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I don’t really feel
qualified to write about Esiaba Irobi. I have not met anyone quite
qualified enough to write about Esiaba Irobi, The Minstrel. He
represented something different to everyone he met. To many, he was the
consummate artist and academic. To others, he was a benchmark for hard
work and diligence. There were some who saw him as a spirit of anarchy.
He was also a rude man who wrote many sexually-explicit poems with
insane titles, my favourite being ‘A Short History of my Penis.’

I will attempt to
write about the Esiaba Irobi I know. A good man. A laughter factory. A
prophetic writer. A man who started out as my teacher, then became my
friend, and ended up as my brother.

When I heard that
Esiaba passed away via several messages, I stopped functioning.
Everyone, all at once asking if I could confirm it, friends like Molara
Wood and Toyin Adepoju, among others, wanted to be sure before calling
the news by its name. I promised to find out from Esiaba’s wife, Uloaku.

The phone call to
Berlin was the most frightening call I have ever made, and in the
spirit of The Minstrel, I was optimistic that Uloaku would chuckle and
tell me there had been a big mistake. It turned out to be wishful
thinking. Esiaba was gone. At first I was very strong. I even tapped
into my strong belief in reincarnation and shrugged, “Well, Esiaba, it
has been a tough journey for you. Go on, sir, reset your life and start
over.” Then I added, as we Igbo say when a person is going to our
ancestors, “Esiaba, son of Irobi, your world, seven worlds, you will
live your earthly life again. In your next life, you will not fall ill
in mid life, you will marry young, and raise your family in joy and
good health. Go in peace, my brother.”

It was really going
well until I told my wife that Esiaba had died. Amaka had also grown
close to Esiaba. When he called our home, they would laugh on the phone
as he performed poetry and songs down the line on international phone
calls. My wife broke down on me and cried. That’s when they gushed; my
first tears for Esiaba. Yes, I am a poet too, and I am not afraid to
have a good cry if it will stop my chest from exploding.

Nsukka

Esiaba Irobi was my
lecturer in the Department of Dramatic Arts, University of Nigeria,
Nsukka, from 1987 to 1989, when he left for the United Kingdom. Esiaba
was more than a lecturer to me; he was an inspiration. Every course he
taught me – Theatre History, Improvisation, Basic Acting Skills, and
Introduction to Playwriting – opened my mind to the possibilities of
the theatre.

Esiaba was not just
a theorist, he showed us how to do what he taught. His performances
were mesmerising, his energy was overwhelming. As an actor, he
transformed even the lamest word in a play into a living entity
inhabited by a spirit of dance. I had the privilege of understudying
Esiaba as Elesin in Wole Soyinka’s ‘Death and The King’s Horseman’, a
role he carried with commensurate pomp and passion, under the
out-of-this-world direction of Eni Jones Umuko. Esiaba connected,
raised and sustained the ritual impetus of that play, helped along with
the magnificence of Nwugo Uzoigwe’s Iyaloja. The air in the Arts
Theatre at Nsukka was so taut through the performances that it could
have strangled people.

The plays

As a playwright,
Esiaba wrote some of the angriest, action-packed, issue plays that
packed theatres full every night. ‘Nwokedi,’ ‘The Fronded Circle,’ and
‘Hangmen Also Die’ changed the theatre tradition at Nsukka forever.
Those of us who dared pick up our pens to write plays were under the
heavy influence of Esiaba Irobi. I had small parts in ‘Nwokedi’ as a
politician and member of the Ekumeku, but in ‘Hangmen Also Die’, I
played the role of Chief Isokipiri Erekosima, who embezzled three
million naira compensation meant for ordinary citizens for the
destruction of their livelihoods by oil spillage. Erekosima spent half
a million of that money on his coronation alone, as the Amatemeso of
Izon State, and some on expensive lifestyles and education for his
children abroad – because the standards of education in Nigeria had
fallen. He was to meet his ancestors when the unemployed
graduates-turned-criminals kidnapped, tried, condemned, and hung him
from a tree. ‘Hangmen Also Die’ was produced in 1989, directed by
Esiaba Irobi himself. Even back then, he foresaw the current crisis
that has ravaged Nigeria’s Niger Delta region.

In 2003, I interviewed him; and to the question ‘Who is Esiaba Irobi?’ he replied,

“He is from the
Republic of Biafra and has lived all his life in exile in Nigeria, the
United Kingdom, and the USA. Everything he wrote in ‘Hangmen Also Die’
has come to pass, including the hanging of the boys, the killing of the
chiefs, the execution of Ken Saro-Wiwa in a prison in Port Harcourt.
The recent revolt by riverine women against foreign oil companies in
Nigeria reminds us strongly of Tamara in the play and also resonates
with the reason for the iconoclastic philosophy of The Suicide Squad.

“‘Hangmen Also
Die’ is the most prophetic of all of Esiaba works. It is a picture of
the future. Our future as a country: Area Boys. Bakassi. Armed Robbery.
Anarchy! The worst is yet to come. Nigeria will break apart like a loaf
of bread in water, it will capsize like a leaking canoe on the River
Niger!”

The poetry

I first encountered
the power of Esiaba’s poetry at the Anthill, Nsukka, run back in the
day by Gbubemi Amas, Big George, and co. He would sing his words and on
occasions, break into powerful choruses and dance. He would break sweat
performing a poem, and would ensure the poem was etched on the minds of
members of the audience.

Following the
publication of his seminal poetry collection, ‘Why I Don’t Like Philip
Larkin,’ it was my honour to host him in London on April 1, 2006. Other
poets that read on the same night were Toni Kan, Obemata, and Molara
Wood, their readings punctuated with mine. It was all very good, but
when Esiaba, the masquerade of the night, stepped up to the stage, he
turned the night on its head, with songs, with calls and responses, and
with his lyrical pieces rendered with penetrating, seering conviction.
Esiaba wrote about some of his characters as people who used words
“like a loaded pistol”, but it was he, The Minstrel, a powerful
wordsmith, who used words like a loaded pistol. When mixed together and
shaken, his words would produce the effect of an atomic bomb, powerful
enough to eradicate Nigeria’s terminal diseases, which populate the
country’s past, ruling, or aspiring leadership.

