Wole Soyinka. This tree won’t make a forest.

Between two decades before independence and two decades after, is a period Femi Osofisan refers to as the ‘age of innocence’. Nigeria knew its golden age of extremely creative talents who shook the world; they are so many that I have decided to pick one of them as the matter of this article, one with whom I feel closest to. Wole Soyinka. That lone tree, which might not make a forest in this ‘age of madness’.

As a Dancer/Choreographer and one of the most privileged young artists in contemporary Nigeria, with a wide access to the international art market. I consider myself one of the very rare remaining Nigerians – not to say Africans – who have access to the prerequisite elements for creating, and able to retain the precise mental balance that their creative temperament requires. Get residencies when needed, an access to theatres to conclude technical aspects of creations, and a ready network for touring. Those who are however aware of the loss that comes with negotiating one’s space of influence and cultural backdrop before the unforgiving gaze of the ‘other’, will understand that every traveling artist, especially of this contemporary times of flux and mixing, where every notion of ‘roots’ and ‘home’ is perpetually shifting, the need for a locality is much stronger than any time.

As a traveling artist who continuously struggles to fix his sense of locality on Nigerian terrain – like many of my likes – I have mostly relied on the brains of such writers as Wole Soyinka to regain the memory of a time before time. For the purpose of authenticity and that of choice, I recognize the need for a body memory, which has lived longer than my own lived power or freedom. Soyinka’s writings have helped me a great deal in recognizing such mental territory of existence, but that is a locality solely based in a psychic asylum.

Let me get back to earth; let’s take a quick excursion around the nation state called Nigeria.

In Nigeria it’s NETWORKING not butt-licking duhh !

History demands that we record dates when life on the planet suffer grave setbacks, and I’m still struggling to recover the day dignity, pride and honour fell off the Nigerian moral lexicon, when Nigeria become a fast food nation. Before I start blabbing like Dele Momodu on pendulum, I must say that I’m not an activist like Kayode Ogundamisi who find it easy to relentlessly sing revolutionary songs on facebook, neither am I a social change advocate who coin all sort of catchy, impractical or over practical easy-to-fall-for phrases to make over statements – like BLING, FIX NIGERIA, UNRULY, THE FUTURE PROJECT, LIGHTUPNIGERIA, ENOUGHISENOUGH and so many other nonsense in bold and capital letters – We have gotten to a point where it has in fact, become a crime in today’s Nigeria to attempt to write in a proverbial or poetic realm of a Chinua Achebe for example, or to keep a decent distance from one’s reader like Wole Soyinka will do in his non fictions. Only if I consider the people I address as a bunch of dick head-dumb ass that are not capable of any personal opinion of their own, nor do anything carrying great weight with their God given common sense, that I will want to ram my message into their brains like retarded kids from kindergarten.

"When I was a boy, getting to know a person because of what they could do for you was what my father called ass kissing. My mother called it social climbing. To me, it was brown-nosing. Now it’s called networking."
These are the witty words Dirk Wittenborn used in opening his raw and edgy article: When ass kissing became networking. In this I recognized the need to state how it concerns me and relates to my situation as a Nigerian youth. In the midst of the national youth euphoria that led to the birth of various awarding organization, and the coming-in-contact of the brightest and best, the most talented and most celebrated young Nigerians, to engage in serious conversations on how our generation could be relevant in the Nigerian regeneration, however informal and unrehearsed this coming-in-contact could have been, social networks like Facebook, twitter and other blog spots played a great role in hopping the pace of this awareness.

In no time, I found myself part of a generation of philistines, these lots –in identity crises and denied of belonging– behave more like disowned bourgeois rats, whose only true desire is to be part of something cheesy and ongoing. After few interaction (or should I call it networking) with few minds who were apparently brilliant, but still I found myself in not-just-ok-dot-com, my quick and keen clairvoyance told me that this networking or social climbing will only do more in decorating our long need for change in flashy colours, rather than truly empower such desire. This was not so difficult for me to recognize, as I have already been exposed to this trend that is often spectacularly staged as after show cocktails, during my tours in Europe or in the US. Nonetheless I have never felt OK with –or believed in– such organized match making that doesn’t come with a common enemy, and if a common enemy is not quickly established in any affiliation, it will be difficult to forge a common front in pursuit of common goals.

