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September 2009. We
waved good night to the warrior Gani Fawehinmi. When the news came, no
cannons boomed loud sorrow for a fallen giant, no women raced through
the market places shredding grief into angry tatters. Here cannons boom
only for thieves tossing loot-crumbs to the masses. May his spirit
haunt us until we seriously locate our role in rebuilding the land of
his dreams.

My people live in
this tired place that time forgot. Ugly dirty buildings wave their
owners’ pride at you. The earth is red-brown, dust valiantly fighting
off any attempts at progress. Their way of life is governed by a mix of
the past and what passes for today. Progress is measured by the
material nearness to an otherness which makes for the farcical. Graham
Greene would love my village and VS Naipaul would fill sick volumes
with reams of this self-loathing. Here turmoil is constant. We merely
describe the turmoil and we despair. Everything stays constant. Why? Do
not be afraid of the answer; be afraid of today’s darkness. Why are
things the way they are with us?

This land of my
birth is a giant boil that needs to be lanced and drained of excess.
This is a filthy nation, an eco-disaster in the making. Cloying waves
of dust and filth rise up to escort you everywhere and environmental
abuse wraps around you squeaky tight like discarded cellophane. Our
land is allergic to respect and it proclaims itself a sick warehouse
where bad products and ideas go to die, a crude nation pawning crude
oil to the crude. Elegance fled long ago. And tending the growth and
the decay is a mean army of agbada-clad rodents taking turns to gnaw at
the innocent. Why are these things so?

Pompous signs
filched from America are proudly hung on filthy structures and
institutions: “Welcome to River Road Estates!” The right words anoint
the wrong things; palaces for hovels, good fortune for corruption, and
God’s wish for the misfortune of beautiful children swimming, sad, in a
war they did not ask for. Women and children carry this nation and her
men on their frail backs. Every day.

This land is
infested by bible-toting vermin, pastor-thieves mining the rich
anxieties of our people. They are picking peasants clean of everything
they do not have. What kind of God allows this insanity? A horrific
crime is being committed here. The new temples steal from the triply
traumatised in the name of their Jesus. Churches! Churches! Churches
everywhere, not enough destitutes to minister to the jheri-curled
demands of thieving clone-pastors. The living dead die finally and
greedy elders gleefully exert their revenge at funerals, slapping tolls
on exhausted pall-bearers.

The police sit
under barren mango trees staring balefully at the papers of the hunted
willing the money that they did not earn to appear. The oppressor is
not spared the rank indignities of what passes for life in this
country. A perverse individualism has disfigured all of the land, this
place of a billion bore holes and power generators. Every house is a
municipality unto itself indifferent to indifferent government
services. Nothing else seems to work.

Steam shrouds
ancestral clans and red clouds of dirt sway to the taunts of new
masquerades with sporting alien names. This land is pregnant with water
maidens bearing offspring and issues. Produce and game spill out of
dilapidated trucks, everything ripe for the stealing. We wave to
beautiful umbrella people selling phone cards – mystical pathways to
the dreams of the dispossessed. My blackberry flits from anemic network
to anemic network, flirting with the gods of broken cyber bridges, just
to keep me connected to the world.

We wave to
18-wheelers traversing the land on roads that used to be here. Trucks
killed by the crush of produce and neglect lie in wait seeking blood
for fuel. We close our eyes waiting to be crushed by speeding
dilapidated vessels coming straight at speeding dilapidated vessels but
they disappear like raging comets at the last merciful minute. The
roads, oh the roads, what have we done? Iku, death-god, Ogun of the
rusted metal, save your son.

Generators.
Everyone has a generator. Imagine living in a three-bedroom apartment;
imagine a lawnmower in your balcony, mowing nothing, roaring, belching,
farting noxious noises and fumes all day long. The place should be
child proofed, toddlers and children are everywhere amidst the
generators, the electrical wires and the gas fumes, All day I beg the
generator to stop its effete roar. The generator is proud of his
muscle, why his phallus is bigger than his neighbour’s.

Every day my people race from pockets of danger to isles of lesser
danger. Walls are a forbidding metaphor for the annihilation of our way
of life. Everywhere free spaces have been arrested behind ugly walls.
Outside the walls, we walk fearfully among ancestral masks wearing
designer handbags, crocodiles burying themselves in shoes. Opportunists
leap out of the darkness brandishing opportunities at bottom feeders.
Our leaders should be shot. Why are things the way they are?

This is the first
of an occasional series on the pleasures of marriage. I have a Facebook
friend; she is always trying to understand men. She must be married
because she does not understand men. Actually like many married women,
men get on her nerves. I don’t blame her, I don’t blame women, I don’t
blame my wife, I would get on my nerves if I was married to me! Who
needs the stress? So this FB friend asked on her status page, “What do
Nigerian men really want?” Well, as all married Naija men know, this is
surely a trick question that our wives ask us when they already know
the answer. For example, when your wife asks you the question; “Honey,
where have you been?” That means you are busted, start confessing your
yeye deeds. Even if you don’t remember, make it up. Trust me; this is
the voice of experience talking.