Celebrating Esiaba

In 2009, Esiaba got
married to the lovely Uloaku, who joined him in America in the summer.
They moved together to Berlin, where he took up position as a
Distinguished Research Fellow, Freie University, Berlin, Germany
2009-2010 in the “Interweaving Performance Cultures” programme at the
University’s International Research Centre.

The painful thing
about Esiaba’s life is that he was a man who had a habit of being happy
always, no matter his situation. He worked very hard at his craft, and
tried as much as he could to enjoy his life. Every time I was on the
phone with Esiaba, or sat across the table for a bite or a drink, he
had no idea how to be in somebody’s company and not have a funny story
to tell, a poem to read, a song to sing, or a political or
philosophical idea to banter over. I was quite aware that he was
well-respected in literary and academic circles, and had won some
awards here and there, but it always surprised me that somehow, Esiaba
had never really been publicly celebrated for all his achievements and
vision.

Therefore, I asked
myself: should we wait for Esiaba to win at least one of the two Nobel
Prizes for Literature he used to tell us he would win, before we
celebrate him? Or should be celebrate him anyway? I chose the latter,
and in the planning of the first Sentinel Literature Festival –
December 1 to 4, 2009 – we set aside the final day as ‘Esiaba Irobi
Day.’ The plan was simple: on that day, admirers and some of his former
students would read their favourite Esiaba poems, then there would be a
musical interval, and then the man himself would incinerate the place
with a 60-minute performance.

I have never seen
anyone as excited about an event as Esiaba was about the ‘Esiaba Irobi
Day’ at our festival. I am sure he won’t mind my sharing some of his
thoughts for the evening: “My sisters who live in London and my
beautiful and lovely wife will cook/provide the food… I suggest very
strongly that you change the picture of mine you have chosen. I will
send another more exciting photograph which you can use to create a
one-page advert in colour. You can then send it as an attachment –
INDIVIDUALLY – to everybody who is interested in poetry in the UK…We
can also target some Ngwa people who are not literary sensibilities,
but who will be coming for the food and the wine and the
photograph-taking and to see their rambunctious brother performing in
London with a band called The Republic of Biafra!… A lot of Igbo people
– if you can find a listserv containing their names-will also want to
come…

“I also suggest
that you push the event through Toyin Adepoju’s facebook. And the Wole
Soyinka Society… Jackie Mackay knows a lot of people in the literary
milieu of London. You should try and befriend her. She can help to
swell the AUDIENCE on December 4, 2009. We should also think of special
invitations to people like Peter Badejo, Osy Okagbue, Yvonne Brewster,
Nigerian actors/ theatre directors, etc. The idea of Special
Invitations and a kind of DISTINGUISHED high table and brief speeches
about the poet will… make them come as well as bring other people… I
am planning to have food – Igbo cuisine on December 4. In addition, we
can also have some wine, bread, cheese and charge a sensible gate fee
for this huge event. I am planning to put on a really powerful show
complete with my band: The Republic of Biafra. My son, Nnamdi, will
play his saxophone in the band.”

Published and forthcoming works

Esiaba also copied
an e-mail he wrote to Jacqueline Mackay to me, and there, I thought we
were about to celebrate Esiaba, only for me to learn he was dedicating
the show to Ms Mackay. In this e-mail, he wrote, “I will not be
“reading” but actually “performing” in the African oral tradition…
excerpts from the following published and forthcoming collections:
Frozen Music (1985), Handgrenades (1986), Infloresence (1987), Tenants
of the Desert (1988), What is Tender about Ted Hughes? (1989), Is This
a God I Smash? (1990), Tell Me I am Lying! (1991), The Kingdom of the
Mad (1997), Why I Don’t Like Philip Larkin (2004), A Calendar of Love
(forthcoming), A Short History of my Penis (forthcoming), ZEZE and
other LOVE poems (forthcoming), The Tree that Weeps (forthcoming)… It
will be a great day and I will make it clear to everybody – before I
begin my performance – that this event is specially staged for a great
woman who has a lot of love for everything African, including our
literature, arts, cuisine, and young men with dysfunctional penises!”

He had it all
planned in his head, but due to some unforeseen problems with his
travel documents, he could not attend the festival and we had to cancel
day 4.

In March 2010, I
was delighted when Esiaba wrote me a heartwarming e-mail in which he
said his health was on the mend, and he and his wife now had 5-year
multiple visas in and out of Britain. Then the masterstroke: he
informed me that his wedding ceremony had been fixed for the middle of
June and that he would very much like me to organise a poetry event to
serve as his bachelor’s eve party. Like the festival show, Esiaba had
big plans for his wedding poetry event, and after our last exchange on
Wednesday, April 28, I started making plans to realise his big show in
London, only this time, he did not just pull out due to problems, he
actually did a Michael Jackson on me.

The Sentinel Poetry
Movement is a part of what has defined my life since 2002, and one
thing I have said at every opportunity, is that Esiaba Irobi was the
one that suggested that I grow the idea from the small exercise on my
website. I am happy that in his lifetime, Sentinel published Esiaba’s
own poetry, and essays; and essays on Irobi’s works by others such as
Pius Adesanmi and Afam Akeh. I am also proud that although the big
event never happened, there was at least that evening in 2006 when he
sang and danced as part of a Sentinel Live Event.

Eulogies

On hearing of his
death, many have said wonderful things about Esiaba. The poet, Remi
Raji, describes him as “one of the finest, but rarely sung writers.”
The truth is that we all wait for the West to adopt and celebrate our
best. Esiaba was never going to be a darling of the western world. Our
people are singing him now that he is dead. I, however, deeply
appreciate some comments on my Facebook page from people I knew were
genuine Esiaba friends. Osita Okagbue writes, “With Esiaba, some
laughter has left; a joy for life and people has gone! I’ll miss your
laughter, our friend, colleague, and my academic nephew.” Gbubemi Amas
says, “This is very sad news for anyone who loves life.” And among
other tributes, Abdul Mahmud, who writes as Obemata, remembers him this
way; “Esiaba was such an engaging poet; memories of his performance at
the maiden Sentinel Poetry Live years ago in London are as abiding as
the fraternal love and respect he showed to some of us who interacted
with him that night”. That was Esiaba, a respecter of kindred spirits.
A lover of life.

