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Fresh out of high school, full of hope and vague intimations of where life was supposed to be heading in a spiritually and economically depressed social space, he fed less on food than on dry paper- doses of cheap literature at first; Donatus-Nwoga-edited West African Verse, medieval English masterpieces by Chaucer, John Dryden, Alexander Pope, the English Romantics and an early-modernist Gerald Manley Hopkins, who yammered on about ‘inscape’ and ‘instress.’ In the country’s prevailing economic and political hopelessness, his lean hungry frame sought spiritual succour in the dusty old city of Ife, where the Man was culture’s ‘high priest’ – he was known to produce his plays there; he was a lecturer at the university there. From his seat at Ife, he obsessed his country’s literary imagination, and the imagination of this young nobody seeking him out.
Money for the journey had been somehow purloined from a long-suffering grand-mother in Oke-Odo, Ibadan. And off to the motor park somewhere on old-Ife road. The ride was smooth; the plan as vague as the premonition of doom engendered by a rotten body politic. There was this schooled but uneducated primary school teacher posing as president. In his startled, spherical eye-glasses he looked as unfit for the highest office in the country as a school boy in a vice-chancellor’s chair. How did it come about that an impostor was president in a country with heads as round as that of a Soyinka or a Tai Solarin?
There was an arrangement to squat with a new acquaintance, a fellow dreamer and ‘eccentric’- the opinion of his traditional environment- who read esoteric literature with titles such as Fourteen Lessons in Occultism or Enter the Silence, practiced Hatha Yoga and had a Brown Belt in ‘blue wave’ karate. He had just relocated to Ife and worked in a supermarket. Born as Ade Ifakolujo, he had, in a rebellious mood against a querulous Ekiti father, hyphenated his name to Ade Fakolujo-Spence! Where the ‘spence’ came from was all conjecture. He was older and therefore ‘brother Ade’ in the usual traditional Yoruba way of showing difference. Arrival was expected. Getting to Ade’s work-place from the motor-park was not too difficult when one asked directions. We left there together and headed for his house. He lived well, exercised well, ate well, was round- and oily-cheeked and admonished against smoking.
“How can you smoke and do breathing exercises after?”
One merely shrugged. Smoking was a way of telling a repressive adult world, “go to hell!” He had his name-switch; one had one’s John Players or Benson and Hedges. One young man’s father was an ogre; the other’s a monster, who was securely locked up in the past. There lay the connection, cigarette smoke or not, apart from a shared interest in the esoteric. The purpose of the journey was enough to exonerate. How in hell would the Man be reached? The nerve of it! He was exhilarated too, and liked the idea that one wrote poetry of whatever quality.
The next day all roads led to the University of Ife. It was a bit of a ride since the campus is on the outskirts, seats on the lip of the city, sort of tucked into itself like a shy guest at a meal. It was the retreat of high culture. The distance from the main gate, with its imposing arches, to the centre of campus was itself quite a stretch of tarmac. But the bus ride finally came to an end. The surrounding architecture was imposing. It was a relatively new University, built by Awolowo from the sale of cocoa-produce money in the 1960s. It is remembered as a sprawling, giddy campus set down among undulating, hunch-backed grounds, with well-maintained roads and, a rich faculty living quarters detached from the main campus by a network of macadam, glinting in the burning sun. The overall impression was that of looking down imperiously on the dusty grey city of Ife from any high point on that hilly campus. ‘Great Ife!’ indeed as its students and alumni refer to it. At least that was the impression when one looked down from the corridors of the English Department, where the Man was known to lecture comparative literature. Enquiries had been made but he was nowhere to be found. He was known to have strange disappearing acts - either globe-trotting or on sudden bouts of game-hunting in the forest with one rumoured friend, Femi Johnson. So the next thing to do was to actually go and try to locate his residence in the staff quarters, almost a quarter of a mile away from the centre of campus. It was a long, tiring walk on this veritable ‘highway’ within the self-enclosed campus town. Highway it was because you hardly met a soul. You do not traverse that stretch without a car. They roared by intermittently. Either side of the road was wooded. Thumbing a ride was impolitic, so march, march! The mirage on the macadam made one dizzy. The sun was merciless in its ferocity that day. The road’s throat was parched. One could have drunken of the dust on the embankment, with its huge shoulders of earth and grass and wood and, of course, game. It was well-known he loved to hide. Well, were writers not strange beings, making a spindly-legged youth have to walk all this way without guarantee of fulfilment at the end of the search?
