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Facebook has its
moments. What I never hoped for, however, was to learn of the death of
Eni-Jones Umuko on Facebook. But that’s precisely what happened on
February 28, 2011.

My current Facebook
status reads, “Now this is terrible. I have just read that our much
loved and highly respected lecturer, extra-ordinary actor, and
visionary director, Eni-Jones Umuko has died in an automobile accident.
I hope he misheard somebody. What’s Eni doing dying just a few months
after Esiaba?” I think it captures both my shock at the news, and holds
a prayer that there had been some kind of error.

My hope of a recant
was quickly dashed by a text message from Georgina Ehuriah who
co-organised the ‘Return of The Minstrel’ tribute show for Esiaba Irobi
last year. It read: “Eni-Jones ran into a trailer this afternoon. I
just got the awful news. He is dead. We have been busy the past two
weeks planning Esiaba’s first year memorial, with him as the anchor…”
Then Big George Anozie responded to my status; “Hi. I’m afraid he’s
right. Eni is truly gone. May his soul rest in peace.” Confirmed.
Eni-Jones as we knew him was gone from this earth – forever. Forever!
At a time like this, I pray that my belief in reincarnation is true,
and that even though Eni’s exit may appear final to us, it really marks
the beginning of his fuller experience of the wonders of life and the
beauty of God’s infinite universe. So then, I sing to him:

Of a million and one ways to re-astral, brother,

it had to be the organic against masses of steel?

Without gifts of precognition, and telekinesis, this dance, chokes in an arena of the too ordinary.

We should see the oceans that hunger for us and own the power to will them to drought.

Those Nsukka Days

As it turns out, my
only experiences and interaction with Eni-Jones Umuko were at Nsukka. I
feel privileged to have been directed by him in some important
theatrical roles: as Iyase in Sam Ukala’s ‘The Slave Wife’; Dr Egbunike
in Nnamdi Ndu’s ‘Scars That Mar’; Elesin in Wole Soyinka’s ‘Death and
The King’s Horseman’, ‘The Masked Spirit’; and Afo in Emeka Nwabueze’s
‘When the Arrow Rebound’s. He also taught me African Theatre and
Advanced Acting Skills at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka.

Umuko was a great
actor and was intriguing as the Praise Singer in ‘Death and the King’s
Horseman’. I described his direction of that play as “out of this
world” in my piece ‘Esiaba Irobi, the intellectual terrorist’ (NEXT;
May 9, 2010). I have also previously acknowledged his writing and
performing skills in ‘Rhythm Wednesdays: Reflections on the Anthill
Days at Nsukka,’ in which I mentioned how “Eni-Jones Umuko knocked me
silly with his poems in Pidgin English.” But I think that it is in the
Preface to my 2010 play, ‘Funeral of the Minstrel’, that I acknowledge
what encountering Umuko meant to me and my training, thus: “Esiaba
Irobi taught me Theatre History, Improvisation, Basic Acting Skills and
Introduction to Playwriting… He was the most engaging teacher I have
ever had in my life. The only person that came close to him in the
classroom was Eni-Jones Umuko. These two people had drama flowing
through their veins. They made learning fun, and made us proud to be
dramatic artists at a time some people still sniffed at Dramatic
Arts… Irobi and Umuko made us feel it was the best thing in the world
to be a part of.”

At the time of
writing that preface, I had no idea that just a few months down the
line, I would be writing about the passing of Eni-Jones. It is so hard
to fathom. Every death like this makes us evaluate and re-evaluate our
mortality. Perhaps the person that has articulated this tragedy best
for me is Artist and Poet, Olu Oguibe who chipped in a comment on my
page, that “Eni-Jones has travelled on to join his good friend. The
eagle has left his perch. Dark clouds all around me.”

Unbelief

There is still a
lot of shock in the reactions of friends to the passing of Eni-Jones.
Writer and director of ‘Aramotu,’ Niji Akanni states: “Eni-Jones dead?
Please, Lord, let someone check again and tell us here it’s not true.
Lord, please. Esiaba, Eni-Jones and I: we were the Three Musketeers for
a brief while at Paul Robeson Buidling. Lord, please.” Unfortunalely,
the Lord had already allowed it. Onuora Ude, Dramatist and Umuko’s
former student, wonders; “It is hard to believe – Amankulor, Enekwe,
Esiaba, and now Eni-Jones…?” Former Anthill anchorman, Jachimike
Adiele, says it is “So sad. And we were all together at Abuja mourning
and celebrating Esiaba not so long ago.” While Umuko’s former student
at Nsukka, Eni Kenneth Efakponana chips in that “It’s very sad. I was
with him on Friday. I was supposed to pick up Esiaba’s plays from him
for consideration for production to mark Esiaba’s one year remembrance.
He was already planning for the event. It so sad.” What can anyone say?
The two great artists are probably sharing peppersoup on the other
side, reviewing their lives and making some kind of sense of it all.

Yet at this point I
must applaud Eni-Jologho Umuko (Eni-Jones to us) for what I believe was
a beautiful life. He loved life and enjoyed it to the maximum. He was
probably the only lecturer during our student days I remember partying
together with. I would walk into a bar with a friend and if Eni was
there, he would buy us a couple of Premier beers. I remember a man who
might have said to the collector of souls who came for him, “It is OK.
Ok. I had fun here. Let’s go.” Eni-Jones Umuko is dead. Long live
Eni-Jones Umuko.

Eni-Jones Umuko died on February 28, 2011. He is survived by one wife and four children. He was 57.

Nnorom Azuonye is the Publisher of ‘Sentinel Literary Quarterly,’ ‘Sentinel Nigeria’ and ‘Nollywood Focus’ magazines.

Why art?

I believe it runs
in the family. The late Okpu Eze, sculptor and president of the Society
of Nigerian Arts in the 1990s, was my uncle. My father does art too,
though not professionally, same with my mum. As a child, I scrawled on
walls and cut up our sofa and got spanked. So I decided to explore my
talent, creating things. I grew up and decided to pursue art
professionally. Today, when I scrawl things and cut up stuff, I get
paid for it instead. I think that’s fascinating. So why not?

Training

I was trained at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka (1995-2001). I read Fine and Applied Arts; and majored in Painting.

Medium

I used any medium,
anything that catches my fancy. I use acrylic in my paintings and then
found materials in my installations and other experimental forms of art.

Influences

I’m influenced by
anything that appeals to me. I’m influenced by other artists too,
whether nigerian or overseas. I’m also very interested in Architecture
and Design, as well as the fashion industry.

