AN OPEN LETTER TO NELSON MANDELA

Dear Madiba,

I hope all is well with you and that this letter reaches you in good health and good company. I am writing this letter to inform you about what happened after you left.

Since you embarked on your journey, the people have divided themselves into two groups: those who say you were bad and those who call you hero.

Tata, those who said you were a liar and a pathetic father are scattered around the internet like bad viruses. From Facebook to Twitter they have called you many names. Some say you will go to hell and some say that after you left, South Africa will not know peace. They analyse your life’s actions.

 Others who think you were a hero have taken to the streets and to the corridors of internet, screaming with tall voices about how well you lived your life. They are joyful! They are happy because you reconstructed the meaning of reconciliation, and most importantly, happy because you fought for the freedom of blacks in South Africa.  These people have compared you to greats like Martin Luther King Jr., Malcom X and yes, some have compared you to that rapper Tupac Amaru Shakur who sang “Only God Can Judge Me.”

Madiba, did you see the flowers brought to your house to add colour to the celebration of your life? Did you see how people gathered all over the world to sing your praise? Did you see how every newspaper headline is filled with your pictures? Did you notice that every president on earth is talking about you? Did you also notice that the world stopped when you decided to embark on that journey?

Those who have chosen to throw stones at you do this out of ignorance. Madiba, they say that during your twenty-seven years in imprisonment you sold out to the white man and, that you left Winnie when you came out. Some say you did not deserve the Nobel Peace prize. Arguments spring up at the mention of your name. Is that what happens to heroes? People blessed with half brains making nonsensical statements and unpicking the hairs of your rest.  Is that what happens?

How can they understand you when they have never spent that amount of time in jail? They have not asked themselves what they would do if they were in your shoes. Instead, they go around with long mouths spitting on your soul.

There is a place where heroes stay after they leave earth. It is neither heaven nor hell. It is just an unknown place. So, Madiba, I don’t really know why some religious nonentities would start asking whether you gave your life to Christ before you died. Seriously, I don’t know.  You have paid your dues on earth and would be greatly remembered. How many of these senseless critics can forgive another human the way you have done? How many of these self-serving individuals, seeking cheap attention, know the meaning of living like a human being?

Ah, tata, you will not believe when I tell you some people have started making money off your name. They have printed shirts and made pictures of you and started selling. Your name is big business. Some people have made pens, key rings and other things in your name. And they say, hypocritically, that you should rest in peace.

Who are you there with? Have you seen Magaret Thatcher? Is she even there? Is Martin Luther king Jr with you? Did you see Malcom X? Tell me, how is the place? Peaceful? Is Obafemi Awolowo there? How do you guys live there? Please, say hello to Fela Anikulapokuti. Tell Baba Seventy that some people have taken his Afro-beat and turned it to useless ranting.

Yes, I know you’ve taught us how to forgive. Yes, I know you have taught us how to live. Yes, I know you have taught us the meaning of smiling in adversity. Yes, I know you have opened our eyes to see the true meaning of love. Yes, I know that there will never be another man like you. Definitely, there would never be another human who can lay his life down for the good of others.

Thank you for taking time out to read this letter. In that life you have chosen to enter try to rest.

Before I forget, what do you want me to tell those who only see your negative sides? What should I say to those who say you were a womaniser and a bad president? What do I say to those African leaders who hold onto power like they would never die? What do I say to all those writers, critics and mad persons pricking you while you sleep? Tata, teach me what to say.

People like you who changed the cause of earth’s journey have personal flaws like every human.  Dwelling on the flaws is not how I choose to remember you. I would remember you as the freedom fighter who took a long walk to freedom.  Stay blessed and enjoy the peace that earth does not give to humans.

Yours truly,

Michael Irene

In memory of Festus Iyayi (1947-2013)

It was a cloudy day in August 2004, seated in a bus at Ojuelegba, Lagos when my eyes caught the title of a second-hand book titled Violence. The author’s name was unclear due to its faded cover.  “Iyana Ipaja! Iyana Ipaja!”  The bus’ conductor screamed. His voice rose to meet other monstrous noises that clouded the atmosphere. The cacophony presented one with varying colours of daily existence in Nigeria. Everyone was in a hurry: in a hurry, perhaps, to erase that violence gifted to the populace by a senseless societal construct.

