer of a hundred pounds sterling because SITUATION
CRITICAL. Where did the twerp think he would pluck that sort of money
from? Certainly not from the cocoa plantation. This year the crop was
promising to be poor. A blight had set in, charring the yellow pods
that jutted breastlike from the trunk. At best there would be a few
dozen bags; not up to the usual yield. And there was one more thing to
worry about: Nana, the girl.

She was the
daughter of Mr. Reeves’ housekeeper Obi, and after the first evening
when he saw her J Mensah had made discreet inquiries. She was tall,
nimble-limbed, dark, with quiet enigmatic eyes. Obi’s means and
ambitions did not stretch to giving her a formal education but she had
doubtless been instructed in the fine wifely arts of cooking, cleaning,
and submission. As yet there had been none of the traditional preludes
to matrimony; no visits with bottles of White Horse and kolanut; no
delegation of relations hinting in that oblique, flowery way at the
obvious. J Mensah knew he had to get around to all of that soon.

The other day he
had brought Mr. Reeves from the District Treasury over to the house at
close of work. As they drew up in the Mini the scene was suddenly abuzz
with children jumping excitably, ostensibly at the sight of their
returning Papa.

– These all yours? Reeves had asked wryly, as he stepped out of the car.

– No ….not all of them….. nephews, nieces, that sort of thing, J Mensah had replied.

– I see, Reeves said, with a nod.

Reeves hadn’t
pressed the matter further, so J Mensah let it rest there, not inclined
to reveal that he was the father of thirteen children. Reeves was
patting the smaller children on their heads and pulling a cheek here, a
nose there J Mensah was uncomfortable, and in as menacing a tone as he
could summon he warned the children not to put their dirty hands on the
man’s shirt.

– I always say family is important. And your people…. Well, you really do extend your families now, don’t you?

J Mensah grinned,
certain there was an edge to what seemed like faint praise. But he
understood that the man could mean no offence. With his portly step,
thinning black hair, permanent stubble chin and fondness for
suspenders, Reeves was by far the most urbane of the insular pink bunch
that made up the district English gentry. On occasion he would ask J
Mensah up to his plinth balanced bungalow on Mission Hill. There, in
the evening sibilance of the avocado trees they would sip sundowners.
Obi would be kept on his feet all the while, ferrying a steady supply
of Reeves’ finest Scotch. When Obi appeared, staid and stocky, jangling
tray in hard, Reeves would chuckle: “Not exactly a gentlemen’s
gentleman Obi, but then again neither am I, ay!”. And then he would
light another Dunhill and return to regaling his guest with talk about
his childhood, his days in India and elsewhere in the service of what
he called “The British Vampire”

They said you could
never tell; could never be too sure with these oyibos, but J Mensah
presumed there was pith and core to the acquaintance. It was Reeves
after all who had taught him how to drive when he decided a year
earlier to splash the proceeds of a cocoa windfall on a Vauxhall. They
went out to the football pitch at St. Patricks College, where Reeves
had a friend among the iron-fisted Irish priests who ran the place.
Behind his cassocked back Reeves called the man Padre Picasso because
he was an avid watercolourist, whose real name was Seamus Flanagan.

The students came
out in their blazers and ties to watch as J Mensah learnt to manouever
the gear and steering and brakes, Reeves at his side, the Vauxhall
chugging away like an outlandish white insect gorging itself on grass.

On hearing that J
Mensah’s son was due to write the finals, it was also Reeves who
suggested that Kojo come up the hill and use his library, winking at J
Mensah and remarking; “Let the boy dust my tomes. I should be surprised
if he managed to get any swatting done in that kraal of yours.”

So when the rest of
the family was trudging the muddy pelt of road that led to the yam and
cassava plots, children wielding hoes and matches, women expertly balancing basins on their heads, Kojo would dress up neatly and wheel his father’s old Raleigh up the hill.