Inspirations

I’m inspired to
create things that will speak beyond my mouth. Any piece of art that
can stand on its own, that speaks for itself without me saying so much.
Anything that tends to be simple yet deep. I’m also inspired by
everything Imust have encountered in the last 30-something years.

Best work so far

I don’t have a best
work. Every work of art I create is unique, peculiar to itself. It’s
like asking a father to choose which of his children is best — it’s as
difficult as that.

Least satisfying work

Any work that is
still in my studio, that the owner has not collected. I just keep
criticising myself. I keep adding and removing stuff, touching and
retouching until someone comes and takes the piece away.

Career highpoint

All the points I’ve
reached in my career so far have had their own interesting points. So,
I can’t really pick any right now. I’ve had some thrilling moments; i
just can’t pin any down.

Favourite artist living or dead

I have a lot of
good artists I admire, but I don’t really think I have a favourite. I
admire people like Kandisky, El Anatsui and my late uncle, Okpu Eze.
There’s an architect I also admire, Savin Couelle; he is a great
architect, his works are ethereal and organic. I’m also a fan of any
classical and experimental architecture.

Ambitions

My ambition is to
see our contemporary life and culture borrow from our past/traditional
culture. If you look around today, so many of our buildings are modern
and europeanised — oyinbo stuff. Go to any european city, you will see
that they value architecture from different periods in history, whether
it’s neo-classical, victorian or gothic. But here in Nigeria, we rarely
see our traditional mud-hut incorporated into modern life. I would like
a reflection of our traditional culture in our general way of life —
speaking, dressing and so on. So the little I can do to make this
possible, that is my ambition.

Why art?

I believe it runs
in the family. The late Okpu Eze, sculptor and president of the Society
of Nigerian Arts in the 1990s, was my uncle. My father does art too,
though not professionally, same with my mum. As a child, I scrawled on
walls and cut up our sofa and got spanked. So I decided to explore my
talent, creating things. I grew up and decided to pursue art
professionally. Today, when I scrawl things and cut up stuff, I get
paid for it instead. I think that’s fascinating. So why not?

Training

I was trained at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka (1995-2001). I read Fine and Applied Arts; and majored in Painting.

Medium

I used any medium,
anything that catches my fancy. I use acrylic in my paintings and then
found materials in my installations and other experimental forms of art.

Influences

I’m influenced by
anything that appeals to me. I’m influenced by other artists too,
whether nigerian or overseas. I’m also very interested in Architecture
and Design, as well as the fashion industry.

Inspirations

I’m inspired to
create things that will speak beyond my mouth. Any piece of art that
can stand on its own, that speaks for itself without me saying so much.
Anything that tends to be simple yet deep. I’m also inspired by
everything Imust have encountered in the last 30-something years.

Best work so far

I don’t have a best
work. Every work of art I create is unique, peculiar to itself. It’s
like asking a father to choose which of his children is best — it’s as
difficult as that.

Least satisfying work

Any work that is
still in my studio, that the owner has not collected. I just keep
criticising myself. I keep adding and removing stuff, touching and
retouching until someone comes and takes the piece away.

Career highpoint

All the points I’ve
reached in my career so far have had their own interesting points. So,
I can’t really pick any right now. I’ve had some thrilling moments; i
just can’t pin any down.

Favourite artist living or dead

I have a lot of
good artists I admire, but I don’t really think I have a favourite. I
admire people like Kandisky, El Anatsui and my late uncle, Okpu Eze.
There’s an architect I also admire, Savin Couelle; he is a great
architect, his works are ethereal and organic. I’m also a fan of any
classical and experimental architecture.

Ambitions

My ambition is to
see our contemporary life and culture borrow from our past/traditional
culture. If you look around today, so many of our buildings are modern
and europeanised — oyinbo stuff. Go to any european city, you will see
that they value architecture from different periods in history, whether
it’s neo-classical, victorian or gothic. But here in Nigeria, we rarely
see our traditional mud-hut incorporated into modern life. I would like
a reflection of our traditional culture in our general way of life —
speaking, dressing and so on. So the little I can do to make this
possible, that is my ambition.

In a world where
anomaly has become the norm, a world where orderlessness has become the
order of the day, there is need for calm to the raging storm. The level
of the creativity of any writer determines the point to which they can
give answers to the never-ending questions of life. Ebi Akpeti, in her
two stories, through her ingenuity, offers just one solution to the
numerous problems mortals face on a daily basis.

All mortals fumble
and wobble; only the immortal is infallible. In our fault-filled lives,
we, human beings search for any way out of the thorn-ridden road of
life. The protagonists in the two stories, Emmanuel and Tonye, disclose
to their audiences the challenges they have faced and how they were
able to surmount them. More so, when Jesus himself was on earth, he was
also persecuted. Through the employment of story-within-story, these
two protagonists are painted in the light of Christ. Oyinkro, of story
one, is a replica of Christ—for every question, he has a wise answer.
Oyinkro is the source of steering nuggets such as “the richest person
is not one who has the most, but one who needs the least” and “To be
nobody but you in a world that is fighting night and day to make you
someone else is to fight the hardest battle any human being can ever
fight.” Not only should the story told by the protagonists be seen has
parables, they should be seen as more than a slice of reality.
Verisimilitude is further edged on by the actions that take place after
the stories-within-stories.

There is one
important message both stories bring to bear—that the distance between
the pattern of thought of human beings and God is as far as heaven is
to the earth. The writer seems to say that everything God does is good;
human beings are the ones who for themselves decipher the good and the
bad. Though this is questionable, both stories point out that every
step human beings take brings them a step closer to God’s will for them.

Emmanuel and Tonye
represent people (precisely Christians) who fall and stand, only to
fall again in their faith in God. In some respect, they are like the
biblical Job. However, unlike Job who suffers because of his
righteousness, they suffer because of their unrighteousness. Through
them, Ebi Akpeti seems to be saying that if Nigerians are truly devout,
the problems bedeviling Nigeria would have ceased a long time ago.
However, as in the two stories; in a jiffy, God can turn ashes into
beauty. One has to also remember that no matter how close one is to
God, He does not show one some things about the future.

The two stories in
‘Growing Pains’ have some resemblance with some Nollywood movies. They
are embellished with intense suspense such that the readers find it
impossible to stop reading until they get to the end of the stories. As
it is in some Nollywood movies, the true-to-life feature of the
character, Oyinkro is in doubt. One wonders why Oyinkro, a true
Christian, instead of being able to break the curse in his life through
prayers, is depicted as a fool of fate. He is like the tragic hero of
ancient Greek tragedy who is merely like a pencil in the hand of the
creator. However, unlike most Nollywood movies, the two stories in this
book are intriguing and quite unpredictable.

