On Kalabash Nigeria

Was at the Kalabash Nigeria event on 18 October. Fela, Ken Saro-Wiwa, the Niger Delta and all things Nigeria were on the agenda – and the night proved so popular that the room spilled with people onto the stairway. Many more couldn’t get in. Which should at least give the Kalabash group a sense of what audience capacity they should work towards when next they want to focus on Nigeria.

Fela’s law I guess. The Fela Anikulapo-Kuti documentary, Music is the Weapon, was the victim of a technical hitch on the night, and so could not be shown. Kalabash have promised to have it on again soon. So who’s to replace the father, if not the son? The Afrobeat king’s musician son, Femi Kuti, was going to be on the programme anyway, and so his documentary, ‘Suffering and Smiling’ played first. You could say with Nigeria, you’ve got to laugh to keep from crying sometimes – and so the audience took it upon themselves to prove the truth of the film’s title (taken from Fela’s classic, Shuffering and Shmilling) and laughed at every new item in the country’s endless litany of woes. But there came a time when for many, it wasn’t funny anymore.

I suppose the documentary allowed me to understand Femi Kuti more. But his sister Yeni is pretty arresting when she's on film, speaking truth to power (at least on camera) such that one almost regretted the fact that she never took the microphone to sing too (who said the Afrobeat legacy was only for Fela’s sons?). In one scene, the family has bought crates of drinks for the throngs that come to the New Afrika Shrine daily. But it all turns into chaos, because the people would not be satisfied with helping themselves to one bottle in an orderly fashion. They’s rather take six each, robbing others of a drink. Yeni looks from the balcony in despair, saying the people have become exactly like their leaders. But it’s difficult to watch Ms Kuti for long; her pessimism is almost catching. You shudder and hope, as we Naijas oftens say, that “Nigeria go better”.

After the Femi Kuti film came Nigeria’s Oil War, a 20-minute documentary that erased all laughter. There's a darkly hilarious moment however, when warlord Asari Dokubo is supposedly possessed by - is it the Holy Ghost or some other spirit? Then it was time for the panel, including myself, Eki Gbinigie of the ALISC (African Liberation Support Campaign) Network, Ben Amunwa of the Remember Saro-Wiwa Organisation, and Inemo Samiama, a musician and Niger Deltan. Moderated by Kate Glinsman, one of the organisers of the event, the panel stood; the room was that full. What emerged during the panel discussion was how seriously members of the audience took this opportunity to air and share views on Nigeria. One young man delivered a blistering speech even as he made his way from his seat through the crowded room for the exit. As I told a fellow panellist, it was a performance.

Ben Amunwa informed the audience of a surprise match involving the Ken Saro-Wiwa memorial landing in front of Shell headquarters on October 23rd, urging all those who could make it, to come along. And Eki Gbinigie (who I first met earlier this year at the Chima Ubani tribute event at SOAS) had brought along copies of Kilombo, a Pan-African Magazine on activism.

A successful evening overall, made only better by my running into 2007 Caine winner Monica Arac de Nyeko outside the venue afterwards. Now, what were the chances of that? We simply had to pose for a couple of pictures to believe it ourselves.

New Reads

How about this story by Wale Okediran in the current issue of Black Biro, which I love for the fact that it could well have been written by a woman. What with it's theme of what some African men would do to have sons - or what they'd consider if they didn't have sons! Luckily, for Okediran's protagonist, Allah is merciful.


Excerpt

Once in awhile, Kudirat would get up and place a comforting hand on her daughter’s contracting stomach before wiping the sweat from her face with a damp towel. Kudirat would then use a small calabash to take some water from the nearby earthen jar and offer the expectant mother a drink.
'Courage, my daughter, courage. Everything will soon be over,' she would admonish before going back to her prayers. Just then, the wicket door swung open and another elderly woman entered.
'A-Salam-a-lekun' (Peace be unto you'), the woman greeted. 'I hope she’s doing well'.
'A-lekun-a-Salam,' Kudirat replied. 'She broke her waters a few minutes ago. Anytime now, the new one will arrive Insha Allah (by God’s grace)'.
'Well, let’s hope it is a boy this time. After three girls, I am more than ready for a grandson who will be as strong and hardworking as Rasheed.'
'By Allah’s wish, it will be a boy,' Adiat quickly replied.
After the woman left, Kudirat let out a loud, long hiss. 'Stupid woman. She said it as if we have any control over these things. Is she not a woman herself?
'How can she be so tactless as to come and talk like that here? Wasn’t it five girls she, too had before she finally gave birth to Rasheed?'
'That’s all right Mama. Instead of getting annoyed, why don’t you go back to your prayers?' Adiat said.
Suddenly from outside came the deep rumble of thunder, as the wind picked up speed and started howling. In his hut a few meters from his wife’s, Rasheed glanced up from his bamboo bed. Since his second and favourite wife went into labour more than three hours earlier, the forty-five year old cocoa farmer had not been able to sleep. Now as the rumble of thunder grew louder, streaks of lighting dived into the hut, bathing the room in an eerie blue light. And as he detected the smell of rain in the wind that swept into the hut, Rasheed’s heart sank. It was going to be another girl!

• Read 'Baby in the Storm' here.
  

~

And in Amran Gaye's 'What To Do When You Meet A Girl In Traffic, Crying', a woman still grieving the loss of her own daughter, sees the announcement of another missing girl on TV...

She had seen the girl that day, on her way home from work. There had been a traffic jam, and she had been caught in it, her chauffeur shouting at the other drivers in the confusion of traffic outside his window. She had sat and looked distractedly out of her window, feeling the heat and the sweat running its way down her back, almost irritating, yet soothing the areas of skin it passed. She was thinking of this quality of sweat, of how it made you stink and look flustered, yet ultimately gave you relief, when she saw the girl. There were hundreds of other girls passing, on their way home from school, but what drew her attention to this one was the tears running down her cheeks. The way she cried: silently, standing at the side of the road, eyes red and wet, sniffing back snot. The way the tears made her an island in this traffic of people, no one noticing her, everyone passing her on the road and walking on without a backward glance. The way she stood, patient, independent, not expecting any help from anyone, self-sufficient in her misery.

• Read the story here...
• Image by MW