The library
consisted of one ceiling-high mahogany shelf, stacked top to bottom
with bound volumes of Shakespeare, Dickens, Conan Doyle and Kipling.
There were also the Britannica volumes, pages teeming with revelation.
Kojo was especially fascinated by the illustrations of prehistoric
animals, hard to imagine as the phantasmal forebears of the antelope,
perhaps the mangy-dog. About the books there hung the faint odour of
vintage dust. There was a desk and a wrought-iron chair in the room;
several photographs hung from the walls, flecked with damp: Reeves as a
young cherub, sitting between a bewhiskered man in a top hat and a
pleasant-faced, plump woman in a frilly dress and bonnet. Also, a
picture of Reeves and his chums beaming proudly, a Bengal tiger
prostrate at their feet, mahouts on an elephant in the background

Reeves was usually
gone by the time Kojo arrived the house, so he was let in by Obi.
Occasionally, too, a young girl named Nana would be on hand to give him
entrance, demure and elusive, disappearing almost immediately into the
quarters reserved for the housekeeper and his family at the back of the
bungalow. Kojo would go straight to the polished desk and begin by
working on his précis, selecting a piece from Nuttall and Turner’s
African Passages. Sometimes he would fall into a light drowse, from
which he would be jolted by the chime of the grandfather clock, or the
shrill cries issuing from a nest-festooned mango tree at the side of
the house.

One such day he
started awake to the receding rays of sunlight streaming in through the
slats of the window. It was nearly six o’ clock. He had to get home.
His throat was dry from thirst, and he had got through the day on a
meagre breakfast of akara and pap, shared with his siblings.

Obi was away from
the Reeves residence that day, so he and Nana had been the only two
around, even though as was customary she hadn’t made herself seen all
day. Gathering his books into the raffia satchel, he made his way
through a dim corridor which led onto the sitting room and out the
front door. A bedroom door was open, and a diagonal of light lay on the
floor, orange and webbed

Kojo happened on
the scene before there was time to retreat into the shadows: Reeves was
entwined on the bed with a girl who was unmistakably Nana. Black and
pink legs spliced in sweaty coupling; the mosquito net had slipped its
mooring on the four-poster.

They broke their
embrace when they saw him. Reeves drew away and got up, chest rank with
hair. He said nothing and Kojo looked away instantly, conscious only
that behind him Reeves slammed the bedroom door with a force that shook
the frames of the house Kojo clutched his satchel tightly in
nervousness. He hadn’t known what to expect and Reeves had probably
been under the impression that the boy had gone home.

Stricken now with
panic over the consequences of his trespass and discovery, Kojo hurried
out through the front door and sullenly past the avocado trees with the
last of sunlight drizzling through their leaves. The sight of the river
seething with phosphorescence, always a delight to him, now failed to
detain his gaze. And in his hurry to leave he had accidentally
forgotten to put back the copy of Othello he had been reading before he
fell asleep.

J Mensah noticed the mask of worry on Kojo’s face when the boy returned from his day at Reeves place.

The boy had offered
a desultory greeting on the verandah as he ate his fufu and melon soup
and gone straight into the house without another word. If there were
anything the matter he would get to hear of it sooner or later. Kojo’s
tacitly acknowledged position as his father’s favourite son meant that
he was treated with infinite forbearance, but it certainly did not pass
without comment the following day when he refused to make his daily
journey up the hill to Reeves bungalow. He skulked about when the women
and the other children were going off and didn’t seem to be acting with
any sense of urgency.

That evening his
father was forced to confront him. And then it all came out. J Mensah
sat quietly through the nervous, stuttered narration, only becoming
visibly moved when his son blurted out the name Nana.

Are you sure of this? J Mensah asked, staring his son in the face curiously.

Papa, would I lie? I carry my two eye see them! Insisted Kojo.

J Mensah nodded
thoughtfully and waved his son away. Liaisons like this were not
exactly a rarity in Kabala, and there were fair-skinned, kinky-haired
children to show for it, even though the European fathers had sometimes
taken off and left their local mistresses in the lurch. But how could
this be happening to him?