What do men want?
O beautiful women, it is really very simple. Men want all you women to
stop asking us questions. What does that mean? I say stop asking us
questions, especially the ones you know the answers to. My people, I am
not complaining but marriage is tough and it is our women’s fault. Oya,
I said it, sue me it is the fault of all you women who do not
understand us men. My father developed an elaborate maze of tricks to
survive the institution of marriage. He has been married now for 100
years. Whenever I am stressed I call him. I call him every day; my
phone card bill is atrocious. I know a trick that my father taught me
many years ago: to be extremely careful when I am enjoying another
woman’s cooking in the presence of my wife. My wife is the best cook in
the whole wide world so I don’t have this problem. Actually na lie, my
wife is the best cook in the whole wide world but my long-throat keeps
staring at other women’s soup pots. It is an issue that I have and my
doctor has not been able to fix it with all the therapies in the world.
It is like teaching a lefty to be right-handed.

I am a great cook
if I must say so, but I enjoy the cooking of women. Even as I am
writing this column right now, I have just finished polishing off a
plate of pounded yam and okro plus vegetable soup cooked by a woman
that did not enjoy my bride price and all I can say is that all sorts
of animals and Yar’Adua (snails!) lost their lives to satisfy my
palate’s issues. Even when I am on the Internet, instead of reading
weighty, sad articles by respected but depressed Nigerian writers like
Okey Ndibe and Pius Adesanmi, I read the delicious cooking, er,
writings of the great NEXT gourmet genius, Yemisi Ogbe. That lady can
describe ordinary white rice as if the angels in heaven cooked it. Na
wa. If I don’t read her essays in a week, I suffer from mental
kwashiorkor. That woman can cook, er, write.

Did I just say, I
have just finished enjoying another woman’s cooking? Mba O, I did not
say that, who wan die? Anyway, before I forget, whatever you do, never
behave like you are enjoying the food. Because madam is watching you.
If you start licking the plate, wo, when you get home, you are dead!
When the food is placed before you, loudly refuse the meal once. Once
O! When the woman offers it to you a second time, quickly ‘reluctantly’
accept it or she will happily withdraw the offer. Wrinkle your nose and
start picking at the food until it is all eaten. On the way home, give
the meal a bad review and compare it harshly to your wife’s cooking.
Your wife will like that. She will tell you lovingly that she felt
sorry for you as you were struggling to finish the food. She will say
lovingly, “Ah! Ikhide! You are so spoilt! You will have to learn to eat
other people’s food O! I know that you are used to my cooking but this
is ridiculous!” Ah, once she says that, your dog is sleeping alone in
her house because you, you are sleeping with madam.

One day though, we went visiting this family and this wonderful
woman of the house put before me a steamy pot of fresh fish ofensala
plus boiled plantain. I don’t know what that woman put in that ofensala
but as soon as I tasted it I was bewitched. No way could I wrinkle my
nose and pretend that this was simply ‘mek I manage am’ food. I simply
said to myself, when you get home tonight, you are dead, but it would
have been worth it. I ate like a starving fool. I went straight to the
doghouse after that meal but it was worth it. Life is good.

Knopf has just published a disappointing volume of Chinua
Achebe’s essays titled The Education of a British-Protected Child. They are old
(well, mostly old) speeches sloppily stapled together. Almost all the ideas
have been previously published multiple times, ages ago, with some freely
available on the Internet. Achebe has said precious little here that offers
fresh insights on the world’s current condition.

Of 16 essays, only three were written in this century. The rest
are from the 80s and the mid-90s. Those new to Achebe’s works may be enthralled
by the power of his words but they will be better served reading his earlier
works: Home and Exile, Hopes and Impediments, and The Trouble with Nigeria.

The same issues are recycled ad nauseam: Racism, colonialism,
Africa’s humanity, Africans, African writers, James Baldwin, etc. Achebe’s
classic denunciation of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness has already attained
ubiquity in books and on the Internet. I suspect the machinations of an overly
aggressive publisher here, building a cash cow out of Achebe’s scrolls.

The essay, My Dad and Me, about Achebe’s father was first
published in 1996, in Larry King’s book of the same title, but it is a
tight-lipped reflection that is mostly devoted to Achebe’s great-uncle. The
volume Hopes and Impediments already covers that subject richly and warmly.
Similarly, My Daughters, although written in 2009 provides anecdotes about
parenting in the late 60s and early 70s. It is a cute essay but the daughters
are grown now; surely, they and perhaps Achebe’s grandchildren have given him
enough to write about since then.

The editing is sloppy. Several speeches from Achebe’s lecture
circuit were poorly edited to adapt them to essay format. And the errors are
unacceptable, Knopf should be embarrassed. In one essay, Achebe talks of his
only meeting with James Baldwin in 1983; in another, the same meeting is in
1980. Furthermore, the official name of the conference sponsor changes
depending on the essay. Achebe is a master story-teller, but you soon get tired
of reading the same anecdotes over and over again. There is a recurring
anecdote about confronting racism in a bus. In one essay, a South African
driver confronts Achebe about sitting in the Whites Only section of the bus; in
another essay, it is the conductor.

Achebe’s near-obsession with the West’s prejudices turns into a
relentless chant: “Africans are people in the same way that Americans,
Europeans, Asians, etcetera are people. Africans are not some strange beings
with unpronounceable names and impenetrable minds.” It is a position that is
sadly allergic to the reality: Our black leaders are compromising our humanity.
As Achebe faces the West and insists on our humanity through clenched teeth,
our people stand far away, trying very hard to look like the broken people that
he insists we are not.

