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Baba’s Story – Nigeria is 50
By Abyna-Ansaa Adjei
60pp
Frangipani Books Ltd (Ghana)

‘Baba’s Story –
Nigeria is 50’ is a hardback publication, the latest addition to former
president Olusegun Obasanjo’s kitty of books.

Written by a
Ghanaian, Abyna-Ansaa Adjei, ‘Baba’s Story – Nigeria is 50’ is
ostensibly a book about Nigeria’s history, told from Obasanjo’s
perspective, and kicks off during his childhood days. He had a lot of
exposure to many Nigerian ethnic groups in the village of
Ibogun-Olaogun in Ogun State, we are told. He relates a number of
creation stories from various parts of Nigeria – such as the Oduduwa
myth (Yoruba), the Bayajida (Hausa) and the Eri (Igbo)–as told to a
young Obasanjo by his father and his older cousin, identified as
‘Brother Olu’.

We then proceed to
the arrival of the Europeans, with the ensuing slave trade and
colonialism. Humour is used to capture and sustain the interest of his
target audience, children–a ploy that does not cross over well with
adult readers. The author should have been mindful of the fact that
such a book, coming from a Nigerian statesman, would be read by diverse
age groups.

‘Baba’s Story’
(Obasanjo makes it clear from the first line that he should be
identified as Baba) gets very interesting with its account of the
political crises that rocked Nigeria during the pre-independence
period. The use of simple words and expressions makes this section an
easy read for youth of any age.

That said,
Obasanjo’s account of the civil war to young readers is quite shallow.
It ends up being more about how he emerged as the hero of the war and
how his army career progressed, thanks to the providence of his being
leader of the battalion that formed a resurgence. The book also leaves
much to be desired with its account of the different regimes that have
ruled the country. He can hardly restrain himself when he discusses the
demise of Sani Abacha: “Many stories are told of how he died! Some
people even say he was thrown into a bath of honey and red ants, and
the ants stung him to death!”

Reference is made
to the fate of the Ogoni Nine at the hands of Abacha’s junta, but
Obasanjo merely glosses over the June 12 elections and the subsequent
struggle – a critical period in Nigerian history. There is also mention
of other historical episodes like the murder of his boss, Murtala
Muhammed, in 1979. On what he describes as the failure of the late
President Umaru Yar’Adua to deliver PDP programmes, Obasanjo says this
was “partly because of his health, partly because of a lack of adequate
discernment on the side of his advisers and close aides and partly
because of himself.”

The quality of
‘Baba’s Story’ nosedives after the section on Goodluck Jonathan’s
ascension to the presidency. Among other textual quibbles, the
arrangement of images could have been better coordinated. Having a
double spread of images of former heads of state was excessive. And
with many pictures of Obasanjo himself, one is left wondering whether
the book is not more about him than the history of the country.

Obasanjo was recently quoted as saying, “I will never allow my
Yorubaness to impede my Nigerianness and I will never allow my
Nigerianness impede my Africanness.” Therefore, it is a wonder why he
chose a Ghanaian to write this book, despite the fact that young
Nigerians writers have emerged as a literary force globally. His
decision to publish abroad does not support the challenged industry of
Nigerian publishing.

I come from a land
that has streets with no names. Our people did not name the streets of
our village because they saw the coming of smartphones, Google, e-mail
and Facebook. Well, the little path that goes from my father’s village
to my mother’s village is called the little path. Was. The little path
is no more. My father’s father was buried by the path halfway to my
mother’s people. He is no longer buried there. A government thief built
an ugly mansion over my grandpa’s bones. In the land of my ancestors,
people don’t venture far from the earth. There are no mortuaries; when
they die, they practically fall into their graves themselves.

I have ventured
far, very far from home. When I left home many decades ago, no
Blackberry chats charted my way out of Customs and Immigration into
America’s issues. My parents put me inside the capsule to somewhere and
hoped that someday I would be back. I am still here in America. I am
not going back soon. Today, I stare at the remains of winter in
America; earth is frosting on chocolate cake. After all these moons,
alien images and clichés stick to me, like white on rice.

Nothing stays the
same. Not even in America. The changes make me dizzy and I obsess
nonstop about the way things used to be. Here in my part of America,
our drugstore no longer has human cashiers. The owners remodeled the
store, and replaced humans with machines that talk to you. You simply
walk up to the machines, scan your goods, pay and leave. It is very
disconcerting; I keep looking for the humans to return, I actually miss
them. I know now that I love people and I cannot shake this cold
unfeeling nothingness I get from interacting with a machine that proves
its indifference with faux warmth.

Don’t get me
wrong, I am high on the possibilities and the opportunities riding on
the strong backs of these new and emerging technologies, but I do
wonder now if there are downsides to all of this. The world is becoming
more and more shaped by a few powerful cognitive elite. We are
struggling to deal with and adapt to the awesome force of these new
technologies and the new billionaire dictators that built them.