Since I’m not terribly in need of a name or a face, not planning to be featured in a musical video nor being a judge in a reality dance show any time soon, and the promise of easy life/good fortune never incite me that much, then I gradually degraded in rank to become an unenthusiastic component of the bourgeoisie, and naturally I wondered what I was doing in the midst of ass kissers. Let it be publicly known that I’m not oppose to ass kissing or networking, or whatever it is labelled as, it is normal that men and women fuck one another to get ahead –just as men and men or women and women do– which is the aspect of human comedy that I find too tragic to laugh about in Lagos. But when a student is literally fucking her lecturer for marks, when you are fucking somebody to get or keep a job, or someone fucks you for a flight ticket, a cinema ticket, or even to be auditioned for a role in a TV series that will eventually made you a role model. That for instant is a figurative straightforward and pleasurable one-off giving on both sides, only that it often comes with a burden and responsibility for those who sometimes feel shame, and at some point in life, one really need to separate sober matters from bread and butter dealings.

When you pretend to be my friend, to share my pain just for personal gain, even when I piss on you, you still won’t let go, then that is a terrible thing that brings to mind a terrible phrase in a reprisal mail once addressed to Matthew Ogunnola my good friend “… I have been trained that the show must go on, and I would lick the butt crack of a mad man if that is what it entails to have a great show.” Aww, now that leaves a bad taste in the mouth, and that must have been a slip of tongue, because that was from one of the organizers of these trendy youth programs that, in their words “seek to empower young people and redirect them towards adding value to themselves and society with strong positive images/messages.” As my people will say, ma fi oruko bo l’asiri, i.e. I will use his name to cover his shamelessness. This contrasting phrases if able to be juxtaposed, point out the complicity of these faction of the brightest and coolest Nigerian youth, and the use of their brainpower in scamming the rest of us, who might be duped by their use of attractive phrases that carries no connotation in itself, and hence, contributes greatly to the epidemic height of absurdity that is sweeping over the whole nation.

The sanious nightmare of creative people in Lagos, is the fear of victimization by these net-workers; for sure they know that a truly creative and conscious person won’t go to SWE bar or KOKO lounge thrice a week, won’t be seen -in see-as-i-gbensh dresses- on the road to their weekly red or black or green carpet events, but since there is all the time for their Mohammed to go to the mountains, they have began to take over the front seats of every artistic and intellectual happenings; from poetry, to a contemporary dance show, from classical music, art exhibitions to book reading. Meanwhile, most of these Lagos vultures don’t have the practical mind required to integrate into such gathering. Unlike the indispensable burden of a groupie, the creative person is particularly vulnerable to the toxic of these sneaky net-workers, whose only calculative ambition is to drive you into parties like giant termites, licking your ass just enough for you to feel like a celebrity that you are, to afford them the necessitated social climbing, waiting to be introduced to a friend of yours with a bulkier, juicier and better profitable curriculum vitae. Now that is what they call networking. Networking my butt!!!

For the sake of some offended readers, I think –even if not so sure– that there are of course, some truly brilliant and talented youth out there, and I can humbly say that I am one of them, those who have survived as coconut in cultural and economic terms, those who are also often tempted to network, but one could see a certain kind of coconut perpetuating the if-you-can’t-beat-them-join-them phenomenon. To now to conclude with my opening realm of curiosity, When did the myth of making it on your own merit, gave way to who you know over who know you? When did the proverbial saying of a good name is better than gold or silver became an understatement in Nigeria? I guess it was when those who lick the butt crack of mad men, began to be so efficient in it, that they kick those with the right skills away from the seat, I guess it was precisely that moment, when this shameful act was re-branded as networking and our world became so meaningless, and most of those celebrated as our brightest and coolest youth are nothing but a bunch of harlots.

A brief MUSE on revolution. ENOUGH IS ENOUGH !!!

A brief MUSE on revolution. ENOUGH IS ENOUGH !!!

These days i have learnt to keep my mouth shut and ignore comments about the state of the Nigerian polity and pockets of UPRISINGS calling for a REVOLUTION, most of which i have tried to put my force behind, (at least being the number 1001 man, whose importance is as important as the crowd mentality required) but i think we talk too much of our desired world, and too much talks hinders the possibility of action, we scream ENOUGH IS ENOUGH !!!, we stood up against the status-quo to update our FACEBOOK and TWITTER status. I'm no man of experience in all these, but i am aware of a certain kind of libido that comes with this virtual beer parlour talks.
The human and social sciences have accustomed us to see the figure of man behind every social event, just as Christianity taught us to see the eye of the lord looking down upon us. Such forms of knowledge project an image of reality, at the expense of reality itself. If you do a search on Sahara reporters, you will perhaps find my article THERE WILL BE NO REVOLUTION lingering somewhere in the archives. In Nigeria we are so much bind by talking in figure terms, iconic modes and that of signs and slogans. (i.e CELEBRITY CULTURE - Youth culture) And the reality of power as it subjugates us, whose real function is to tame, and the result is the fabrication of docile, patriotic and obedient citizens. When we set for such politics of desire, that drives our wishes and actions into a revolution (a kind that is directed against all that is egoistic - and heroic- in man,) we are prompted by an instinct of self-affirmation and self-preservation that cares little about affirming or preserving a real cause

Here comes my propositions:

1. * Let's free political action from all unitary and totalitarian paranoia and take a journey through ego loss.
   