Achebe’s words drip angrily like ancient history, words gone
rusty in the broken pipes of Nigeria’s indifference. Missing is the Achebe who
famously urged Nigerians to look inwards in The Trouble with Nigeria: “The
trouble with Nigeria is simply and squarely a failure of leadership. There is
nothing basically wrong with the Nigerian character. There is nothing wrong
with the Nigerian land or climate or water or air or anything else.” Missing is
the question: Why are things the way they are? Why are we having trouble
managing change? Achebe shies away from that analysis.

We are living in incredibly exciting times and technology is
driving a shift in global cultural transformation. The notion of the
nation-state as an entity is under serious review. The individual is becoming
increasingly a municipality of one. Economic theories that assumed finite
physical boundaries have ruined today’s global economy. African thinkers should
be part of the conversation, and visioning a robust future for Africa. Even as
we confront the West, we must also engage in honest conversations among
ourselves about our contribution to this mess. Those that rubbish Africa’s name
today are not just white folks; black on black carnage is the rage of the day
in Africa. Our leaders are openly savaging Africa; let us turn our rage on
them.

This is not a review but a commentary on how Knopf conducts its business of
publishing books. As technology continues to democratise and individualise
creative expression traditional publishing houses will be tempted to employ
gimmickry to rescue them from what they imagine is a looming irrelevance.

It doesn’t have to be so. There are challenges indeed but opportunities
abound to use technology to showcase the talents and gifts of emerging and
established writers. The unintended consequence of recycling the dated ideas of
thinkers is to trivialise their legacy. That would be unfortunate and
unforgivable. Achebe deserves better. These essays are merely words that clothe
him in the silence of the bereaved. We must respect it, but as a child that
grew up at the Eagle’s feet lapping up his every word, this silence hurts.
Speak, speak to us great teacher.

Ike Oguine’s A
Squatter’s Tale ought to be required reading for anyone interested in
the Nigerian immigrant experience in Europe and America. This is an
important book; and it is a shame that Heinemann, the publisher, did
not seem to have aggressively advertised and marketed it. Lesser books
have sold for buckets of money, thanks to the wonders of marketing
hype. It would be a crime if Oguine’s novel was not re-packaged and
re-issued by a more assertive publisher.

A Squatter’s Tale
is a work of dark genius that cobbles together a riotous story that
gets your heart pumping every step of the way. This is a fast-paced
work that takes your emotions for an unforgettable ride. The main
character Obi is a cynical, unrepentant jerk with few redeeming traits.
Obi leads a cast of misfits in a story that would have been improbable
if not that we all to varying degrees live it daily. Obi comes across
as a sneering genius of a beast too self-absorbed and jaded to see joy
in anything. He is also cursed with a heart that is allergic to
affections except maybe for those of his girlfriend Robo.

Obi’s odyssey to
America starts with the visit of his US-based Uncle Happiness to
Nigeria. Happiness is a jolly fellow of many dreams and schemes, all of
them unrealistic and unattainable. When Happiness arrives in from
California, for young Obi, it is a time of joy, lovely stories and
gifts. Happiness regales Obi, and whomever else is listening, with
tales of America – that land flowing with an abundance of everything
from milk, to dollars and as it turns out, oodles of lies. He showers
attention and gifts on young Obi and in between mouthfuls of
made-in-America roasted turkey and chicken, Obi dreams of someday
landing in that nirvana called America.

He ends up in
America alright, but it is not the America of his dreams. It is the
America of his nightmares. America is harsh on Obi and every immigrant
of colour that Obi encounters. In Uncle Happiness’s apartment, he is
dismayed by the lies, hopelessness and despair that taunt his uncle’s
wretched existence. Oguine offers an exquisite analysis of acute,
painfully felt dislocation from one’s own culture. The result is a
character-fest of sad caricatures furtively living a lie either in
Lagos or in Oakland, California.

Obi went to America, in his own words,
to seek success, not to keep company with failure. In the end he kept a
lot of company with failure. The book’s enduring appeal is in how it
seamlessly showcases the universality of the lies that people
perpetuate just to live a lie on either side of the Atlantic. Happiness
says of America, “This country turns you into a liar and a thief, or
maybe we are all already liars and thieves and this country just
provides you with many opportunities to do those things.”

I am blown away by
the book’s honesty and fearlessness. For instance, Oguine touches upon
a seldom discussed topic – prejudice against African Americans by
African immigrants. Obi observes that the African immigrant sometimes
exhibits as much prejudice towards his African American cousin as the
worst white racist and he offers several anecdotes to support this. The
prejudice cuts both ways; African Americans have been known to exhibit
similar prejudices towards immigrants.

As cynical as the
book comes across, it is not far from reality. In Oguine’s book, we see
what happens when free enterprise is layered on a rickety structure of
governance. The result is capitalism of the worst sort, of a swarm of
locusts engaged in self immolation – a relentless march of self
destruction ravaging and raping the heart and soul of a once proud
people. We see this in Oguine’s Nigeria and in his America. In the end,
only the weak are left standing, shivering under the weight of a
merciless hurricane. The strong are sheltered in the warmth of their
big houses, snickering in their white neighbourhoods.