Life is war. We
were all born into a war that we did not ask for. And people write
about life, sometimes it is mostly gory. Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, they
belonged to a certain era when one had no choice but to concentrate all
of one’s creative passions on one medium of expression – the book. I
read a lot of books, mostly about the condition we find ourselves in as
people of colour in a white man’s world. However, I am first and
foremost a writer of creative stuff, whatever that means. Lately
though, I am known more as a book reviewer than anything else, which I
find interesting. I think that a critic’s work in itself is creative
work. We may not like it, but it is what it is. The critic clearly has
a role to play and I would say we are in dire need of honest,
courageous, tell-it-like-it-is book reviewers.

Some people should
really not be writing and they should be told that. Some writers are
also full of it and they should be told that. Some works are fun to
read and they should be celebrated. It is a shame that we are talking
about books because in my clan, we are steeped in the oral tradition.
Some of the world’s greatest “books” have been “read” to us in song by
our ancestors. My mother is one of the world’s greatest living poets;
she has not written a lick. She would be great on YouTube. She would at
least help to preserve one of our dying languages.

On Facebook, walls
are colorful wrappers wound tightly around the new municipalities of
ME. Facebook is falling leaves, hearts fluttering, forlorn, and drying
on yesterday’s clothes lines. People are waving hasty goodbyes out the
windows of indifferent relationships. It is complicated. Life goes on.
There are no nations as we remember them. We have fled lands ravaged by
thieves preaching democracy. Soon a generation will come and in their
history books they will learn about something called a cheque and the
gallant art of balancing a cheque-book.

Facebook. The new
frontier has edged into our consciousness. America. Deep in the windy
beauty of this land, the majesty of Nigeria, the land of my birth goes
howling. We fled our gods, mean angry bloody gods foaming blood in
their bloodthirsty mouths wielding blood-drenched cutlasses between
steely teeth. Here in Babylon, alien gods kill us with the kindness of
indifference. We retaliate by turning their plates on their heads,
these patronising, condescending gods. Africa. We fled her bloody
windows for Facebook Nation. Everyday children reject what passes for
African culture today. They are not all mad. What is going on? Let’s
talk about these things.

Show me a sign

you have been

to the polling place…

the politician raises

his purple thumb;

and a machete with

a crimson edge

* * *

Ghosts voted here yesterday

and left their skeletal scrawls

they voted for the ruling party

and swelled its phantom figures

* * *

Babies toe-printed the ballot

kicking and screaming all the way

their parents laughed and laughed

as they forged their way to power

* * *

A hefty young lady,

protuberantly pregnant;

and when she went into labour

a roomful of ballot was born

* * *

My candidate

or no election

my tribe

or no country. . .

Sitting outside his
front yard, choking from the air saturated with generator exhaust
fumes. Legs itched from sand fly bites. It was night, the moon was out
and his arms around me. Watching the moon as it sat immaculately above
the sterile air of the estate, homes stretched identically across long
terraces, forming lanes of what had been labelled peculiar street
names. His was Turbine Close. Each house stood tall and painted with a
cream emulsion lacking even more character than its residents. Everyone
here was an oil giant and investment magnate. So they felt no inkling
to know their neighbours.

The roads were bare
by day and even drearier at night. There were no sounds of children,
chuckling of babies or laughter of lovers. A darkness that spread like
melting butter or at times dead souls trapped and searching for a
heaven or a hell. That was the taste and smell of turbine close.

Still bound together by the asphyxiation of the black smoke, in a light whisper he uttered in my left ear, “I love you.”

He told me he
always remembered every event in his life with a song. I asked him what
my song was. With his toothy grin and his brown pupils permeating into
mine, he said “Roxanne”. It was the song we danced to the day we met.
Tonye’s birthday party. My body was draped in a blue silk dress and my
lips coated in a scarlet red. That night I danced like a whore.
Gyrating my hips and bottom as though it has been disjointed from the
top half of my body, sweat made the silk stick to my skin and I felt
almost naked. That same nakedness I would later feel every time his
eyes skimmed all over me. In our almost bare living room, when he would
hold my waist in a tender grip and sing the cadence of the song into my
ear as the hairy stubble on his cheek rubbed and scraped mine. Again he
would whisper “Roxanne, you don’t have to put on the red
light…Roxanne…”

While the song
played, he would roam his fingers through my back and then cusp my
breasts in his gritty palms. He would rub and squeeze lightly as I let
out a moan and would start to breath heavy. It was as though I didn’t
intend to make the noises but his palms, fingers and lips instilled a
kind of pleasure that I had no right to refuse. He let himself inside
of me with an air of experience. Gently, but thrusting with life and
vigour. As I closed my eyes, I would feel his breath meander all over
me. And the warmth was telling me that I would be taken care of.