The book stared at me while I swam in my thoughts. Suddenly, I jumped out of the bus, walked down to the shed and the named announced itself with silent voices: Festus Iyayi. The name beckoned on me and fearlessly urged me to make the purchase.  I did.

 I returned to the bus and sat down to read the book. I finished it that day. Iyayi’s photographic exposition of the horrors of deprivation through Idemudia, the main character, other indigent characters and the apathy shown by the very rich few who thrive on the deprivation makes the book addictive.

He holds the view that the Nigerian society is wrong at the root. And that root is inflicted with the moral disease of the selfish pursuit of wealth, which creates class barriers among men, and of course, undermines the security and development of the nation since the deprived class is bound to react with violence.

            Iyaya opines thus: “ . . . acts of violence are committed when a man is denied the opportunity of being educated, or getting a job, of feeding himself and his family properly, of getting medical attention cheaply, quickly and promptly.” It was in his pursuit of creating an egalitarian society that violence picked him up and sent him on a journey beyond. On the twelfth day of November, 2013 Professor Iyayi met death somewhere in Kogi state where a police escort of the governor of the state hit his car.

            Iyayi was a radical, a Marxist and an advocate for the oppressed. Niyi Osundare, his colleague, described him as “fearless but fair, courageous but compassionate, demanding but decent, Iyayi was a great leader and an even greater follower, the kind who pressed on when others were seized by trepidation and despair.” The tirelessness with which he fought for the good of general humanity is heroic indeed. Osundare in describing his death states, “We lost a gallant fighter and great patriot. Terrible. Unspeakably terrible. Behold the terrifying irony: the patriot who laboured so tirelessly to rid his country of violence has become a victim of her egregious violence. Yet another chapter in our running saga of waste.”

His literary oeuvre: Violence (1979) The Contract (1982) Heroes (1986) and

Awaiting Court Martial (1996) exposes the status quo, calls for a change, and charges the oppressed sections of our community is to take up “arms” to overthrow the present oppressive and corrupt system.

            Iyayi’s voice has been carved into Nigerian history. It is a colossal loss and another vacuum dug into our collective intelligence. The proud son of the soil, the tireless griot who sang tall tunes that shook leaders and the defender of the weak has now been swallowed by human darkness.

            Who are we not to sing his praise?

   

            For no matter how the wind howled you never bowed to it. You stood like a mountain and still stand like a mountain. You changed position for fresh air.

   

            The ones who orchestrated your early movement know not what they have done. Your voice would continue to play in their dreams making them dance to the choruses of change. They too, before their very own eyes, would leave earth only to be forgotten.

            You, who was born in Ugbegun, Esan, Edo State in 1947, who he left Nigeria in 1968 to pursue higher education, and obtained a Master’s degree in Industrial Economics in the cold land of Kiev, in the former USSR, and then journeyed to University of Bradford, England for your PhD, it is you I greet. Your voice lives in the clouds and it showers us daily with wisdom, knowledge and understanding. You have made the ancestors proud and they have called on you to come and rest. Rest well, Iyayi. I break kolanut into four places and three are for you. Rest well, Iyayi.

Keshi and the Nigerian scheme of things

            Stephen Keshi, ex-Nigerian Super Eagles’ captain and currently, her coach, is no novice to the Nigerian scheme of things.  In 2002, he was sacked as an assistant coach along with his head coach, Shuaibu Ahmodu and replaced by Adegboye Onigbinde before the awful showdown in South Korea and Japan. Again, after winning the 2013 African Cups of Nations early this year and securing Nigeria’s place in the 2014 World Cup, the Nigerian Football Association threatens to sack him.

           

            It is no news that certain Nigerians don’t appreciate their heroes. Early this year, sad tunes rocked the air as the football ministry failed to pay Keshi and his technical team! After long lamentations from Keshi, the Nigerian Football Federation decided to pay part of his stipends.

            News that the coach might be sacked again is worrisome. In response to this, Keshi told BBC sports that “We are talking about Nigeria here, so you never know what may happen.” His opinion defines the ugly features of a nation’s mien.

            What kind of country sacks her heroes? What kind of country would not pay staffs for carrying out their duty?

            The issue on ground requires some form of protestations by concerned citizens. For, how long would Nigerians keep swallowing heavy pills thrown down their throats by some immoral leaders?  Musa Adamu, the Nigeria Football Federation’s secretary, opened all four compass points of his mouth to vomit this statement: “Obligations to the coaching crew are always settled, and we have the understanding of the coaching crew in this regard.”

