Re: Professor Femi Osofisan on Kole Omotoso @70: "Birthday Notes to A Lost Nirvana."

[Ayoola Tokunbo]

Birthday Notes To A Lost Nirvana  

Published on April 30, 2013 by pmnews   · By Femi Osofisan
I know Kole Omotoso. Wrong. I used to know Kole Omotoso, the Nigerian writer. Some thirty years ago, when we were both at the dawn of our literary career, he was my friend. This week, on the 21st April precisely, he will attain the ripe age of 70; it is worth a celebration.
Many of the present generation will not know him. He has not been much around in recent years, nor featured in current debates. Kole left Nigeria in 1990, virtually in a state of desperation. His latest novel then, Just Before Dawn, had been more successful than his earlier works, but it was a mingled success, mired in controversy. Reactions generally were mixed, but in the quarters that mattered, Kole felt that the response was not only hostile, but increasingly menacing, to the point that he believed that, out of prudence, he should quickly get out, if only for a brief while.
There were other pressures of course at the time, mainly to do with the sad and foreboding plunge the country was taking already towards its current state of anarchy. But the threat of suppression or physical harm was the most dire. So Kole quit his job abruptly, took his family, and left.  Abroad, he floated for a while, adrift like others, until he finally found anchor in the South African labour market, and settled there. He has been there since.
But misfortune sometimes has its gains. In that foreign country, fame came of itself to find him. In an extraordinary manner, and within a short time, Kole found incredible renown. Today, in South Africa, everyone will tell you that, next to Nelson Mandela, the most popular face is, unarguably, that of the Nigerian Kole Omotoso.
On huge billboards right from the gleaming airport to the city slums; and numberless times on the TV, Kole’s face will be there, with his close-cropped hair, his thin, pepper-and-salt beard, and his big eyes, soliciting you to become a client of one of the country’s mobile phone companies.
Most people probably do not know his real name; but ‘Yebogo’, his trade call, is known in every household. And it has become the name by which the whole population celebrates him.
It is a modern fairy tale. Forced out of his own country, out of the familiar ambience of his birthplace, here he was abruptly on the lap of incommensurable success. It was like King Oedipus, at the opposite end of his predicted destiny.
Except that, for some of us, it was not the right kind of honour he deserved. Kole deserves acclaim for many things–his unique creative talents, his fertile imagination and literary skill, his social and political vision, his commitment to the ideal of literature as a plausible weapon for communal restoration. But not, surely, for a cameo role in a phone commercial? Fate had obviously been both kind and cruel; in its munificence was a touch of mischief.
Indeed, fame in those days was not our goal at all, strange though it may sound now to say so. In our late twenties and early thirties, the only passion that burned in our hearts was that of changing the world, our world. And the most frequent word on our lips was ‘Revolution’.
Although we ourselves did not approve of sanguineous upheavals, our heroes were those who had inspired or led bloody uprisings–names like Lenin, Marx, Castro, Cabral, Fanon, and so on–men who, under the impulse of idealist visions, had burned their names onto the pages of history because of the urge to make the world better for the under-privileged. We yearned to be their reincarnations.
We longed to build a new society, liberated from the scourge of poverty and under-development.  We wanted to obliterate retrograde superstitions, destabilise ancient but oppressive traditions, subvert obsolete hierarchies. And in our hurry to do these, time was an enemy, an obstacle. Twenty-four hours were just not enough for all that needed to be accomplished in a single day. Like Césaire’s King Christophe, we wanted our leaders to squeeze into a week, into an hour, the work that others had done in a century!
Returning in the 1970s to the country with our Ph.Ds, we forged friendships and alliances on this revolutionary vision alone; and avidly sought to mobilise kindred minds. We began to write poems, and plays, stories and essays and newspaper articles, with the sole aim of provoking a violent change in the consciousness of our people–and in particular of our ruling elite–such that they would be shaken to the pressing need to transform our society, create social justice, build modern institutions and infrastructure, and so on.
With time, we became a conspicuous presence in the Ibadan-Ife axis. In order to communicate fully, and be equally accessible to the educated elite as well as the common folk, we renounced the elevated jargon of our training as professional academics, and adopted ‘quasi-guerrilla’ tactics, in the form of performance poetry, ‘oral’ prose, popular travelling theatre, samizdat publishing, and so on. We established various organs such as the Positive Review, the Opon Ifa Chapbooks, the Akwei Circle, the APMON (Anti-Poverty Movement), the Kakaun Sela Kompany, and so on.