We would lay on the
large brown velvet sofa as the magnolia walls stared audaciously
without blinking while Sting’s voice and reggae rhythm guitar would
reverberate around the room saying, “You don’t have to sell your body
to the night, Roxannnnne.”

I had a little too
much to drink that night and somehow the sound that blared from the
speakers seemed even more elevated. As the thump echoed through the
room, I hoped he would save me from all the lecherous men that wanted a
dance but instead he watched delightfully at my predicament. He would
rescue me from the corner outside the rest room where a young man in a
navy suit flicking the ash of a Dunhill stick was trying so desperately
to chat me up. He walked over towards me and the suited gentleman,
pretending we had known each other for a while and I quickly excused
myself from my smoke puffing admirer. As we walked towards the bar he
revealed a cheeky smirk, saying, “You are quite interesting to watch”.
Then I turned towards him crippled with a culmination of embarrassment
and shyness, I replied hesitatingly, “You really took your time to come
to my rescue”.

We stood at the bar
and we talked for a time. He was fifty-four and I had just turned
thirty. Throwing complements at his intelligence and well roundedness
he would claim he was old so his intellectual competence was a thing of
default. He was an architect and used to teach Space Management and
Sustainable Design at a University in Chicago. It had been ten years
since he had moved back to Lagos, running an architectural consultancy
firm which he named Sebastian Cole Limited after his grandfather who
moved from Freetown to Lagos in the 30’s to run a textile mill.

He was tall and his
cheeks sagged a little. You knew he must have looked cute and those
cheeks must have been pulled so much as a child. His eyes were round
with a little bulge. They seemed like they would turn red at the
slightest irritation. That same little bulge extended to his stomach.
He was old enough so it was permitted. His skin had a dark caramel
tinge to it and wisps of grey seemed to be sheltered within the mass of
hair covering his head and jaw line.

He said he would
like to see me again and asked if I wanted to go out for a drive. We
drove around in his glistening black Megan, then we settled on going
back to his place in Lekki.

His house had
windows the size of walls and there was no ceiling in the living room.
There was a sunroof that gave way for the moon shine. He said there was
an automatic makeshift cover for when it rained. And the open plan
kitchen was covered in a shiny stainless steel. I roamed my fingers
across the steel table top and the coldness felt inviting. Somehow, I
knew I would like it there.

A spiral stairwell
at the side of the dining area led to three bedrooms on the next floor.
It reminded me of a house I once saw watching Grand Designs, and the
space seemed to engulf us both. I gulped the glass of water he offered
as my throat was parched from thirst while he topped up his thick
rimmed short tumbler with whisky and oddly shaped ice cubes. As I
looked intently at the contents of his oak bookshelf, I knew I would
spend the rest of my life with this man twenty-something years more
advanced than I was. Stacks of compact disks looked at me seductively
from the fourth row. Miles Davis, Cassandra Wilson, Herbie Hancock,
Wynton Marsalis, Bradford Marsalis and Lena Horne. “I’m sure you are
wondering why I don’t have any Charlie Parker, I find his sound a bit
cacophonic,” he said. I loved Charlie though, the mutinous sound of his
trumpet, and his composition that made me feel that jazz was allowed to
be as exhilarating as it could be angry. The first row was filled with
history. East Timor, The Partition, The Third Reich, Mussolini,
Livingston, Rhodesia, The Berlin Wall, Biafra, Madam Tinubu, Castro,
Chairman Mao, Mein Kampf, Nagasaki and Pinochet.

He would teach me about the world I was in and the one I would inhabit.

That night we
didn’t go to sleep. He told me about Rome and Vienna, Vermeer and
Gaudi, the Aztecs and the Medici. He told me how the Anglican cathedral
in Marina started to shape his world at the age of twelve. He was
mesmerised by its high ceilings and Grecian columns and when the
organist played during the church services on Sundays, it seemed as
though the buildings had a strange kind of life to it.

Somewhere
in-between his Diego Riviera and Onobrakpeya pieces hanging on the
spaces of magnolia walls, whatever it was I thought I knew was to
become obsolete.