The next day at
work Reeves picked up a hint of frost in J Mensah’s reply to his
chitchat, none of the usual warmth. But he imagined that anyone with
four wives and thirteen children had a right to feel burdened every now
and then, the weight of obligation like a python-heavy press on the
shoulders.

– Say, what been
happening to Kojo these days? Haven’t seen the chap around for a while.
Everything alright? Reeves chirped cheerfully.

J Mensah muttered
some words to the effect that Kojo had taken ill with fever and had to
be treated with a remedy that Reeves knew must consist of bits of leaf
and bark, a proper witches brew. Fortunately for J Mensah the white man
hadn’t seemed to sense a lie, in the event of which he would have
resorted to his catch phrase: “come out of the bushes”. This was the
phrase he mused when pressing for elaboration, meaning you should stop
beating about hiding behind a thicket of obliquity.

J Mensah could not marry the girl again, not after this Obi would
have to understand. Reeves of course had acted in total ignorance of
the girl’s connection to J Mensah. There was nothing to forgive,
because only anger sought placation and J Mensah was no longer angry.
He would ask Kojo to return to his studying and tread with greater
caution in the event of open doors. This was one of the many
inscrutable, inevitable things that happened between men, and Kojo
would grow to understand.

The Nigerian Film
Corporation (NFC) has called for entries for its 2010/2011 annual film
essay competition. Submission of entries for the competition with
‘Film: A Tool for Socio-Cultural Integration and Tourism Promotion’ as
its topic, will open on July 1 and close on August 31, 2010.

A statement by
Brian Etuk, head, public affairs of the NFC explained that the topic
was chosen to promote Nigeria’s tourism potentials to the world.

The competition,
Etuk disclosed, is open to people aged 18 and above only. He added that
staff of the corporation and members of their family, are exempted.

Essays to be
considered, Etuk noted further, must have a minimum of 10 pages and a
maximum of 15 pages. They should be typed double space with Calibri
font type, 14 point size and on A4 paper.

Hard copies of entries can be submitted to the headquarters of the
NFC at 213T, Liberty Dam Road, Jos, Plateau State or its offices in
Lagos, Abuja and Kano. The NFC’s Lagos office is located at the
National Theatre Annex while its Abuja office is on the First Floor,
Shippers Plaza, Wuse Zone 5, Abuja. NFC is within the State secretariat
in Kano. Entries can also be sent by e-mail to md_nfc@hotmail.com

Four out of the
nine films shot during the Babylon International film development and
training workshop held in Abuja last month, have attracted financiers’
attention at the Cinemas du Monde Pavillion, Cannes International Film
Festival.

With their success
at the forum, ‘The Land’ by Funke Oyebanjo and Sebari Diette-Spiff;
‘Wahala’ by Farouk Lasaki’; ‘Letter to the Prof’ by Chike Ibekwe and
Jide Bello’s ‘My Brother’s Sin’ have qualified for production funding.

Babylon
International 2010 was supported by a number of organisations including
the Nigerian Film Corporation (NFC), Media International of the
European Union and the Medienboard Berlin-Brandenburg Germany, Scenario
Films (UK), Script House (Germany) and Play Film (France).

Film professionals,
Albly James, John Akomfrah, Tony Dennis, Lina Gopaul, Femi Odugbemi,
Juergen Seidler, Gareth Jones, Nathalie Valentin and Afolabi Adesanya
were the script consultants during the workshop.

The 2010 Babylon
International programme was launched at the Berlinale, Germany in
February with a script development workshop that brought filmmakers
from Europe and Africa together. It allowed participants to network on
how to forge links across the two continents.

Reacting to the
development, Managing Director of the NFC, Afolabi Adesanya, expressed
happiness that the four Nigerian films were selected out of several
other entries. He added that partners and consultants to Babylon
International were also happy with the development. Adesanya reiterated
that more Nigerian films will compete confidently with others on the
global stage if filmmakers adhere to “doing things right”.