But among us, Kole’s writing was the most unique. His stories were the most startling in innovative strategies, and the most brilliant in the conception of fresh and astounding plots. Kole has always had this uncanny ability to design original narrative sequences and to fabricate totally novel techniques and story lines.
With the use of short, swift chapters, of simple diction and a handy vocabulary, Kole thought up the most arresting scenarios, again and again inventing, and effortlessly too, some truly ingenious approach to the art of story-telling.
He was, potentially then, the most appealing of all of us. And I say, ‘potentially’, advisedly. Because in this business, the successful weaving of plot, however deft or dazzling, is just never enough. But on this point, we quarrelled endlessly.
Kole’s problem, we thought, was his legendary impatience, his innate and incurable restlessness. He seemed born with an absolute inability to stay still for any length of time, and he brought the same restiveness to his creativity. Now, a work of art, like wine, requires time to mature. You need patience to complete the careful chiselling out, the polishing that would add refinement, the meticulous distillation that leads to mellowness.
But Kole had no such gift of serenity. His mind bubbling with a thousand turbulent ideas, all in a simultaneous rush to express themselves, he would abandon his story in the raw, in its crude and unpolished state of parturition, and hurry on to the next script. And inevitably this reduced the value of the works.
But examine his works closely, and you would see at once how much he was always in advance of the rest of us. In The (Golden) Cage, his first major play, he was the first on our stage to use symbolic ciphers for actual characterisation, much like in, say, Ionesco. His novel, Fella’s Choice, was the first to exploit the genre of espionage and crime fiction for a serious didactic intent. And Just Before Dawn was the first attempt to narrate the biography of our country in the disguised form of fiction, thus inaugurating here the literary category now known as ‘faction’. And so on.
But it was in the realm of laughter perhaps that the difference from the rest of us was most conspicuous. Admirably in Kole’s writing, his humour was never deliberately acidic, never designed to inflict a lasting hurt. No: his laughter was always meant to reconcile rather than annihilate, to admonish and not to humiliate; its subversive edge left a room for forgiveness and compromise. This was more than we others could ever concede, in our gushing, romantic élan.
Those were exhilarating days, no doubt. But it was obvious that the moment was just around the corner for the fissuring of the group. Especially also because, as Biodun Jeyifo pointed out not long ago, we were just as unsparing of one another in our disagreements as with our ideological opponents. The record of these fierce confrontations, interestingly, is there in Kole’s To Borrow A Wandering Leaf.
That moment of fracture came much earlier than we anticipated. Almost overnight, everything fell apart; and the world re-arranged itself around us. As the Cold War ended, and the Berlin wall went down, the entire socialist movement collapsed, even as the Soviet Union disintegrated. The era of Thatcherism and ‘market forces’ had begun.
In Nigeria, Obasanjo ordered a merciless assault on the leftists on campus, sweeping away iconic figures like Ola Oni and Bade Onimode. SAP soon followed, and the rash of ASUU strikes began. So did the mass exodus of intellectuals as the country plunged deeper and deeper into misery and squalor.
The vibrant Ibadan-Ife community collapsed: Soyinka, BJ, Folabo, Segun Osoba and several others caught the exile virus, with Kole ironically playing host to some of his erstwhile colleagues.
For it had become obvious not long after you left, Kole, that our dreams were not going to be fulfilled. And now I cannot but wonder how you must feel, as you look around on your return?
The younger ones you will meet are not in the least like we used to be. The serious dearth of employment, the horror of insecurity everywhere, the unprecedented brigandage in public offices, the festering corruption in the judiciary, the brazen cupidity of the rulers, all these and more have made our children and siblings more cynical, more callous,  and completely self-centred. Nigeria is no longer the relatively compassionate society that we knew: the dreams of our youth float in the wind now like shredded rags.
True enough, you will see some ongoing rejuvenation efforts, especially in some of the southern states. You will see streets being cleaned and widened; new roads with glittering bridges; new markets; new classrooms; new universities.
But sadly however, just as rapidly as the new streets are built, so do new beggars clutter the pavements. The displaced vendors and hawkers only go to swell the ranks of the unemployed. Behind the giant billboards celebrating the ‘achieving’ governor grow new populations of the jobless. An ominous anger simmers unseen in almost every neighbourhood. Crime and violence have risen beyond control.
But still, as they say, home is home. And home is where the heart should be. Now that you have decided to come back to celebrate your birthday, I can only say—Welcome back, brother. Hope may be dim at the moment, but we must continue to wear it like a jewel. For it never dies.