Twelve months from
that day, we would invite a few of our friends and family to that
living room on Turbine Close. I was draped in a cream silk dress that
was held up with flowery rushing from my left arm across my right
shoulder to the back of the dress. The chest area would be stiffened
with hidden corset bones as my skin glared iridescently from the sun
coming through our windows and roof. The silk of this dress was loose
and billowy. My hair was curled in loose ringlets as it caressed the
nape of my back and the parting on the right side was covered in
hibiscus flowers. My lips had been dipped into the same scarlet red of
the day that he met me and the lids on my eyes thinly lined with liquid
coal. He leaned towards my cheek as he slid the ring down my finger and
in his staccato whisper he said, “Now I have my own Aphrodite”

Two years later,
our daughter would be born. We would call her Hera because her father
had a preoccupation with Greek and Roman mythology. He had told me our
next child if a boy would be Eros or perhaps Odysseus or even Orpheus.
He still seemed undecided but if a girl, then Rhea or Juno. Hera had
her father’s slightly bulging eyes and my full, heart-shaped lips. She
had a dimple on her left cheek and her skin wasn’t as densely
caramelised as her father’s, but neither was it as fair as mine. She
was born with a full head of thick, black, coarse hair and the
umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck, almost suffocating her. It
was why her father’s mother had named her Aina.

She was a solemn
baby but grew to be a precocious child. Pulling out worms from our
backyard then moving on to torturing caterpillars and hibiscus flowers.
She read stories to her teddy bears in the shed her father had built in
the same backyard. She often went on trips with him to Uguta and Ogoja
to watch him around some of the windmill and solar panel projects he
was working on. Some of the state governments had been put under
pressure by international bodies to attain some kind of progress with
the Millennium Development Goals, especially the environment. That
year, just after the elections, the federal government had approved a
billion dollar budget spread across certain states and catchment areas
for the sole purpose of sustainable energy projects. His firm had been
contracted to be project managers.

Hera took a lot after her father and always liked him to take her to school most days.

They would have conversations like adults negotiating and most times she spoke like she was the madam of our manor.

I remember when he
used to watch her chuckle till she fell asleep in her cot and then
place a dictaphone to record the grunts and noises she made in her
sleep. When she had a cold he would slick her chest in camwood oil and
when she had a fever it was palm kernel oil. She hated the smell of
both, and couldn’t understand why palm kernel oil had to have that ugly
dark colour.

She only liked the
smell eucalyptus oil when I squeezed drops onto her pillow if she
looked worn out from playing or had a headache.

He would cuddle her when in one of her moods or when she had to take injections at the hospital in Victoria Island.

During the school
holidays, he would watch her run around the house because he was
getting older and his legs were beginning to fail him. Hera was as
attentive as her father and as intense as me. They would sit on our
brown sofa watching DVD box sets of Dexter and Peanuts. On Sundays,
they would watch The Simpsons. It was their own tradition.

She would squint
and contort her lips as she concentrated, the same way she did when she
watched wildlife programmes narrated by David Attenborough on cable
television. “Daddy, why is this… daddy, why is that…” she would
ask, barraging him with question after question. But patiently with
intermediate pauses in his sentences, he would answer every single one.

Twelve months, two years and another twelve years after he took his
last breath laying next to me on our living room floor gazing at the
moonlit sky, though our glassy roof, I hear Odysseus rummaging for some
juice in the fridge, Hera taps away at her computer on the dining table
and I am hearing Roxanne playing in my head as a hairy cheek caresses
mine in that staccato whisper, “I love you.”

Movers of the
‘Fela!’ musical were part of a lively exchange with Nigerian theatre
practitioners, in an interactive session held Terrra Kulture, Lagos, on
April 19.

Organised by Beeta
Universal Arts Foundation (BUAF), the event was also an opportunity for
industry players to discuss the state of theatre in the country, with a
focus on the topic, ‘Theatre: Our Experience, Issues and Challenges.’

Although the cast
of ‘Fela!’ were absent, Stephen Handel, lead producer and co-conceiver
of the musical and the show’s art producer, Edward Tyler Nahem, were on
hand to talk about the musical, which opened in Lagos on April 20.

Among those who
came to make their contributions to the debate were: Ahmed Yerima,
professor of drama at the Kwara State University; Mufu Onifade, chair
of the National Association of Nigerian Theatre Arts Practitioners
(NANTAP) Lagos; theatre director Najite Dede; and actors Bimbo Manuel,
Joke Silva and Carol King.

In her opening
address, Bikiya Graham-Douglas of BUAF said, “We want American and
Nigerian theatre practitioners to talk about their experiences. Why
can’t our artists go to Broadway to perform alongside American theatre
artists over there?”’

She added that, “I
founded BUAF in 2009 because I wanted to create awareness for theatre.
Theatre is not what it used to be. We experienced a depression but in
the last decade things have changed.

“We are grateful
to the likes of Professor Ahmed Yerima and the National Association of
Nigerian Theatre Art Practitioners (NANTAP) for improving theatre and
we are hoping to garner support for our local theatre,” she said.

“I am excited
about this gathering and especially the show. I want to see what they
did to my Fela. Bringing him back to us says a lot to us that we had
something great but did not know,” said Yerima in a brief speech before
the session began.