A Squatter’s Tale is a must read. Written awhile back, it remains an
important book – a powerful time-stamp of a never-ending period of loss
and despair, not only in Nigeria, but in the Diaspora. The author
captures with startling effectiveness the hollowness, the lack of an
ideology, the me-ism, the hollow yearning for materialism that never
seems to satisfy, and the tragicomedy of timid attempts at
mainstreaming and social integration in an alien land. Oguine steps out
smartly, out of the shadows to deliver a stinging indictment of the
state of our being in Nigeria and in the Diaspora. And then he steps
back into the shadows as swiftly as he came. May this brilliant comet
return to taunt our conscience with the truth of our condition

Nollywood actor,
Mike Ezurounye is a private person. At his insistence, this interview
is conducted in his car. As we make our way from Anthony to Surulere,
he is spotted by fans that recognise him instantly, causing him to
light up in a shy grin. “That’s the price we have to pay for being in
the limelight. I have lost my privacy,” he says. Over the next 90
minutes, no question is out of bounds, save for his age. “I am old
enough to do what adults do,” he says laughing. He is fresh off the set
of a movie in Abuja where he played a pastor torn between the lust for
the flesh and his spiritual duties.

As he speaks, the
suave actor occasionally stares out the window to wave to yet another
set of fans. Other times he tries to avoid them. Celebrity obviously
has its pain. In his navy blue corduroy blazers atop pair of black
pants Ezurounye is quite dapper. I ask how he handles female fans.
“Maturely,” he quips. The actor also talks about onset romance. “It’s a
job. A lot of people think that when we kiss on set it is real, what
you see is the movie. Trust me, there are so many people behind that
camera… So, nothing can happen”.

Born and raised in
Lagos to disciplinarian parents, the boyish looking actor was exposed
to the klieg lights from a tender age. “I was really an NTA kid. I had
a headmistress, Mrs Njideaka, who was involved with NTA, so I was
always going to the NTA to do variety show, debates such as Kiddies
Junction’, ‘Kiddies Debate’ and lots of other stuff.”

Nollywood Calling

Although he wanted
to become a lawyer, he ended up studying accountancy. Upon graduation,
he worked in a bank and later a shipping firm. The company relocated to
Tanzania when the MD’s best friend became president of that country.
Ezurounye’s first acting opportunity appeared around this time, while
he was torn between moving to Tanzania and quitting the firm. By chance
he met Ruke Amata, who would become his mentor. “I got my first movie
role from Ruke Amata’s recommendation but it never saw the light of
day-it was a series by Zeb Ejiro titled Ultimate Heroes.”

While at school, he
was nicknamed ‘Fair Mike the Recorder’ because of his ability to
imitate colleagues and seniors. “That nickname is one thing I have
going for me which in turn has helped me switch characters. I was
always joking with it but I took my education serious, so it was not
considered a weakness by my parents.” This trait was all he needed to
land his first big role.

“I was on my way to
drop a friend of mine, Songito when I stopped over at a filling station
at Maryland. While mimicking my uncle to my cousin over the phone I was
speaking phonetics, I didn’t know that there was a director -Dickson
Ireogbu – behind me who liked the way I spoke and had a character such
as mine in mind. He asked me if I ever considered acting and that was
where it started.” Ireogbu featured him as a lead actor in ‘Broken
Marriage’. He acted alongside established acts like Pete Edochie (who
reminded him of his late father_ and Chioma Chukwuka-Apkotha.

However, not until
he starred in Critical Decision, where he played a
physically-challenged character alongside A-listers like Richard
Mofe-Damijo, Genevieve Nnaji and Ngozi Ezeonu, did he achieve
mainstream acclaim. Things changed dramatically for him afterwards, and
he found himself on the path of six digit artist fee. He was soon being
touted as a replacement for Ramsey Noah; and quickly consolidated his
big break with appearances in movies like Emotional Blackmail, Bless Me
and Kill the bride.

No easy walk to fame

The road to the top
didn’t come without challenges, which he however says failed to deter
him. “There was this one time I was on set and one of the known stars
came and said ‘hey come here, go call me that guy’. I knew I was older
than that person and she was talking to me because she said it to my
hearing and was pointing at me. All I did was tell the guy seated
beside me to go tell her to come to me if she wanted to talk to me
because I thought that was rude. I do not do that to upcoming actors…
Whenever I have upcomers on set I talk with them and make them
comfortable. I am one person who has a lot of self esteem.”

Worst movie role

In a little over
five years in Nollywood, Ezurounye has featured in no less than 100
movies – but has endured his fair share of bad press. He believes it
comes with the job. “I tell myself that if you are not important, no
one will talk about you. When it is good I am happy; when it is bad, I
say I wish they could understand me. Professionally, we always say that
every form of publicity, either good or bad, is publicity since in some
way it does extend your clientele.”

He says that the
worst thing ever written about him was: “that I had an affair with
someone who I knew for sure I had only seen three times in my life. It
was so sad that someone could just cook up something like that. It just
shows that some people want to get you up inside. They will be like,
how come this guy is just having neat run? So, they just want to taint
you your image a little bit.”