[Pius Adesanmi]

Page, Stage, Billboards And Still Running

28 Apr 2013

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OMOTOSO

There are no second acts in life, so it is said. But Kole Omotoso has taken on several roles in one lifetime, reinvented himself each time and ended with remarkable results, writes Michael Jimoh…

On one indolent afternoon at The Post Express’s office on Warehouse Road in Apapa, the period between paralysing inaction and the edgy urgency you find in most newsrooms,  Nduka Otiono took me out for a drink. The year was 1999. The Post Express looked to be a promising newspaper at the time, with an equally enterprising Arts & Culture section – including its literary supplement – headed by Otiono. Akin Adesokan, now a professor in an American university, was his assistant while Chris Paul Otaigbe (formerly Chris Omozokpia) and I were Staff Writers.

A writer on first name terms with his contemporaries, Otiono’s love for literature was built on solid reputation. He also liked his drink. So, each time I turned in a good copy – and there were not many of those – he rewarded me with a drink.  It was either at Iya Ijebu’s – a smoke-filled, rundown Mama Put where scruffy, ebony-complexioned mechanics shouted for Amala, rice and beans; cracked open bottles of soft drinks with their teeth; made short work of huge mounds of fufu and eba or where casual labourers working in factories nearby shouted out orders impatiently.

Sitting in the same shack for hours many times every week were some of the best young writers of the day: Uzor Maxim Uzoatu. Sanya Osha. Pius Adesanmi. Ogaga Ifowodo. Pita Okute. Harry Garuba sometimes made a rare but unforgettable appearance, all of them sated with alcohol and a literary diet which invariably was the subject of lengthy discussions and which was also clearly above the head of artisans contented with their simple diet of bread and beans.

Or Mobil Filling Station on Commercial Road where we inevitably rushed two Harp lagers each so that “make e work for bodi,” as Otiono used to say. One Thursday afternoon, Otiono had spoken with Harry Garuba, who had just relocated to South Africa from The Post Express where he had been a member of the Editorial Board. He was obviously elated.

Their conversation, Otiono later told me gleefully over beer, was about Professor Kole Omotoso who was making good in South Africa. Though Otiono did not quite say it in those words, the impression I got was of someone who had, to borrow a phrase common with over eager Nigerian reporters ever ready with superlative backslaps, “taken Johannesburg by storm”. It was not untrue because, then, Omotoso had indeed become the most popular black face in advertising in a country just emerging out of apartheid.

What was also true was that I didn’t know much of Omotoso before that time. Yes, I knew he wrote Just before Dawn. But there just wasn’t that eagerness to read him as I did some of Wole Soyinka’s books, for instance, Chinua Achebe’s or even Isidore Okpewo’s. In short, Omotoso just wasn’t in my literary consciousness pre-journalism. And even in the line of duty as an Arts reporter, I met Soyinka at French Cultural Centre (Maison de France) on Kingsway Road, Ikoyi; Achebe during the Odenigbo lecture in Owerri and Okpewo at GRA in Ikeja. But Omotoso? Not once.

And then one day last February, as I entered the sylvan-screened house of poet and scholar, Odia Ofeimun, I met a spectacled, urbane-looking man sipping from a wine glass. A half-empty bottle of The Four Cousins, a South African red wine, was on the table. Odia was in his traditional boxers, bare-chested, rocking his knees sideways. “Good afternoon, sir,” I said to the man sitting directly opposite Odia. “How are you, my friend?” It was a rich voice, stentorian, a broadcaster’s voice apparently polished by years of good breeding and good wine.

It is impossible not to admire Omotoso once you’ve met him. In blue denims, long sleeve and unbuttoned sleeveless jacket favoured by photo-journalists, hair cropped low with a matching, trimmed silver goatee, it was a face you thought you knew but weren’t too sure where. The overall impression was of a gracefully ageing hippie minus the bushy hair, bright eyes flashing behind rimless, spoke-thin framed, fancy glasses. It was a scholarly look typical of a certain generation of Nigerian writers pioneered by Soyinka himself.

