Nigeria Content Online

The contestants on the Nigerian Idol talent show are, to use a common phrase, really “falling” my hand.

Last week’s
performances were based on songs from movies, most of them ballads.
Unfortunately for me, these were songs I know and love, so it was
rather painful watching them being murdered.

The worst was Yeka
Onka’s rendition of the Elton John classic, ‘Daniel’. Before her
performance, she had deemed the song one she could relate with, having
lost people in her life. But at the end of the day, she was trying
rather too hard to reenact the pain of her loss than give a proper
rendition of the song.

For the first time
since the show started, the judges did not pull their punches, lashing
out at those who gave really poor performances. From where I stand, I
think this is too little too late. At this stage in the competition,
the contestants are already supposed to have a handle on their game,
delivering powerful performances that would not only earn them praise
but make the eviction process a difficult one.

Audu Maikori was
especially hard on the lucky three from the wild card- Toni, AJ and
Chito – which is to be expected, going by their lack-lustre
performances. Toni especially is still yet to tap into that superstar
quality which she possesses and which is palpable to everyone except
her. Her lack of self-confidence means that she keeps showing
“potential” and not the real thing. Mini-dress loving AJ gave such a
morose rendition of Roy Orbison’s ‘Pretty Woman’ that at the end of it,
guest judge Lami had to beg her to smile. Chito’s act was not memorable.

As was George’s.
For someone who started out with so much promise, the last two episodes
have seen him going down fast. The only excitement he is capable of
inciting these days is the one we would feel when he eventually gets
evicted, unless he loosens up and strives to become more entertaining.
One person who sure is entertaining is Zoe. But unfortunately, her
energetic choreography often means that she under performs the song
while overdoing the theatrics.

So far, the only
consistent performer is 19-year-old Naomi, currently the youngest in
the competition. The petite singer has managed each week to do justice
to whatever material she is given. Her notes are always on point and
her interpretation has consistently followed the message of the song.
It also helps that she has a powerful voice.

But in shows like this, there is always room for surprises. Who
knows, maybe today, all the contestants including the timid and the
unnecessarily over-confident would suddenly realise why they are on
Nigerian Idol and finally ‘bring it’.

It’s about a week
to saxophonist Eji Oyewole’s 70th birthday and he believes he has cause
to be thankful. “God has been very kind to me,” notes the soft-spoken
artist who has been entertaining for over 40 years and who has
performed across three continents.

“The journey so far
has been good and bad but that is life for you,” he adds. The good
aspect of the journey for Oyewole is seeing people enjoy his music
while the bad is “the unpleasantness that goes with the way music is
handled in this country.” Specifically, the unpleasantness is the lack
of professionalism and opportunism prevalent in the industry. “The
music industry is down and it is so bad it gives room for just anybody
to say I run a record company. And it is a way of exploitation.

They
use that to exploit unsuspecting artists, the younger ones who are
desperate to be in the limelight.” Like many musicians, Oyewole took up
music early in primary school. What however did it for him was
listening to musicians from across the world. “I must say that I grew
up fast in music awareness. I knew a lot of things people of my age
probably did not know at that time.” Listening to Highlife music from
Ghana, particularly E.T. Mensah, the Ramblers, Star Gazers and the
Uhuru further reinforced his interest. “I think E.T Mensah was actually
one of the musicians who opened my ears.

Then we had at that time Juju
musicians including Irewolede Denge. Though I was small at that time, I
was able to appreciate them and their very beautiful, intelligent and
philosophical songs.” Though he had started playing music
professionally before completing secondary school, the man, friends
call ‘Saxophone legend’ began fully after he was done schooling.

He
played with Adeolu Akinsanya; Eddy Okonta in Ibadan; Bobby Benson at
Caban Bamboo Night Club in Lagos and with Afrobeat legend, Fela
Anikulapo Kuti. “When Fela came back we were together jamming in clubs
and doing some radio programmes together. But I couldn’t join when he
was forming (Koola) Lobitos because then I was with Bobby and he would
not let me go,” he recalls.

Globetrotter

Apart from his job
as a journalist, the late Olabisi Ajala was renowned for his
globetrotting, which inspired a famous song by Ebenezer Obey. Till
date, the Yorubas refer to a person who travels a lot as Ajala. But
Ajala may actually not be as widely travelled as Oyewole, who embarked
on a tour of West Africa after leaving Akinsanya’s band in the 1960s.
The tour later transformed into an adventure around the world.

Cotonou, Benin
Republic was his first port of call. He stayed with some musicians who
kept him in the Francophone country for about a year before returning
to Nigeria. It wasn’t long before the travel bug bit him again. He
headed to Togo this time around and met the Black Santiago, a touring
Highlife band from Ghana. Fast becoming a roving minstrel, Oyewole
allowed himself to be persuaded by the bandleader to follow them to
Ghana where he met other Highlife musicians.

Oyewole wasn’t done
yet. He left Ghana for Abidjan, Cote d’ Ivoire to play in cabarets
before joining President Felix Houphouet-Boigny’s presidential band. “I
was with his band but I left and returned to cabarets because I was
preparing to go to France. I didn’t know whether to go to France, US or
Britain at the time, I did not make up my mind. But some French people
who saw me on a tour asked me to come down to France,” Oyewole
discloses.

He first stayed in
Lyon before moving to Paris where he played with some pop groups. He
met Johnny Halliday, who he describes as “the French version of Elvis
Presley” in Paris before moving to Geneva, Switzerland and later
Hamburg, Germany.

Oyewole sought to
improve himself in Hamburg by registering in the Music Department of
the city’s university. “I was there playing in between studying,” he
says, adding that “I moved to West Berlin where I was studying and
playing. Some Americans saw me there because I was playing in some
night clubs. I would leave the school to go and make some money.

The
Americans told me,‘‘We have a Jazz club, why don’t you come?’ That was
how I got to know of the Jazz Gallery band. Its leader was Billy
Brooks, very beautiful Jazz drummer. It was there that I met a lot of
great American musicians. Dizzy Gillespie, Miles Davies, they all came
there. In 1971 I was able to play at the Berlin Jazz Festival.” The
saxophonist eventually joined the Gasoline Band formed by the group,
before doing a stint in New York and later London.