I am as devastated
by Esiaba Irobi’s passing as many of my colleagues, and Esiaba’s
students are, but nothing we feel today can compare with what Uloaku,
his wife of less than one year must feel, or what his Saxophone-playing
son, Nnamdi, must feel. I also hope that Uloaku is well in the know
about his unpublished works, and will work tirelessly to make sure they
see the light of day. These include such books as ‘How to make love to
a Negro all Night and Survive it’, ‘A White Man’s Guide to Black
Woman’, ‘Theorizing African Cinema: Ontology, Teleology, Semiology and
Narratology’ (Routledge, London), ‘Before They Danced in Chains:
African Metalanguages in African-American Performance Aesthetics’, and
his novel, too long in the making:‘The Intellectual Terrorist.’

Nnorom Azuonye is the Founder/Editor of ‘Sentinel Literary Quarterly’, and publisher of ‘Sentinel Nigeria’ magazines.

Toyin Akinosho @
50: Celebrating the culture activist at Arthouse Forum -Terra Kulture,
Tiamiyu Savage, Victoria Island, Lagos. 4pm. May 12.

Book presentation: ‘Dear Baby Ramatu’ and ‘Mandela’s Bones and Other Poems’ by Sam
Omatseye – Nigerian Institute of International Affairs (NIIA), Kofo
Abayomi, VI, Lagos. 10am. May 12.

Legacy Museum: Presentation of the Jaekel House Restoration, Mini Museum & Nigeria
in Transition Photographic Exhibition – 17 Federal Road, Railway
Compound, Ebuta Metta, Lagos. 10am. May 13.

Benin1897.com: Touring exhibition by Peju Layiwola – Main Auditorium Gallery, University of Lagos, Lagos. Till May 30.

Kingdom of Ife: Sculptures from the ancient city – The British Museum, Great Russell Street, London, WC1B. Till June 6.

The village
Christians gathered after the Sunday evening service under the big Odan
tree in the village square. An open-air service once in four weeks was
a regular feature of the Church’s campaign against heathenism. The Lord
Jesus was taken out to the hundreds of village souls too far steeped in
the worship of streams and trees to seek the new God in the little
mud-walled church down of the other side of the village stream.

The sky was
overcast with thick, grey clouds drifting in the direction of Idasa.
That meant rain. It would come, as long as the clouds drifted in that
direction. Lightning flashes momentarily parted the clouds. They were
followed at varying intervals by deep rumbling of thunder behind the
clouds. Shango, the god of lightning and thunder, was registering his
anger at this strange talk of a new God taking hold of simple folk who
were once unquestioning votaries of his order. The new malady must be
nipped in the bud.

But Royasin and his
band resolved that their bud was destined to flower and to bear fruit.
He was the village schoolmaster, a tall lanky man with deep tribal
marks of tree vertical parallels on each cheek. He combined the duties
of schoolmaster and catechist and general public relations officer.
“Teacher” was the name by which everyone knew him in the village.

The first hymn had
brought the village urchins flying to the village square. To them the
open-air service was entertainment designed solely for their amusement.
The boys gaped at a respectable distance from the select. Teacher read
out loudly the lines of a popular hymn of praise in advance and for the
benefit of his congregation. It meant nothing to the boys. Nor did they
pretend that it did. Teacher next read out a portion from the big black
book which he carried in his hand. He urged his hearers to repent of
their sins for the Kingdom of God was at hand. A heavy peal of thunder
which tailed off into rumbling and died our grumbling behind the clouds
effectively emphasised the case for repentance.

Then the real
attraction of the evening stepped out into the open. He was a very tall
man with a big head that was bald in the front and fringed with a
horse-shoe formation of hair – a mixture of black and white in a ratio
that left the age a mystery. He wore a black suit. Unlike Teacher’s
striped collar with black tie, this stranger’s white collar was turned
the other way round, and he had no tie at all. The rumour went round
the group of children and the seven men and women whose curiosity had
brought them thither, that that white collar was a symbol that the
newcomer was greater than Teacher.

Now that was
remarkable. Someone greater than Teacher in learning! For Teacher was
the pride of Isolo. He alone could write letters and interpret
telegrams.

The pastor looked
round the little group of potential converts, and cast an anxious
glance at the jumbled group of thatched houses in which he knew
villagers went about their secular business indifferent to the call of
the Word. He would give them a few more moments. He recited the four
lines of another song, and started off in a deep, rumbling voice on the
first line:

O’er heathen lands afar

Thick darkness broodeth yet.

Arise! oh morning star,

Arise and never set.

As the fold were
finishing the last line the leader swiftly started on the first line
again. The spirit of the thing caught. They all repeated the verse
again and again.

Then followed the
golden word: “We have brought into your darkness the light of Christ.”
The pastor’s voice was melodious. They all admired him, this curious
hero of much learning. “There is no salvation in the worship of trees
and rivers.” So saying he kicked the trunk of the huge Odan tree fairly
viciously. That was a challenge. The tree was known to be inhabited by
the spirit of the god of the village. He looked round as if waiting for
something to happen – enough time for the tree to hit back if it would.
It didn’t.

“You see, brethren,
it is only a tree, and therefore cannot hit back when kicked,” he
continued. “There is no salvation in the worship of trees and rivers…
There is one and only one way to eternal life. The Lord Jesus Christ is
the way and the life… Throw away your false gods and follow Him. Burn
your idols – they have no mouths – they cannot talk.”

He once more paused for a moment, as if expecting something to happen. Something did happen then.

“But Toro’s
Grandma’s Shonponna has a mouth, and does talk!” It was a small boy
that piped out from the crowd. The man of God stepped forward three
paces, and bent double. With his only functioning eye he regarded the
waif with gravity. Challenge to the Word was a most unusual thing. And
this challenge had come from a most unusual quarter. He was a little
thing with a fat tummy. Half the skin of his head had been laid waste
by ringworm.