2. * Develop action, thought and desire by proliferation, juxtaposition, and disjunction, and not by subdivision and pyramidal hierarchization.(e.g, i need no Audu's Picture to see how important a cause is)


3. * Do not think one has to be sad (or be known) in order to be militant, even though the thing one is fighting is abominable. it is the connection of desire to reality (and not its retreat into the forms of representation) that possesses revolutionary force. (So, let's ask us all, does the general psyche call for a real life REVOLUTION, away from twitter and facebook or sahara reporters?)


4. * Do not use thought to ground a political practice; nor political action to discredit - as mere speculation - a line of thought. Use political practice as an intensifier of thought, and analysis as a multiplier of the forms and domains for the intervention of political actions.

AND FINALLY, WHEN WE ADHERE TO A NATION-BUILDING THROUGH LOGOS AND SLOGANS, IT MAKES ABSOLUTE NO SENSE AND HENCE DAFTLY ILLOGICAL - (don't get me wrong, we can tear our selves apart, or reunite with a slogan; GHANA MUST GO, MAKE NIGERIA ONE, COME WITH US OR GO TO HELL, BOKO HARAM etc. BUT IT HAS LITTLE OR NOTHING TO DO WITH NATION BUILDING.)
THE VALUES WHICH WE LIVE BY ARE THE VALUES THAT LED US "HERE" IN THE FIRST PLACE - THESE DISTORTING MISTS OF NATIONAL (YOUTH) EUPHORIA AND MORAL NEGLIGENCE AND IDEOLOGICAL BARRENNESS WHICH LED US TO THIS POINT ARE STILL SEEN AS CONTINUING IN THE IDENTITY OF THE NATION; SINCE THAT IDENTITY HAS NOT CHANGED, HAS UNDERGO NO REVOLUTIONARY PURGE EITHER IN ITS GUTS OR AT THE HEAD-

THEREFORE, A REVOLUTION MUST BE MADE OF FRAGMENTS, AND NOT AS A WHOLE BODY (OF TV PEOPLES), IT MUST SHATTER THE FOUNDATIONS OF THOUGHTS AND RE-CREATE. OUR COLLECTIVE BREAK/DOWN MUST RESULT TO OUR COLLECTIVE BREAK/THROUGH.

ONLY IN THIS WAY DOES EVERY INDIVIDUAL SHARE IN THE HOLY MESS AND UNDERSTANDS THE REAL PURPOSE OF THE SACRIFICE.

...then we can all scream ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!!! But how soon will this be?

I wish us all the best.

Open letter to whom it may concerm.

L’ojo ojosi, omode kii siju soke wo agba *In ancient days, the young ones never look into the eyes of
the elderly
T’agba ba nrojo, omode won a pa lolo ni When the elderly speaks, the young ones keep quiet
L’ojo ojosi awon agba I nwuwa ibaje In historic times, the elderly keep away from bad habit
Ti won ba se’baje a o sigba fun won ni… If they ever do badly, we will open the calabash for them…


… Beautiful Nubia.


Every generation is supposed to begin its journey from the shoulders of the previous and thus every revolt begins by a deception. We the Nigerian youth don’t need an oracle to foretell how much our elders have failed us. In fact our entire existence is wrapped around such malediction. Without coincidence and in spite of conventional opinion, our Nigerian dance scene has been less than unfortunate in its guild legislation and its leadership. A basic element of this misfortune is the seminal absence of dignified artistic upbringing with intellectual rigour in the social and cultural thoughts of our founding fathers; more suicidal is the weight of reality in this contemporary development of a dance industry suddenly (mal)growing at a period when there is a tendency to pious materialistic woolliness that clothes self centred opportunists who are so in love with themselves.


Sir, yes you sir, you of the new national order. How close are we to the theatre practice the veteran, Hubert Ogunde proffered? Sir how faraway are we from where we started? We are aware of the national state of affairs and we are sincerely not asking you to invent a scientific system of making movie magic. Walahi! that will be too pretentious. Even if you don't have the will power but what happened to your voice? Will you please clean your hands with a white handkerchief to see for yourself on whose side is the devil? Sir confess, all you profoundly cared about is to make yourself materially formidable and make all the money that is possible for mortals of your dishonourable calibre to make in a booming dance commerce. We are aware that there is new money out there and how come new money doesn't require new bloods? ...Same tactics? Same disguise? - look but don't see, speak but don't say, touch but don't take - Ah fear God, how much grammar must we speak to be able to take responsibility of our lives? How much more shall we dance to be the captains of our destiny?