Not long after, he was off – accompanied by his only daughter, Yewande, also a novelist – to Murtala Mohammed International Airport to catch a flight to Jo’burg where he lives and works. A second meeting was not long in coming, also at Odia’s house in Oregun. By then, I had known who he was and was only too delighted to pour his first glass of beer brought by Abiodun, Odia’s hands-on man.
“Thank you,” he said in that rich, cultured voice again. It was not the obligatory expression of gratitude dispensed without warmth for service rendered to people used to being attended to. He meant it genuinely. He passed the night and the following day was off again, back to SA. He was expected in Nigeria as the chief celebrant to mark his birthday in Akure and Lagos from mid-April. Omotoso turned 70 on April 21.

Turning 70 in a country where life expectancy is somewhere between 45 and 50 is an achievement on its own. But it is not for longevity that an eclectic mix of the literati, businessmen and politicians converged in Lagos and Akure for three days this month. It is for a far higher and profounder reason. For as his “soul brother” Odia has written, “Omotoso’s arrival at the biblical three-score-and-ten offers all of us an opportunity to draw attention to and appreciate his many-sided commitment to the literary arts as well as celebrate those with whom his path has crossed.”

Of Edo parentage, Odia was born when his father worked as a motor mechanic in Akure, hometown of Omotoso where he was born in 1943. Their path did not cross until Kole returned to Nigeria after his doctorate in Edinburgh and Odia was a post-graduate student at the University of Ibadan. Literature was the crux of their friendship, which has continued to this day, deepening their love for literature and affection for one another not unlike biological brothers. Omotoso was the founding General Secretary of the Association of Nigerian Authors. He became President of the writers’ body after Professor Chinua Achebe – founding President.

Omotoso specifically flew in from SA when Odia turned 62 in March 2012. Expectedly, activities in Omotoso’s honour were already in high gear and put together by a committee of friends, coordinated by Odia himself. A dance drama, lecture and exhibition were part of the activities lined up for Omotoso’s 70th which flagged off from April 19 and ended with a high-profile dinner on April 20 by Governor Olusegun Mimiko for the most literary son in the state. 

Importantly, according to Odia, “there is a need to view Omotoso’s achievements as a creative writer also in the context of his role as a pioneering activist in literary journalism.”

Not many people now remember that long before the symbiosis between the media and academia today in Nigeria – having people in the Ivory Tower lend their intellectual weight to editorial opinions in mainstream media – Omotoso had set the pace. Some of his colleagues in university campuses were scornful; to them it was like a climb-down from a lofty pedestal. Ironically, many of them now maintain regular columns in national newspapers and magazines.

Thirty or so years ago, Omotoso had seen the light and did not hesitate to shine it brightly on under-reported areas in the life of his countrymen. Beginning from July 1983, Omotoso travelled the length and breadth of Nigeria – by road, rail, air and sea – and wrote travelogues which were serialised in Sunday Concord, one of the most popular weeklies then. The slug was “Knowing Nigeria.” He also maintained a column, “Writer’s Diary,” in West Africa magazine, not to mention his “Uncle Very, Very” published in Sketch. All three publications are now moribund.

But Omotoso has not stopped writing, producing, in the process, several works of fiction, drama, short stories, essays and a historical narrative. Some of his more popular publications are Just before Dawn, The Combat, The Edifice, The Sacrifice, Memories of our Recent Boom and Miracles and Other Stories. His critical studies include Achebe or Soyinka: A Study in Contrasts, The Form of the African Novel and Theatrical into Theatre. He has also written a political essay, Season of Migration to the South, a disturbing account of his decision to settle finally in South Africa.

With this volume of work spanning several genres, you would expect Omotoso to be one of the more talked about authors of his generation. They were members of the Positive Review Group: Femi Osofisan, Biodun Jeyifo, Yemi Ogunbiyi, Omolara Ogundipe and G. G Darah. Odia Ofeimun dropped out when he became Chief Obafemi Awolowo’s Secretary. They are all accomplished critics. Omotoso and Osofisan have taken their creative writing to a loftier level, considering their oeuvre over the years.

