by Kole Odutola

This is about one of the most disorganized travelogue you will ever read, so come along or cut short your ordeal. In any case if you must come along with me may I suggest that you should think of this attempt as a dream sequence; retold by a sojourner who did not have enough of the place he visited but still feels a strong commitment to record his feelings and field observations. This diary-like reconstruction is not only about my week-long visit to attend the 12th Poetry Festival which took place in Durban, South Africa, it is also an account of my personal inward journey and struggle. The inward journey became an inquiry into who a poet is and what poetry is all about. 

As you know such ventures do not have destinations but the journey to South Africa showed to me another part of this diverse continent and in the process I allowed myself to be taught a few lessons about nationhood. I came to the realization that a country can be located on any standard map but a nation exists only in the minds of the citizens of the country. It is the people who shape and re-shape the concept of nationhood in their collective imagination.

A semblance of this concerted effort can be gleaned from the time ANC victory saw Pa Nelson Mandela as the president of the country, and subsequently Mbeki, the intellectual who rejected Mandela’s shoes but designed his own and its pains. It may not be obvious that the urge to forge a nation out of the many ethnic groups has been a task that has taken a pride of place in the hearts of those involved with creating what is fast becoming a nation of many colours. This onerous task appears not to be limited to the political class alone; it cuts across the whole South African society. The result is that South Africa prides herself as the rainbow nation, a melting pot of sort.

As at the time I visited toward the end of September and early October, the Mbeki matter was still brewing in the political pot and I was interested in how the people perceive of the matter. Who is this Zuma and what is his place in the scheme of things? Zuma like Nigeria’s Zuma rock, rolls within the hearts of the people not on their paths. They think he is down to earth and reflects their aspirations. “Is he corrupt?” The people say “leave that matter alone”, they still love him all the same.

One former Ambassador in the company of Pat, Maise, Ntuthuko, the theatre director and Ndikhoxaba, an artist who lived for over thirty years in America, tried to paint for me a vivid picture of how Zuma is loved in his own country. It was an ad hoc “meet my people” kind of gathering put together by Pat (who I met just by chance at the hotel. The Ambassador, who did most of the speaking, informed me that if Zuma walked into the Royal hotel where we were, that everyone would jump on their feet to greet him, hug him and shower him with affection not sparing a moment’s thought for the usual stern-looking security details who are always a part of his entourage every time a politician of his stature moves around.That coming from a former Ambassador, my instinct as a media studies scholar warns that I should not take it hook, line, and sinker (pardon the cliché). I was left to ponder if one can safely deduce then that Comrade Thabo Mbeki does not hold the key to the hearts of his comrades anymore?

Listening to this group of South Africans talk so passionately about their country and the political elites raised old questions in me. Would I or any of my friends stick out our necks for Nigeria? Please do not ask me about the state of nation building in a country like Nigeria; I just might burst into tears while I search for what can serve as an apt response. On the one hand, to make matters real worse, Pat, the most articulate of the ladies rallied me with stories of how some Nigerian men used women she knows as mules for drug trafficking and other illegal activities. While on the other hand, there was a ‘sister Maise’ telling us how excited she is about her imminent visit to Lagos, Nigeria as part of the Pastor Chris Oyakilome delegation to Nigeria. The story of Pastor Chris is one for another space and it will be told with all the drama and spectacle it deserves. I have never seen any Christian crusade like what I saw on one of the channels in South Africa. It was simply unbelievable.

Now that I have brought you to the cross-road of this story can you come along with me as we walk the margins of my haphazard attempt at keeping a diary? What did I see, how did I feel and what gaps of knowledge did this trip fill in my life. I cannot say like other Nigerians who went before me that I went, I saw, and I conquered. So I start with a question that preceded my landing at the Oliver Tambo International Airport in Johannesburg. The question that imposed itself was the issue of the appropriate identity I was going to present at this festival. Should I just be Kole the son of Oladega Odutola, or should I announce to everyone that I am the poet from Nigeria, or better still, maybe I should let them know I teach Yoruba at the University of Florida and that a layoff notice hangs on my head?