Is it not from the way a child whistles that the elderly may determine how well he can play the flute when given the chance? We see your eyes and ears wide open when you pass by the artists village, so you can see for yourself that the pigs get fatter and the artists go on diet while you zoom off in your extravagant Jeep. Can you afford to stop by the mainland bridge on your way to the ISLAND - take a frank gaze into our slums and see if you can bear the sight of misery? But the flip-side of reality is that, in there resides invisible treasure. As the treasures of our all mighty dance practice you precede rot into garbage, we will at least continue to recycle our garbage into treasure, 'no food for lazy men' you once told us, but now we ask, what future is there for foodie men? What future is there for a dance market that produces aggressive millionaires than selfless pioneers of the practice, and in such misdirection, only the cowards who gave in to the humiliation of good life, the poor-at-mind who lost history and profound conviction eventually become the visible in public (VIP).


We the orphans of Ogunde are now on our feet; we will be babysitted no more, now you got the chair. Never mind it's a hot seat. If you answer our questions painstakingly, this won't last for long we promise, but if you refuse to hear our voice in dialogue, you will have to hear it in protest one day soon. NO SIR, we are not fighting anybody, we are only fighting an ideology and a logic of existence that place those with filthy papers above those with the skills and experience, talent and energy. We recognise the début of your courageous saga, how you fought for dance practice to be recognised and not tainted with indignity. It is also remarkable how you fought your way to become the you-know-who of the new order. But now with the sudden mood swing freezing up the down-fall of raindrops, we harbour doubts in our mind. Our good shepherd please let the merry-go-round.


Your courageous words still dance in our guts, you made us throw stones at the government and ‘those people’ you said they were bad, you said artists must take responsibility in engaging them in discussions for logical development, you lied to us Sir -Yes, you know you lied - you know that nobody bears ‘the government’ or ‘those people’. These are invisible constructs put in place by you to cover your shame and make another dimension for what is true. Based on our mal-education we pretend to attack the wind in our works, speaking to those intangible anti-people miles away from our venom, people we cannot affect physically, psychologically or even economically, once again we are pretending not to be aware of the precise names of those tangible human faeces that prop up the public shit-cans and other high places. We want to be good sheep and perhaps one day soon it will be our turn. Yesmanship it is called Sir, a long time accomplice to corruption.


Finally, if the head of a fish smells this bad, then the fish's body must be rotten, in your works you speak in the name of humanity but how humane are you to those closest to you? Just have pity on us if you claim to be at the forefront of what we both believe in. Don't take this personal in order not to create a narcissist wound, we fear your anger and spirit of eye-for-an-eye, but here we are in a world of personified institutions where the person behind a cause becomes more visible than the cause itself. Voilà, there lies the problem of modesty and cynicism.


Signed Q’dance ALAJOTA.
For The Republic of independent artists

I Must Set Forth – Qudus Onikeku

This piece was curlled from a blogger called DIHS - Enjoy what he got to say about my work...

“Where is your home?” … “As in, where are you based?” … “Where do you spend most of your time living?” … ‘ooooh! Facebook!’ Qudus Onikeku was born and raised in Nigeria. But where is his home? He sits, crossed legged, and speaks as if having a personal conversation. He would like to know, where is home? Maybe, he says, home is our bodies. And with that, he begins to sing a song, one that is not American.

Credit: Arthur Fink Photography

Qudus’ strength is evident from the beginning. With incredible attention to detail, his torso, arms, hands, fingers, toes are all under his control. He moves quickly with his core, moving this abdomen in and out, knees bent, hovering. Rolling, crawling and reaching he moves swiftly around the stage. He places his hands at his center as if holding a ball and gyrates around it with his entire body, circling around his home. At times the movement is too fast for the eye to fully perceive. With acrobatic precision he reaches back to perform an uncountable number of back flips and the sweat that flings from his body paints the air ten feet above. The entire scrim fills with the image of Qudus dancing, with short cuts of him hopping or swinging his body around a darkened space. He stands, sweating, and takes off his shirt. This is Qudus. This is his body. This is his home.

Credit: Arthur Fink Photography

What did you expect to see after the informal beginning?

Were you able to feel the intensity of his movements?

Have you seen any other dances that express how one’s body can be one’s home?

Is your body your home?

You can see what Qudus is up to at his blog: http://qudus.blogspot.com/

Different Voices, August 7th, 2009
Schaeffer Theatre, Bates Dance Festival
Bates College, Lewiston, Maine. USA

I imagine some of you saw I must SetForth... in Lagos on the 8th of November, although not the exact version with all its technical requirements, still can you attempt to answer DHIS' questions?