Ebi Akpeti’s ‘Growing Pains’ negates the assumption that Christian
literature is everything but interesting. Despite the pockets of errors
that are present the book, it qualifies to be called impeccable.
‘Growing Pains’ which is Ebi Akpeti’s debut novel, proves her
storytelling worth.

Victor Uwaifo has a
string of firsts as taut and sound as those on his guitar. Among
others, he is the first to break the mould of Nigerian bandleaders
being either trumpeters or horns-men; Nigeria’s first true master
guitarist and one of the best in world contemporary popular music. He
is also the first to give a leading role for the guitar in Nigerian
popular music; the first Nigerian musician to play a double-necked
guitar; the first to have his record on the BBC Home Service chart-in
1966 (that hit went on to become the first Gold disc in Africa and,
remains the only Gold disc in West Africa, because it was the only 45
rpm record Gold Disc before the format was phased out) and the
first-ever Commissioner for Arts, Culture and Tourism in Edo State.

It’s no wonder then
that Uwaifo exhibits a streak of confidence in his art as he declares
candidly and uncompromisingly, “I am not just a master guitarist; I am
an institution as an instrumentalist, mostly on the guitar and flute
and, basically in all spheres of life.” He might not be modest, but he
has risen from being a guitar boy into a guitar maestro, genius and
national musical icon.

Guitar Boy

For nearly five
decades Uwaifo has continued a creative love affair with the guitar
that has flourished. He has produced an exhaustive and varied catalogue
of world famous contemporary popular music as well as structural
innovations to the musical instrument.

Uwaifo recalls that
he did “manual labour” to earn money to buy his first guitar in the
1960s. A decade later, he produced and released a tune, ‘Guitar Boy’,
which became one of his greatest hits and national bestseller of the
1960s. Uwaifo had every right to tag himself the Guitar Boy back then.
He is still an active instrumentalist and continues a famous musical
and artistic life! His influence on guitarists in other genres of
Nigerian popular music is enormous. “I inspired Sunny Ade and other
juju music guitarists to stand up and play as against sitting down to
play the guitar,” Uwaifo asserts.

He developed into a
confident innovative master guitarist and showman. His repertoire of
choreographed stunts include a stylish sequence of aerobatic
somersaulting, complex body gyrations, dancing, doing the splits,
playing behind his back and even with his teeth. “I bite my guitar,” he
declares with relish. He attributes his physical fitness and ability to
perform these tasking stunts to body-building, which he started as a
secondary school student at St. Gregory’s College, Lagos. At school
then he established a high jump record of 6 feet 6 inches that still
stands.

Victor Uwaifo’s
trademark as a guitarist include a sustained fluency in extended solos;
multiple ripples of melodic sounds and harmony interlaced with
percussive chords. Marvelous multi-layered guitar solos distinguish two
of his greatest hits, ‘Joromi’ and ‘Guitar Boy’.

Joromi

His ingenuity with
the guitar has also inspired him to design different types and shapes
of the instrument. Unique to these Uwaifo wonder guitars is a
combination guitar and keyboard he named Joromi.

The Guitar Boy of
yesteryears is now a 70-year old Hon. Sir, Dr Victor Efosa Uwaifo JP
MON. After his secondary school education, he won a scholarship to the
Yaba College of Technology where he obtained a National Diploma with
Distinction in Graphics. He obtained a first class honours degree in
Fine and Applied Arts from the University of Benin in 1995 and went on
to earn a Doctorate degree. Currently, he is Chairman of Joromi
Organisation, Chairman/Director of Joromi TV (JTV) and Recording
Studio. and the Victor Uwaifo Art Gallery in Benin City.

Uwaifo became a
Nigerian popular music icon and international superstar in the 1960s. A
many-faceted pioneer, he has contributed his own distinct musical
flavour to the genre of Nigerian popular music called Highlife. His
megahit ‘Joromi’, that made the BBC chart in 1966, propelled him to
monumental and permanent fame. It became Africa’s first Gold disc and,
over the years, Uwaifo accumulated 12 other Gold discs.

‘Joromi’, however,
remains special. Its lyrics and theme, like the bulk of Uwaifo’s music,
is deeply rooted in his native Benin culture. “Everything about my
sound and rhythm is Benin,” he explains. “Ekasa is a rattle you tie
around your ankle when you dance. The sound creates the Ekasa rhythm,
which is similar to the sound of a locomotive engine. The only time
they dance Ekasa in Benin is during the crowning of a new Oba (King).
Some of my songs are also traceable to certain Obas and their eras. It
is a way of documenting history through music.” The story of Joromi is
an intriguing Benin fable. According to Uwaifo, “Joromi in Benin
mythology was a wrestler, a world champion who after conquering the
whole world decided to go to hell and fight the Devil with seven
heads.” It is no wonder that Uwaifo named his first studio in Benin,
opened in 1978, Joromi.

Legend

His background as
a trained artist contributed to his creative process as a musician.
“Art has form, music has form,” he explains, adding: “Art has colours
and the colours have relativity with sound. Sound and colours are in
harmony. If you take the harmony one by one, you have do re mi fa so la
ti do…do, you represent with black, re-red, mi-blue, fa-green,
so-neutral/white (which is no colour), la-yellow, ti-violet, do-you go
back to the same octave. Then you can mix several colours to begin to
have other families of colours. These are just the basic things. Music,
art, writing, creativity, are all the same thing. They are all
interwoven, co-cyclic and they work in motion and action. Once you can
see art on a deep level, you can also see music.

Music has form and
structure just like in architecture. You cannot put certain sounds in
wrong places. Even if you are doing abstract art, the deliberate
distortions must make sense.” What are the flavours of his unique sound
and rhythms? “To explain the different forms of my music, I gave them
different names. They have different time signatures and
interpretation. Their rendition is also different. That’s why I
identified them as Akwette, Sasakosa, Mutaba, Ekasa, Titibiti, and so
on.” What about his approach to instrumentation? “I inter-marry African
instruments, Benin instruments, percussion and other instruments with
contemporary musical instruments to make African sounds. And I still
retain the authenticity of the African sounds. That is the beauty of
it.” How does Uwaifo classify his music? “Some of my music is Highlife.
All other music whether the Ekasa or Titibiti and, all other ones put
together from the East and West of Nigeria are under the same umbrella
of Highlife. Highlife is the music of Nigeria and West Africa. The
sounds may differ but all these various sounds put together come under
Highlife!”