Finally, a curve in the endless road revealed a house fitting descriptions received earlier through discreet enquiries from strangers on campus and along the way. It seemed to stand alone, shunning the curiosity of neighbours. Predictably, it was securely locked, windows, door and jamb shut-mouthed. A jeep was parked before the residence, a dust-caked tarpaulin thrown over it. Yes, it must be the right house. He was known to love jeeps. They could rapidly gain the brush and brambles of hunting grounds in the woods. Or perhaps he was abroad again. But it was said he was in town and had been seen yesterday. One made the long trek back to the campus; took a bus into the city and to Ade’s, determined to make another foray the next day. It was said by the porters at the English Department that he might be in his office tomorrow.
The following day was more rewarding. At the porters lodge there was no cooperation this time. Yes, he had been seen going up to his office, but no you cannot go up there. And demurring, one turned away, melted into the next pillar around the corner, then surreptitiously made a quick dash from the other side of the porter’s lodge into the stair-way, crouched and bounded up like a cat. It was easy to find the well-known name on one of the doors along the corridors. It was a solid double-door. A plaque on it read, simply, ‘Wole Soyinka.’ A soft knock on the door and a mellifluous voice in a soft baritone urged, “come in!”
Nervous at this planned but unbidden intrusion, one turned the door-knob, pushed gently and stepped into a spacious office. The Man raised his eye-brows in a slight surprise. There was a pause. Recovering from a complex of incredulity, shock and excitement at the imposing presence leaning back into an upholstered swing-chair, the intruder quickly explained, “please, sir, don’t be annoyed with the porters; they did not let me through but I sneaked up!” That was open-sesame. Perhaps a cord was struck by such a singularly rebellious admission. One knew that he was a maverick himself. The ghost of a smile played on his face, “what can I do for you?” And disbelieve as a hand waved one into the chair opposite his spacious but tidy desk. On the floor, to one side of the desk, was a tall carton full of new-minted books in hard-cover. Now one remembered the old notebook of juvenilia and proffered it, “I wanted you to see some of my poems.” He smiled, reached out a hand and accepted the Magnum Opus! “I do not really make comments on other people’s work. But I will look at it.” He observed the tangle of fresh youth and inexperience before him.
“What are you doing now?”
“I just finished secondary school last year; I am trying to get into University.”
“How old are you?”
“I am 18.” There was a pause. Something was wrong?
“You better buck up! Those young boys out on the campus are not much older than you. Some are even 16.”
If only he knew what artificial obstacles stood in one’s way; if only he knew that one fed only on hope every waking day under the terrible socio-economic and political dispensation of the day! But, for a boy who had been forced to kill his own father in his heart, there was the warm gratification that his was a fatherly rethought.
“Em…Could you come back tomorrow at about -.” A time was given and acknowledged. It was a first formal appointment. “By then I would have looked at your poems.”
The next day’s meeting went without a hitch. The porters were cooperative. Up the stairs with more confidence, a timid knock and, the same voice as yesterday despite fears that the Man might not be there to receive an insignificant caller; the same mix of nervousness and exhilaration in the youth, who timidly asks, “how do you find the poems?”
The Man was ready. The notebook lay on the desk suggesting it had, at least, been perused. One was worried. The notebook contained such esoteric stuff in imitative scansion as, “That still moment of eternal bliss/One knows not what to call/ Samadhi…” Some more original material like the idyllic “Bobbing Carpets of Blackness”, on seeing birds fly across the sky in a concert on an evening. Later on, more conscious imitations of medieval English scansion, “When Christ Lord did a promise make/Of life eternal to simple souls..,” would follow.