At times like these answers blowing in the wind is not good enough but answers rushing like the wind the wing of my anticipation. The torrents of questions never seem to end. So what will you feel if you went to a poetry festival with the badge that you are a poet and a Nigerian one at that only to return feeling like an apprentice poet not from a fully formed nation? Before the festival started I knew I had many identity options to choose from, but at the end I felt like a Nigerian flirt just as the festival was ending and I will tell you why if you are not too much in a hurry to get to the end of a friendly natter. Just in case you decide to get off this narrative boat, I promise you I will not be worried or upset that you decided to read something else. In any case, should you tarry a sentence or two longer, and then you will not miss what Ms. Gisele Turner said about those of us who read on Thursday, the fourth day of the festival.

In a most seductive voice and poise she cooed “tonight we are here to listen to the words of men who are Poets. Men with hard minds and soft hearts, men with eyes of fire and tongues of flame. Men searching truth. For the poet is obsessed with truth. He seeks it…. and it seeks him. When the seeker and the sought melt into each other…. a poem is born. And poets… we are here to listen to your voices with ‘a single ear’.” How would you feel if you heard such words before your performance? My emotions were mixed because Ms. Gisele and I sat on the same table at lunch and soon got engaged in a very stimulating discussion I never wanted to witness its end. When it was time to go back to Royal Hotel, my feet followed her tracks, I simply followed her outside the Moyo at the Pier, hoping somehow I could capture her trailing voice into my pouch and take her to my new home.  I did not want her to take leave of me but don’t all good things return to the ring from where they came? She has a ring and that decided for her that she should avoid a likely snare…and so I returned to reality at her departure.

In any case there is no way I can continue this flashback without stopping this stream of consciousness so as to express my appreciation to Professor Remi Raji of the English department of the University of Ibadan who submitted my name to the organizers. I tell you, I still cannot figure out what he was thinking when he allowed my name slip from his address book, considering the large number of friends and fans he currently has. Me, Kole of all the ‘apprentice poets’…if I ever know the god that intervened on my behalf, I promise to make the necessary sacrifices and send the choicest kolanuts and wine to the one who tends that shrine.

IN FLIGHT

On aspect of travelling that takes so much from the traveller is the time spent at the airport and in the air. In my case, I passed through the tiny Gainesville Airport and landed in the labyrinth called O’Hare International Airport, Atlanta, from there it was a brief but welcome stop at the Dakar Airport and the last two airports were the Oliver Thambo Airport, Johannesburg and Durban International Airport. To each airport a story that will not be told for now but while in the Delta Airlines flight from Atlanta to Johannesburg, I made sure I saw as many documentaries and new movies as my sleepy eyes could cope with.

A particular one that caught my attention is the Visitor ­written and directed by Tom McCarthy. It is a fitting tribute to struggling immigrants and to Fela Anikulapo Kuti. The plot weaves around two immigrants, one a Jazz percussionist and the other a jewellery maker from Senegal. The part that interested me most was when the drummer, Tarek, a Syrian, handed over a Fela CD to the Professor who wanted to learn how to play African drums. My interest is not just in the action but in what Tarek said to the professor as he was handing him the CD.

Apart from this movie, a documentary; Breaking the ice by Jonathan Dimbleby kept me awake for a long time. The narrator explored ten thousand miles of one of the world’s most awe-inspiring countries. We see him on a train discussing with fellow passengers what they feel about the new Russia. There is no doubt democracy is a strange animal that needs to be reformed from country to country. It does not appear to be working in all climes and cultures. Dimbly, we are told once lived through the Cold War and so one can understand his interest in celebrating the pyrrhic triumph of capitalism. Once done with this obsession we again see him at a remote village where a Russian woman heals by invoking spirits. In short, she uses what appears to be witchcraft or the power of magic to heal. One would not have thought Europe still harboured vestiges of their supernatural past. So when next any one complains about black magic (a.k.a as otumopo in Benin City or Juju in Lagos and environs) in Nigerian home movies please direct them to this BBC documentary series on Russia: A journey with Jonathan Dimleby.

ARRIVAL

I arrived in Durban on a warm Saturday afternoon with the words of Dele Momodu on my mind. As you well know Dele has written extensively on his various trips around the world and in one of such pieces he painted a vivid picture of how dangerous South Africa is. In the piece I read he provided me the mental picture of Taxi drivers with guns in their cars, of muggers on the streets, of criminals waiting to force an end chapter to your flowing poetry of life. Who could have read all that and not take caution?  I tell you Dele momodu saved me from all ‘real and imaginary enemies’.