Oyewole studied
Music at Trinity College, London, but still couldn’t refrain from
playing. He eventually abandoned his studies to focus on playing music,
just like he did at Hamburg later.

Mellow sound

Over time,
Oyewole, who started out as a saxophonist, later switched to the flute.
“I love the flute because its sound is very mellow, you can play it
anywhere. It is very portable. That’s why I like the flute. It’s more
or less my companion. I hardly go anywhere without it,” he discloses.

Explaining the type
of music he plays, Oyewole says, “I am an all rounder. Starting with
Highlife and graduating to Oriental music, Continental, Ballroom music,
Cabarets, laying Foxtrot and Tango. I play any kind of music now. I can
fit in into any kind of music but basically I can call myself Afro Jazz
musician. I play anything that has traces of Africa in it. Basically,
I’m a Jazz artist.” Charity begins at home

Having played with
different bands over the years, it is not surprising that Oyewole has
only six solo albums. He reveals how the first, titled ‘Charity Begins
at Home’, came about. “I came back for FESTAC 77 several years after my
sojourn; I represented the UK Black along with the Osibisa Band. During
that time, I recorded an album for EMI. I had signed the contract in
London where I could have recorded it but I decided to come back to
Nigeria to add Nigeria’s flavour.

Fortunately or unfortunately, the EMI
people did not do the right thing to release the album. It almost got
unreleased because of the politics at EMI at the time. Later, they
released reluctantly it but it wasn’t given the promotion it deserved.”
After FESTAC 77, Oyewole returned to England to join Island Records. He
recorded albums with a number of artists including Bob Marley and
played on the Reggae legend’s track, ‘Buffalo Soldier’. After several
years abroad, Oyewole returned to Nigeria finally in 1983 but still
travelled occasionally. It’s only in the last five years that he has
not left Nigeria’s shores.

Since one doesn’t celebrate 70 years twice, Oyewole, leader of the
Afro Bars Band has decided to mark the occasion on February 19 with a
concert at Bogobiri, Ikoyi, Lagos. “The reason I want to celebrate is
to appreciate God, the Father for keeping me till date and for giving
me the energy to play the saxophone. The saxophone is to praise Him ,
glorify Him and make people happy’’.

If the February 8
Barbican performance of the Creole Choir of Cuba were to be described
in one word, it would be called ‘Triumph’. A triumph that derives from
weathered collective challenges like slavery, displacement, bad
governance and natural disasters; and on this occasion, the barrier of
language.

The Creole Choir of
Cuba is a harmonious union of sages with voices raised in their native
tongue to tell the world their communal history. The Choir is more than
10 individuals wielding musical notes and percussion instruments; it is
a projection of bravery, endurance, talent and warmth.

Beyond language

The stage was laid
out simply, with no busy background accoutrements to distract the
audience; the choir of six women and four men dressed in simple, loose
fitting traditional attire was the cynosure of eyes. And from the very
first song, ‘Mangaje’, which with powerful solo and back-up acapella
recounts the disillusionment of African slaves in the new world, the
audience is transported to a temporal space where not words but emotion
is the Lingua-Franca.

The predominantly
white audience was given more than a glimpse of the soul of these
Haitian descendants of Cuba, who rendered one melody after the other
with remarkable flourish and verve; undeterred that a majority of their
listeners did not understand the language.

Perhaps because of
this, their faces, bodies, and movements reached where their vocal
expressions could not. They swayed, crouched, danced, mimed, pumped the
air in defiance or waved in victory. We heard in dirges, chants,
invocations, and laments as one story after another of pain, loss,
injustice and suffering was told with alternating emotions.

Mundane themes such
as the loneliness of a cattle drover travelling at dusk are woven with
those of war and political denunciation to create a spectrum of
thoughts and cultural insights. And with many of the songs performed
solo, the audience was given a taste of the choir’s versatility –
individually and collectively.

A frenzy of drumbeats

While the first
half produced a reflective atmosphere for past disappointments and
difficulties, the second was more upbeat. A frenzy of drumbeats,
dramatic dances and applause accompanied songs like ‘Ou Pa Nan Chaj’ –
as playful jeers where thrown the way of the diminutive male singer who
played a man ridiculed because of his inability to successfully woo any
female.

The show got more
animated when audience members were invited onstage to dance with the
undulating women to the excited hoots from the audience. The invitees,
who seemed to be familiar with the Haitian melodies, did not disappoint.

As if the Creole
and French speaking singers had not pleased the crowd enough, they
inspired even more appreciative applause when they broke into a
rendition of Nat King Cole’s ‘Unforgettable’.

The performance was
marked with an amazing sound clarity further complemented by indigenous
percussion instruments such as drums, choucounes and Haitian merengues,
which formed the sinew of the tunes.

Ten middle-aged
singers with remarkable memories in folklore can certainly do a lot in
communicating the brotherhood of the black race, with sounds and dances
reminiscent of the West African cultures to which their ancestors once
belonged.

Universality

Michelle Johnson,
a member of the audience, commended the choir and spoke on the
universality of black culture and music. “This performance shows the
strength and durability of black culture. The costumes, sounds and
movements are very similar to what I see in Jamaica or any other
African performance. Black arts [are] really self-rejuvenating.” “How
simple can you get – 10 voices and a few random bits of percussion and
the packed crowd was spellbound from the first notes,” remarked
journalist, Andy Snipper. Much as that is true. The Creole Choir of
Cuba, established in 1994, is no haphazard assortment. It is made up of
descendants of Camaguey (an old Cuban colonial town), who studied music
and nurtured the folk songs passed down orally to them since the early
19th century then gradually fusing it with modern Haitian sounds.

The smiles of appreciation at the end of the closing performance, ‘A
Tribute to the Sun’, told of the transcendental quality of music. This
Cuban choir eventually had the audience leaning out of their seats to
grab handshakes as they abandoned the stage and still singing, sashayed
into the crowd in a show of warmth rarely experienced in UK shows.