And his most
embarrassing moment? “When a couple of Aruba students on tour in a UK
mall rushed at me and tore my shirt. I was surprised because obviously
they were not Nigerians but I still took it in good stride.” Driven by
the urge to excel, he confesses to watching all his movies by himself
because “I watch to criticise… I take up a lot of challenging scripts
because I feel I am a lot more challenged when I take up roles which
are different from the everyday Mike.” His dream role is “to play an
old man from start to finish.” Unlike many of his colleagues, music is
not on the cards.

Life is good

Despite the
meltdown of the past year, Ezurounye insists business has been good. In
2009, he was made a Globacom ambassador and the face of Malt Guinness.
“I feel great. It shows that the corporate world is watching and
appreciate my craft which is why I try to make it as natural as
possible. I have to do a whole lot more because it comes with a new
sense of responsibility.”

Already he’s
looking at the future. “I want to be a proper brand for Nollywood, a
very big vehicle which has in some way rebranded Nigeria – definitely
Nigeria’s best export to the outside world. [I also want] to be a
positive spokesperson for young [people].”

The ride comes to an end, and it is time to say goodbye. As I step
out of the car, his last words come as advice. “Be a good girl,” he
says, smiling mischievously. As he drives off, some people recognise
him. His words come back to mind; this is merely the price to be paid
for stardom.

Renowned Yoruba
playwright Akinwumi Isola celebrated his 70th birthday on February 24
at the Afe Babalola Auditorium of the University of Lagos. The
celebration came two months after he officially hit three score and ten
years.

The event was organised by the Ayan Agalu Soungobi foundation for Isola, a member of its board of trustees.

Organising the
proceedings in Yoruba, the MC and General Manager NTA Ibadan, Yemi
Ogunyemi said, “Today, we are here to celebrate our culture and
tradition as we celebrate Akinwumi Isola. Without language there is
nothing. Language is important to Professor Isola. Despite studying
French in the university, no one can deny that he is a true Yoruba man.”

Ode to ‘The Honest man’

Described as
Isola’s twin, another Yoruba literary icon, Adebayo Faleti read Isola’s
biography. He poured libation while offering prayers for Isola. Also
speaking in Yoruba, he said, “Nothing much is left to say about Isola
since he’s written it all, but the ones I know I’ll tell.” He spoke of
their days as students in the University of Ibadan where he was
studying English and Isola was studying French. “If you want to know
about pranks and humour, Akinwumi Isola is your best bet.”

According to him,
Isola has already written about many of the experiences he might have
spoken about. He, however, said, whatever remained to be said he would
leave for another occasion. Announcing performances for the evening,
Ogunyemi said, “Everything we do today is for the progress of our
culture.”

An Elesa Egungun
performed a praise-song for Isola hailing his genius with the Yoruba
language and his role in developing Yoruba culture. The MC was however
pained at the absence of students at the event which he called an
opportunity to learn about Yoruba culture.

Kola Bata and his ensemble from the Ayan Agalu Soungobi Foundation were up next with a Bata dance and music sequence.

Strong women characters

Next was the
performance of an excerpt from ‘Belly Bellows’, a new play by Isola.
Telling the story of how Oya leaves Ogun for Sango, the play emphasised
the need for men to care for women and not make slaves or subjects out
of them. According to Sango in the drama, “Olodumare did not create
women to be beaten by men.”

Nicknamed ‘the
honest man’ by friends, Isola is renowned for celebrating the strength
of womanhood in such plays as ‘Efunsetan Aniwura’ and ‘Madam Tinubu:
The Terror of Lagos.’

The highlight of
the drama, however was when the mischievous Esu pointed a finger
directly at the Lagos State governor, Babatunde Fashola, saying, “Esu!”
The governor pointed back at the actor repeating “Esu!” The governor
would not accept he was a troublemaker like the prankster-god.

Fashola, however, paid homage to all the actors including ‘Esu’ when he went on stage for his address.

‘Eko o ni baje’

Delivering a paper
titled, ‘The role of Language and Culture in Yoruba Politics,’ the
governor abandoned his prepared English script for a speech in Yoruba,
the event’s lingua franca. Opprobrious shouts of ‘Eko o ni baje’ and
loud applause nearly drowned out the governor’s speech.

Begging leave of
the elders in the house to replace politics with governance, the
governor emphasised the need for fair hearing in governance, hence its
presence in the constitution. Reacting to the drama, Fashola said Ogun,
Sango and Oya had been summoned before the council so that all sides
would be heard and a decision reached that would ensure peace.
“Balanced judgments help maintain family and national ties,” Fashola
said.

“We have dropped
that which is ours and embraced a foreign culture, which is hard to
understand.” Tossing in a Yoruba proverb for good measure, he said, “A
river that forgets its source soon dries up. We’ll discover all we need
to overcome certain problems once we decide to go back to our roots.”

Fashola said the
country would progress if people allow language and culture to play an
important role in governance. He prayed long life for Isola and Faleti
and thanked them for staying true to their roots and for showing others
the right path to follow.

Overseeing the
special book launch of Isola’s ‘Saworo Ide,’ Fashola said, “There is no
language or culture that is the same as the Yoruba’s. All genres of
English literature – poetry, prose and drama- rate behind that of the
Yoruba.” He bought one thousand copies for the state’s schools and
libraries.