In a related
development, one of the four selected films has won another award.
Chike Ibekwe’s ‘Letter to the Prof’ won the Best Film Prize at the just
concluded 14th Ecrans Noire Film Festival in Cameroun. His ‘Eternal’
also shared the Golden Screen Best Film Prize with ‘An Unusual Woman’
by Burkinabe director, Abdoulaye Dao. Ibekwe got funding for the film
from France.

Ibekwe, however, is not the only beneficiary of international
sponsors. Kenneth Gyang, an alumnus of the National Film Institute,
Jos, will receive support from the Hubert Bals Fund in Netherland to
produce his film ‘Confusion Na Wa’. The film will be distributed in
Netherlands, Belgium and Luxembourg. Gyang had previously worked as
director on the BBC’s ‘Wetin Dey’. He also produced and directed the
‘Finding Aisha’ series.

Filmmaker Tunde
Kelani’s worst fears have come true. “We are going to be pirated,” he
had predicted before his film, ‘Arugba’, was released on June 13. “It’s
a risk because we are already boxed in. We don’t have an income. We
have a project we invested 15, 20 million naira in; everybody’s been
waiting”, he had continued on why the film would be released in spite
of knowing that pirates were waiting in the wings.

With alarming
speed, the movie has become prey to pirates like the producer
envisaged. “It is with the greatest and darkest feeling of despair that
I have to announce the massive piracy attack of our new film, ‘Arugba’,
released on home video barely a week ago,” Kelani said in a statement.
Two pirated versions of the much anticipated film have flooded the
market.

He noted that
despite complying with all the guidelines stipulated by government
agencies and paying all necessary dues before releasing the movie, he
“got no protection from the criminal activities of the pirates who are
bent on pulling down our industry.”

The producer added
that the continued piracy of his works, especially ‘Arugba’, is making
it difficult for him to continue as a filmmaker in Nigeria because, “it
is no longer possible to recoup our investment or get the opportunity
to exploit economically our copyright and repay our creditors.”

He warned that
unless the Federal government rescues filmmakers from the stranglehold
of piracy, Nollywood, which has become renowned globally, stands the
risk of dying. “The popular Nollywood industry is under great threat
and may already be experiencing its death throes,” Kelani warned.

Kelani disclosed that though he intends to write protest letters to
the President, Goodluck Jonathan, the Attorney General, Minister of
Information and Communication, the Inspector General of Police and
other relevant government agencies to arrest the high incidence of
piracy, he is also counting on the understanding of the film buying
public. “We can only appeal to the general public to ignore the pirated
ones and buy our genuine movies.”

Filmmaker Tunde
Kelani’s worst fears have come true. “We are going to be pirated,” he
had predicted before his film, ‘Arugba’, was released on June 13. “It’s
a risk because we are already boxed in. We don’t have an income. We
have a project we invested 15, 20 million naira in; everybody’s been
waiting”, he had continued on why the film would be released in spite
of knowing that pirates were waiting in the wings.

With alarming
speed, the movie has become prey to pirates like the producer
envisaged. “It is with the greatest and darkest feeling of despair that
I have to announce the massive piracy attack of our new film, ‘Arugba’,
released on home video barely a week ago,” Kelani said in a statement.
Two pirated versions of the much anticipated film have flooded the
market.

He noted that
despite complying with all the guidelines stipulated by government
agencies and paying all necessary dues before releasing the movie, he
“got no protection from the criminal activities of the pirates who are
bent on pulling down our industry.”

The producer added
that the continued piracy of his works, especially ‘Arugba’, is making
it difficult for him to continue as a filmmaker in Nigeria because, “it
is no longer possible to recoup our investment or get the opportunity
to exploit economically our copyright and repay our creditors.”