Blaring horns from
the trailer ahead jarred Adaeze out of her mind walk. An expectant
mother who sat to the left of the bus driver, buried her teeth in a
brownish loaf of bread. Beside her was another middle-aged woman
nodding back and forth as she battled sleep. Adaeze thought of them,
shook her head and muted a hiss.

The dry wind stung
her eyes. She squinted, but never lost gaze of the mobile images, which
cast a fuzzy greenish relief over the western skies. She adjusted the
blue-coloured scarf, drooping over her eyes, to savour the orange sun.
Her thoughts rolled back to her lover. Rufus loved the setting sun. Its
parting burst of golden rays, heralding a final sinking into the pit of
the night, bewitched him.

Thinking of Rufus
made Adaeze slide into self-doubt. She should have gone home to tell
her parents about her decision to go look for him in Port Harcourt. She
would not bother to guess what their reaction would be. Her father
would say that if she still had some brain in her head, she ought to be
far from Rufus. Her mother would add, “If Rufus’s parents do not
approve of you, keep your distance.” Her parents would not understand
because they never lived in her heart. Adaeze loved Rufus. She also
knew that Rufus loved her dearly. That, for her, was everything. It was
greater than the colonial seal of the queen of England or the federal
fiat of the newly independent Nigeria.

It was one year and
a month into independence, November 1961; the harmattan haze brushed
the skies. Adaeze sat dourly in the bus heading towards Port Harcourt.
The running images of tall palm trees, with low-level plants saddled
between them, fanned her eyes. She looked at her wrist. It was 6:20
p.m. A wave of anxiety flooded her mind. Why is Rufus not back from
work on a day he had promised he would be home early? What could be the
problem?

Adaeze hissed
again, aloud this time around. She wished she could divest her mind of
worries and be free to snooze just like the woman in front of her,
whose head now rocked the headrest and her wide-open mouth wheezed a
filtered snore.

The trailer hooted
again, the bus jerked and slowed down. Adaeze raised her head. They
were approaching Imo River. Port Harcourt was drawing near. Her heart
pounded, as the bus made an abrupt stop by the river. Where could Rufus
be? A sense of foreboding crawled inside her. The driver’s side was on
the right ledge of the bridge and as Adaeze peered in his direction ,
she observed him shake his head.

“A terrible accident happened here this morning.” The driver’s voice filled the bus.

“What’s that?”
Adaeze asked, turning in the direction of the driver’s view. His full
moon afro hair shielded her from seeing what was amiss.

“An accident.” The driver turned backwards.

“Ewoh.” She shifted
from her position, wove her lean body through spaces between the
passengers on the right side of the bus to see the carnage for her
self. A big Mammy wagon had skidded off the road and crushed itself on
the thick stem of a heavyset tree by the hem of the river. The impact
felled the tree.

She probed the
wreckage as if searching for something. On the lorry’s tailboard was a
strip boldly written: En Broda Hoods we stand. Cherubic images of
Nnamdi Azikiwe on the right and Tafawa Balewa on the left waving the
green-white-green flag bordered the message. Was anything familiar with
the vehicle? She wondered. No.

Adaeze tried
recalling the inscription on the bus Rufus had boarded that morning but
realised that, unlike other days, she did not commit it to memory. She
almost bit off her lip in regret.

She shook feverishly as she returned to her seat.

“Anything the problem?” a man sitting next to her, asked.

“I don’t know. It is just that my friend, went to work in Port Harcourt since morning and has not returned.”

“Why do you worry? Pitakwa is home of fun. The person probably went out with friends.”

Adaeze nodded and muttered an inaudible “Thank you.”

Whatever kept Rufus
in Port Harcourt was to Adaeze more serious than the man had assumed.
He did not know that Rufus never said one thing and did another. She
began to pray silently for his safety.

The engine of the
trailer in front erupted into a volcano of sound and smoke. Their bus
jerked and its Austin engine replied with a thunderous rev and their
journey continued. The thick smoke oozing from the trailer shrunk her
bus driver’s visibility to arms length. The choking tang joined the
acrid smell of the fish in one of the baskets under her seat to
nauseate her. She burped and then covered her nose with an end of her
scarf. The driver whistled the National Anthem but the droning engine
drowned a greater part of the song.

Fifteen minutes
later, they were at the Mile 2 Diobu Motor Park in Port Harcourt.
Adaeze ran out of the bus terminal. A Volkswagen beetle almost knocked
her down as she hurried to cross the road. The screech of its brakes
threw her off balance and she missed falling by whiskers. She ran back
and waited for the car to cross.

“Craze woman, you wan die for my hand? God no go gree! See im head, yeye!” the enraged driver jabbed at her.

As he drove away, a
bumper sticker on the rear fender of the Volkswagen jumbled Adaeze’s
sense of co-ordination. It read Make Babies Not Wars. She smiled and
took more care as she crossed the road.

“Wharf.” She flagged a taxi down.

“Which one?” the taxi driver asked.

“Where the Elder Dempster ships berth.” Adaeze’s hand was on the doorknob.

“Are you sure it’s not their office you mean?”

“Yes, the office.”

“That’s at shed twelve”

“Yes.”

As the driver’s
left hand engaged the gear, Adaeze’s mind engaged worry. She tried to
wave the gale of pessimism off her mind but the bars of doubts grimly
stood against her. She feared that Rufus couldn’t have been hale and
hearty and still be in the office when he was due home by 3:30 p.m. He
was a man with character. When he was leaving in the morning, he had
promised her that he would return earlier. They would spend time in her
shop before going home. He knew she closed by 5:00 p.m but his bicycle
was still in her shop as at 6:00 p.m. when she closed and came looking
for him.

Thinking about the
bicycle, she began to reconsider her action. Was going immediately
after Rufus the wisest step to have taken? What if we miss our paths?
What if he gets there before me? Since I have the shop keys with me,
how would he be able to take his bicycle? That means he will have to
walk another four miles home after a tiresome day’s job. “Good
gracious,” she yelled.

“Anything the problem?” The taxi driver braked.

“No.” Adaeze was embarrassed.

Minutes later, the
taxi stopped. A bold Elder Demptster Shipping sign welcomed her. She
paid the driver and stepped out. The harmattan wind was colder and less
dusty. It must be the sea breeze.