Asa’s earliest
memory was singing through the painful hours it took her mum to braid
her hair for school when she was little. As a child, Bukola Elemide
(her birth name) had realised the power of music to exorcise pain and
disillusionment. And she never let go of that knowledge. “The
recollection that stands out the most is that I was constantly singing,
that was all I did. My parents often scolded me for it.” Of course it
must not have helped that her father, a cinematographer, had an
eclectic collection in his audio library. Asa cut her musical teeth
listening to Juju, Apala, Blues, Afro beat, and Raggae; trying them out
and gradually forming her own musical sense from these influences.

Born in France, Asa
moved to Nigeria at age two, living in several places before finally
settling in Lagos. She chalks her peripatetic life to “decisions that
your parents make and you just follow.” She did eventually finish her
secondary education at Federal Government College, Jos.

Growing up in
Nigeria is not one of happy reminisces for the musician who was the
only female of four children. “It is normal for an African girl to take
up the mother role; you are trained to be responsible. But I am a free
soul, and I spent a long time fighting for freedom.” Asa’s need to
break out of the mould resulted in an insularity which she is now only
coming to terms with. “Asa has just grown; I missed out when I was a
teen because I was so into my own world,” she says.

She ultimately
attained her long-sought freedom when her parents endorsed her decision
to relocate to coastal Badagry, on the outskirts of Lagos State, to
study music. This time, she says, was six months well spent mastering
the guitar. With the hindsight of two successful albums, and a number
of international nominations and awards including the 2008 Prix
Constantin for French new talent, Asa sees her Nigerian upbringing as
the inspiration for her musical success. “I learnt morals and a
compassion that I would not have had growing up in Europe. In Nigeria,
you learn to improvise, to become a survivor. My family went through
phases of tough times, Nigeria toughens you that way. You learn to
think.”

Evolution between albums

Asa’s debut image
may have positioned her as Bob-Marley and Tracy Chapman rolled into a
youthful, contemporary whole, but with her sophomore album, she appears
to have embraced a more feminine and optimistic sense of style and
music. This, she explains as a change in mindset: “While composing my
first album, I was like an angry teen; I wanted to talk about so many
disappointments without seeing it from the world’s point of view. I was
an angry person who did not understand why things were the way they
were.

Having said all
that I had to say in my first album, I now am less burdened; and with
‘Beautiful Imperfection’, I am speaking from the point of view of a
woman who has experienced life. I have a renewed sense of self and I
know that there’s room for negotiation. I just wanted to be happy and
uplift people with my music.” Blood red nails, a carefully made-up
face, coiffed dreadlocks and form-fitting attire are a further
reflection of this change in outlook. Especially for a musician whose
national appeal had – besides her soul searching lyrics – had a lot to
gain by her eschewing of a feminine flamboyance in favour of a more
staid, if unconventional, appearance.

Asa’s anger,
however, still targets naysayers, who peddle untruths about her.
Speaking on a recent libel suit she launched against a media company,
which had sought to query her sexuality and relationship her with her
best friend and manager of eight years, she exhibits a contemplative
equivocation. “I did sue them. People do not watch their mouths, and
it’s especially horrible when it is not true. But with these
situations, you never know if it’s the right thing to do.”

Beautiful Imperfection

While still
largely cut from the same poignant socio-political criticism mould of
her self-titled debut, she softens things up in ‘Beautiful
Imperfection’ with pop track ‘Be My Man’, admitting a more sensitive
side that she now thinks she is “mature enough to explore”. “My
favourite movie is ‘Pretty Woman’. There is something vulnerable about
a woman who finds her Prince Charming. I’m still cheesy that way,” she
laughs self-effacingly.

Asa’s musical
identity is inspired by her native Yoruba word for ‘hawk’; and one
would think that the young musician who punctuates the interview with
native proverbs, and whose songs (particularly Awe from her debut) are
a wonderful employment of native Yoruba idiom, would be one to boast a
remarkable knowledge of the language; but she reveals, “I don’t speak
Yoruba as well as I sing it; most of my childhood we were spoken to in
English, and in school punished for speaking vernacular. I think that
was one of the biggest mistakes our parents made.”

Taking flight

The
single-mindedness that Asa shares with the avian inspiration for her
name informed a decision to return to the European country of her birth
in 2006 for musical opportunities which she felt she had exhausted.
“Nigeria is a wonderful place to acquire inspiration but pursuing an
individual definition of success is difficult back home. There’s a
close-mindedness concerning what constitutes success.” If she had done
as the society had deemed propitious, she would have kept pace with her
mates, attended university and perhaps gotten a job hustling the nine
to five. “Our parents have brainwashed us with the belief that success
is a direct result of education.” She sings ‘bata mi a dun koko ka’, a
yoruba pedagogical rhyme, to illustrate this. Nigeria is no doubt one
great music export richer for Asa’s refusal to be judged by society’s
standards.

Her remarkable
debut and sophomore albums have been internationally certified platinum
and gold respectively; the latter since its release in October, 2010.
Nominated for Best Female Act at Victoires de la Musique (French Music
Awards); the young guitar-wielding musician recently thrilled the
British media to a performance showcase as part of her on-going tour of
Europe.

These among other international recognitions are more than enough
proof that the world needs a paradigm shift. “Besides,” says the
diminutive 28-year-old who has worked extensively with producer Cobhams
Asuquo and collaborated with Nigerian rappers like 9ice and Naeto C,
“travelling the world and trying out restaurants in the countries I
visit is so much fun, even if my band and I have been on the bus,
camping out on tiny bunk beds all week.” Asa will be performing on a
double bill with Ivorien Reggae Musician Tiken Jah Fakoly on April 4 at
the Barbican, London, as part of her European tour.

The rock stood in
the heart of our land, a gift from the gods. One benighted afternoon we
found a madman atop the rock, and he was pointing a gun on us.

“Behold the rock I built with petro-dollars!” screamed the madman, prancing hither and thither.

“How do we get this knave down from that height?” queried one of us down below.

“That statement is
undue radicalism, very extremist!” cried the madman. He took aim at the
man amongst us who made the utterance, and the poor fellow was dead in
short seconds.

Shouts of horror swept through the landscape.

“Hail me as your president or I will shoot again!” The madman was in his elements, caressing his baleful gun.

“A raving madman cannot a president make!” shouted another deviant fellow in our midst.

The madman unleashed another crack shot, and death followed suit.

“Am I the president or am I not?” The madman was not joking.

“You are!” we all hollered as one.