A plausible reason for Omotoso’s marginal acceptance is his movement to South Africa. Besides, except for prescribed texts, reading is one of the most democratic exercises in the world. It allows for arbitrariness in readers and in a country with a failing book market, it is the case that freedom to choose authors gets truncated even for those who do not need to meet or know one.

I am among the guilty for unintentionally ignoring one of the most fecund minds of Nigerian literature. The only consolation is that, except for those in the academia and the intelligentsia, I know I am in good company with a number of Nigerians who have failed to appreciate a confirmed star in a constellation of Nigerian writers and one who is a household name in far away SA but not his own country.

An example will suffice here. On Sunday, February 10, 2013, the day of the AFCON finals between Nigeria and Burkina Faso, I watched the match in a public place where there were no fewer than 200 Nigerians, most of them above 20. The interlude between the first and second half saw a flurry of ads, highlights of the first half and previous matches of the tournament. One, particularly, showed a spectacled and an avuncular man in ash-coloured sweater in a television commercial sponsored by Fidelity Bank. I recognised him immediately. But not one other person there knew who he was or that he was even a Nigerian. Without doubt, the recognition would have been instantaneous had Soyinka’s snow-white Afro hair and bird’s nest goatee filled the screen.

Still, Omotoso’s literary merit has not been glossed over completely. In a seminal study of his corpus published in The Guardian Literary Series in the 80s and the most illuminating till date, Odia writes that “Omotoso’s art does not fall within any pre-cast or proverbial strain; it is as distant from pre-existing fictional norms as a guerrilla foco is from a standing army. Whether in the language he deploys, the images he selects from our vast social milieu or the ideological disposition which freights and is freighted by his material, his output cannot be pressed easily into the same analytical mould as that of the older generation, born mainly in the 30s and before.”

Odia goes further in the same review to show a marked distinction between Omotoso’s art and those that preceded him. With Omotoso, “we are no longer conversing with the patriarchal teacher to be encountered in Chinua Achebe or the philosopher-king that must be accosted in Wole Soyinka; we are face to face with a fellow traveller on the streets of life, a fellow traveller who also plays the tortoise and demands unsettling answers to old questions. His particular forte in this respect is that he does not fight positional battles. Omotoso is an unrepentant experimentalist who will not take the easy road to acceptability.”

Not taking the easy road to acceptability may just account for his low popularity with Nigerian readers, at least lower than some of his contemporaries. Soon after Just before Dawn was published in 1988, the author ran into trouble with the Nigerian government. With real life characters in a real country written as a historical narrative, the book was marked down as seditious. A teacher at Ife then, Omotoso had to seek refuge elsewhere, long before the term brain drain entered Nigerian lexicon.

Peregrinating from one continent to another, Omotoso was denied a foundation some of his contemporaries smartly took advantage of. A particular paragraph was considered offensive and promptly conveyed to the publisher, Spectrum. The paragraph was later removed, without the author’s consent, though. As the author himself recalled, “it was, in fact, my writing Just before Dawn that ultimately prompted me to leave Nigeria.”

Away in Edinburgh or the West Indies where he married his first wife, Omotoso was literally cut off from the academic happenings in his natal country. Nor were his books readily made available to students in the form of prescribed texts as those of his contemporaries. The result of his long years of exile can only be imagined. 

Even so, Omotoso has not looked back, reinventing himself in several different ways. Before his sojourn abroad, he was a prominent member of the drama department in Ife. Others were, again, Osofisan, Jeyifo and Ogunbiyi. In the words of Soyinka, they were the literary quartet he worked with at the university. They also espoused, at the time, a Marxian philosophy, complete with chin beards though shorter in length than Karl Marx’s himself.

“It was inevitable that I would privately dub the literary quartet of this group as the ‘Gang of Four’ who peppered all discourse and action with Marxian pellets of varied sizes, validity and effectiveness,” Soyinka remembers. “Since I was obliged to interact with them more than the rest of the campus radicals, I had to retain my mental equilibrium by placing them in individual categories – not rigid, but reasonably consistent – the Maximal Marxist, the Muddled Marxist, the Marginal Marxist and the Mechanical Marxist – I leave those who knew Kole at the time to guess within which ‘Double M’ I housed him. What matters is that when he shifted to South Africa and found that the Rand did not quite fulfil its promise, and with a wife, two fast growing lads and a daughter to maintain in a strange land, he proved a very adroit adjuster and entrepreneur.”