Fela’s message

“We are
overwhelmed and delighted to be home. It’s a very powerful experience,”
said Handel who also apologised for the absence of the musical’s cast
because they were hard at work, rehearsing for up to 12 hours each day.

“The music of
Fela, lyrics and what he stood for is not specific to Nigeria. It’s a
global message. People can respond to the music no matter who they are
and where they come from. To have his family entrust us with this is a
huge leap of faith,” he stated, reiterating the ‘universal Fela’
message he has been canvassing since arrival in Nigeria.

On how he
conceived the idea for the musical, Handel said, “The show had a
driving force behind it. When I heard his songs, I got an idea to do a
live performance piece. The only way to tell a story about Fela is to
do a theatre piece.”

According to him,
he had no idea in the beginning that ‘Fela!’ would go on to Broadway.
Handel spoke about Sahr Ngaujah, the actor of Sierra Leonean descent
who plays Fela in the musical.

“This was a young
man who lived afrobeat. His father came to the United States from
Amsterdam, and made his livelihood running afrobeat DJ parties on
weekends.”

Ngaujah auditioned
for the show in New York but didn’t get the part. However, “When we
started the process after I got the rights, we brought this fellow back
and his name is Sahr Ngaujah. He has spent years originating the part.
He was the original Fela Off Broadway. So he is here doing six of the
shows in Lagos,” Handel added.

“So, somehow we
had a Fela who was brilliant, America’s great performance artist and a
producer who was enamoured of the material and who was willing to see
what would come out of it. And it all has to do with the power of the
message,” he declared.

On some of the
challenges encountered with getting the musical on Broadway, Nahem
recalled that, “There were people who laughed at us and said ‘you are
not going to last a month. Who is going to be interested in a dope
smoking, polygamist revolutionary Nigerian musician?’”

Nahem, who called
the late Fela Anikulapo-Kuti “the Picasso of music”, said that bringing
the show to Lagos is a dream come true.

Closer to home

The challenges
facing theatre in Nigeria were brought to the fore from different
angles by the discussants. Carol King spoke about the challenge of
continuity. “How many plays do we have that run on?” she asked.

Bimbo Manuel noted
the government’s disinterest in the importance of drama in the school
curriculum, while Onifade pointed to lack of sponsorship as a major
problem in staging theatre productions.

“I am impressed with BEETA for putting this together. Things are going to happen with this ‘Fela!’,” said Silva.

Responding to
comments about the challenges facing theatre in Nigeria, Handel told
home-based practitioners, “You’ve got to get your business community to
understand that supporting the arts is a way of giving a gift to the
culture of your society, helping your children get a better future and
helping to better society.”

He added that,
“the only way to get the government to support the arts is to give them
statistics of how supporting the arts ends up creating employment.”

“The one thing that Broadway gave us was a huge publicity machine
and a huge world stage. I think what we’ve created is going to be
performed all over the world. It’s going to be taught in schools all
over the world. I think it has the potential of bringing the whole
world close together because Fela is a true global artist who has a
true global message,” he said.

A reading by writer
and academic Sola Olorunyomi, forming the literary component of a
week-long celebration of Fela Anikulapo-Kuti, was held at The Life
House, Lagos, on April 22. Olorunyomi, a lecturer of Media and
Performance Studies at the University of Ibadan’s Institute of African
Studies, was at the venue to read his book on the late afrobeat great,
‘Fela and the Imagined Continent’.

The event was
moderated by Ugoma Adegoke of The Life House and had in attendance
critic, Lolade Bamidele; art aficionado, Olajide Bello; and visual
artist, Mudi Yahaya. Also present were Weyinmi Atigbi and Lemi
Ghariokwu, both of whom were exhibiting their artwork in ‘Art of
Rebellion’, also on display at The Life House. Ghariokwu was the man
responsible for many of Fela’s iconic album sleeve designs. The
exhibition, as well as the Sola Olorunyomi reading, were part of the
‘Fela in The Life House’ series of events held to coincide with the
‘Fela!’ musical, which played to Lagos audiences from April 20 to 25.

Fire Dance

Olorunyomi’s
research assistant, Osariemen Amas–Edobor, opened the reading with a
short excerpt, ‘Fire Dance’, from ‘Fela and the Imagined Continent’.
Then followed the author’s own reading. The book celebrates the
legendary Fela, his ingenuity at music fusion and his brilliant
performances on stage. The author informed that the book was written
out of a keen interest in the icon’s music, and a fascination at the
energy displayed by Fela and his band during the days of Kalakuta
Republic.

“I thought the
energy could only be crystallised in writing,” said Olorunyomi, who
added that Fela’s ability to depict his country powerfully through
music was also a contributing factor in the writing of the book. Fela,
he noted, “was relating to those commonalities he found in the
country.” The writer however observed that Fela’s life cannot be fully
documented, and so ‘Fela and the Imagined Continent’ is not a
biography. “It seemed to me that if I resigned my fate to Fela’s
business, I wouldn’t finish it in a lifetime,” he said.