One church elder
recovered first from the shock. Taking four quick steps forward he
gathered with his left hand the tattered end of the boy’s jumper and
smacked him on the head with the palm of his right hand. It would teach
the boy sense. It would put an end to the embarrassment.

But it did not. Instead it earned the elder the pastor’s disapproval, indicated by deep furrows and wrinkles on his face.

“Not so, Elder
Joshua,” he said rather gravely. “Suffer little children to come unto
me. For theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.” Here Elder Jeremiah nodded
his fat head in approval of the clergyman’s declaration for youth.
“That is the way of Christ,” he said, “the way of Christ.”

The pastor’s eye
was riveted on the boy. The whole group stared at him. He stared at the
red laterite ground. The atmosphere was tense.

“There is only one God, my child… He is greater than all other gods combined.”

The boy looked up
quickly. He was puzzled. That was news to him; it might be true, it
might be false. He was not going to quarrel over that. He once more
stared at the ground. A peal of thunder warned the faithful that a
thunderstorm was imminent.

“Shonponna is no
god. It is a disease. The spirit is the imagination of the mind, and
the idol the creation of man’s hand. It has no life like you and me and
your mother and brothers. lt, therefore, cannot talk.” The pastor’s
manner was now friendly and conciliatory.

But the boy looked
up hurriedly again, and protested in the interest of the truth that he
knew: “But Toro’s Grandma’s Shonponna talks. It is the truth I speak.
My friends hear him. I hear him. We all hear him – truly!” The boy
looked round apparently for a word of corroboration from his friends.
But the other boys had let him down. They had smelt trouble at the
outset of this unusual procedure and had vanished. The boy looked
crestfallen, the way one looks after being let down by one’s friends.
He stared at the ground once more. Elder Joshua and Teacher Royasin
exchanged ominous winks which seemed to say ‘Thank God, the farce is at
an end.’

They were mistaken.
The boy looked up again. His shining face beamed with the satisfaction
that told the tale of a wonderful solution discovered for getting out
of a tight corner. “If you’d come with me to Toro’s house up the
village – her Grandma’s Shonponna will talk to you. Truly!”

The reaction of the
Church members varied. To some the whole thing was a stupendous joke.
To others it was nothing short of sacrilege. A mere heathen boy
upsetting the course of a divine service. Joke or sacrilege, the whole
thing had gone far enough. Surely the pastor was not going to take this
child seriously enough to follow him into a heathen home.

But there they were
wrong. For after whispered consultations with Teacher Royasin, the
pastor bade the boy lead the way. The rain had started in scattered but
heavy drops.

The little boy ran
ahead of the group part of the way. He felt ever so important. What
child would not feel important leading the village Teacher and one
still greater than Teacher and the whole army of village men and women?
“Truly,” he said, stopping once and throwing his head back to look at
the impenetrably solemn face of the striding giant, “Truly, Grandma’s
Shonponna talks well. We all hear him. Toro hears him, and my father,
too, hears him.” Here the boy turned an appealing look to Elder Joshua,
the same man who had slapped the boy on the head at the beginning of
the unusual incident. This time he aimed a blow at his head with his
Book of Common Prayer… but missed. He had hoped to conceal from the
Man of God the fact that he was the father of this brat. Now the secret
was out.

“My child, we go up with you to the end that we may–”

“But I am not your
child,” snapped the little hero. “I’m my father’s child.” Here again
the boy looked at Elder Joshua for confirmation of his paternity. “I
have no mother… and there is Grandma herself at the door of her house
over there.”

The procession
wended its way along the rugged village street, dodging goats, sheep
and puddles. For once Christian and unbelievers were united in a
resolution to unearth the mystery behind the talking Shonponna.

A small old woman
peeped out of the door of a modest cottage with a comparatively neat
and wide verandah. Already a number of sheep had displayed better
judgment than the procession advancing towards the house, and had
sought shelter on the verandah. The old woman watched the procession
with curiosity. Then with apprehension as she watched the urchin
trotting by the side of the striding giant, making for her verandah.
She came out to the verandah. She wore no head tie, and her hair, a
rich combination of jet black with thick strands of grey, was plaited
beautifully in a remarkably youthful style. A blue locally woven cotton
cover-cloth was wrapped loosely round her waist. She wore no blouse.
She was in no way perturbed by the fact that her wrinkled breasts were
exposed. She watched the approaching procession with suspicion.

“Ah!” she cried.
“Sheyi, Toro, all come out here. Dele is bringing trouble again… Now
whatever has he done this time—cut off someone’s head?” That last she
addressed to the crowd at that moment boarding her verandah at various
points. They were all dripping with perspiration. “Has Dele cut off
someone’s head?” she repeated.

“And why do you
come to my house instead of following him to the house of Joshua, his
father?” Sheyi, Toro, come and see what Dele is bringing to my house.”
The boy had already taken asylum in the ample folds of the old woman’s
cover-cloth.

“Mother, it is in
peace we come,” Teacher Royasin explained peaceably. The old woman
didn’t appear to see much suggestive of peace in the atmosphere. She
did not conceal her suspicion. She looked over her shoulder into the
house. Approaching footsteps from inside suggested that help was
forthcoming.

“This child,
Mother, has done no wrong,” the pastor cleared young Dele’s honour. At
that juncture another woman, and an exceedingly beautiful girl, came
out of the house on to the verandah. “This child, Mother, has done no
wrong,” the pastor repeated, as if for the benefit of the new arrivals.
“This child has been the means of Christ sending light into your
darkness.”

“Light into my
darkness!” the old woman echoed. She opened her mouth and looked round
the group. “Why, I am not in the dark at all. I can see you all,” she
declared with emphasis. Dele nodded approval in his place of refuge.
“If you cannot see me – Toro, will you please fetch a lamp from my
room?”

The pastor’s solemn
face showed a momentary trace of a smile. His metaphor had miscarried,
and he saw the humour of it. “The darkness I speak of, Mother, is the
darkness of the soul.”

“Darkness of the
soul! Darkness of the soul!!” She reflected. Her wrinkled face gave
away the secret of admitted defeat. Here was a very formidable physical
obstacle. How was she to open up her stomach for a proper scrutiny of
her soul?