“Good evening.”

“Evening. How are you young woman?” A dark looking man, the receptionist, welcomed her. “May I be of any help to you?”

“Yes sir. My name is Adaeze Ukonu, I am Rufus Esiaba’s relation. He is in the morning shift and…”

“Make yourself
comfortable, Adaeze. Do you care for water or a drink?” His calm and
kind voice temporarily lifted off her load of worry.

“Nothing,” she replied and took a seat opposite him.

She tried studying his face. Maybe it could reveal an attempt to conceal something from her. She found nothing of the sort.

“Wait. Let me check
the duty register and our movement logbook. We have a ship that had a
problem at mid sea and some members of our staff went offshore at short
notice this afternoon. Rufus is probably among them.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Hope coursed through her mind, enlivening her voice.

The clock on the
wall tolled seven times. A large moth joined a party of night insects
flocking the fluorescent tubes above the receptionist’s table. An empty
bottle of Tango sat on his window ledge.

Adaeze watched him
anxiously. The whirling fan hummed. Her fingers drummed her laps
nervously. The receptionist gasped, cleared his throat as he worked.
One of the insects above lost its wings and landed on the thick
exercise book. The man pinched it away and flipped to the next page.

Adaeze’s eyes never
left him. He raised his head from the book. His brows creased. He
asked, “When did you say Rufus left home?”

The question scared her. “This morning.”

“I’m afraid his
name is neither on the daily staff attendance register nor in the log
of the names of those who went offshore.” He paused thoughtfully,
walked past her, turned and said, “You are sure his destination was
work.”

“I am sure. He was dressed for work and had his work things. I mean his bag and the rest.”

The receptionist looked at her with concern. “Wait a moment,” he said and broke into quick strides out of the office.

While Adaeze waited
for him, she studied the office. It was a large room painted sky blue
with three large windows on both sides. It had two large desks. The
wall had a picture of Queen Elizabeth II. There was a footnote
underneath the picture. She did not bother to read it, as her ears
caught the doubled footsteps approaching the office. She hoped the
receptionist was returning with Rufus.

“This is Mr. Ibeme. He was in the morning shift and would have known if Rufus came to work or not.”

“Mr. Douglas, what could have gone wrong?” Mr. Ibeme looked at the receptionist. “This is quite unlike Esiaba,” he added.

“I wouldn’t know, really.”

“I hope I am
wrong,” Adaeze said, as tears gathered in her eyes, “But I have my
fears. I have my suspicions,” she said in between sobs.

“What could they be?” Douglas asked.

“There was an accident near the Imo River this morning.”

“Yes, it was all
over the radio,” he encored. “But if Rufus was involved he would have
given them our office address to locate us.”

“What if he lost his life?”

“Don’t be silly, Woman,” Douglas scowled.

“Must it be death?” Ibeme queried.

Adaeze said nothing.

Ibeme took over the receptionist’s table while Douglas led her out of the premises in search of Rufus.

The coastal
harmattan wind was cooler and the air fresher outside. It was getting
late as vehicles on the road became fewer. Darkness had phased out
daylight completely. However, beams of headlamps, street lamps and
multiple neon lights on buildings helped to awaken the night. Douglas
checked his watch it was already 7.30p.m. He waved down a taxi.
“Waterside Police station.”

“Enter.”

They drove silently until they reached the station.

It was a 1945
building. The imprint of the builder and the year were on the crown of
the yellow and blue house. There was a crowd of anxious people milling
around.

“Obi Amadi,” A burly Lance Corporal called names from a sheet of paper between his thrown up hands.

“Whose names are on that list?” Douglas asked a man nearby.

“Raphael Okorobia,” the policeman continued.

“Whose names?” Douglas nudged the seemingly absent-minded man.

“Those identified in the accident.”

Douglas’s
discomfort was evident. He moved towards a notice board where those who
could read, checked the names on the same list the burly policeman was
calling from. “Excuse me sergeant,” he called at one of the several
police officers pushing files behind the counter.

“Yes.” The sergeant regarded him.

I have a problem. A
colleague of mine, left home for work this morning without showing up
in the office the whole day. We have even checked your board and his
name is not there.”

“Where does he come to work from?” The sergeant asked, fishing out a short note pad and a pen from his breast pockets.

“Obioma, near Aba.’

“Assuming he was in the accident that happened today, can you identify him?”

“Yes.”

“I will give you
the names of the hospitals they were taken to and you may go there and
search for him. If he is not there, then return early to tell us.”

“Okay.”

The police officer wrote the names of the hospitals on a sheet of paper and handed it to Douglas.

It was 8:45 p.m
when they got to the second hospital – Green Waterside Clinic. The
night nurses guided them into the male ward. It was a long hall with
twelve windows six on either side. The smell of drugs filled the air.
It was different from the antiseptic freshness of the Catholic hospital
earlier visited. The ceiling fans maintained a constant buzz in the
rather quiet hall.

Rufus was not there.

They left for the Naval Hospital where, according to the nurse, the most seriously wounded were taken to.

Adaeze began to cry when she heard this and Mr. Douglas tried to console her. “Be positive.”

The Naval Hospital at the waterside was a small but very effective one.

“Can we help you Lady and Gentleman,” said the male nurse.

“Yes. We have a problem.”

“Accident victims?”

“Yes,” Mr. Douglas answered, “A man. A young man.”

Rufus was not there.

“Where then could he be?” Adaeze began to cry.

“Well, I presume you may need to return to the police station. They may be in a better position to make suggestions.”

Something in the
naval officer’s voice seemed to alarm Mr. Douglas. He looked at Adaeze
and nervously turned towards the male nurse. He went towards him and
whispered something.

“Okay, thanks.” The man said in Adaeze’s hearing. “How did you come here?”

“We used a cab,” said Douglas.

“I am not sure you
would be able to find one this time, it is already late. But don’t
worry, I am on my way home, I could give you a lift.”

“That’s very kind of you”

“My pleasure,” the naval man said.

They drove into the
police station at about 11:30 p.m. The place was less busy than it was
a few hours earlier when they first called.

The naval man called the desk officer on duty and told him what the problem was.