Join I Must SetForth... in the following venues and dates.
Bonneuil sur Marne on 4th and 5th December and in Studio 104 in Paris on 20th December, and at La Villette. Paris on 26th January 2010

Time to cure us of the cure itself.

Puclished on www.saharareporters.com on 13th September, 2009.
As Time to cure us of the cure itself.

I have stopped listening to motivational speakers, or seeing an analyst, likewise a therapist, and all other so called experts who claimed to understand my life's trouble better than i do, since the last time "My Analyst" told me that I have ego problem, he said I need some attention, someone to probably save me from myself, the way he described it, he said i'm too much into my head, that i'm not easily led from my crazy ideas, and my tempers are just bizarre.

• I looked at him furiously, I tranquilly picked up the wooden chair I was sitting on and carefully stroke it against his shinning forehead, his glasses that were thick enough to read my mind were broken into particles and all over the floor was filled with blood...

That was exactly what I got in mind for him, but I knew I wouldn't dare that, I just asked him “what's so strange if you found out that you were already a brainiac at the age of four ?” I had a brain and that was insane? I had a dream and that was atypical?

My Analyst thought he could put me in a box, and lock me up to himself, so he can say “...alright this is who you are” but I get him so pissed, 'cos my complexity is not just making his job easy. I asked again “what will you do if you have a temperament that will not just let you be, I mean one that could just turn your five year old dreams of BLUE to RED in just one hour? A temperament that doesn't conform to any written rule, culture, nation, notion, religion, philosophy, profession etc. One that makes an African feel American at times when in Europe, or feels European when in America and something else when in Africa, one that makes a dancer wear the cap of a circus artiste, take up the job of a writer and critiquing, in the next moment making documentary films and writing poetry and making street art, and taking up the expertees of a sociologist and preaching the gospel of Islam, simultaneously quoting Fela Kuti and the bible, spends all day listening to Bob Marley and Obesere while socializing on facebook and soliloquise on the performance stage. Yet trying so hard to remain simple, 'cos you are in the process of establishing your truth, accuracy and validation of something that circulates around your existence, which you can't yet verify if it is right or wrong".

My analyst will not give up, 'cos he need to authenticate his hard earned degrees, my analyst thought he was accessing a young man who is pretending to know what he wants. NO, that's where he got it all wrong, because one thing I know is that I am a successful young man that doesn't know precisely what he wants but doing all he could to reject completely those things he doesn't want.

These days i have constantly noticed that everybody want to prove to every other person that they are right and that the other is wrong, they want the other to know that they are able to demonstrate their own truth of existence (a.k.a. POV), so they begin to analyze, they begin to argue, they argue about everything and most especially about why they think others are wrong and trying to analyze who the other is. Meanwhile no one can actually tell you who you are, but who they think you are or want you to be. 

•  I stop here to take a deep breath before i drill further into this philosophical pit, as i am aware that my blogs are silently mutating into public fora and alternative spaces for freedom and reflection, so if you are thinking right now that i can "HELP" you, then stick to me until you rot away as i continue my journey, i will not like to sway my readers without them being aware of this manipulation, and ultimately win them over, against their own will power. This is the weapon of the Analyst, just like the "Fascist". 

The Fascist i refer to here is not the right-wing nationalist regime of Mussolini in Italy, the Fascism that tends to include a belief in the supremacy of one nationals or ethnic group, a contempt for democracy, an insistence on obedience to a powerful leader with a strong demagogic approach. Well there might be a link, but this fascist is a phenomenon that took place elsewhere, something that could only happen to others, but not to us, its their problem. 

So this is why my opinion refuse nationality or identity. Is fascism really a problem for others to deal with? We often want to be the one who seek security and a peaceful life, security even in where we allow our minds thought to visit, making us seem like the man who chop off his limbs in order to get an artificial ones, for he desperately need a life free of pain and troubles, the metal dream of a tranquil and conflict free existence, wanting to be so real that we set fire on reality itself. What about the fascist that is based on the desire to be led, to give a complete authority of our lives to someone else to legislate, the one that awards us every reason not to voice out our pains, even when we are pushed to the wall.

How then do artistes, activists, critics and other revolutionary militants deal carefully with this same fascisizing element we all carry along with us? how do we rid our speech and our acts, our hearts and our pleasure, of fascism? religious moralists sought to rid us of the fascism hidden somewhere in our soul, while these militants pursue the slightest trace of the fascism in the body, that leads them to state why the other is evil (a fascist, a capitalist, a communist, a corrupt leader. etc.) or what moral values should be, and hence, does that award them a righteous life? does that make them a judge? 

However the modest fellow loves hiding places, secret path and back doors, everything that seems far away from him entices him as his world, his security, his refreshment; he understands how to keep silent and wait, how to complain and dream, how to be self deprecating and humble, how to survive by sanctifying every lie he has been fed with. This is the realm of the silent majority who has become the apparatus at which the powerful ones behind the closed doors use to express the fascist in them.