“Actually it is my
duty to decree myself president,” said the madman, pulling ill-assorted
military gear over his white gown. “Your business is just to say yes to
my decree.”

“All hail Mr. President!” we were shouting.

“Don’t Mister me!” bellowed the madman. “I am a five-star general!”

“Field-marshal President!” cooed a section of the gathered crowd.

The somewhat diminutive madman showed his teeth in a hearty smile. He was gap-toothed.

“I know this man,”
said one of us with a press tag on the lapel of his coat. “I know him
from way back. He used to write me love letters.”

Before our very
eyes, the man dispatched a letter from high up to the man below which
instantly exploded like a bomb, blowing the hapless fellow to
smithereens.

There was a stampede but the madman dared anyone to leave the square.

“I feel good.” The madman was nodding. “In fact I feel cool.”

“Please come down, our dear president, and rule among us,” a voice in the square pleaded.

“Why should I come down among you plebeians?” the madman replied, frowning. “I prefer to rule from the rock.”

“But the president is supposed to be among the people, a man of the people…”

“Don’t tell me what
a president is supposed to be,” snapped the madman. “How can you know
where or what the president is supposed to be when none of you has ever
been a president? You don’t even have a gun.”

“A real president of the people does not need a gun.”

“Who said that?” The madman was livid.

Nobody raised a voice.

The madman unleashed a staccato of shots, killing five or so luckless fellows.

“Ordain me your life-president and I’ll come down to be with you,” said the madman.

“When you didn’t come down as a president how is it possible for you to come as a life-president?”

“I don’t like that question,” the madman bawled. “It smells like a pressman.”

“How can a question smell like a journalist?” asked one of us.

“No more questions or I’ll bomb you with my letter!”

He panned his gun wickedly across the mammoth crowd, and cries of dread swept through the square.

“Behold our darling life-president!”

“Prince of the Atlantic!”

“King of the Sahara!”

“I am not deceived by your praise-songs,” the madman said, fiddling with his trigger. “You people praise to kill.”

“You are our grand commander till kingdom come!” The roar reached the sky.

“That’s more like it.” The madman adjusted his epaulettes. “I feel like transforming to civvies.”

“Will you now come down to be with us?” asked the lady at my back.

“Not until you make my wife your empress,” said the madman.

Something we had
thought was merely an outgrowth of the rock suddenly came alive. It
stood like a masquerade. Then the clothes came off, revealing the
woman. Her madness was extraordinary, putting her husband in the shade.
Despite the peacock feathers all about her she was naked and dancing
extravagantly.

“First Lady!” We were all screaming. “Eku! First Lady!”

“I decree her as your empress,” the madman intoned, admiring his wild missus.

“Empress of the
Niger!” We could not run short of praise-songs in her name. “Mother of
wealth! Better life bringer! Queen of beauty!”

The naked woman
cavorted in a frenzy of dancing. We egged her on with oohs and aahs.
She was indeed an empress to behold, a loose cannon baring and dangling
all the unmentionables.

“Not even death shall do us part,” the empress sang, blowing her husband a kiss.

“So my wife is the empress,” the madman boomed, cavorting with his wife, “and I am the emperor. What a fantastic combination!”

“As fantastic as Fanta!” the wife cooed.

“And as cocastic as Coke!” said the madman, sniffing the palm of his hand like a junkie.

“Now we are ready for the Great Couple to come down to be with us,” said the very tall man to my right.

“You people think
you can fool me,” the madman said, eyeing us wickedly. “I know it. If I
make the mistake of coming down among you I am a goner! You think I’ll
let you quarantine me? I still want to be here!”

“Please go away, madman!” shouted a defiant voice.

“Go to hell, you yammering mad cap!” followed another strong voice.

“Only divine intervention can save us from this miscreant.”

The madman pulled
the trigger, terminating another handful of lives. He affected the pose
of a cowboy and flashed his trademark gap-toothed grin.

“Paradise is here,” the madman’s wife sang, shaking her naked buttocks at us.

Cemetery silence descended on us. We could only stare and wonder and wait.

“I am tired of staying here!” the madman suddenly ejaculated. “Make me the Alpha and Omega and I’ll go.”

“Pronto, you are our Alpha and Omega!”

“You are our all-in-all!”

“Generalissimo!”

The madman pranced about, cuddling his gun.

“Kleptomaniac!” shouted one fellow.

“I like that word!” screamed the madman. “I like that title. Make me klepto-!”

“Maniac!” we chorused.

“Now I have
achieved everything on earth and upon the rock,” the madman said,
feeling good. “But you are yet to give me something…”

“What again do you want from us?”

The madman pasted
his ears to the winds as though hearing voices from beyond, then he
hooted. “Margaret Thatcher is my godmother. If she tells me to jump, I
jump.”

“Then jump!” I muttered under my breath.

“You must all structurally adjust yourselves!” ordered the madman, waving at all of us.

“How do we go about that now?” asked one voice at the edge of the square.

“I hereby devalue all of you!” the madman bleated, jumping on the bosom of his wife.

We all looked at one another, finding no words.

“Since you want me
to go I feel it’s time for me to go,” said the madman after we could
not say anything for moments on end. “But before I go there must be a
period of transition for you to choose the fellow to replace me here.”

“We don’t need another madman on the rock!” said a voice in compelling vehemence.

“What is that you said?” The madman was furious. “That is the voice of the poet, and poetry simply means coup-plotting!”

The madman insisted
on fishing out the owner of the dissenting voice. The identified
dissident stared back at the madman with a certitude that bore the
stamp of familiarity.

“Coup-plotting poet!” the madman cursed, shooting to death the poet alongside his comrades.

“But that’s your brother you just killed,” wailed a lady, who took the wedding band of the shot man.

“Tell them the coup-plotter and his comrades have been shot about an hour ago!” the madman said, pointing.

“Nothing is beyond this madman…” I was thinking.

“Call me Democratic Emperor!” the madman shouted.

“Democratic Emperor!” we shouted back.

“Cool.” The madman scanned the gathering. “That’s the kind of thing I like to read in the Times.”

He paused. We looked on.

“I’ll teach you democracy,” said the madman. “I’ll give you democracy.”

“God bless our life-president, teacher of democracy,” sang the singer in the midst. “God save the emperor, giver of democracy.”

Just then a very
surprising thing happened. Some angry young men appeared like
paratroopers on the rock and tackled the madman and his wife to the
ground.

“Khalifa! Khalifa! Khalifa!” the madman wept.