“Wait. I will be
back in a moment.” The policeman disappeared into an inner office and
returned with a file. He invited the naval officer into the inner room
while Douglas and Adaeze awaited their return.

After eight minutes, the policeman returned alone. He also invited Douglas to join them.

Adaeze was alone
and unsettled. She prayed silently that the policeman would be able to
furnish them with useful information on Rufus’s whereabouts.

What if he is dead?
The mere thought of this gave her cramps. Cold sweat broke on her
brows, and she felt a hand squeeze her heart. The sound of the
harmattan wind suddenly became a dirge in her ears. She felt nausea and
her legs could hardly bear her weight. Adaeze found a spot on the
stairs outside and sat down.

She turned the
moment she heard their voices. Her eyes queried the three men
curiously. The policeman’s eyes were non-committal, the naval man’s
were saying, no he is alive, but she could not trust Mr. Douglas’s.
They were moist.

“Mr. Douglas, what is the matter?”

“Nothing. I am just worried that we don’t seem to be making any headway.”

She moved close to him; let him hold her hand as they returned silently into the naval man’s car.

It was past 12.00
midnight. Adaeze shook visibly. Douglas held her tighter but said
nothing. She sensed that he was equally worried. She wondered if he was
keeping something from her.

The naval man tried several times to bring up a discussion but met a contiguous wall of silence.

Adaeze regarded at
him and shifted her gaze. The naval man didn’t know Rufus. He didn’t
know what he meant to either Douglas or her. Adaeze looked at Douglas
again and his unusual quietness worried her. “Are you sure there is no
problem?” she whispered in his hearing alone.

Mr. Douglas simply shook his head avoiding her gaze.

At that moment,
Adaeze suspected he knew something she did not know. Since he entered
and came out of the policeman’s office he had become unusually quiet.
Maybe they showed him Rufus’s belongings or a proof that he was either
dead or in a critical condition.

Mr. Douglas stole a
look in Adaeze’s direction and their eyes met. He had wanted to look
away but something in her eyes pleaded with him to tell her something.

“Ada, I will have to find you somewhere to rest, maybe sleep for a while. Our friend…”

“Max Spiff,” the naval man interjected, offering his name.

“Max Spiff and I will continue the search. I am hopeful that we will find him before morning.”

“Mr. Douglas, I
left my family at home in search of Rufus, I don’t intend to rest for a
second until I find him. Please let me continue with you,” she pleaded.

“Okay, Mr. Douglas, let her be.” Max spun the car noisily towards the creek where they had earlier come from.

When they got to
the hospital and began to look for the morgue attendant, the truth
dawned on Adaeze. She needed no one to tell her that it was not Rufus
but his body that they had come there to fetch. They spent about two
hours searching for the morgue attendant. The reality she faced at that
moment devastated her. She left the men with the task and found a quiet
spot where she crooked her head in her elbow, and emptied her sorrows
in tears. When they could not find the attendant, Max had to plead with
the medical director to provide the spare keys.

“Douglas, do you have the courage to look inside the morgue? It is not usually easy,” Max,asked.

“I honestly don’t know. “

Flanked by Adaeze
and a nurse, with gloves, nasal masks and other paraphernalia, the two
men moved to the morgue section of the hospital.

On reaching the
white square building, the group beheld a long trail of blood running
out from the morgue and forming a scarlet puddle outside. They could
not immediately comprehend what it was; the bodies should be in crates
before freezing.

Max dashed forward. He urged the rest to join him.

The moment the
hospital nurse opened the door towards them; waft of morphine hit their
nostrils. Everyone ran back except Max. He switched on the light and
took a step backwards. On the floor of the morgue was the bleeding body
of a young man lying face down. Max bent down, and began to check his
pulse.

He looked frantically backwards and beckoned on the nurse who stepped forward.

On seeing the colour of the victim’s shirt, Adaeze hastened in.

“I’m afraid the guy is alive,” Max said under his breath.

At that moment, Douglas joined them.

He bent over, turned the head of the victim, looked intently at his face, and screamed, “That’s him! That’s Rufus.”

A thin line of hope
illumined Adaeze’s dulled eyes as she felt Rufus’s body with the back
of her hand as a mother would a sick child.

Adaeze moved to lift the body but Max signaled to Douglas to take her away. The nurse guided her out of the morgue.

Max’s eyes
carefully followed the blood from the puddle outside, to the stains on
the inner side of the door, through the marks left by Rufus’s body on
the floor, to the red droplets marking the edges of one of the crates
in the morgue. “Thank God we are here. We must take him to the hospital
right now. He has lost some blood,” said Max.

The military nurse
clearly was able to figure out what happened, “Rufus must have gained
consciousness, tried to get out of the morgue and when he couldn’t, he
slid back into a blackout.”

Douglas nodded.

Max brought down
the stretcher cradled onto the wall, “Douglas please, let’s get him out
of this place fast.”

Adaeze shuffled away from the mortuary entrance from where she had
watched them carry Rufus away. Her whole body shook with trepidation–a
mix grill of nervousness, physical exhaustion and shock. She drifted
towards the open field between the wards and the morgue. Her thoughts
were as unsteady as her wobbly hands. What would have happened if she
did not come looking for Rufus? What would… what? The incident silenced
her. It was also a moment of deep awakening for her. Rufus’s luck was
her luck. If death could not snatch him from her, nobody, no
human–neither her parents nor Rufus’s parents–could stop her from
loving and living with him. She was sure of this more than she was of
anything else.

You can trust fans
of Afrobeat legend, Fela Anikulapo Kuti never to miss a chance to
celebrate the late music icon. The British Council Nigeria, National
Theatre (London) and British Deputy High Commission, Lagos, provided
them such an opportunity on Sunday, February 6 when they organised a
screening of ‘Fela!’ at the New Africa Shrine, Agidingbi, Ikeja, Lagos.

The production was
recorded last year at the Olivier (National Theatre) in London and had
been broadcasted by the BBC earlier this year. The screening at the
Shrine gave those who had missed the telecast an opportunity to see the
interesting show. And people seized the moment fully. The Shrine was
already bustling minutes to the 4pm commencement time of the viewing
and though there were empty seats initially, they were all later taken
by the multitude of Nigerian and foreign Afrobeat aficionados.