The powerful - at which the silent majority awards the legislation of their lives to - has endless time, whether we whine, howl, beg, weep, cajole, pray or curse, he listens. He is just a big ear minus a sympathetic nervous system and nothing touches him but the TRUTH. When we deceive ourselves on the notion of making the world a better place, we are prompted by an instinct of self affirmation and self preservation that cares little about affirming or preserving life. What constitutes our sickness today? is it not the absence of fresh air where it smells bad? When we do the diagnosis, won't we see the need to cure ourselves of the cure itself?

So if your Analyst ever tell you that you got an ego problem, sit back, and be tranquil, fixed your gaze on him watch his lips dangle with passion, like a performer of rap (rapid applied poetry) music and you will see smiles forcing their way out of your upper lips, meanwhile, be sure to pay little or no attention to his rapping, instead go into your world, feel so high, and even touch the sky.

(c) September 2009 

Qudus ONIKEKU

Similar questions for contemporary African arts (DANCE, Literature, Photography etc.(DANCE, Literature, Photography etc.)

Article by Tolu Ogunlesi.
Curled from PublishingPersepectives.com under the title:
Who Controls African Literature?

The literary world is once again shining a spotlight on Africa. There are new prizes: the South Africa-based PEN Studzinski Literary Award for short stories, and the Penguin Prize for African Writing, a pan-African prize covering both fiction and non-fiction genres. There’s a new book series, the “Penguin African Writers Series,” which will include not only new books from emerging writers, but also classics taken over from the defunct Heinemann African Writers Series. And next year South Africa will be featured as the “Market Focus country” at the 2010 London Book Fair and African writing will be showcased at the Gothenburg Book Fair.

The African ‘Greats’–Ngugi, Soyinka, Gordimer, Okot p’Bitek– have given way to a new roster of names — Chimamanda Adichie, Chris Abani, Helon Habila, Binyavanga Wainaina, Sefi Atta, Monica Arac de Nyeko, Chika Unigwe, Brian Chikwava — who have become the new faces of contemporary African writing.

This explosion of literary talent and publishing opportunities might be likened to a similar one that accompanied the heady post-independence days of the 1960s. But in spite of all the inspiring and exciting happenings of recent years, there still remain nagging questions regarding who exactly are the proper ‘gatekeepers’ of African literary tradition and production.

In a 2008 interview published recently in Transition magazine (Issue 100), Chinua Achebe, speaking about the early covers of his classic, Things Fall Apart said: “…I have a general sense that we, African writers, have been presented as oddities.” He referred to the cover of the original 1958 Heinemann edition as a “questionable depiction of strangeness.”

In a January 16, 1959 pre-publication announcement of TFA in the New York Times Book Review, he is referred to as “Miss Achebe”, and in the blurb that accompanies the first African Writers Series edition, published in the early ’60s, his Igbo ethnic group is referred to as the “Obi tribe”. Regarding that early error, Achebe points out that “that error persisted. You sometimes even see it running through to this day.”

Such “questionable depictions of strangeness” are to be expected in a world where the production (editorial and publishing aspects at least) of ‘canonized’ African Literature is largely in the hands of ‘outsiders.’ Speaking during the Publishers’ Panel at the 2009 Cadbury Conference at the Center of West African Studies at the University of Birmingham, British-Ghanaian Publisher (and former Commissioning Editor of the Heinemann African Writers’ Series) Becky Ayebia-Clarke (who is now running her own press, Ayebia Publishing) described how her displeasure with the cover of Tsitsi Dangaremba’s debut novel, Nervous Conditions (The Women’s Press, England, 1988) - another questionable depiction of strangeness - led her to produce a radically different cover for the Ayebia edition (2004). She felt that the image portrayed on the original cover did not do justice to the strong, sassy characterization of the novel’s heroine.

But such “strangenesses” are to be expected when a significant part of what is known globally as “African Literature” lies outside the hands of its creators and in the tight grip of “institutions” that seem to possess fixed ideas about what African literature should or should not be, and what “authentic” African “characters” can or cannot do.

In Birmingham, Ms. Ayebia-Clarke also spoke of the inspiration behind her publishing an anthology of love stories written by African women (African Love Stories, Ayebia, 2006) — her dismay at realizing that there was a scarcity of daring love stories featuring African characters. Apparently, at least in the eyes of most publishers, it is more authentic for Africans to make war than to make love. The synopsis for the book as featured on Ayebia Publishing’s website describes it as “a radical departure from conventional anthologies and the theme of love is aimed at debunking preconceived notions about African women as impoverished victims, whilst showing their strength, complexity and diversity.” One of those stories (Ugandan Monica Arac de Nyeko’s Under the Jambula Tree), which dealt with the subversive (at least in an African context) theme of lesbian love, won the 2007 Caine Prize for African Writing.