            Well, if the coaching crew were always settled why would Keshi and his crew beg for pay? The Nigerian aphorism, monkey dey work baboon dey chop, rings true about the Nigerian scheme of things. An individual works but never receives pay.

             While working for Togo and Mali as the head coach, Keshi never complained about unpaid salaries. In Nigeria, his home, an embarrassing dish was served to him and his crew. Adamu has another defense for the federation’s incompetency, he says “We've been working together with Stephen Keshi since November 2011 and he knows the peculiar situation [financial problems] of how things are with the federation.” That is not the issue. The issue is that certain elements within the football federation love this stratagem; they love using “financial problems” as a ruse because they can proceed to loot and fill their pockets with other people’s money.

            Christian Chukwu, Shaibu Amodu, Samson Siasia, Austin Eguavoen, John Obuh and Eucharia Uche have all previously complained about outstanding salaries in the recent past. Can one conclude that this is a Nigerian thing?

            Teachers, cleaners, doctors and the list goes on, experience the same ugliness. There is an utter disregard for individuals who spend most of their life working for a better Nigeria. Examples are everywhere and there is absolutely no need to state them here.

            However, members of the Nigerian House of Representatives, commissioners and ministers always get paid duly. If/when they are not, they skillfully cut it out from the national cake. They own political knives and have close connection to those at the elm of affairs.

            All kind of lies, manipulation and tricks are employed when hardworking individuals seek their pay. Unfortunately, the Nigerian scheme of thing shows no sign of improvement. The hole is getting deeper and darker.

            As we prepare for 2014 FIFA World Cup, the Nigerian football federation urged Keshi to get a foreign technical assistant. He rejected the proposal. There is no logical reason behind the offer. A man who broke the record of being the first black African coach in twenty-one years to have won the African nation’s cup, obviously, needs no foreign assistance.

           

            These antics must stop. This lack of appreciation could drain the positive energy Nigerians like Stephen Keshi possess. Every Nigerian deserves to be treated with a modicum of respect. Can Nigerians be accountable and render our leaders accountable in the name of integrity, decency and honesty?

            God bless Nigeria.

The Untold Marriage II

“Patience,” my grandmother’s voice admonished, “is the secret to understanding stories.”

                The red cleared. The girl’s belly was big like she swallowed a big stone. She looked older than her age. The girl was sweating. An old woman cleaned her face.  A leg popped out in her vagina. It was red again.

                The now happy-man-formerly-sad-man ran around naked. He cried. He pulled out his hair with his hands. He tore his shirt. Some women walked out. They held their hands as they walked out of the house. This house.

                The cornrow-girl-like-me was travelling. And something came out of the calabash and entered me. A new story entered me. It scared me. I began to see the past. I cried.

                I was born in a place where I was not wanted. You see, it is hard to have two breasts and not have the perfect skill of peeing into a bottle without spilling some liquid on the bottle. The air was quiet. It was said that I was supposed not to be. Someone broke the law. Someone allowed me live.

                ‘Who allowed me live?’

`              From the still air, my grandmother’s voice came out: “find the answers yourself. Travel. Free your thoughts and allow the air fill you in.”

                “Travel?”

                “Seek and ye shall find. However, when ye find, don’t ask the whys, take it as it cometh to thee.”

                I folded my arms and thought about this new revelation from my grandmother.

                “Where shall I travel to?”

                I could see her floating away. Her features shook like the unsettled nature of a stream. She began to dance and loud drums rose to fill the space.

When the spider says he is wiser

The lion roars in anger

the lion sends his wife the serpent

to spit her viper on the spider

Their efforts lead to new anger

Turmoil rings in the land

Only the spider knows why

Because, his is a circular journey

A web.

                “What is this?”

                There was no response from the voice. The song sung was beautiful and bitter in my ears. I stood still. I wanted to drink more of the song. The voice continued:

See her here, see her here

Let her come and aid our conversation

                “Who?”

                “Ina mama ka.”

                “What language have you used to communicate with me? I don’t understand what you are saying.”

                The forgotten language of our fathers is what I use. I meant:  “Your mother.”

                “Where?”