A short and squat
soldier wearing very dark goggles appeared on the rock as though from
nowhere and shot to death the squad that had all but captured the
madman. We all stared from Khalifa to the madman, wondering. Khalifa
did not offer a word before disappearing. The madman was visibly
shaken, crying on the shoulder of his wife like a stricken suckling. It
took an age for the madman to find his voice.

“Not today,” the
madman said when he found his voice. “What a Dodan nightmare! It was
the attack of those Obalende rascals that pursued me to this rock!” He
paused to gather his breath. “But I dealt with them. I wiped them out!
No tears for the terrorists!”

“Don’t mind the
extremists who do not want you to give us democracy,” said a woman by
the corner. “Forget them and keep up with your promised transition.”

“Yes, let the
transition happen,” the madman ordered, assuming a new seriousness.
“You have to build a ladder for me to come down with and for the new
man to get up here.”

“But you didn’t need a ladder to get up there in the first place?” shouted a very angry voice.

“Build the ladder or I’ll shoot!” commanded the madman.

The incomparably
long ladder took billions of Naira to build. Then the ladder was placed
against the rock. The madman asked us to choose a handful of persons to
climb the ladder. We did the choosing as ordered by the madman. When we
presented our chosen ones the madman took one look at them and screamed:

“I don’t want old greed. New breed is what I need!”

He promptly ordered
our chosen ones away from the foot of the ladder, threatening to shoot
them into tiny slivers. Then the madman chose two of his friends in our
midst to make the climb up the ladder. One of his chosen two was a fast
climber and was soon on the last rung of the ladder, in short, with a
foot on the rock. With the butt of his gun the madman sent his friend
crashing down from the great height.

“This rock cannot
contain two of us!” shouted the madman, holding aloft his gun. “I would
have shot you if you were not my friend.”

“I dare you!” the humiliated friend cried, alive only because the people helped break his fall.

“Make me Go-!” the madman yelled, incensed.

“Did he say Go or God?” We did not know.

“I am not afraid
of this madman!” the felled friend hollered. “I’ll fight him to a
finish with all the proverbs on earth. His firing squad cannot make me
lose my manhood!”

Dread stood in the
air. Blood was boiling to flow. Some angry youths arranged to climb the
rock to bring down the madman. The madman fired some shots but death
was not in the dictionary of the angry ones coming after the madman on
the rock. There was commotion all over the place. The madman ran from
one end of the rock to the other as though looking for a place to hide.

“General Khalifa!” cried the leader of the human rats. “History beckons on you to take over!”

“Cover me! Cover me!” the madman said to an old ghost whom he had unburied from one of the crannies of the rock.

The madman covered
the old ghost in interim fatigues, asking him to pose as a madman in
his place. Then General Khalifa, wearing his very dark goggles,
appeared on the scene, borne along by the apple-laden beauties of India.

Confusion shot up
as people marched on the rock and the old ghost struggled with his
interim fatigues and the madman looked upon Khalifa for a measure of
solution.

“Save the day!” the madman pleaded, staring plaintively at General Khalifa.

“They are coming
from everywhere!” screamed General Khalifa, pushing the old ghost in
interim fatigues from off the rock and then turning to speak directly
to the convulsing madman. “Jump before they get you! They are coming
fast! Spirits! Soldiers! Students! They are coming for your jugular!
Jump!”

“I will only step
aside,” snorted the madman; then he clung to his First Lady and they
jumped from the rock, falling hard to earth with such force that they
instantly turned into the small rock called Stone!

As General Khalifa
settled on the rock, playing God with military abandon, the human rats
started crying: “Another madman is back on the rock! We don’t want
another madman on the rock!”

The goggled madman, a dead shot with an AK47, took aim and, rat-a-tat, his beginning was the end.

‘The Cost of Living’, a play by writer, Sefi Atta, will premiere on Sunday, March 6, at Terra Kulture, Lagos.

Directed by Nick
Monu, the play is part of the ‘Theatre at Terra’ initiative spearheaded
by Terra Kulture and will be performed every Sunday in March at 3pm and
6pm.

‘The Cost of
Living’ is a one-act play about a botched kidnapping during which an
American and his Nigerian abductor learn about the value of life.

Known for her debut
award winning novel, ‘Everything Good will Come’, which received rave
reviews and won the inaugural Wole Soyinka Prize for Literature in
Africa in 2006, US-based Atta has also written plays for BBC Radio.

In 2005, her play
‘The Engagement’, featuring Dejumo Lewis and Ibidun Allison and
produced by actress Joke Silva, was staged at the MUSON Centre.

Nick Monu was trained at the American University in Washington DC and the Webber Douglas Academy of Dramatic Art in London.

The director,
actor, and producer has a career spanning 20 years in television,
radio, film, and theatre, playing in many of London’s major theatres
including The Royal Shakespeare Company. He directed Wole Soyinka’s
‘The Swamp Dwellers’ in a much talked about production staged at the
National Theatre, Lagos, in 2009.

Monu will be
teaming up again with Atta on another of her play, ‘The Sentence’,
which will be staged in Germany later this year.

‘The Cost of
Living’ boasts a small but sound cast and crew which includes actors
Frank Adekunle Macaulay and Toyin Oshinaike, costume and set designer,
Simone Monu, and assistant director, Bayo Abifarin.

Oshinaike, a known
name in theatre circles, has featured in numerous notable theatre
productions such as Wole Soyinka’s ‘The Lion and the Jewel’, directed
by Chuck Mike (2005); and Femi Osofisan’s ‘Yeepa, Solarin Nbo!’,
directed by Niji Akanni (2010).

Only recently at
Terra Kulture, Oshinaike had staged ‘Wats Dis All About’, his
adaptation of the South African play, ‘Woza Albert’.

The second actor on
the play, Macaulay, studied acting as well as film, TV, and video
production in the United Kingdom. He has worked in various capacities
as a filmmaker on films, documentaries, and commercials.

Assistant director on the production, Abifarin, is senior stage
manager of the National Troupe of Nigeria. A graduate of Performing
Arts from the University of Ilorin, Abifarin has worked on a number of
productions including Wole Soyinka’s ‘The Swamp Dwellers’, which was
directed by Monu; Ahmed Yerima’s ‘Ameoboni’; and Ola Rotimi’s
‘Kurunmi’, directed by Ben Tomoloju.

Water–based clubs and associations have been invited to participate in this year’s edition of the Lagos State Water Regatta.

The call was made
by Olusegun Jawando, Chair, Planning Committee of the Lagos State Water
Regatta 2011 during a press conference held on Tuesday, March 1 at
Glover Hall, Lagos Island.