In many ways, Omotoso’s professional life has followed that trajectory, a man ever seeking out new ways, new ideas and often going against the grain. He read Arabic Studies at a time it was not fashionable to do so in Nigerian universities, and added French for good measure. Though Omotoso took up a university appointment in Cape Town, he quickly found other ways of making out – advertising. He was a soar-away success almost immediately.

A consummate actor, Omotoso auditioned for and got the part for a local advert by Vodacom. As Yewande recounts in a tribute to be published this month, Vodacom “would go on to create a series of adverts over more than ten years and win several prestigious advertising awards for their ever-adapting creation. My father and his fellow actors would be spotted in the street and fawned over; billboards would be installed on highways, at airports, posters on shop windows in the remotest of Eastern Cape villages to magazine covers in fancy Johannesburg malls.”

Many more ads followed, of car makers, etc, and even feature films. In time, his became the most famous black face as far as advertising was concerned in SA. The writer, teacher, dramatist and now model was on a roll. But a section of South Africans was not quite pleased, purely for racist reasons. In one of the adverts for a Nissan bakkie, a favourite truck with white Afrikaans-speaking South Africans, they were riled that a black man played the lead role, sort of taking up an occupation that should be their sole preserve. It ran for just one night on television.

Even so, Omotoso’s reel life didn’t stop there, especially after playing Govan Mbeki in a film on Mandela and de Klerk starring Michael Caine and Sidney Poitier.

All is going swimmingly, too, for Omotoso in real life though he lost his first wife, Marguerita, on February 6, 2003, a day he prefers not to remember, for emotional reasons. Kole and Marguerita met in Edinburgh where they were both students – he a doctoral student of Arabic drama and she a major in town planning. Two sons, Akin and Pelayo, were born soon after they married. Yewande came in 1980. In 1992, they all relocated to SA from London.

Akin is an award-winning filmmaker while Pelayo is a computer scientist, described by Yewande as the brainiac in the house. Marguerita was no doubt a great influence on her immediate family, as attested to by her daughter. “Any achievements that my father, my brothers or myself enjoy today, even without saying it, we always know to thank Marguerita Omotoso and we always know the immense role she’s played in our lives so that we can do whatever we do.”

For Omotoso’s achievement as a writer, it is to Odia, his friend and “brother”, that we leave the last word: “Omotoso’s output installs itself at the interstice between the old and the new, the popular and the highbrow, the naturalistic and the fantastic, giving the author a place at the bridge-head of the rising echelon of younger writers whose strength has been in the urgency with which old questions are asked and fresh answers are being teased or cajoled out of the bowels of time.”

Tags: Arts and Review, Featured, Life and Style

 

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[Assensoh, Akwasi B.]

Oga-Professor Kunle (Oga Sir):

 

Congratulations, indeed! I have always respected you, but I never knew that, like myself, you were born in April, a great month in which to be born! 70 is a ripe age, most certainly. I remember that, in our youth, we were calling everybody above 50 years old or more as "Old Man" (or "Akora" in Ghana's Akan Twi). Today, we are near there, and we say we are still in our prime: not yet "Akoras".

 

I have a sad story about being in one's prime (if for comic relief): A dear friend was dying of cancer two years ago at Indiana University. He was generously given the option to retire with our retiring group at 57 (when some of us were in our 60s). I asked him to accept the deal, but he looked at me and said: "Brother A.B., you are not being helpful. At 57, I am now in my prime!" He died a few months later!

 

I looked at the photo of Oga-Professor Kunle Omoto: and he still looks agile and youthful. Thanks to "Sir" Mandela's South Africa, which could contain him! He may not remember me, but I first met him (in his younger years) through Dr. Tunji Otegbeye, another firebrand Socialist! I also met him through his great writings!!

 

Congratulations, indeed, Oga-Professor. 70 is a ripe age. Let's thank God Almighty! Amen.

 

A.B. Assensoh (former Palmgrove/Mushin Exile). 

 

 

 

 

 

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From: usaafric...@googlegroups.com [usaafric...@googlegroups.com] on behalf of Pius Adesanmi [piusad...@yahoo.com]
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Subject: USA Africa Dialogue Series - Kole Omotoso: Page, Stage, Billboards And Still Running

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