Also gathered to
wish Isola more fulfilling years were founder of the Oodua Peoples
Congress Frederick Fasheun; Ovation publisher Dele Momodu; Muyiwa Ige,
son of slain politician Bola Ige; Senior Special Adviser to Governor to
the Lagos State governor Tunji Adebiyi, and the Dean of the Faculty of
Arts Duro Oni representing the Vice Chancellor of the University of
Lagos. All bought copies of the book while celebrating their
relationship with the honest man of letters.

The celebrant said nothing

Like Faleti had predicted, the audience had to wait till another occasion to hear what more was left to be said of Isola.

When the governor
left the venue with his entourage, he took Isola and Faleti along,
bringing to an abrupt end what was building up to be a worthwhile
event.

Not even Doctor
Tirimisiyu and his snail-shell band from Gbongan could make up for the
celebrant’s much-expected speech that never was.

Maybe like J.P.
Clark said of himself a week earlier at the same venue, all Isola had
to say, he had said through his drama and his teaching.

Before his
retirement from the African Languages department of the Obafemi Awolowo
University in Ife, Isola had taught across primary and secondary levels
as well. Described as always having been a culture buff, Isola’s love
for the Yoruba culture was shaped by fraternising with the likes of
Wole Soyinka, Ola Rotimi and Femi Euba when he was at the university in
Ife.

Apart from being a
renowned playwright, he is also an actor and screenwriter. Under his
collaborative effort with film director Tunde Kelani’s Mainframe
Productions, his works like ‘O Le ku’, ‘Koseegbe’ and ‘Saworo Ide’ have
been made into films. He also wrote the script for Mainframe’s ‘Campus
Queen’.

Thanking all present at the ‘end’ of the event, the foundation’s
director, Morakinyo Daramola, said of Isola, “He is an honest man, a
gentleman, a quiet man, a simple man, a cultured Yoruba man, an icon
and a great father to us all.”

The Abule Book Club
and Cassava Republic will, today, present the Ugandan author, Doreen
Baingana at a book reading session at 4.30pm.

The reading will
take place at Abule, a new cafe serving up coffees as well as organic
treats and juices. Abule is located at The Life House, 33 Sinari
Daranijo Street, Off Younis Bashorun Street, Off Ajose Adeogun Street,
Victoria Island.

Baingana is the award winning author of Tropical Fish: Tales from
Entebbe, which she read from when she visited Nigeria last year.

The first marriage
lesson my father Papalolo taught me is this: pay attention to your
wife. My dad, Papalolo of Esanland, is a seasoned warrior, veteran of
several wars, many of them in our room and parlour with our mama,
Mamalolo. Out of those bruising battles, Papalolo learnt some valuable
rules of marital engagement. Meaning, rule number one, the wife is
always right; rule number two, if madam is wrong, rule number one
applies. The first time my father came to visit us in America, he was
awed by the power of American women.

This one day, we
walked to the bus stop to witness his grandchildren go to school. He
was surprised that the children required a bus to go to a school that
was only three miles away. His displeasure at the ways America was
enabling his grandchildren knew no bounds. He accompanied me with a
running commentary about the wonder that is America [“Enh, na bus dey
carry dem go school? Cutlass cut their leg? Wonderful! Amerika!
Wonderful!”] So we got to the bus stop to find that the bus was five
minutes late! Horrors of all horrors! Several women, including my wife,
had accompanied the children to the bus stop that morning and they were
incensed at this breach of tax-payers’ trust! It was ugly; out came the
cell phones, ring ring ring to the local Board of Education to complain
about a late bus! My father was not impressed: “Wonderful! Shebi di bus
came! Ah! Ah! Do they want to kill the driver? This your wife is a
trouble maker o! Look at her making noise to the ogas! Oya mek e come
Nigeria now mek dem show am who born am!”

Once my father
figured out that in America, the iyawo [wife] rules the house, he
morphed into the father of eye-service. He threw me under the bus of
expediency, meaning, he abandoned me and turned his charms full blast
on the real deity of our household, my wife. He promptly christened my
wife “princess” and called her “iyawo” at every turn. My wife could do
no wrong in his eyes. If she gave him a glass of water for dinner, he
would proceed to chant her praises thusly: “Ah, princess, my only
princess, this hot water is the best dinner that my ancient lips have
ever tasted! Our God is a merciful God! What would my son (waving
faux-contemptuously in my general direction) do without your fearless
but graceful leadership? Please, I know he does not like to wave a
hammer around the house but please tolerate him because of me, your
father-in-law! You make me happy! My BEAUTIFUL daughter, after this
dinner we will go to the store and buy flowers with that your husband’s
credit card, don’t use your money, my daughter, and we will plant them
anywhere you want around the house. Just show me where and my cutlass
will do the work! Don’t lift a finger of your pretty hand o. I shall do
everything!”

So, I endured this
suck-up of an old man for about six months. I noticed something about
my wife, Mama-di-girl, whenever she was in my father’s presence. She
had 32 teeth. I could always count them whenever Papalolo was in her
presence. She would grin, she would strut, she would ask the old man as
she fussed over him: “Eh papa, di cowfoot too soft? You want snail? You
go drink Malbec with your pounded yam? It is good for your heart, papa!
Your son doesn’t need it. He drinks too much.” Until my father came to
America, I did not know that you could go to a grocery store and buy
snails the size of elephant ears! If I wanted to grab something to eat
in the fridge, my wife would shut the door, saying, “Ah, na papa egusi
soup be dat o, you know how he likes snails! Go make yourself a grilled
cheese sandwich!”