Welcome to the Shrine

Country director
of the British Council, David Higgs and daughter of the late musician,
Yeni, gave speeches before the show got underway. Giving a sort of
background to the event, Higgs disclosed that the National Theatre
likes to share its productions with audiences around the world. He
thanked Fela’s children and the management of the Shrine for hosting
the screening.

Yeni apologised
for Femi’s absence and seized the opportunity to allay the fears of
those who dread coming to the Shrine, especially first timers. “You can
see that we don’t eat people here. Go spread the news today, that we
don’t eat people here,” she said. Fela’s oldest child disclosed that
she was shocked months back when the British Council called to discuss
the hosting of the screening. Yeni also pre-empted critics by noting,
“Any criticism you have, remember this is an appreciation of a son of a
soil.”

Some innovations

The production,
directed and choreographed by Bill T. Jones wasn’t a bad affair though
the producers took some liberties in enacting Fela’s story on stage.
The men in Fela’s Egypt 80 Band never danced as vigorously as did the
male dancers in the National Theatre’s ‘Fela!’, neither was ‘Trouble
Sleep’ a duet by Fela and a female singer. Obviously, wishing to
respect the mood of Nigerians on MKO Abiola, the winner of the June 12,
1993 presidential elections, his name was deleted from ‘International
Thief Thief’. The producer’s decision to dramatise scenes in ‘Sorrows,
Tears and Blood’ was also a nice touch and the involvement of the
audience in the production was a master stroke.

It could also be
argued that the producers appropriated extensively from Carlos Moore’s
‘Fela: This Bitch of a Life’ in the parts involving his mother,
Funmilayo and the travails of his wives during the 1977 raid on
Kalakuta Republic.

Interestingly,
some of the scenes applauded by the audience during the live show were
also appreciated by those who saw the screening with both applauses
merging into one.

However, the
decision of the Shrine’s management to show the Chelsea versus
Liverpool match and later, the Real Madrid versus Real Sociedad at the
back while the screening was on wasn’t a very wise move. They only
succeeded in dividing the house. Nonetheless, it wasn’t a bad outing,
as some commentators noted.

Very fulfilling

“I think it’s
very fulfilling for us here. One must always be grateful when the
opportunity arises has it as today to showcase what has become an
international phenomenon at the New Africa Shrine. The only thing that
can top this for us is if the actual [musical] comes to the African
Shrine in March which we are looking forward to quite avidly,” said
Femi Odebunmi, one of those who viewed the production.

Fela’s son, Seun, said of the screening, “I feel it is essential to
make people have a taste of what the play is about and I’m sure with
time, the play itself would come here. This is just for people to
understand. I just pray that the right move be made to help people
understand what is going on out there about Fela.” For Higgs, screening
‘Fela’ at the Shrine was appropriate because, “the play is set in the
Shrine, so it’s the Shrine in the Shrine.” He added that beyond that,
“it’s an appreciation of Fela Kuti’s music. I mean his life in his
hometown but from elsewhere. I think that shows that Fela Kuti’s
influence was well beyond his own country.”

The Centre for
Black and African Arts and Civilisation (CBAAC) and the Institute for
French Research in Africa (IFRA), Institute of African Studies,
University of Ibadan, further advanced their relationship on Tuesday,
February 8 when the director of IFRA visited the parastatal of the
Federal Ministry of Culture.

Gerard Chouin’s
visit to the Broad Street, Lagos headquarters of CBAAC was to
strengthen the existing goodwill between both organisations.

IFRA was
established in 1990 and is financed by the French Ministry for Foreign
Affairs. Aside from its office at the University of Ibadan, the
organisation also operates from the Institute for Development Research,
Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria.

Mr Chouin apprised
his hosts comprising director general of CBAAC, Tunde Babawale, and
staff of the centre of IFRA’s mandate during his visit.

He disclosed that
IFRA is a not-for-profit institute promoting research in the social
sciences and humanities. It also facilitates exchanges between West
African scholars and their colleagues in France. The archaeologist
assured of IFRA’s continuous collaboration with CBAAC.

Babawale, who spoke
in the same vein, highlighted other areas of cooperation between both
organisations. The two directors agreed on a number of issues during
the visit. They resolved to pay attention to repatriation of artefacts
and the co-sponsoring of post graduate students. They also agreed to
cooperate further on projects including the comparative study of
heritage sites in Nigeria and an ongoing project on patrimony and
identity.

I stopped mimicking alien shows of affection

After Saretu rejected my love-tinged flower

I refused to excise the “U” in her name

For I want all to know

That that fanciful “Saret”

That aper of far-flung culture

Had her cord buried

In the red earth of my village.

Saretu of the turbulent eyes

Saretu of the dimpled cheeks

Saretu of the gap-toothed smiles

Saretu of the thundering gait

Rejected my adoring flower

On that day made for lovers

Saretu, why reject my flower?

Haven’t you once chided me

To stop being what my forefathers were?

Why now reject my little rose

Of which girls across the sea

Sprain their nostrils to inhale?

You asked with your sensuous lips pouting:

“Na flower I go chop?”

Excerpted from the poet’s forthcoming collection, ‘A Thousand Years of Thirst’

Taiwo Owoyemi is
definitely a ladies’ man in terms of his Art. He happily admits so. And
to dispel any doubts about his preference for ladies, he has a giant
near-seven-foot wood sculpture of a lady selling, ‘Dignity of Labour’
that stands very proudly in the exhibition hall of Bruce Onobrakpeya’s
Harmattan Workshop in Agbarha Otor, Delta State.