The younger woman
came to the rescue. “I salute you all, Teacher, Joshua, Jeremiah and
all the rest.” Her salutation was about as friendly as between two
boxers shaking hands at the beginning of the first round of a
championship fight. “She is my mother and–”

“Yes, I bore her,” the old woman confirmed.

“Please keep
quiet,” the younger woman reprimanded her mother. “My mother is old, as
you can see. Now’ that she will soon go where old people go, I am her
eyes and her ears. Has my mother done anything wrong?”

“Ah, what crime have I committed, what crime?” the older woman asked apprehensively.

“Keep quiet, I
say,” the daughter flared up at her mother, in a way anything but
dutiful. “lf you commit us all through an indiscreet statement you and
you only must be held responsible, You cannot tell what they may be
writing down in that big black book.” She cast a suspicious, hateful
look at the Holy Bible that Teacher held in his hand. She adjusted her
cloth round her blouse and seemed prepared for a battle – by mouth or
by hand but not by book. She was tall and lean, and not by any standard
attractive.

“This child, I
repeat, has done nothing Wrong,” the pastor once more declared. “And
you haven’t done anything wrong either, Mother.”

“I haven’t done
anything wrong, Mamma,” Dele said, somewhat elated. “He said Grandma’s
Shonponna has no mouth and cannot talk. And I said that Grandma’s
Shonponna has a mouth, and does talk.”

“My lord Shonponna!” the older woman was saying. “Why, my lord Shonponna is–”

“You keep quiet,”
Sheyi thundered. “I must repeat that you and you alone will be held
responsible for whatever palaver your tongue lands you in. For
goodness’ sake keep quiet. You cannot understand the way of these
educated people. Leave me to deal with them… My mother has no
Shonponna in this house or anywhere else,” she declared belligerently,
conclusively. “Here you see all of us, the inmates of this house – my
mother and my daughter, Toro. The only other inmate is my younger
sister. She is much too sick to come out.” The painful coughing of a
woman in the last stages of consumption testified to that fact. “No
Shonponna at all in this house…

“This child of
yours, Joshua, is the bane of our lives in this house,” Ma Sheyi
continued belligerently in an aside to Joshua. “If he keeps any
Shonponna somewhere in the house, ask him to produce him. And if he
can’t—-”

“Shonponna! I have
no Shonponna at all!” declared Grandma Gbemi in an attitude of great
innocence. She caught the warning signal from her daughter’s face and
stopped there.

At this point Elder
Joshua hit his wayward child with his hymn book. “Take that, you
scoundrel. And that will teach you sense. He is a mere child, Reverend
Sir, a mere child,” he observed to the pastor by way of bringing the
embarrassing farce to a close. “The child knows not what he says,
Reverend Sir. He is a mere child, Reverend Sir.”

***

The scene shifts to the little study of the village Teacher in the mission house.

“This, I suppose,
concludes this business, Mr. Royasin?” the pastor asked wearily, not
caring to look up at his companion’s face. The open-air meeting had
long finished. Pastor David and Mr. Royasin, the village Teacher, had
arrived back in the modest but neat mission house. After changing from
their wet clothes, they had had a meal of pounded yam with
fowl-in-soup, specially sent down to the august visitor by an elder.

But the reverend
gentleman was in a bad humour. The delicious meal couldn’t compensate
for the humiliation he felt after the blank he had drawn over the
Shonponna incident. Winning the arch-heathen, the grand old dame of
Isolo, to the fold of Christ would have been the achievement of the
year. The greatest propaganda for the cause of the Gospel in the
village and the surrounding district. He was unhappy about it.

“Nothing more really, sir,” the junior man said; a trace of insincerity born of diffidence was just discernible.

“In which case we retire to bed, Mr. Royasin?”

“Very well, sir.”

The long pause between the last two words showed there was certainly something on Mr. Royasin’s mind.

Both men were
silent for a moment. The pastor watched a wall lizard stalking a moth
fluttering around the flame of the kerosene lamp unaware of its double
peril. A servant entered who proceeded to pour oil into the tank of the
lamp from a bottle he held in his hand. He was nervous in the presence
of the visitor, and quite a substantial quantity of oil found its way
on to the table.

Pastor and Teacher
watched the flickering flame. It appeared to be fighting a gasping
battle against unseen forces tending to choke it out of existence. The
gasps were periodical. The flame looked like going out after every
gasp. Then it seemed to recover and continue another lease of life for
a brief period. At last the boy put down the bottle and began to screw
the lid back on to the tank. The flame slowly regained steadiness and
confidence. Its light rose steadily in intensity as the boy tip-toed
out of the room.

A smile grew slowly
on the clergyman’s hitherto solemn face. “See that flame, Teacher? It
very nearly went out during refuelling.” Here he paused as if allowing
his companion to take his bearings. The younger man, however, showed no
anxiety or enthusiasm for him to proceed. But he continued. “It very
nearly went 0ut – was very nearly choked out of existence.” Another
pause. “It got over the trial, however. It new sends out light into the
darkness of this room.”

Royasin’s face was
collected enough to cover the disgust that he felt in his heart. That
light and darkness stuff was meant for the village heathens, not him.

“To-day the Church
in this village is still in its infancy. The forces of heathenism are
tending to smother the life out of it. But they cannot prevail. For
Christ our Royal Master leads against the foe.”

The smile on Pastor
David’s face outlived his divine discourse for a long while and
illuminated the clerical features. Then gloom descended once more on
his face. And silence, awkward silence, reigned once more in the little
study in the Mission House.

Royasin had to get that thing off his chest. He coughed to attract his companion’s attention. “Please, sir.”

“Yes, Teacher?”

“You received my application, sir?”

“Your application?” The pastor looked puzzled. “I don’t remember it.”

“I sent it through–”

“Ah! Yes, asking
for an increase in salary. I remember now.” He sat back in his chair
and looked at the ceiling. “What is it you earn now, Teacher?”

“Seventeen shillings and sixpence a month, sir.”

“That’s – er – seven pence a day. I dare say it isn’t much these days, Mr. Royasin.”