“You know as I said, I never really make comments. But it’s coming up; it’s coming up! Have you been published before?”
“No!”
“Well, try the newspapers; join the Association of Nigerian Authors, try reading on the Radio.”
The information was soaked up.
“Then when you have the psychological moment, you approach a publisher. The part is narrow and those who are called are few.”
This biblical allusion was a bit ironic since the Man was known to be agnostic. And one had read the collection, Idanre or the poem “Abiku”; both were rich in the ritual and animistic. But the advice was noted and diligently followed upon later. One’s eyes lighted on the carton of new books beside the desk again.
“That’s a new book?” The man observed the youth, looked in the direction of interest.
“Yes. It just came out.” And unexpectedly, “would you like a copy?”
“Yes, yes!”
He had already leaned forward in his swivel chair, bent down a bit and swiftly procured a copy out of the carton. It was already open on his desk.
“What’s your name?”
“Godwin Ede”
“How do you spell the last name?”
He scribbled into the prelims of the book and handed over the autographed book. It was Ake: the Years of Childhood. The autograph read, “for Godwin Ede, with sincere wishes for a successful writing career.” And the flourish of a signature! Then it was dated June, 1982. The book became a talisman and a constant reminder of the prognostications of the wishes of the autograph. One had to succeed as a writer, no matter what. It was also a challenge too, that autograph. The time came to leave.
“Eh…I do not have money for the journey back to Ibadan!” The Man dipped into his pockets and proffered a twenty Naira note. In 1982, that was a lot of money for a hungry youth. It had more value than 2000 Naira today. It would pay the fare back and still leave something for some food and the occasional bottle of Star beer.
There was a third encounter in the 1980s. The country had little or no jobs for its army of young men coming out of high schools or even the university. The days were over when a job and a car awaited a university student on graduating. As the soldier regime of the day struggled with the economy like a car with steering-wheel trouble, more and more of the youth took either to hooliganism or headless partying out of boredom. Two regimes later one soldier ‘mis-leader’ would throw up his hands in frustration and declare that the economy defied all scientific logic. The steering wheel had locked forever. So you turned to the good Man for help. It was the same procedure. The difference this time was his lack of surprise in having this tender plant shooting up suddenly before his office desk.
“I need a job!”
The cheek of it! But he drew a note pad to him and scribbled a director’s name and the description of a Road Safety Corps office in Ibadan. The Man himself was Chairman of the Corps.
“Give him this note; he will understand. There should be something there for you.” The traditional twenty Naira note was proffered. He saved one the embarrassment this time.
In Ibadan, the director of the Road Safety Corps read the note, nodded satisfaction and fixed an appointment, mumbling something about a clerk’s job in the very near future. At the next meeting he explained that, actually, the position open was that of a ‘messenger’ not a clerk’s but that the duties where practically the same; only thing was… the designation read ‘Messenger’! Speechlessness. Usually the primary school drop-out was the one designed for that position, not a secondary school graduate. One’s mind began to resist the devil of a messenger position. Nigerian bureaucracy never let it get past the poor obsequious messenger what lowly foot-mat he was. Every one wiped their feet on the door-mat, some a little longer than necessary! He Sir-ed and Ma-ed even those who would be the age-mates of his or her own children. No. It just would not do.
So one thanked him for the offer, made noises about thinking of it and coming back with the application letter and so on, and beat a hasty retreat.
Outside the Agodi area, the buildings stared back in disbelief, the street lashed out its serpentine tongue in the direction of the Road Safety Corps office; the traffic roared, “no!” And one echoed back, “no, no, I shall be messenger to no man in Nigeria!”
Months dragged by. One found oneself standing before the Man again at Ife. This time the excuse is not remember-able. He admonishes, “You should have taken the job. All you would probably have needed to do was a little bit of pen-pushing.” And he mentioned how he himself was a waiter in London during his student days.