At the recent “What’s Culture Got to Do With It” Conference in June organized by the Nordic Africa Institute in Uppsala, Sweden, Professor Raisa Simola, presenting a paper that touched on Uzodinma Iweala’s 2006 novel Beasts of No Nation, informed the audience that while BONN has been translated into Finnish, its revered ‘ancestor’, Things Fall Apart, has yet to be translated. The interesting question therefore is - who makes these translation decisions, and on what basis?

Also at the Uppsala conference, Nigerian Professor J.O.J Nwachukwu Agbada complained of the gross disservice done to scholars and academics based in Africa as a result of the fact that the bulk of cultural production (in this case, literary publishing) is managed from the West, thus ensuring that many books by African writers and journals on African Literature/Culture are unavailable to Africans living on the continent. These books win awards and establish their positions in the African literary canon in the West, but most Africans remain unaware of them.

But all of this is not to take away from the obvious fact that these are interesting and even exciting times for African writing. African literature (an endlessly debatable term in itself) is in the middle of the kind of renaissance that characterised Indian writing in the 1990s. We are witnessing the strong rise of a literary movement, defined not so much by grand nationalistic or ideological themes (as was largely the case in the 60s and 70s) as by a fervent and uncomplicated desire for Africans to tell their own stories, whatever those stories may be, however marginal they may appear to a world that wants to talk only about African poverty, famine, wars and child soldiers.

One of the most vocal champions of this “telling” is Chimamanda Adichie, and she appears to be succeeding. A Nigerian friend of mine living in Australia recently told me that an Irish friend also living in Australia told him, “Everything I know about Nigeria I learned from reading two books — Purple Hibiscus and Half of a Yellow Sun.”

The last few years have seen the emergence of innovative independent literary collectives and publishing houses based on the African continent - Cassava Republic and Kachifo in Nigeria, Storymoja and Kwani in Kenya, Chimurenga and Wordsetc in South Africa — all of whom are committed to taking Africa’s literary talent to the world, using every available means, and certainly not shying away from the exploiting the possibilities of the internet revolution.

And by the end of 2010, novels by the following “new” African writers will have been published by some of the biggest names in contemporary publishing: Petina Gappah, Brian Chikwava, Peter Akinti, Chika Unigwe, Adaobi Nwaubani, Teju Cole, Kachi Ozumba and Lola Shoneyin. Six of those will be debut novels.

Most interesting however, and worthy of reflection, is this surprising fact: all but one of the eight names mentioned above live outside the African continent.

This is often interpreted to mean that there are two kinds of African Writers - ‘home-based’ and ‘diaspora’ writers, and that the Global Publishing Factory prefers to ‘employ’ African writers based abroad to tell the stories of Africa. That argument of course is a debatable one; the fact that writers abroad get more publishing opportunities than home-based ones might simply be attributable to geographical proximity to the ‘centers’ of publishing, and not to any prefabricated preferences on the part of the publishers.

Debates like this will continue to dominate discussions about contemporary African writing. Geographical location and exile, language, authenticity, even the supposedly simple matter of “who is an African writer?” will be difficult issues to ignore.

Chinua Achebe perhaps summed it up best when referring to the new Penguin African Writers’ Series, of which he has been named as Editorial Advisor. He remarked: “The last five hundred years of European contact with Africa produced a body of literature that presented Africa in a very bad light and now the time has come for Africans to tell their own stories.

Nigerian writer Tolu Ogunlesi was short listed for the 2009 PEN/Studzinski Literary Prize, and recently won the arts and culture prize in the 2009 CNN Multichoice African Journalist Awards. When he is not traveling he divides his time between Abeokuta and Lagos in South-western Nigeria.

Lagos destination Paris

Curled from my travel diary.

9th July 2006 (Sunday)

...Joy, fun, fear, encounters and memorable events are often my sky team partners during each trip, beautiful hostesses and cute hosts who adds glamour and splendor to the trip, aside from some few carriers who I think experience matters a lot to them, who recruits mass of frail boned papas and mamas with make ups as that of ancient porn-stars celebrating the remembrance of their days of sunshine. Not withstanding, they all seem to make me laugh during turbulence, they try to be relax and do as if all is well to make me and other half hopeless passenger like me get over our fear and panic, while deep down in their heart one could feel the fear in them and I often imagine how I could be flying every now and then as my profession and not putting all the risk and stress in mind. This brings me back to the only part I find really risky and stressful in my profession. It is the joy of every artiste to export and exhibit his/her product out of the shores of his country, being it African, Asian, American or European.