In attendance was
Nobel Laureate, Wole Soyinka, in his role as arrowhead to the Lagos
Black Heritage Festival; the planned water regatta is part of
activities planned for the festival, beginning next month. Also at the
press conference was Disun Holloway, who will be in charge of the boat
competition. The press conference was intended to promote an awareness
of the Lagos state water Regatta.

According to Mr
Jawando, the festival which is slated to hold on Sunday, April 24, will
have as its Chief Guest of Honour, Babatunde Fashola, the governor of
Lagos State. Jawando said that this year’s edition is tagged ‘Bright
and Beautiful’; and that it is scheduled to hold at the city’s Marina
and various creeks around Lagos Island, Ikoyi, Victoria Island and
Lagos Mainland. The festival will feature a parade of boats and Yachts.
The parade will include large fishing boats, ferries, barges and other
marine vessels adorned, depicting social – cultural, traditional
folklores and occupational aspects of the people of Lagos State.

The essence

Mr Jawando added
that the essence of the festival is to promote the cultural heritage of
Lagos State. “The annual Lagos State Water Regatta is one of the state
festivals organised to promote the cultural heritage of the indigenous
communities to the world and the sustainable development of the tourism
potentials of Lagos state as part of the Black Heritage Festival week,”
he said. Among the events scheduled to hold at this year’s festival are
paddled canoe racing competitions involving all the 57 Local government
councils in Lagos state; swimming competitions and Kayak racing.

The Planning
Committee chair called for the support of individuals and corporate
organisations in the successful staging of the event and its associated
activities. He said the event is not only meant for water–based clubs
and associations but also for families and even children. “This is a
Lagos State event, by Lagosians, for citizens of Lagos, and we enjoin
all and sundry to come out and join us on Easter Sunday, April 24 as we
celebrate the aquatic splendour of our state,” he said. “Families are
especially welcome, so please bring the children along especially to
view the spectacular fireworks.”

Plans have been made for families to watch the event at various
viewing centres including Walter Carrington Crescent, the Peninsula
Restaurants, Victoria Island, Oyinkan Abayomi Drive, Ikoyi; and Wole
Olateju Crescent in Lekki Scheme 1.

The rock stood in
the heart of our land, a gift from the gods. One benighted afternoon we
found a madman atop the rock, and he was pointing a gun on us.

“Behold the rock I built with petro-dollars!” screamed the madman, prancing hither and thither.

“How do we get this knave down from that height?” queried one of us down below.

“That statement is
undue radicalism, very extremist!” cried the madman. He took aim at the
man amongst us who made the utterance, and the poor fellow was dead in
short seconds.

Shouts of horror swept through the landscape.

“Hail me as your president or I will shoot again!” The madman was in his elements, caressing his baleful gun.

“A raving madman cannot a president make!” shouted another deviant fellow in our midst.

The madman unleashed another crack shot, and death followed suit.

“Am I the president or am I not?” The madman was not joking.

“You are!” we all hollered as one.

“Actually it is my
duty to decree myself president,” said the madman, pulling ill-assorted
military gear over his white gown. “Your business is just to say yes to
my decree.”

“All hail Mr. President!” we were shouting.

“Don’t Mister me!” bellowed the madman. “I am a five-star general!”

“Field-marshal President!” cooed a section of the gathered crowd.

The somewhat diminutive madman showed his teeth in a hearty smile. He was gap-toothed.

“I know this man,”
said one of us with a press tag on the lapel of his coat. “I know him
from way back. He used to write me love letters.”

Before our very
eyes, the man dispatched a letter from high up to the man below which
instantly exploded like a bomb, blowing the hapless fellow to
smithereens.

There was a stampede but the madman dared anyone to leave the square.

“I feel good.” The madman was nodding. “In fact I feel cool.”

“Please come down, our dear president, and rule among us,” a voice in the square pleaded.

“Why should I come down among you plebeians?” the madman replied, frowning. “I prefer to rule from the rock.”

“But the president is supposed to be among the people, a man of the people…”

“Don’t tell me what
a president is supposed to be,” snapped the madman. “How can you know
where or what the president is supposed to be when none of you has ever
been a president? You don’t even have a gun.”

“A real president of the people does not need a gun.”

“Who said that?” The madman was livid.

Nobody raised a voice.

The madman unleashed a staccato of shots, killing five or so luckless fellows.

“Ordain me your life-president and I’ll come down to be with you,” said the madman.

“When you didn’t come down as a president how is it possible for you to come as a life-president?”

“I don’t like that question,” the madman bawled. “It smells like a pressman.”

“How can a question smell like a journalist?” asked one of us.

“No more questions or I’ll bomb you with my letter!”

He panned his gun wickedly across the mammoth crowd, and cries of dread swept through the square.

“Behold our darling life-president!”

“Prince of the Atlantic!”

“King of the Sahara!”

“I am not deceived by your praise-songs,” the madman said, fiddling with his trigger. “You people praise to kill.”

“You are our grand commander till kingdom come!” The roar reached the sky.

“That’s more like it.” The madman adjusted his epaulettes. “I feel like transforming to civvies.”

“Will you now come down to be with us?” asked the lady at my back.

“Not until you make my wife your empress,” said the madman.

Something we had
thought was merely an outgrowth of the rock suddenly came alive. It
stood like a masquerade. Then the clothes came off, revealing the
woman. Her madness was extraordinary, putting her husband in the shade.
Despite the peacock feathers all about her she was naked and dancing
extravagantly.

“First Lady!” We were all screaming. “Eku! First Lady!”

“I decree her as your empress,” the madman intoned, admiring his wild missus.

“Empress of the
Niger!” We could not run short of praise-songs in her name. “Mother of
wealth! Better life bringer! Queen of beauty!”

The naked woman
cavorted in a frenzy of dancing. We egged her on with oohs and aahs.
She was indeed an empress to behold, a loose cannon baring and dangling
all the unmentionables.

“Not even death shall do us part,” the empress sang, blowing her husband a kiss.

“So my wife is the empress,” the madman boomed, cavorting with his wife, “and I am the emperor. What a fantastic combination!”

“As fantastic as Fanta!” the wife cooed.

“And as cocastic as Coke!” said the madman, sniffing the palm of his hand like a junkie.

“Now we are ready for the Great Couple to come down to be with us,” said the very tall man to my right.

“You people think
you can fool me,” the madman said, eyeing us wickedly. “I know it. If I
make the mistake of coming down among you I am a goner! You think I’ll
let you quarantine me? I still want to be here!”

“Please go away, madman!” shouted a defiant voice.