That Casanova posing as my dad was so good at the sweet mouth
department, when he was leaving for Nigeria, my wife happily arranged
to empty all our bank accounts into my father’s willing pockets. She
also arranged to ship, at great expense, all our personal property to
my father’s house in the village, saying things like, “Ah, papa is an
old man! He will need your coats in the harmattan!” She and my dad
tried to stuff our townhouse into his luggage but they were not
successful, Allah be praised. We would be homeless today. My father
enjoyed America and he wants to return to visit. Madam wants him back.
I don’t share the same sentiments. During the snow blizzard when I
timidly balked at shovelling the snow for the umpteenth time, she
remarked that if my dad was here, not one speck of snow would be on our
driveway. I quickly went out to shovel the snow. Who wan die? So, men,
get up, go and buy your wife flowers or I will send my father over to
your house to tell your iyawo how pretty she is.

Petite Oyiza Adaba
is a bundle of energy. Though it isn’t a good time for a chat because
she is making sure all goes well with the Seun Kuti’s monthly show she
helps to coordinate at Terra Kulture, Victoria Island, she is all
charm. “Don’t be angry please, it’s not a good time but we will talk.
Let me quickly show them where to put that,” she says and dashes off.
The host of ‘Messengers’, a TV series on African art and artists all
over the world showing on Africa Magic and the Africa Independent
Television (AIT) returns minutes later with more apologies.

Love of her life

She launches into
the beginning of the series, “‘Messengers’ is the love of my life, it
came to me when I was in the States. There was a need for a platform
for African artists; it just didn’t exist. Yes, they played in
different little clubs and had exhibitions here and there but there was
nowhere we could we go and learn more about them outside of their
websites.”

‘Messengers’ focus
on all art forms because Adaba feels, “We need to give the artists a
platform to showcase their works. And the angle from which we came into
it was also to incorporate some tourism aspects. We try to film against
some historical backdrops. For example, we filmed at the Apollo Theatre
in New York, we‘ve filmed at the confluence in Lokoja, we’ve filmed at
the Lekki Conservatory to highlight very nice spots on the continent.”

Apart from its art
and tourism slant, ‘Messengers’, produced by Adaba’s Africa-Related
Limited with offices in Lagos and New York, also tilts towards
education. The Theatre Arts graduate loves presenting the “easy going”
programme because it “has its own flair; we are free doing it, we are
not in the studio. We can be on a mountain top; we could be crossing a
river.”

She is happy with
the two seasons already produced but is “more excited about the
upcoming season- season three. We are also trying to work on some
partnership, production wise, to step up our game because it’s not
really where I want it to be right now.”

Adaba’s desire for
the show which has featured Chinua Achebe, artist El Anatsui, Wyclef
Jean amongst others is for “it to be syndicated on all networks. We
want to be able to film in different parts of the continent. The reason
we are not able to do it right now is because we don’t have sponsors.”

Not a piece of cake

Like most
entrepreneurs, Adaba is discovering that doing business in Nigeria is
not for the faint hearted. She discloses, “2009 was a difficult year
for a lot of businesses and people because the bank reforms affected a
lot of businesses. We did get sponsorship in the first season that
thankfully saw us through. The second season was a little challenging.”
Adaba adds that beyond that, “It’s the quality of what we see on TV
that worries me, the quality of what corporations and companies choose
to put their money into. That’s what is disturbing because you go with
a genuine product that definitely will sell, that will boost their
image, but you find that advertisers choose to put their money in
franchises that don’t even make any sense in Nigeria.”

Adaba relates her
experience further. “Proposals are not even looked at; I don’t know how
many proposals I have dropped. You want to talk to people that are
interested and that think like you because we have a vision for this
and it’s not small. We enjoy what we are doing; we did it despite the
fact that we didn’t have lots of money. That shows commitment. Stepping
up the level of production, getting production partners that would come
on board with us and hopefully being able to syndicate it to more
stations just so we could drive up our popularity is our goal now.
There are so many copycats out there; I wish we were more original.
Somebody starts something and others latch on. Come on, give it a
twist. Pretend as if you’ve never seen the other one.”

Star struck

Oyiza, who has
three other siblings in the media and is daughter of broadcaster Tom
Adaba, doesn’t usually get awed interviewing subjects. She, however,
did in 2008 with Chinua Achebe during the 50th anniversary of ‘Things
Fall Apart’. “He insisted on talking to a Nigerian station so it was
myself, a Camerounian lady and two other Nigerians that went to
interview him. He said he had only 45 minutes but he ended spending two
and half hours. It was such a great time. I don’t get star struck but
when you know you are sitting in front of …that really generated so
much respect in me for him all over again. I enjoyed that interview and
I asked a question I didn’t know was a no go area. It was a question
about why he turned down the national honour by Obasanjo, he was still
a little raw at that time but I still asked it anyway and he answered.
That interview was very inspiring, I learnt a lot from it and I’m so
excited that he has another book out.”