He warned that
unless the Federal government rescues filmmakers from the stranglehold
of piracy, Nollywood, which has become renowned globally, stands the
risk of dying. “The popular Nollywood industry is under great threat
and may already be experiencing its death throes,” Kelani warned.

Kelani disclosed that though he intends to write protest letters to
the President, Goodluck Jonathan, the Attorney General, Minister of
Information and Communication, the Inspector General of Police and
other relevant government agencies to arrest the high incidence of
piracy, he is also counting on the understanding of the film buying
public. “We can only appeal to the general public to ignore the pirated
ones and buy our genuine movies.”

I am not a writer,
certainly not in the traditional sense. I endure a professional life
that is far removed from the burden of thinking up something creative
to write every week. My colleagues at work would be shocked to find
that on the Internet and elsewhere I am regarded as a writer. Most of
my days at work are spent making sure that official memos are stripped
of the indiscipline of creative flourishes. I do write nonstop, it is a
disability. I have to write, whether it makes sense or not. It is a
good thing because I am required by some contract to come up with a
certain number of words each week. To date, I have not had a problem
with meeting that quota. I have had the opposite problem; staying
within the allotted number of words. I am quite garrulous, I must admit.

Where and how do I
write? Many times, I actually write longhand on notepads. Lately most
of my work is done on Amebo, my blackberry. I type as fast as the ideas
come, any and everywhere. Ideas choose inappropriate times to birth and
so my blackberry helps since she is always with me. Sometimes when
Amebo is not feeling too well, my iPhone Kokolette does the job just
fine. My laptop Cecelia helps me to polish the final draft. Cecelia
goes with me most places but she can be spotted at her favourite spot
at my bedside, or somewhere on the bathroom floor.

I write
everywhere: in bed, in the bathroom, on the dining table, at events,
chaperoning our kids, anywhere I have a few minutes. I tend to write
about any and everything. I live vicariously through our children and
there does not seem to be a shortage of inspiration when I am around
them. Life in America offers creative opportunities also. Fading
memories of a life in Nigeria are also still rich in inspiration. I
also read nonstop and offer my strong views in the form of book
reviews. Folks tend to think of me as a book critic. I don’t like that
label much because I also write creative non-fiction, poetry and
freewheeling essays.

Yes, I read
nonstop, a habit I acquired from my dad. Catholic boarding school was
hell for little boys but I have fond memories of our library at
Annunciation Catholic College, Irrua. I grew up reading books because
at the time, reading was actually a form of entertainment. I travelled
the world in books and I exaggerate slightly if I tell you that I have
probably read most of what was offered by Heinemann’s African Writer’s
Series. My favorite author of all times is Chinua Achebe. I am
unashamedly an Achebe groupie. I half joke to young aspiring writers
that they need to change their names to Chinua Achebe if they want me
to read their stuff. I read blogs nonstop. I dream of that day when an
enterprising publisher would convince Achebe to start a daily blog,
featuring random musings on anything. Every morning, he would look out
a window and start pecking away at his iPad. That would be something. I
would give my paycheck for that. Every paycheck.

My views tend to
be strong, some say sometimes too strong. These views come out mostly
in my book reviews. I also tend to buy my own books because I actually
am eager to patronise our African writers. It is an expensive habit but
I am addicted to our stories. The reviews come as a side product of my
obsessive need to read. I simply compile the notes on the pages,
package them and send them out to my editor. She patiently puts the ‘u’
back in ‘color’ and publishes it. If I like a book, I gush over it, if
I hate it, I get really irritated and I let the author know it. My time
is over-priced and I don’t take kindly to wasting it reading a book
that is well, a waste of my time. Especially since I pay for most of
the books I review. A bad book is usually the price of a good bottle of
Chilean Malbec. Lost opportunities to meet a good bottle of red agitate
me.