“You know I hate to
complain, sir. Now that I act as catechist and schoolmaster as well as
manager, sir, I beg that the pastor recommend me for increase of
salary. Prices are going up every day, sir.”

Awful silence. The
junior man awaited the verdict, hoping for the best but not unprepared
for the worst. At length Pastor David spoke. “My dear young man, when I
hear of demands for higher salary I look across the years and smile.”
He was smiling now. “When I came out of the Mission College in 1903, my
salary was three shillings and sixpence a month – exactly a fifth of
what you now earn… I accepted it then with the cheerfulness becoming
of a worker in the Lord’s Vineyard. I am not saying that you should go
back to a salary of three and six a month now – I myself will be the
first to oppose cuts in the salaries of workers.” He paused to allow
that bit about his consideration for junior fellow workers to sink in.
His only functioning eye relentlessly trapped Royasin’s.

“Church funds are
very low, very low indeed. We had only two shillings and a penny at
church collection today, both morning and evening. Pastorate dues
aren’t coming in well in this parish. Synod last year ruled that unless
response to funds improves, I may have to leave the parish.”

Here he paused for
a long time, his one eve focused on infinity. Then he jumped up
suddenly to his gigantic height and fired away rapidly. “But I don’t
want to leave this parish. I am not going to leave this parish. I
haven’t been paid my salary for four months now.” He paused again, and
spoke more slowly as he sank back into the chair. “No, I am not going
to leave this parish.”

He now directed the
full force of his one eye on Royasin’s face. The latter behaved in an
awkward fashion, like the pilot of an aircraft trapped in the beam of a
powerful searchlight. “You and I, my dear Royasin, are workers together
in the Lord’s Vineyard. Why must you and I seek after worldly returns
for our labours when we know that returns a hundred-fold await us in
Heaven? Isolo here looks difficult. Here men and women continue to
worship trees, rivers and rocks. Here your labours are required.
Required by the Lord Jesus in the service of your fellow men. Will you
desert Him? Will you abandon this little oasis of the Church of Christ
in this desert of heathenism – all because of another two shillings and
sixpence increase in salary?”

Royasin was silent, painfully silent.

“No, you will not.”
The clergyman made up the mind of the hesitating young worker for him.
“I know you cannot go against the dictates of your inner self, the
still, small voice within you. I knew the day the Lord flashed His
torch of truth and salvation into the darkness of a heathen home and
brought you out to the Church – I knew that day that you were cut out
to be not just another worker but a very special worker in the cause of
the Lord. You will not allow a mere half-crown to stand between you and
your divine mission.”

Royasin was held
under the spell of that penetrating single eye. A strange power seemed
to impinge upon his soul through that one eye which covered him
unrelentingly. It was invisible but it was real. The mud walls and mat
ceilings of the little study were no longer there. The whole atmosphere
was pervaded by the influence of this strange power. Royasin dreamingly
repeated endless Amens to a special prayer said by his guest and
superior asking the Lord Jesus to open the eyes of His creatures to the
superiority of spiritual Wealth over Worldly possessions.

*Being the first chapter of ‘One Man, One Wife’ by T.M Aluko (published in 1959).

“The most expensive
aspect of AMAA, I think, is not the awards ceremony but the process of
getting the films in, screening the films. It takes us approximately
three months to get to the point where nominations are announced,”
discloses Peace Anyiam-Osigwe, founder of the Africa Movie Academy
Awards. It’s a Monday morning and we are in a coffee shop in Ikeja GRA
reviewing the awards ceremony held weeks before in Yenagoa, Bayelsa
State, amongst other issues.

Sponsorship woes

Unknown to many,
the graduate of Law and Political Science from Oxford Brookes
University, Oxford, UK, and her team had problems organising the
ceremony. Though they started working on the project nine months prior
to the event, things almost went awry because some sponsors didn’t
respond promptly.

“Unfortunately for
us, Nigerians tend to want to do things at the last minute, especially
government people who probably don’t realise how important it is to do
things on time. The only sponsor that came on board early enough was
UBA, while our host state had challenges,” she recalls. A discerning
person, she has however learnt from what transpired. “In regards to
next year, we’ve taken certain decisions whereby anyone hosting the
award has to take a decision and implement it before the last quarter
of the year preceding the award.”

There are
speculations that the Bayelsa State government might be getting tired
of hosting the ceremony, people say the sponsors’ night before the show
where Bayelsa State Governor, Timipre Sylva, urged corporate Nigeria to
sponsor the awards, is proof. But Anyiam-Osigwe disagrees. “No, I think
that AMAA has reached a stage where it is right for the Bayelsa State
government to ask for sponsors to come on board. The state has the
hosting right, they cannot be the sponsors of the event itself. Let’s
take the World Cup, South Africa has the hosting right but she is not
paying for everything. MTN, Coca Cola, Pepsi, everybody else is
carrying the bill and that is what it’s supposed to be.

The Governor is
doing the right thing in trying to get the private sector to sponsor
the AMAA. Why I have a lot of respect for UBA is the fact that they saw
a need to support a home grown brand; not a lot of corporate bodies in
Nigeria believe in supporting home grown brands. That is sad because no
matter what I try to do with the AMAA, if it doesn’t have corporate
support, it will not grow. The recognition of the award internationally
is more than the recognition it gets locally and that amazes me.”

The joy of AMAA

The thrill of the
AMAA for its founder this year “was the joy of the people that won.
That was really what touched me, the sincerity of the emotions that
came from the people that won. Africa has recognised what we are doing
… You have people who will call you on the day of the AMAA, people
like Forest [Whitaker] or Danny [Glover] and encourage you. No matter
the stress you are going through, when you get those kinds of people
saying to you, you have to continue. Deep down in your heart, you know
that you are doing something right.”

In spite of this,
Anyiam-Osigwe’s biggest problem remains continuity. And she intends to
tackle this continuing with her sponsorship drive. “Two days after
AMAA, I was invited to Ghana by a prospective sponsor. I have been
there twice already to have meetings with them and that’s what we are
going to do. We are going to really go out and look for sponsors.”

Is she then saying next year’s AMAA might hold in Ghana?