One other moment that annoys me most in traveling is when I’ve finally got to my destination or transiting through any of the so called western European countries. On sighting my Green ever popular Nigerian passport, then I know at this point I must be ready to sacrifice my precious time for the often long mustached immigration officer who for all he cares you didn’t get your visa in the legal way and your passport might have been fabricated or retouched at OLUWOLE. So all he is looking for is the sign of face changing, data changing or how the visa page was attached to the existing international passport. If he finally didn’t find any fault then he begin to imagine how a black Nigerian as I am could get visa from or for a civilised white western world, which opens to another phase of interrogation, ranging from; where are you going to? What are you going to do there? Where is your invitation? And other document you used in processing your visa? - as if one could get a visa without these documents but one just need to be patient with them, eat, chew to ruminants and swallow your ego if that trip is important to you because this is just the result of the mistake our great grand fathers had made so we are just a victim of the 21st century that nothing could be done to restore at this stage - Moreover the questions continue; for how long will you be there? Can I see your return ticket? Your hotel reservation? Name and address of your employer or that person who is expecting you.

I mean series of those same stupid questions that I was actually asked while applying for my visa. After all asked and properly answered with care, it doesn’t end there because he might not be contented and so he will be obliged to call another officer who is often a slimmer and maybe shorter version who will then take me through series of closed doors that could only be accessed by an immigration officer or other airport officials, as I was victimized at the Milan Malpensa airport. Italy. To get me more shocked, sitting on the waiting room were series of unfortunate Blacks who are waiting to be tested or screened. So i joined the queue of the children of sinners, so for no clear reason i'm still waiting, i see some mustached guys coming to check on me from far from time to time, this is when i realised that waiting could mean so many things, the time can tick so very slow when you are in the hands of official kidnappers but, it is only when you have something to hide that you try to proof that you are clean. Finally it got to my turn, i walked towards this irritating guy with Italian accent, "can you keep your bag please" obviously he was going to search it again, making it the sixth time, "Please take off your shirt" i thought it was a joke, not knowing that i was still going to take off the last fabric that covers my dignity and take my urine, it seems to me that they got a clear information that i had something on me. Well they got it wrong, after a moment of stripping, debates and interrogation, I got acquainted and discharge without bail. 

The price i paid costed me more than i could afford, its memory stays with me forever. I felt raped and it reminds me a similar case at the London Stansted airport where I actually missed my flight because I was still being stripped by the time my flight was leaving for Paris, yet the only word that comes out of their mouth is “you can go sir” i.e. polite at last and no more. Getting to the boarding gate another polite flight mistress at the gate of the just departed flight telling me “sorry sir you’ve missed your flight” then at this moment I knew I could do but just be polite enough to sleep right there at the airport to wait for tomorrow’s flight. Wow twenty four hours at that airport which is at the outskirt of London is just nothing good to talk about, but did i survive it, yes i guess cos here i am writing it...

-DITTO-
For some one like me who got his roof in between borders and abode often tapped in an economic class of a flying box, this is my forth international passport, three filled with visas and stamps, so you can imagine that the war is far from being won, where do i start from? do i have to lament about the over rude perfect visa officer behind the window, the battle with the local thugs at the airport, the professional hospitality you get in the plane, to the international clowns welcoming you, and stripping you off your very last pant, in search of one white substance that you've only seen or hear about on tv... its sad ahn, but what can you do when it becomes part of your job, profession and life, you can choose to be arrogant if you want, but does it change a thing? when they are just puppet of some powerful guys behind close doors, all through my life, i have searched for other human policy that is worse than immigration policy.

-DITTO-
I know this might sound ODD, but when people tell me to be careful about what i put on facebook, cos of their privacy policy, i tend to blush in silence, when i got all my fingers stamped to get Nigerian passport, got all my fingers printed at the embassy, on getting to the newark airport, i didn't just got my fingers printed but also had to look into some machine that looks like a microscope - even to the extent of taking another picture of me, and i wonder if i was applying for an american passport. So i think we are just trapped all ways always, but lets be aware of fascism, lets redefine what globalisation is suppose to mean and let the world order not just treat Africa as the poor little sexy continent, but a geographical location with people born just the same way as those across the atlantic, so if we claim to love to see children play, love to show them love and see them grow, so nothing makes the African child different, so lets ask them, why do we extract the juice of the sins of the fathers from the child ? what do we make out of our common shared history? who bears the heavier baggage of history? how come the third world citizen pays a more expensive visa fee? how come the so called benefit of globalisation, industrialisation and our technological advancement cost more than 50% of what is required in the west? At a very tender age of my life i felt the urge not just find but seek answers to some illogical questions, later i realised that the solution is to create more questions to add to the existing questions.