“Go to hell, you yammering mad cap!” followed another strong voice.

“Only divine intervention can save us from this miscreant.”

The madman pulled
the trigger, terminating another handful of lives. He affected the pose
of a cowboy and flashed his trademark gap-toothed grin.

“Paradise is here,” the madman’s wife sang, shaking her naked buttocks at us.

Cemetery silence descended on us. We could only stare and wonder and wait.

“I am tired of staying here!” the madman suddenly ejaculated. “Make me the Alpha and Omega and I’ll go.”

“Pronto, you are our Alpha and Omega!”

“You are our all-in-all!”

“Generalissimo!”

The madman pranced about, cuddling his gun.

“Kleptomaniac!” shouted one fellow.

“I like that word!” screamed the madman. “I like that title. Make me klepto-!”

“Maniac!” we chorused.

“Now I have
achieved everything on earth and upon the rock,” the madman said,
feeling good. “But you are yet to give me something…”

“What again do you want from us?”

The madman pasted
his ears to the winds as though hearing voices from beyond, then he
hooted. “Margaret Thatcher is my godmother. If she tells me to jump, I
jump.”

“Then jump!” I muttered under my breath.

“You must all structurally adjust yourselves!” ordered the madman, waving at all of us.

“How do we go about that now?” asked one voice at the edge of the square.

“I hereby devalue all of you!” the madman bleated, jumping on the bosom of his wife.

We all looked at one another, finding no words.

“Since you want me
to go I feel it’s time for me to go,” said the madman after we could
not say anything for moments on end. “But before I go there must be a
period of transition for you to choose the fellow to replace me here.”

“We don’t need another madman on the rock!” said a voice in compelling vehemence.

“What is that you said?” The madman was furious. “That is the voice of the poet, and poetry simply means coup-plotting!”

The madman insisted
on fishing out the owner of the dissenting voice. The identified
dissident stared back at the madman with a certitude that bore the
stamp of familiarity.

“Coup-plotting poet!” the madman cursed, shooting to death the poet alongside his comrades.

“But that’s your brother you just killed,” wailed a lady, who took the wedding band of the shot man.

“Tell them the coup-plotter and his comrades have been shot about an hour ago!” the madman said, pointing.

“Nothing is beyond this madman…” I was thinking.

“Call me Democratic Emperor!” the madman shouted.

“Democratic Emperor!” we shouted back.

“Cool.” The madman scanned the gathering. “That’s the kind of thing I like to read in the Times.”

He paused. We looked on.

“I’ll teach you democracy,” said the madman. “I’ll give you democracy.”

“God bless our life-president, teacher of democracy,” sang the singer in the midst. “God save the emperor, giver of democracy.”

Just then a very
surprising thing happened. Some angry young men appeared like
paratroopers on the rock and tackled the madman and his wife to the
ground.

“Khalifa! Khalifa! Khalifa!” the madman wept.

A short and squat
soldier wearing very dark goggles appeared on the rock as though from
nowhere and shot to death the squad that had all but captured the
madman. We all stared from Khalifa to the madman, wondering. Khalifa
did not offer a word before disappearing. The madman was visibly
shaken, crying on the shoulder of his wife like a stricken suckling. It
took an age for the madman to find his voice.

“Not today,” the
madman said when he found his voice. “What a Dodan nightmare! It was
the attack of those Obalende rascals that pursued me to this rock!” He
paused to gather his breath. “But I dealt with them. I wiped them out!
No tears for the terrorists!”

“Don’t mind the
extremists who do not want you to give us democracy,” said a woman by
the corner. “Forget them and keep up with your promised transition.”

“Yes, let the
transition happen,” the madman ordered, assuming a new seriousness.
“You have to build a ladder for me to come down with and for the new
man to get up here.”

“But you didn’t need a ladder to get up there in the first place?” shouted a very angry voice.

“Build the ladder or I’ll shoot!” commanded the madman.

The incomparably
long ladder took billions of Naira to build. Then the ladder was placed
against the rock. The madman asked us to choose a handful of persons to
climb the ladder. We did the choosing as ordered by the madman. When we
presented our chosen ones the madman took one look at them and screamed:

“I don’t want old greed. New breed is what I need!”

He promptly ordered
our chosen ones away from the foot of the ladder, threatening to shoot
them into tiny slivers. Then the madman chose two of his friends in our
midst to make the climb up the ladder. One of his chosen two was a fast
climber and was soon on the last rung of the ladder, in short, with a
foot on the rock. With the butt of his gun the madman sent his friend
crashing down from the great height.

“This rock cannot
contain two of us!” shouted the madman, holding aloft his gun. “I would
have shot you if you were not my friend.”

“I dare you!” the humiliated friend cried, alive only because the people helped break his fall.

“Make me Go-!” the madman yelled, incensed.

“Did he say Go or God?” We did not know.

“I am not afraid
of this madman!” the felled friend hollered. “I’ll fight him to a
finish with all the proverbs on earth. His firing squad cannot make me
lose my manhood!”

Dread stood in the
air. Blood was boiling to flow. Some angry youths arranged to climb the
rock to bring down the madman. The madman fired some shots but death
was not in the dictionary of the angry ones coming after the madman on
the rock. There was commotion all over the place. The madman ran from
one end of the rock to the other as though looking for a place to hide.

“General Khalifa!” cried the leader of the human rats. “History beckons on you to take over!”

“Cover me! Cover me!” the madman said to an old ghost whom he had unburied from one of the crannies of the rock.

The madman covered
the old ghost in interim fatigues, asking him to pose as a madman in
his place. Then General Khalifa, wearing his very dark goggles,
appeared on the scene, borne along by the apple-laden beauties of India.

Confusion shot up
as people marched on the rock and the old ghost struggled with his
interim fatigues and the madman looked upon Khalifa for a measure of
solution.

“Save the day!” the madman pleaded, staring plaintively at General Khalifa.

“They are coming
from everywhere!” screamed General Khalifa, pushing the old ghost in
interim fatigues from off the rock and then turning to speak directly
to the convulsing madman. “Jump before they get you! They are coming
fast! Spirits! Soldiers! Students! They are coming for your jugular!
Jump!”

“I will only step
aside,” snorted the madman; then he clung to his First Lady and they
jumped from the rock, falling hard to earth with such force that they
instantly turned into the small rock called Stone!

As General Khalifa
settled on the rock, playing God with military abandon, the human rats
started crying: “Another madman is back on the rock! We don’t want
another madman on the rock!”

The goggled madman, a dead shot with an AK47, took aim and, rat-a-tat, his beginning was the end.