“It can be anywhere
but the most important thing is that AMAA has to be where the people
recognise its value. When I started the AMAA, I never knew what I was
getting into and I never believed it would grow so fast. There is an
argument we are having with Africans in the Diaspora, people like
Forest [Whitaker], CC Pounder, Tyler Perry, about opening it up to
everybody. I told them that’s why you have the Africans in Diaspora
category and we have short film and feature film. For them, this is the
award. If you listened to Glynn Turman, he was like this is not just
for you guys. It’s for everybody. So, how do you start to control all
that? We have an AGM in July and we are going to try and make everybody
understand that it’s a gradual process.

“Some people say to
me this is one of the best ones you have had but I know what the plans
were. We have already started working towards next year. I don’t know
where the AMAA will hold next year, we would know by the end of July.”

No conflict

Anyiam-Osigwe who
is part of the recently launched Africa International Film Festival
(AFRIFF) explains her involvement. “One of the things that I feel I
contribute to anything that has to do with festivals in Nigeria is my
technical knowledge. I’m tired of seeing festivals going on without
having the content that will make a festival what it’s supposed to be.
So, when I was approached, I basically spoke about the content area of
the festival.”

She also douses
fears of a potential conflict between AFRIFF and AMAA. “I see no
conflict. I think the conflict will come if for any reason they move
into what we are doing. But if it is segmented – and which I think it
is right now and it’s strictly a film festival then there isn’t any
conflict of interest whatsoever.”

Nollywood and growth

The woman whose
African Film Academy organises trainings for guilds in Nollywood and
sponsors young filmmakers to film festivals, reiterates the need for
Nollywood to grow. “I think that Nollywood needs to move on, filmmakers
have to realise that films can be made…the cameras nowadays are so
user friendly. The success of ‘Figurine’ shows that it’s not what you
shoot on but the detail and the time you put into pre- production. The
success of all the films that won at the AMAA this year, and ‘From a
Whisper’ that won last year, is that attention to detail will always
get you over the bridge.”

Regarded as an
award organiser and not a filmmaker in a section of Nollywood because
she has no production yet, Anyiam-Osigwe’s soap, ‘GRA Women’ is set to
hit the airwaves this quarter. She is also working on a film she
co-wrote “about four women that are friends. It’s a feature, a fun
film. Something that allows me express my creativity after so many
years of not being able to do something.”

Is she not worried that expectations will be high for the film given her background as an award organiser?

“And I expect it to be high,” she replies. “The unfortunate thing is
that it can never win an AMAA, it can never go in for competition so I
will just be expressing myself. But I think maybe that is what I want
to do because sometimes I hear criticisms that I don’t make films, I’m
a filmmaker. Maybe I should just do a film to express myself and make
myself happy.”

Why Art?

I was born into a
creative family; my father was a printer. At six, I was already doing
the artworks for his printing jobs. I love drawing. When I was younger,
I used to make toys and do collages because I grew up in an environment
where there was a lot of paper and colours. I don’t think there is
anything for me apart from art.

Training

I am a graduate of
Painting from the Yaba College of Technology (YABATECH). Though I had
been drawing and creating art since I was young, I got formal training
at YABATECH.

Medium

I love people and I
seek to give each figure in my composition its own unique identity. My
ever growing interest in Yoruba history and mythology has also become a
visible aspect of my compositions.

I have used
various media in producing my works: mixed- media, acrylic, oil,
pastel, charcoal, and water-colour, are my major mediums of expression.
Most of my works are done using subtle brush strokes, monochromes, and
earth colours. The play of light in them adds to the dramatic effect of
creating mood in each painting.

Influences

The works of great
artists influence my works. I was going to see exhibitions of masters
like Kolade Oshinowo before entering school. I love the way they use
colours. I am also influenced by seeing the works of other artists.
Things around me influence my works.

Inspiration

I draw inspiration
from my environment, from things around me. For example, during the
Black Heritage Festival, they took us around Lagos to see every part of
the city before the exhibition. I was inspired by where the slaves were
put in Badagry, one could see where they were tied with manila in a
room for 40 days. I used the manila in my painting to explain commerce
and slavery. From Badagry, I saw the colourful regatta and skyscrapers,
which also appeared in my painting.

Best work so far

I don’t have any
best work for now. I cannot rate my works. I try every day to do my
best. The works I am doing now are better than the ones I did
yesterday, and I am sure that the ones I will do after will be better
than the ones I am doing now. I don’t think that you can have a best
work while still alive. You just keep working, even as a writer or
musician. If you have a best work, it holds you back from doing
something better. One has to work every day to do something good.

Least satisfying work

I am always happy
when I see my past works. It gives me hope that I can do better. I have
young artists that look up to me, so I show them these past works to
know that they can do more. When you look back at your past works, you
see how you have improved over time. I don’t have any least satisfying
work. I only wish that all my works were in my collection. I am happy
with every work I have ever done.

Career high point

My career high
point for now has to be wining the painting competition of the Black
Heritage Festival. That is one of the biggest prizes in visual arts. I
feel elated to have won such a competition. I pray we have more
competitions to expose artists.

Favourite artist, living or dead

They are many; both
young and old. Those that have direct influence on me are Kolade
Oshinowo and Samuel Ajobiewe, whose last exhibition at Mydrim Gallery
was before my first solo exhibition. I also like Sam Ovraiti’s
personality as an artist.

Ambition

To be one of the greatest artists in the world and to influence people’s lives through my works, especially younger artists.

The struggle for
the emancipation of the Niger Delta received a boost recently, thanks
to a new exhibition by artist Nelson Edewor. The latest campaign in
support of the cause of the oil rich region came in the form of
‘Totalities’, a solo show held at the Maxin Lotus Motel in Warri, Delta
State. The exhibition opened on Friday April 23 and closed on Friday
May 7.

Nelson Edewor, who
claims divine inspiration for his works on display in the exhibition,
is a unique sculptor. His main medium of artistic expression is a
special kind of wood indigenous to the forests of the Niger Delta.

Another feature of
his work is that each of his carvings tells a story about life in the
Delta. The oil pipelines, the many ethnic groups in the region – all of
these are well represented in the artworks.