He was able to
create this masterpiece in just under ten days and he credits the
serene nature of the workshop’s location at Agbarha Otor for this
achievement. Since 2006, Owoyemi has produced more than 10 carvings of
ladies. Why ladies? “I find the female form more interesting,” he
responds. “I find it interesting working with female forms because
there are a lot of characteristics to work with,” the artist Owoyemi
explains. “Styling and distorting the form to make it your own,” he
continues, “is a satisfying challenge,” adding that, “female forms are
more interesting than male forms.” He also points out that he is in
good company. “As artists we are attracted to the opposite sex and,
work more on the opposite sex. Most of Joe Musa and Ovraiti’s paintings
are based on women and so are Eghosa Oguigo’s paintings of dancers. My
wood sculptures or carvings incorporate both traditional and modern
concepts. I like looking at my carvings from the traditional concept in
terms of their make-up, beads, things that make the costumes and
generally make the works more attractive.”

Good wood

Owoyemi graduated
in 2006 from the Adeyemi College of Education; that awards Obafemi
Awolowo University degrees, with a major in Sculpture.

Why does he work
with wood? “I find wood a medium quite easy to work with, unlike
fibreglass, because when you get good wood, you have already seen the
end product. Working with wood will also reduce your distractions while
working because you will not be thinking about resins, mixing cement
and things like that.”

What are his
favourite wood species? “Ebony and teak, because they are more
durable.” How does he deal with realities like cracks in the wood?

“It depends on how
you master your art,” he explains. “As a wood carver, you will be able
to notice good wood before working on them and, you should be able to
dodge away from the cracks and achieve what you want because there is
no mistake in art. There is always the possibility that you can
transform the cracks to ornamentals and motifs that still go in line
with the work and add beauty.”

Is he
incorporating new ideas of ornamentation into his wood sculptures? “I
use ear-rings and traditional tattoos to adorn my works and make them
more traditional and African? What is the life span of his wood
sculptures? “I treat my wood when I work and; except for fire, I don’t
think they will get spoilt. Wood is a durable material especially good
wood; which should be preserved well; away from a moist environment.”

Taiwo Owoyemi held
his first solo exhibition, ‘Strokes N Dots’, at the Hexagon, Benin
City, Edo State from December 8 to 12, 2010; he sold more paintings
than sculptures on that outing. The attendance was massive, especially
at the opening which attracted a lot of art lecturers, the public and
curator of the National Gallery of Art, Benin City. According to him,
“the exhibition was about efforts and results and meant to tell a story
of my works as well as document them.” Because of space constraint, he
was able to display two reliefs and 23 paintings. Sales were fairly
good.

Long way to go

Nonetheless he
believes there is a long way to go. “The average Nigerian does not
appreciate sculpture, especially wood carvings, because they associate
them with fetish. They link them to idols and don’t want them in their
homes. They prefer paintings,” Owoyemi laments. “They don’t appreciate
the aesthetic value of arts because of lack of orientation,” he
explains. “My style of wood carving is not traditional per se. It is
more academic as I work with forms a lot!” He comes from Ikere-Ekiti in
Ekiti State and he is the first and only artist in his family. His
favourite sculptors are Nelson Edewor, who influenced him; and
Bamishile Hassan, based in Ife.

He started painting
in November 2009 and, having delved into it for practical as well as
artistic reasons. “I have a lot of sketches of sculptures that I have
not been able to work on. So I decided to do some of them as paintings
and put them in pictorial form; which is easier and more mobile than
sculptures. They require less space than sculptures.”

Different strokes

Meanwhile Taiwo
Owoyemi is still coming to terms with strong social perceptions about
his wood carvings of women. “Some people frown at nude carvings,” he
complains, “because they say it promotes immorality while others
appreciate the forms.” He is not about to let these views alter his
direction and creativity. “As an artist, I should be able to enlighten
people on my own view and intentions. I have my part to play in
enlightening the public,” he declares.

In the hand-out programme that accompanied ‘Strokes N Dots’, Owoyemi
waxes strong, that “success in life not being accidental, but must be
planned for.” He insists that, “no man is interested in excuse but only
result.” “I see man’s efforts like the different strokes a painter
makes to achieve an effect or forms on his canvass and the Dots are
representations of how successful the efforts turn out to be, as a
result of his skills and diligence,” he concludes.

The writer,
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie hits the nail on the head when she calls the
West on their obsession with the single story of gore that is their
Africa. Adichie is absolutely right: In the West, the power of the
single story races through cash registers and rifles through white
liberal pockets and rich racist valleys. However, there is the
implication that the single story is mostly the product of the other
(aka white person). Lately the single story has been bred, watered and
nurtured for profit by some African hustler-writers. I am talking of
people writing to the test of Western hunger for the stereotypical.

Whites are not the
only ones that climax to the beat of stereotypical African stories.
With all due respects, the bulk of contemporary African writing is all
about the single story that the white world loves. Indeed, several
African writers have over the years focused on the single story for
profit. These writers will probably ask you, what else is there to talk
about? And I agree, for different reasons.

Take Nigeria for instance;
there is only one single story. What our thieving leaders are doing to
Nigeria, is quite simply black on black crime. To tell any other story
would be criminal. In that respect, our writers are right to turn their
rage inwards and shame our leaders with a single story – the fate of
the fabled tortoise that borrowed feathers from birds, flew with them
to a feast in the skies and tricked them out of every morsel of the
feast. In that fable, the enraged birds sent the tortoise crashing down
to earth sans borrowed feathers. Let us send our leaders the way of the
greedy tortoise. The good people of Tunisia just sent their thieving
tortoise packing.

Achebe’s essay,
‘Today the Balance of Stories’ speaks to the racism inherent in stories
about Africa as told by Western writers and the occasional accomplice
of color like VS Naipaul. Adichie’s Single Story speech is essentially
Achebe’s seminal essay set to (YouTube) video. The new medium is not
The Book. It is called YouTube. Ideas rock and books are finding their
way into garden mulch. Think about it. Achebe is a prophet rendered
mute by advances in technology. In Adichie’s video testimony gone viral
on the Internet, Achebe’s great words are re-born. YouTube says we
ought to take a break from writing books and return to the oral
tradition of our ancestors.

Adichie represents
how things used to be and what to hope for in the Nigeria of our
dreams. Sadly, she is a painful stand-out from the forest of mediocrity
that now insists on respect. And hers is a thoughtful and inspiring
speech. But then, why are we running around assuring people that we
really are human beings? Why are we so defensive about our humanity and
why do we proclaim our humanity by denying in installments, all about
us that is authentically African? Why must we quote mostly Western
authors to prove that we are indeed learned? What is wrong with our
food? The French eat snails; it is not more appetising because they
call it escargot.