Working with Seun

“Seun is a very
unique person. I think we met in New York on his first visit and coming
back to Nigeria, we reconnected. I love his father and I wanted to see
the music at a different place in Nigeria because Afrobeat is
originally Nigerian. So, it’s up to us, and that’s what we do, we
protect ours and I work with Seun on different levels. There are plans
to get him to different parts of the country where he is not really
seen or known but people might have heard about him or picked up his CD
but it would be a great opportunity to work on taking him around
Nigeria. He tours the world already but what about home? That’s our way
of upholding what’s authentically ours and that’s Afrobeat.”

‘Messengers’ shows on Africa Magic’s DSTV 114 every Thursday by 8.30pm

Worship, comedy,
music and health were at the heart of the ‘Praise Along with Femi
Micah’ concert. A series of shows scheduled to take place across
various Nigerian university campuses, the first held on Thursday, March
11 at the University of Lagos.

The programme,
which also involved testing and counselling sessions on ailments like
diabetes, cancer, and hypertension, pulled a large crowd from within
and outside the university community.

Showtime at the Main Auditorium

On the bill of
performers were the host himself, Femi Micah and comedian Holy Mallam.
Starting the musical run was singer and Ewi musician Damola Adesina.
Paying homage to God in His various names, she quoted copiously from
the Bible before breaking into song and praising the name of God. The
applause that followed her performance was near-ecstatic but would go
higher before the end of the evening.

Upcoming acts Kenny
K’ore, Sanmi Michael and Bolaji Sax had the opportunity to strut their
stuff. Bolaji Sax’s proficiency on the wind-instrument blew the
audience away with his style and a medley of contemporary indigenous
and foreign Christian tunes. The grateful audience sang along,
providing the words to his instrumental symphony. The fast-paced tempo
of K’ore’s and Michael’s performances also proved the event was no
place for ‘dull’ worship.

Offering prayers
that, given a different circumstance would seem like curses, popular
comedian Holy Mallam had the audience reeling in laughter. He set the
stage for other comic acts of the evening: First Born, Helen Paul, Fat
Jerry and Cee D. John. First Born’s act had the audience reminiscing on
the “good ol’ days” and the differences between children brought up in
wealth or in poverty. Cee D. John’s mimicry of ‘village-influenced’
worship was, however, the evening’s comic highlight.

Young dance group
Xquizit gave an energetic and inspiring solo performance and back-up
act to musician Funke Akinokun’s performance. Akinokun spiced up her
act with praises to God in Nigeria’s major languages, before delving
into upbeat melodies that kept the audience on its feet.

Saxophonist Segun
Oluwayomi was last on the list of musicians before the evening’s
headlining act. Building on the pace of other performers, Oluwayomi’s
string of tunes was all the audience needed to bring them full circle
for the act of the night.

The Man of the Hour

Guests had
gradually been trickling into the main auditorium as the event went on.
It was almost at full capacity when top-billed act, Femi Micah, got on
stage at around 8pm. He was welcomed with a roaring, standing ovation.

Performing songs
from his Live Recording album, ‘Praise Along with Femi Micah’, the
artist had the audience perpetually on its feet; clapping, waving and
dancing, as offering to the Almighty God. But in the midst of praise,
forces with other interests seemed to be at play. During Micah’s praise
medley and at the height of the audience’s frenzy, the sound went off.
If not for the fierce drumming of the traditional drummers, the music
would have died.

Send in the clowns

The break in
transmission, however, seemed to the advantage of some. It provided a
quartet of young men the opportunity to ‘strut their stuff’ on stage.
While it was not the best of dancing, it was a bit of a distraction
from the lack of sound on stage.

This side
attraction and Micah’s attempt at involving the audience in some
clapping and waving did not stop almost half of the house from trooping
out, though. For those left in the house, however, there was no slowing
down when the sound was eventually restored. Rounding off with the
interrupted medley and one more track from his album, Micah ended his
act for the evening.

Micah had made his
audience’s evening with songs like ‘Holy, Holy’; ‘Immortal God’,
‘Mighty God’ and ‘I will lift your Name Higher’, all from his new
album. It was probably not so new, though, as the audience was singing
along smoothly.

Your health and You

It was not just a
night for music. At the entrance to the venue, a crowd of students
could be seen at various testing locations. The centres had been
stationed to provide diagnostic and counselling services to all those
who had attended, especially the students.

Pastor and breast
cancer survivor, Sola Adeoti, of the MariaSam medical and counselling
team, advised regular testing and check ups to prevent the onset of
certain potentially life-threatening ailments. She encouraged those who
had tested positive or were at risk of some of the ailments not to be
afraid but to immediately commence treatment or seek preventive
measures that would ensure a normal life post-diagnosis.

In the closing
remarks of Saheed Ogunsola, a pastor with the Redeemed Christian Church
of God, the event had a purpose to fulfil. “The purpose of this
programme is not to entertain you, but for the uplifting of your soul;
to connect you to the source of your life, so that you’ll never run
dry.”

With laughter, praise and healing, the concert is on its way to fulfilling that purpose.

Other concerts and counselling sessions are scheduled for the
Olabisi Onabanjo University in Ogun State; the University of Ibadan,
Oyo State and the Obafemi Awolowo University in Ile-Ife, Osun State.