As for the Fela
biography proper, Olorunyomi disclosed that he was writing one around
the time of the musician’s death. Still a work-in-progress, the author
hopes the book, to be titled ‘Muse, Man and Music’, will be published
soon.

Universal Afrobeat

During an
interactive segment with listeners after the reading, Olorunyomi
disclosed that he had come across many misconceptions about Fela before
he met the man. “The Fela image we got then was larger than life. We
heard that his mother was a witch,” the author recalled, adding that he
was so in awe of the musician that he could not wait to meet him. “I
thought he was too great to be close to him. I respected him a great
deal,” he said.

Olorunyomi noted
that Fela was very versatile musically and his work can be appreciated
by a wide range of people. “You can read Fela in different ways, from a
creative distance and from your faith,” he said.

There was an
attempt to grasp the extent of Fela’s continuing relevance and fame,
even in death. Olorunyomi shared his experience of a European lady who
passed out during a discussion of the afrobeat legend in Denmark – the
author’s way of showing how much of a household name Fela has become
across the world.

Next generation

He bemoaned the
poor state of afrobeat music in Nigeria, and blamed it on the younger
generation who are not interested in the genre. “Ironically, I think
that the next generation of afrobeat isn’t likely to come from
Nigeria,” he stated. Olorunyomi nonetheless expressed optimism that
interest in afrobeat may be revived as a result of events like the
‘Fela!’ Broadway show.

“Since [afrobeat]
is no longer a national project, it is a universal project, it may just
get repackaged from there and come back,” he affirmed.

Olayioye Simoyan, a young hip-hop artist in the gathering, agreed with the writer’s views on afrobeat and the next generation.

“I think Fela is a
beautiful musician, he knows how to propagate his [work] but the way he
arranges the music doesn’t spark this generation,” Simoyan said, adding
that Femi Kuti appeals more to the younger generation because of his
fusion of afrobeat with genres like hip-hop. “That is why we prefer
Femi, because he is more of us. He uses rhymes and uses metaphors.”
Citing the dearth of rhymes in afrobeat, the hip-hopp artist declared,
with apologies to Olorunyomi and the older generation in the house,
that, “Then, [afrobeat] was cool but now, it is no longer cool.”
Olorunyomi understood the sentiments and concurred with Simoyan’s
statement that the younger generation prefers the rap style of rhyming.
The author however insisted that it is not entirely true that afrobeat
excludes rap.

“Even the rap tradition in Nigeria references afrobeat a great deal,” he asserted.

The event ended on a cheerful note, with Olorunyomi reiterating that Fela was the best in his trade and cannot be replicated.

British-based
artist, Yinka Shonibare, was the guest speaker at a lecture on
contemporary art and visual culture in Lagos on April 20, in his first
appearance in Nigeria for decades. The latest in the Art-iculate
Lecture series, the event was organised by the Centre for Contemporary
Art (CCA) in collaboration with The Menil Collection, Shonibare Studio
and the venue, Terra Kulture. It was a rare opportunity for the arts
community to interact with the renowned artist, famed for his ‘Nelson’s
Ship in a Bottle’ sculpture, on public display on the Fourth Plinth of
London’s Trafalgar Square. Also in attendance at the ‘homecoming’ were
the artist’s mother, his brother as well as his studio manager, Ann
Marie Pena.

Visual artists
present included Rom Isichei, Peju Layiwola, Kainebi Osahenye, Olu
Amoda, Victor Ehikhamenor, Ndidi Dike and Jide Adeniyi-Jones.

In her welcome
address, Terra Kulture managing director, Bolanle Austen-Peters, said
she was honoured to be a part of the event. “This is probably the best
platform we have in Nigeria on art discourse and we are very happy to
partner with the CCA,” she added. Austen-Peters probably spoke for many
when she said of Shonibare, “We all are looking forward to engaging in
his work.”

Thanks to Yusuf Grillo

The artist kicked
off his talk on a humorous note. His greeting to the gathering in
Yoruba showed that, although he had not been to Nigeria in 30 years, he
is not out of touch. In a calm, unassuming manner, he talked through
slides of his work, sharing insights into his life and work as an
artist.

“I wonder, sir, if
you remember me,” Shonibare said to Yusuf Grillo, who was in the
audience. Recalling his childhood days in Nigeria, Shonibare explained
that, when he expressed interest in becoming an artist, he had been
sent by his father to talk to Grillo at the Yaba College of Technology,
Lagos, where the latter took time out to attend to the young man. From
the stage, Shonibare thanked Grillo for encouraging him back then,
telling the older artist, “No doubt, you have supported many students
so I am just one of the many.”