Why must we hide the fact that some of us relish
sautéed termites and loudly proclaim our love of caviar er fish eggs?
Many of us, especially our leaders have a complex about our African
heritage. Let us think deeply about these things. Our psychosis is more
than skin deep.

Heads ought to bloody roll for what has become of Nigeria under
civilian leadership. How can things be this bad in a land just bursting
at the seams with some of the best resources the world has? How can
people ignore the fact that there are no roads, there is no light, no
water, no safety and security, no health care facilities worth using
and the educational system has virtually collapsed? Our educational
system is so bad many of our Nigerian “professors” refuse to allow
their children in their own classrooms. What other stories are there to
tell of Nigeria? I am really beginning to believe that our people
deserve what they are getting.

Take Abuja; basically thieving
intellectuals, civil servants and politicians have carved up all the
choice land for themselves and shoved everyone else to the far
outskirts to live like sub-humans. And the people seem happy about it,
happily going about their daily business of begging thieves for crumbs.
If we really believe we are human beings like the white man, we should
be fighting this black on black crime.

As a people, we should take a
deep breath, stop the navel gazing and reflect on why five decades
after Achebe’s ‘Things Fall Apart’ we are still lecturing the white man
on the need for respect. It is hard to respect what the eye sees. There
is not much to respect in the shame that has become Nigeria. If we
urinate in our living room, how can we demand that visitors respect
said living room? Anyway, my point is this; we are our own worst
enemies.

It was tempting to watch and see what ‘The Perfect Church’ had to offer that Nollywood had not served up a million times before.

The religious
satire from Wale Adenuga Productions is a screen adaptation of Ebi
Akpeti’s novel of the same title. Unusually for a Nollywood picture,
The Perfect Church lampoons, albeit not too hard, but the difference
from the rest of the pack is clear. Cheating husbands, homosexuals,
‘carnal believers’ and desperate singles are some of the awkward
vehicles moving the story’s plot.

Perfect by Name

The movie, directed
by Bambo Adebajo, opens aptly during Sunday service. A choir session is
ongoing in Pastor Benson’s ‘The Perfect Church’. Ramsey Nouah is
fitting in his role as Benson, shepherd of the perfect flock. It is not
the first time Nouah will be playing a pastor, though. He played a
similar role in ‘Church Business’, another religious satire from 2003.

Leading praise and
worship with the ‘voice of an angel’ is Sister Angela, played by Funke
Akindele, a senator’s mistress. The pastor’s sermon on marriage is a
winner with the congregation and they rush to gush to the pastor about
how moving it is: the congregation is in awe of its pastor and the
pastor is proud of his followers.

Alas, the key
players in the church’s activities are living a lie. Things in the
Church are not exactly as they seem. We are soon introduced to the
‘who’s who of what’s what’ in The Perfect Church.

Mr and Mrs. Ojo are
the church’s perfect couple, superbly portrayed by Hakeem Rahman and
Ngozi Ezeonu. Pastor Benson cites them as examples of what a perfect
marriage should be and hopes the rest of the church will emulate their
‘exemplary’ union.

Norbert Young is
Mrs Ojo’s former husband, who brings back good and bad memories. Jibola
Daboh is the distinguished Senator Val, lover to Sister Angela. Despite
having only a cameo appearance, Val is not easily forgotten and in a
movie filled with very bad men, Daboh joins Rahman as its
super-villains.

The church’s head
usher, anxious to marry above his status, soon dips his hands into the
money box, much like Judas Iscariot before him. Needless to say, the
Pastor did feel betrayed. Same for Yinka Olukunga in her role as the
devoted, desperate church sister eager to become Pastor Mrs. Benson.
She indulges in unsolicited ‘cooler’ ministry and has the courage to
propose to the Pastor after she is convinced that reception was loud
and clear when her prayers revealed she would be the handsome
preacher’s life partner. Benson, however, has other interests.

Imperfect by Nature

The
much-anticipated visit by Bishop Williams is the catalyst for the
unfurling and the collapse of the sandcastle that is the Perfect
Church. Acted excellently by Olu Jacobs, it is hard not to fall under
the spell of the Bishop, who soon has all and sundry confessing to
myriad sins. It is during his altar call that we see that there are
more sinners than previously believed. It was easier to have simply
said ‘Go and sin no more’ to the residents of this contemporary Sodom
and Gomorrah.

The picture ends
happily for some; two go to jail for attempted murder and one to hell
for suicide. On its part, the audience is acquainted with a narrator we
never knew existed. She obliges us – as she does the visiting students
from a private secondary school – with an epilogue on the Perfect
Church Saga. There is hope that a change in the church’s name will
herald a change in its nature.

The Perfect Church
is not the perfect movie. In its search for complexity, there are too
many flashbacks rather than authentic twists and revelations that could
task the audience’s imagination. The hints to the pastor’s darker side
are merely glossed over and we don’t feel the punch or essence of this
until the climactic moment of disclosure. The emphasis appears more on
the flock than on the shepherd and at the end, the pastor’s misfortune
seems not to matter so much. Not even to his flock whose awe swiftly
turns to disgust.

His comeuppance at
the end of the movie is also unrealistic and more of a cowardly act. In
fact, the unexpected suggestion by a child in the audience to ‘Kill all
of them; just kill them’ sounded like a more logical option than the
pastor’s eventual choice.

No Part Two

‘The Perfect
Church’ does not draw a clear line for itself between a satire and a
moralist play or a Greek tragedy. At some points, it preaches
forgiveness and also mocks the same; it hails courage but then takes
the easy way out; it satirises and also pampers.

The subtitles were sometimes faulty and some of the grammatical howlers strike you in the face like a bad day in history.

The movie however
makes up for its flaws with humorous lines and action. Beneath the
humour also lies a pointer to the thought that, in reality, no perfect
flock exists and the lesson that sin does not pay.

Even though it seemed like another episode of Super Story, there is
no promise of a sequel. See it if you love Nollywood; see it if you
hate Nollywood.