He did not know about the offer of the job of messenger instead of that of a clerk. But one said nothing of that out of fear of being seen as immodest rather than ambitious and self-respecting. More months went by, years during which his pieces of advice was implemented – reading on Radio Oyo’s Youth Rendezvous, with Lekan Walker as host and producer in 1984 (it also brought in a weekly stipend!); publishing poems in Newspapers, joining the Association of Nigerian Authors in 1986 and attending her yearly conferences thereafter.
In 1989, armed with a copy of Voices from the Fringe, one walked into Akin Fashemore’s office at Spectrum Books in Oluyole Industrial Estate out of curiosity and demanded a job on the spot!
“I am a poet; but I am hungry. I need a job.” The strangest of looks from him. And then compassion.
“I hope you won’t bring all those your funny poet-behaviour here!” Perhaps he referred to the nature of this meeting itself. Again the encounter had been spontaneous. No Appointment. Simply wander into the reception and ask for the Editorial Manager!
“No.”
“And you promise not to disappoint me?”
“I won’t disappoint you, Sir!”
“Ummm…if you promise not to disappoint me I can create a place for you!”
The job turned out to be that of an Editorial Assistant. It is the usual entry level into the publishing industry anywhere in the world, a grey area combining the administrative ( for example co-ordinating the department under the Editorial Manager’s supervision) with an editor’s assignments – actual mark-up and copy editing, manuscript assessment and so on. While working there, Chiedu Ezeanah, a fine poet whom one had met through the University of Ibadan School of Poets, worked at the Tribune, not too far away in Oke-Ado. We sometimes met at a bar somewhere in-between Oluyole Estate and Oke-Ado. He gave news of an impending meeting of ‘The Group’ in Ibadan. It turned out The Group was a collective of The Man’s old school mates, friends, fellow artists like Tunji Oyelana, the high-life musician; exciting! So how do we get into Dr. Olu Agunloye’s walled-in and guarded mansion in the heart of Bodija? Chiedu, as much a dare-devil himself sneered and assured that we could get in on his journalist’s pass. Great! So off we went and gate-crashed successfully on the evening. True to information the Man was there. He arrived after we had already breached the VIP requirements of The Group’s gathering; two obviously younger men among the elderly intellectual crowd. We were even allowed wine and access to the rich buffet. We had brief conversations with him and retreated into beery silences, lost in the din.
Two or three years rolled by. On a fine morning in the 1990s it was The Man’s 56th birthday. Joop Berkhout, Chief Executive Officer and Chairman of Spectrum Books and The Man’s Nigerian publisher, came into the editorial pool and searched in his bird-like fashion.
“Godwin, today you must do nothing. Drop everything. Only write a poem for Soyinka’s birthday. We are going to Lagos. You will read the poem at his Birthday party.” One had met the Man again when he visited Spectrum Books offices once. He dimly remembered our encounters. Years had gone by. One was known in the company’s newsletter as ‘our own poet’ after the publication of The Faith of Vultures: BBC Prize-winning Anthology in 1989 by Heinemann, Oxford. Does one write to order as a baker bakes to order? Berkhout insisted. So the employee complied, and sweated out For WS, an ode. The same evening, with no time for a change of clothes, off we went to Lagos with the boss himself driving. We had in tow a huge birthday card signed by the entire staff.
In Lagos, J.P. Clark, renowned poet and playwright, was host. Bruce Onobrakpeya, one of the country’s finest visual artists had prepared a huge canvas of some work in bronze as a birthday present. There was Anthony Kwameh Appiah in the audience. At some point, Berkhout drew the attention of the illustrious gathering on spoon against wine glass, insisting the crowd listen to a poem by Spectrum’s own in-house bard. One read and was applauded and the night roared on.
Again there were intervening years. Then it came the time to pursue the fulfilment of a dream. Studying German language (after resigning from Spectrum Books) at the University of Ibadan required a semester or two in Germany. Self-sponsored and writing newspaper articles, TV scripts, poetry and engaged in part-time editorial work for Gbenro Adegbola’s Bookkraft, Aigboje Higo’s Heinemann, one did not have enough money for three square meals how much less for an airplane ticket to Germany. Again to the good Man. This time he was in Abeokuta running the Essay Foundation and was not anymore with the University of Ife. Once there had been a courtesy visit to Abeokuta after the 56th birthday party, to present him with the essayistic result of the birthday encounter. It was an article in the Nigerian Tribune titled, “Giving Wole back to Soyinka” in reference to the Onabrakpeya artwork.