Revolution in the studio

Moving on, he told
the gathering that it takes a keen interest in the work of an artist to
properly understand it. “If you don’t quite know what artists are
doing, it’s difficult to get your head around it,” said Shonibare.

“I’m not very
different from people on the street making a revolution. I’m just
making my revolution in the studio,” he declared.

In a lecture that
touched on art movements and episodes in history including the French
Revolution, the Cold War, modernism, impressionism, post-modernism and
post-colonialism, Shonibare asserted that artists have been trying to
change society since the beginning of time. He recalled “a time when
Africans were supposedly inferior to Europeans” and when women were not
allowed to vote. He pointed out that revolutions changed all these and
added that the arts were always instrumental to the societal change.

“In ‘Things Fall
Apart’, what Chinua Achebe was actually trying to tell all of us in
Africa was, we had our own system of government. We are not
primitives,” Shonibare said. He added that although the novel portrayed
some negative things, Achebe generally wanted to show that even before
colonialism, Africans had a democratic system.

“The reason I’m
saying all this is to show you that what those ‘crazy artists’ are
doing is, they are being avant garde,” he said.

Pablo Picasso and
Jackson Pollock were two of the Western artists mentioned, as being
among those who changed the way artists paint, thereby changing the
status quo. While Picasso insisted on having flat paintings, Pollock
expressed himself by “throwing paint everywhere.” According to
Shonibare, the duo’s paintings were revolutionary. He declared,
“Changing a way to paint something is symbolic of revolution… That’s
why my work may seem crazy. What I am doing is my own revolution.”

With particular
reference to the uses of art during the Cold War, Shonibare stated
that, “Art is a very powerful tool in the West. Governments use arts as
a means of propaganda.”

Noting that the
‘Fela!’ musical was in town, the artist attested to the fact that the
afrobeat icon was revolutionary in his music, just as Achebe and
Nkrumah were revolutionary in their writings.

Interrogating history

Giving insight to
his early artistic production in the United Kingdom, when glasnost was
in the air and Shonibare’s work referenced Russian politics, he was
keen to stress that this should not be taken to mean he did not
appreciate Africa and its traditions. After an encounter with a teacher
that wanted him to produce more ‘African’ works, Shonibare’s response
was to incorporate a mix of African and Western cultures in his pieces.
“That’s my own way of reasserting my own identity. My identity is
hybrid and bicultural and my work should express that,” he declared.

The works
themselves were among the highlights of the evening, as the audience
viewed images many of his sculptural pieces, installations, photography
and video art in the slideshow. Among the works were images from the
‘Diary of a Victorian Dandy’ series, which counters historical fact by
showing a black man waited upon by whites. “I decided that my work
would interrogate history,” he said of the work.

The artist put
‘The Diary of a Victorian Dandy’ in the London Underground, saying,
“Whether you like it or not, you have to look at it.” The series was
inspired by Oscar Wilde’s use of the dandy in ‘The Picture of Dorian
Gray’, informed Shonibare, who said he sometimes uses literature in his
work.

However, he assured that, “My work contain subtle messages and are never aggressive. There’s always a degree of humour in it.”

Other
thought-provoking works discussed included: ‘Black Gold’, ‘The Rise and
Fall of Willy Loman’, ‘Vacation 2000’, ‘Scramble for Africa’, ‘Crash
Willy’ and ‘How To Blow Up Two Heads At Once’. It was hard to miss
‘Nelson’s Ship in a Bottle’ (2007 -2010), incorporating 37 sails made
from African textiles. “This is what made me famous,” was the artist’s
way of introducing the work.

Fielding questions
from the audience, Shonibare explained why a rocket in one piece had
the name, ‘Martin Luther King’ on it. “It’s a reference to Martin
Luther King and to the rebellious Martin Luther who challenged the
Christian faith,” he said, adding that the work points to the fact that
changes are needed but people are not ready to make the change. “We
love the status quo and we don’t want things to change,” he stated.

Free like Picasso

On the percentage
of his work in museums vis-a-vis private collections, the artist
indicated that 40 percent is held in museums while private collectors
hold the remaining 60. Speaking on his and fellow UK-based Chris
Ofili’s career, Shonibare admitted that, “We are 100 percent collected
by white people.” He seemed to be tuning the audience to a concern,
saying, “Art collecting in Europe is actually a huge legacy for the
culture. My work is hugely collected in Europe, but it’s not coming to
Nigeria.” However, he refused to talk about the cost of his pieces.
“Discussing figures is vulgar,” he pleaded.

On the need for
museums in Nigeria, Shonibare said, “I don’t think that’s an
individual’s responsibility but collective.” He argued that if big
hotels can be built along the Lekki Peninsula in Lagos, then museums
would cost only a fraction.