                “Travel.” At the mention of this single word, there was a strange silence. Everything was numb for a while. I found myself swimming in the words hanging in the air. Then later, in the white calabash. I swam till I didn’t know where I was. But i saw a woman, beautiful and sad. She sat in the city where  the formerly happy man and the formerly sad man were. It seems she could not see me. I touched her. She turned and didn’t notice anything.

                “Mother?”

                She heard the voice. I think she heard it because she looked around. I wanted her to see me, touch me and rub my hair and to pamper me and tell me why she couldn’t see me. I wanted hear what happened. I needed to hear her untold story.

                “Mother?”

                She stood up and walked away while I followed her.  Cars wheezed by and a man was riding on a donkey. The man on the donkey said: “Ina ini”. No response.  My mother or the woman walked on with her head counting the sands on the earth. I followed.

The Untold marriage(Zainab)

                Marriage killed me.

                The tale was told to me by grandmother who I met on the other side. Listen, as I narrate what she told me.

                She started like this: “Your father married you and you died.”

                The invincible birds gulped the introduction, the floating trees moved back and forth, and the air’s music metamorphosed to eerie whispers.

                My ears were opened to drink the remaining stories. Instead, my grandmother put her hands in the air and produced a white calabash filled with water.

                “Seeing is better than listening.” 

                She dropped the calabash gently and it floated. I looked inside.

                “Remember,” my grandmother said, “you can never change the past.”

                “Is this the past?”

                “The past is what you make it. Define your past.”

                “How can I achieve that?”

                “Watch the story with three eyes.”

                I looked inside. I saw a young girl with cornrows. She was hawking oranges around town.

                “Is this the beginning?” I asked.

                “There is no beginning and an end. There are only stories. How it is told doesn’t matter. Follow the journey.”

                “I am confused.”

                My grandmother was gone. She floated in the air. I peered into the calabash. The girl who was hawking oranges was in an office. Time shifted. Then I began to realize the similarities between me and the girl. She wore the same cornrows. I stirred the water in attempt to take the event to the past but it only moved forward.

                Two men talked under an almond tree. The tree shed tears of yellow leaves. They spoke in a voice that sounded like the buzzing of moths. One of the men looked healthy and the other looked poverty stricken. I was studying their faces curiously. My studies produced no result.

                From the air, a strange voice emanated: “Stories are journeys. Concentrate less and get results.”

                One of the men brought items from a brown moving iron. The other smiled and carried what the other man brought. Later, one of the men cried like a woman and another barked like a dog. One walked away looking sad and the other looked happy. The formerly happy one was sad and the formerly sad one was happy. One of the men brought the girl with the cornrow to the now happy-man-formerly-sad-man.

                Now, I saw the girl. She was in a new house. She cried. Everything went red. The water turned to red.

                “I can’t see anything.” I cried.

                “Patience,” my grandmother’s voice admonished, “is the secret to understanding stories.”

                The red cleared. The girl’s belly was big like she swallowed a big stone. She looked older than her age. The girl was sweating. An old woman cleaned her face.  A leg popped out in her vagina. It was red again.

                The now happy-man-formerly-sad-man ran around naked. He cried. He pulled out his hair with his hands. He tore his shirt. Some women walked out. They held their hands as they walked out of the house. This house.

                The cornrow-girl-like-me was travelling. And something came out of the calabash and entered me. A new story entered me. It scared me. I began to see the past. I cried.

                

The Icarus Girl by Helen Oyeyemi

“Sometimes it can be hard to really love someone or something when you can’t see anything of yourself in them.”

                I never knew about the mythical story behind the birth of twins in Nigeria until I read Oyeyemi’s The Icarus Girl. Jess, the heroine, lost her twin sister some years ago. The dead twin, however, struggles for re-existence in Harrison’s house.

                The myth is used as a metaphorical representation of culture clash. In the west, Jess is described as mad while in Africa, the belief is that the spirit of her dead twin must be appeased before she lives freely.

The Famished Road by Ben Okri

”A man can wander round the planet and still not move an inch. A man can have so much light in his mind and still not see what’s right in front of him.”

Yes, it is true: “Okri is incapable of writing a boring sentence.”  He paints (not write) each situation.

The Famished Road narrates the politics, history and future of a nation using the Nigerian Abiku myth. What /who is an Abiku? Simply put, a child born to die. 

The Abiku myth also has a universal feature.