Writing in the
exhibition catalogue, Maureen E. Ebulue of the Ezzi Gallery, Warri,
which supported the show, said, “Edewor’s wood carvings are sculptural
works which have… bridged the gap between contemporary and traditional
art as existent in the African multicultural and multi-ethnic
continent. Every piece has a deeply rooted story from history. It is,
therefore, aimed as a collector piece, going beyond its function, to
serve as history.”

H.U.M Bazunu,
sculptor and art historian with Delta State University, Abraka,
observed further that, “In this exhibition, [Edewor] seems to have
touched every aspect of life in the Niger Delta.” Commenting on the
artist’s artist method, Bazunu wrote that, “Like El Anatsui who uses
motorized tools and burning technique to create his aesthetically
pleasing and highly expressive wood sculptures… Nelson Edewor, now
using motorized tools, has gone ideographic and pictographic in his
art. This is with a view to raising his horizon, going beyond
oil/petroleum to touching as many areas of life as possible with his
art.”

Speaking at the
opening event on April 23, Nelson Edewor disabused the minds of those
who hold on to the opinion prevalent in some quarters, that African
carvings are idolatry. He does not share this demonising view of art,
and insists that, far from items of idol worship, carvings such as
those on display in ‘Totalities’ are beautiful decorative objects only.

A guided tour of
some of the exhibits revealed much about the fine and applied art
lecturer’s thematic concerns. ‘Victims’ – with sober faces on five
pieces of carved human forms – is a vivid reflection of the
victimisation endured by the people of the Delta. ‘Faces of Hope’ gives
reassurance and hope in the face of such oppression.

‘Dance the Pain to
Silence’ explores female circumcision. The newly circumcised maiden
dances her pain to silence as her peers sing her praises; in the same
vein, Niger Deltans also dance the pain of environmental and economic
oppression to silence.

‘The Hand that
Giveth’, a beautiful masterpiece carved from a single tree, depicts the
long hand of the oil-rich region that gives from her abundant wealth to
the rest of the nation.

‘Constitutional Conference’- invites all Nigerians to a conference where credible leadership can lead to good governance.

In the words of Grace Ojie, Head of Department of Fine Art, Delta
State University, Abraka, Edewor’s work is “splendid and heavily
culture based, and full of creativity with a unique style of
finishing.” Others noted the very inspirational quality of the works
displayed, as well as their African touch.

It was a night to
remember for everyone at the ‘Night Out With the Arts’, organised by
the Society of the Performing Arts of Nigeria (SPAN). The event took
place on April 30 at the Coral Reef, Ikoyi, and allowed the audience
the honour of judging the presentations which cut across music, comedy
and dance.

As the curtains
were raised on the monthly show’s second edition, it represented SPAN’s
way of recognising the talents that abound across the city of Lagos.

Cool FM on-air
personalities Manny and Amaka anchored the event, which kicked off with
a rendition by Tee Mac. The flutist and former PMAN president performed
to the accompaniment of a drummer, a guitarist and a pianist.

He preceded his
performance by reeling out statistics about the power of Nigerian
music. “There are about 400,000 professional musicians and about 1.2
million amateur musicians,” he said. “What is missing is the money,
because the talent is already here.”

He took a swipe at
young people’s reactions to his music, just before he got caught in the
rapture of his wind instrument. “Young people call it old school, I
call it good music,” he said. Olufunmi, a gospel musician and Vice
President of SPAN, sang the second verse of our National Anthem. She
also held the audience spellbound with her voice as she sang a popular
gospel tune.

In her welcome
address, president of SPAN, Sarah Boulos, said that the organisation,
in their celebration of the family, provided a bouncing castle for
children at the event. She also mentioned with excitement that the body
was starting a talk show about the talent series on Cool FM.

Night of musical “talents”

Ten acts performed
on stage for only three minutes each, as the programme did not start at
the scheduled time of 7pm. Uche Agbai showed professionalism as he sang
and strummed his guitar backed up by a piano. He sang “Fast Lane,”
which he had composed after losing a friend.

Next up was a
dance by SPAN which reminded the audience of the Fame television series
that was popular in the 80s. The group danced to the Fame theme-song
and a slower-paced track, switching their body movements in time with
the music. Led by Nnamdi ‘Ice’ Nweke, the dance director of SPAN, the
presentation showed an adherence to detail, as they kept in sync with
the music. The evening would, however, come up with a few rough edges.

Hall of shame

The first category
of undiluted torture began with the clarinet-bearing Natural Beekey,
who played the instrument off key, as he struggled to accompany a Sunny
Ade hit track. Next on the list of pain was a trio called Unbreakable
Unit. Following the usual “Naija” swag-induced style, the group mimed
to one of their tracks. The poor production quality made it almost
impossible to hear what the musicians where singing. Cold Flames
rounded up the first round of musical display with a Yoruba rock song,
which had the crowd clapping and whistling in appreciation.

At the end of the
first session, Tee Mac was first to reach for the microphone as he gave
his own verdict. He advised the ‘out of tune’ Natural Beekey to get
more lessons on playing the clarinet. Tee Mac noted that though
Unbreakable Unit had the moves, they lacked the coordination and force
needed to make a successful hip-hop act.

Though the
audience showed appreciation for Cold Flames’ performance, Tee Mac said
the artist used the most basic keys for his performance and needed to
improve on his talent.

The night moved on
with more criticism from the audience after the next three acts. There
was another interlude with Sons of Liberty, a dance group under SPAN
that has made it to the finals of the Malta Guinness Street Dance
Competition. They entertained the crowd with their energetic and
acrobatic dance steps, as they danced to a medley of songs. A group of
comedians tried to crack the ribs of the audience who seemed to slowly
lose interest in what was happening on stage and were already trickling
out of the venue. The comedians did no better than most of the
musicians, who were reminded by Sarah Boulos not to mime their songs to
backing records, but sing with their voices, so as not to camouflage
any musical deficiencies.

Lessons learnt

The exposure could
help improve the evening’s 10 acts, but in keeping the talent show open
without any form of screening, the audience is left to accept whatever
fate brings on stage. The next show holds on the last Friday in May.