He was taken up by
visual artist and journalist, Chuka Nnabuife, on his use of the Dutch
wax, an ‘African’ fabric of Indonesian origin; he was further asked
what Nigerians can hold on to in his work as “our own.” Shonibare
replied by citing Picasso, a Spanish artist who was influenced by
African art to further modernism. “I’m free like Picasso and I can do
what I want. We are global,” Shonibare declared, arguing that Picasso’s
movement was not questioned, nor should he be questioned about what he
depicts in his art. “My work isn’t about representation; it’s about the
politics of representation. I’m not using African wax to represent
Africa essentially but my work is questioning representation.”

It was noted
during the session that the level of art education in Nigeria is very
low especially at the primary and secondary levels. The artist argued
that although everyone has to play a part, it takes joint effort by the
community to change the situation.

“There’s an
African saying that it takes a village to bring up a child,” he said.
He likened this to an art exhibition, which requires an artist,
gallery, curators and others, to succeed.

Artist Yusuf Grillo commended the efforts of Shonibare and was
proud that he came to him when he was starting out. He also agreed with
his former protégé on the issue of representation. “The artist is, in
quote, a very selfish person,” Grillo said, adding that culture can be
thrown aside and what the artist then creates, is himself. “The first
and most important thing about art is to be sincere,” the older artist
said.

‘The King’s Speech’
is one movie that generated a huge Oscar buzz before the Academy
Awards, held in February. The critics raved about British actor Colin
Firth’s performance and kept tipping him for the Best Actor award, a
tightly contested category, against other solid movies like ‘The
Fighter’ and ‘The Social Network’.

Firth eventually
took home the Oscar, earned for a moving portrayal of an English
monarch, King George VI, who suffered from a speech impediment. ‘The
King’s Speech’ tells the true story of the one-time Duke of York and
father to the present-day Queen of England, and how he battled with his
stuttering.

However, there is
also the story of King George’s chance ascension to the throne due to
his elder brother Edward VIII’s abdication of the throne to marry
American divorcee, Wallis Simpson.

Not a royal,
married twice and rumoured to be a flirt, Simpson is deemed unsuitable
to be a wife to the King of England and head of the Church of England.
She is permitted to be a mistress and even a titled one if necessary,
but Edward will have none of that.

George or Bertie, as he is called by family and friends, is crowned king after Edward chooses love over the throne.

Bertie is terribly
embarrassed by his speech impediment and is given to outbursts of
frustrated anger. He has visited every major speech therapist known to
him; and when his wife, Elizabeth — played by the quirky Helena
Bonham-Carter — discovers the unconventional Australian speech
therapist, Dr Lionel Logue, Bertie initially refuses to see him.

However, Logue is
soon able to pierce through George’s icy exterior to unearth relics of
childhood hurt, feelings of inadequacy and anger, especially in
relation to being the spare prince, and a deficient one at that.

Its not all plain
sailing though, playing speech therapist and shrink to a hurting, stiff
upper-lipped monarch, but they stay friendly enough for Logue to get
him through his four-line coronation speech. However, the big task lies
ahead. Britain is on the brink of war following Adolf Hitler’s antics
on the world’s political scene. The insecure king must prove that he is
capable of guiding the affairs of his nation. This requires him to read
a crucial speech informing the people of Britain’s intention to join
forces in checkmating Hitler. But there is still the matter of the
stuttering.

Firth captures the
heart of the audience with his balanced portrayal of Bertie’s strength
and weakness. Here is a member of the royal family, known for being
stoic, stumbling his way through a problem that is both physical and
emotional.

It will not be
surprising to find one’s eyes welling up with tears at certain points
in the movie. Firth draws you into the pain of the character just by
jumbling up a sentence and trying to force the words out of his mouth.
It’s almost agonising to watch.

There are no zany
roles in this flick for the brilliant British actress, Helena
Bonham-Carter. She plays George’s loving and supportive wife, always
cheering him on and fiercely protective of him. One wonders how he
would have turned out without her.

Geoffrey Rush plays
Lionel Logue. And just as Logue is every bit a match for the cranky
Bertie, Rush’s performance is not overshadowed by Firth’s excellent
delivery. Guy Pearce plays the heir, Prince Edward.

‘The King’s Speech’
is almost two hours long. There is no rush to get it over with and
pleasantly, there is no boredom as the drama unfolds. The setting is
England in the mid-20th century and everything adds up to enhance this
plausibility. There is footage from actual occurrences, such as Hitler
giving fiery speeches and Nazi soldiers marching.

Definitely
Oscar-worthy and definitely worth the viewing, ‘The King’s Speech’ gets
an ‘A’ rating, helped largely by Firth’s star delivery.