I have a cult following of critics. I know now why offering
criticism is hard. Because taking it hurts, I must say that on balance,
I have been treated well. I get a walloping whenever I write
unfavourable reviews of books written by popular authors. They tend to
be young, extremely popular young writers with a hugely devoted
following, blessed with a circle of fiercely devoted friends. I envy
them, really. I probably won’t stop offering my personal opinions, as
long as I read. I actually love hearing from folks, regardless of the
tone. I occasionally get some pretty abusive pieces sent to me
privately, someone actually called me a conceited ignoramus the other
day, but I try hard to figure out what someone is trying to communicate
to me. I am not a conceited ignoramus.

Lufodo Academy of
Performing Arts (LAPA), partnered by African Women Development Forum
(AWDF), held an interactive two-day forum addressing the representation
of Women in Nollywood. Tagged ‘Women and the Dynamics of
Representation’, the forum looked at the issue of female stereotypes in
Nigerian movies as well as the image of the African woman fostered
internationally through Nollywood; and suggest ways to improve both.

The event had in
attendance Abimbola Fashola, wife of the Governor of Lagos State as
special guest; and experts from various filmmaking fields such as
actors, directors, producers, marketers and talent managers. It was not
exclusive to Nollywood though, as television presenters such as Funmi
Iyanda and Agatha Amata; academics, Abena Busia and Okome Onookome; and
human rights activists such as Josephine Chukwuma and Mary Hilda Tadria
lent their presence and voices to address the theme.

The audience and
participants included: Iretiola Doyle, Dakore Egbuson, Monalisa Chinda,
Chioma Chukwuka, Lala Akindoju, Uche Mac-Auley, Doris Simeon; and
producers: Emem Isong, Amaka Igwe and Ego Boyo

It was not a women
only conference, however, as masculine presence was recorded in the
persons of Reuben Abati, Mahmoud Ali-Balogun, Akin Omotoso, Tunde
Kelani, Daniel Ademinokan, Paul Obazele, Bimbo Manuel and Saheed
Balogun amongst others. They came to show their support for the women’s
quest for better representation; while a number of others like
marketer, Emeka Isikaku, came to defend their practices in the movie
trade.

Telling women’s stories

The event opened
with a brief speech by Mrs. Fashola, who commended Nollywood for its
efforts at bringing entertainment to Nigeria and the world. She however
discouraged the need for movie makers producing movies with several
unnecessary parts just to make money when one would have sufficed. She
also spoke against nudity and the prevalence of occultic practices in
film portrayals.

Abena Busia,
Director for the Study of the Worldwide African Diaspora, and professor
of English and Women’s Studies at Rutgers University, New Jersey, in
her paper, titled, ‘Of Cooking, Cars and Gendered Culture,’ proposed
that Nollywood, as the third largest film making industry in the world,
can no longer be ‘treated as a child’. Addressing the issue of women
representation, she posited that, “We all become concerned about how we
are seen, especially by others who do not count themselves as one of
our number. And when we do not see ourselves reflected, or reflected as
we would like, there is the need for redress, to challenge the
discrepancies between how we see ourselves and how you know ourselves
to be seen”

Busia praised the
fact that Nollywood has depicted urban Africa, thus serving to erase
the misconception of Africa as a ‘Tarzan jungle’, however, according to
the professor, the success of Nollywood means that its negative
representations of Africa such as female circumcision, abuse,
witchcraft and gender subjugation are well received by negative
propagators. The academic also asked pertinent questions: What is the
interface between artistic freedom and social responsibility? Are
artists creators or reflectors of society? Where is the line between
truth and propaganda?; and advised that we respect the integrity of
every individual story, but must also be concerned with the multiplier
effect of a number of individual stories conveying similar things which
then multiply to become a collective story, while also seeking to
preserve the things that give us an identity.

Responding to
Busia’s paper, publisher and gender scholar Bibi Bakare Yusuf, said
colonialism has forged an image of women as housewives, a discrepancy
from what it traditionally was: a hard worker who contributed
financially and took up leadership roles. She also suggested that
Nollywood has shown ambivalence in portraying femininity, religion and
culture, not quite deciding what the notion of the ‘ideal woman’ should
be. She urged feminists to educate filmmakers along the desired lines
of representation.