An astute critic of the government’s antics, the Man was under the shadow of the dictatorship of the day and had had to relocate his family he explained, which meant buying a new home in some secret location in the country. One would have to wait till he returned from a planned international lecture tour. Then he would be able to support the German trip. He had just dusted up his forgotten lecture folder and was considering which invitations to acknowledge. On his first attempt to board a plane, the public was shocked at the news of the seizure of his passport at the Murtala Mohammed Airport in Lagos by state security officials. The next news was even more arresting. The Man had disappeared into thin air! There were rumours of a London or New York appearance. Then silence. Somehow, one managed to board a plane for Frankfurt at the end of 1994.
In 1995 years of clashes between Ken Saro-Wiwa and the government took a fatal international turn when the former was murdered by the latter. There was fevered anti-government work in Germany; anti-shell campaigns in conference halls and on the streets alongside Uche Nduka and Elias Dunu, Peter Donatus and Ade Odukoya, musician and Afro-German activist. The United Democratic Front was formed by the Man in the USA. The Nigerian intellectual community in Germany quickly brought itself under its umbrella. Already in place was the Nigerian Common Cause, which infrastructure and manpower was mobilized. Elias Dunu was at the forefront of organising. Thus came the Man to Germany on political mission in 1997. Conferences, talks, meetings with leaders of the EU, then he was in Cologne, home to Ade Odukoya. There was a conference. The Man gave a talk to a packed audience of German support organisations like the Association for the Protection of Threatened Peoples and the general German public. Olaokun Soyinka, who one met for the first time, was in the background, camera in hand. We had intimations that the Nigerian embassy had spies posted in the audience. We, including Ade, tried identifying and photographing them for some future ‘peoples’ court!’ They shied away.
In the evening at a reception in honour of the Man by the German support groups, he stood up to give a vote of thanks. One had been sitting alongside him all the while. As he began speaking, there was a slight hiss and an escape of gas as one tried opening a bottle of beer with the teeth! That was to avoid distraction by standing up to retrieve the cock-opener. He paused in his speech, turned his head slightly to take a peek at one and declared in an unbroken tone of voice to the audience, “he is one of my protégés, but I can assure you, I did not teach him how to do that!” Earlier on during the dinner, one had jokingly demanded delivery on the 1994 promise of money for a ticket to Germany! And he had replied in the same light mood, “Is it because you managed to get out?”
Strange how fate has yoked Man and child after that initial June encounter in 1982 at the Ife University – because there were other meetings and each time the Man was father to the child, who has not been able to be the child who is “father to the man.” Again in 2001 in Deusseldorf, Germany, one was billed on a literary event focusing on Africa alongside the Man. Sheer coincidence, but one that spoke of the hand of fate, and reminded one of the challenge in that autograph of 1982, “for Godwin Ede, with sincere wishes for a successful writing career.” King Baabu was staged in Deusseldorf in 2001. On a different billing – the poetry section, we, Uche Nduka and Godwin Ede, read poetry. Of course it is usual now to simply seek out the Man. So previous to the night of poetry one took a train from home-base in Hannover to Deusseldorf. This time, there was an appointment. It was a courtesy call unrelated to the literary program in the city of Deusseldorf. Again the Man was father to the child and agreed to write a recommendation letter for a PhD programme in Canada and a prospective literary grant at the New York Public Library. He took the information needed. He would post the letters back to Germany once he arrived to his base in the USA.
True to his words, generous copies of the letters were received in Hannover, Germany, a month later or thereabouts. On leaving the five-star hotel to go back to Hannover during that last, recent meeting, again the Man handed the child a hundred Euro note, echoing 1982. And now the child awaits an opportunity to buy the Man his beloved wine in the very near future.
July 02, 2008
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June 03, 2008
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July 04, 2008
New Releases From Gaspereau Press