Mahmoud Ali-Balogun
cited a similarity, “What the western media is doing to Africa is what
Nollywood is doing to women. Women exploitation sells in movies but is
that what we should keep portraying?” He charged that films be used to
correct aspects that are negative in our culture rather than emphasise
such aspects.

According to Bunmi
Oyinsan, “every movie is ideological, whether or not the producer knows
it.” She cited a few movies and their characterisation to show their
representation of women. Amaka Igwe however subscribed to another
school of thought, emphasising the primary purpose of films as
entertainment. As she said, movies are meant to “entertain and perhaps
educate”. Referring to herself as an “unrepentant commercial producer
and marketer,” she added that “most movies are not intended to teach
but to communicate with the audience and make money.”

Saints and Witches

It was an intense
session on day two of the event when Funmi Iyanda moderated a session
titled ‘Saints, Whores, Nags and Witches’. Emem Isong, while presenting
the paper for discussion held the masculine gender as culpable in the
stereotyping of women and identified the four major stereotypes of
female roles in many Nollywood movies. In her words, “Men are the ones
who say they don’t understand women, so if we leave them to tell our
stories, they will put us in boxes labelled ‘Saint’, ‘Whore’, ‘Nag’,
and ‘Witch’. The way out is to take our destinies in our own hands and
to tell our stories”, said the producer who was acknowledged in the
event for giving many Nigerian actresses their big breaks.

Presenter, Agatha
Amata seconded Isong’s opinion, as she said, “No one can tell your
story better than you”, she also cited America as an example, revealing
that the Cable News Network (CNN) shown in America is different from
that which is shown to the rest of the world. According to her, America
has used the media to create a ‘hype that is not true’, so Nollywood
needs to realise the power of the media and ensure that it is used
appropriately. She also put the blame of women’s negative
responsibility on, surprisingly, her own gender, stating unequivocally,
“Women are women’s own worst enemies.” An opinion which was supported
by Dakore Egbuson and Omoni Oboli; although Bakare-Yusuf disagreed
strongly.

Funmi Iyanda’s
passionate opinion was that “Nigerian women are last on the pecking
order in Africa. They think that we are vain, vacuous and stupid; and
that we should be raped and abused.” According to Iyanda, the blonde,
blue-eyed female will never be raped or abused in movies unless there
is a strong message to be passed from it. “The American Marines
perpetrate such acts as rapes, but will never be depicted as anything
less than the hero in the American media,” she said, underscoring the
need for the media to broadcast more socially responsible content.
However, she insisted not on an insipid, if positive image of women in
Nollywood but on a more rounded and complex depiction.

Oyinsan in support
of this statement encouraged what she terms ‘jamming’. According to
her, if the reputations of witch or nag are foisted on us (women), then
let’s jam it, let’s own it. Let’s say to them, yes, I am a witch, but
this is why I have become so.” She cited ‘Jesus and the Giant’, a short
movie by Omotoso, which was produced using a series of still pictures,
as a movie which took violence as a theme and jammed to viewers’
consciousness, the message that it is wrong.

Rounding off

The event was not all serious talk though as it culminated with a poolside cocktail.

Film veteran, Olu
Jacob commended the initiative of his wife, Joke Silva, Director of
LAPA and Bisi Adeleye-Fayemi, Executive Director of AWDF for their
initiative in organising the forum. “I see women as equals and will
treat them no different from men,” said Jacob. Adeleye-Fayemi affirmed
a commitment to support LAPA’s efforts in convening such forums
annually or bi-annually.

Joke Silva expressed thanks to the participants, and surprise at the
large presence of Nollywood practitioners, the media and other
organisations, as she concluded that, “In the multitude of counsel,
there is safety.”