I stayed in-doors for the first night and held tightly to my passport and the bottle of ogogoro I bought on the flight. Talk about the power and spirit of the written word. If Dele’s words scared me, what of the moving images and sounds on Youtube about the
Nigerian criminals in Durban. Yes that is the headline of the four part documentary I saw by chance. I watched all the four more than four times.

So first night I was indoors till the second day when I met Peter Rorvik, who is the Director of the Centre for Creative Arts at the University of KwaZulu Natal. Peter and his wife, Monica, had come to check on me at the Royal Hotel where accommodation was booked for all participants. All it took to displace Dele’s travel warnings and the
Youtube images was this warm welcome and a quick drive around the hotel
area and to a former train station which has now been turned into a shopping mall.

Now I had two competing narratives in my head. I, who thought he had a good account of what Durban is about had to do a quick re-think. I was now going to allow the talk that Gandhi once lived and organized in Durban pacify me. It was not difficult to muster interest in the Lithuli museum built in honor of Africa’s first Nobel Peace prize winner, Albert Lithuli. At the same time my adventurous mind longed for the many beaches along the coastal city. Since I was courted on the 15th floor of the hotel I woke to a splendid Ocean front view.

DAY-ONE, SUNDAY

Peter and his wife, Monica, had weaned me off my menu of fear and trepidation. They helped bring back good memories of our literature class in Secondary school. Did I not read Cry my Beloved Country by Allan Paton as a form three student at Igbobi College many years ago? The plot of that tragic story of Steven Khumalo is set in Durban and I was reliably informed by Stephen Grey, one of the participants, that there is a literature inspired tourism package in the town that allows tourists visit places mentioned in the book. Before Peter’s visit it was so strange that my star attraction and focus of attention was for my life, passport, and re-entry visa to the States. Dele and youtube spoke in very clear tones my weak mind could not ignore. I was liberated and ready to sip in what Durban has to offer without getting drunk or drowned in the multiple contradictions of the city life.

The very first night at the hotel brought it own lesson that I am in a country battling with the demons of the old order.  My ‘baptism of welcome’ to South Africa arrived on the lips of one of the managers of the high brow restaurant in the hotel. I wanted to have dinner and I sought out with my nose the nearest place I felt food was been served. I will allow the website of the hotel blow their own trumpet. It says “The highly acclaimed Royal Grill is The Royal’s 70-year old flagship restaurant – boasting some of the country’s top award-winning, unsurpassed haute cuisine and opulent décor. Awards of excellence include the Best Deluxe Restaurant in the province as well as winning the International Food and Wine Society Shield on seven occasions.”

Had I known that I probably would not have allowed myself the luxury of a casual mood after an almost seventeen hour flight?  Foolishly, I changed into my ‘bottom-box’ Aso Oke and nice leather slippers to match the outfit. On getting into the ‘holy sanctum’ of the Royal Grill, I made for the nearest empty seat to make myself comfortable. I had not graced the exquisite chair (designed for kings and their Queens) with my tiny backside when the manager came to me like a Lagos Police man hiding at a check point. In a typical Afrikaans intonation he informed me that only properly dressed guests are allowed into the place. “But this is my native dress and it is a proper attire for an occasion” I protested in a very subdued tone. He was apparently unimpressed by my explanation, the door was the only mediator as far as he was concerned. Like a member of a defeated team not wanting to attract attention I melted away into the night without causing any scene. After all his is South Africa!!

This minor incidence is nothing compared to the fear of danger I imported into their country. However, once my fear of the unknown was resolved the fear of the task at hand soon took over. The question returned with vengeance “Am I really a Poet? Who for God’s sake is a poet? There was no need killing myself for an answer I chanced on an article written by Professor Kole Omtosho, the very rich and highly respected Nigerian public intellectual in South Africa. “The smouldering embers of the Nigerian dream” brought Christopher Okigbo’s words to life and helped question my own answer of who a poet is. Professor Omotoso wrote in part “the Poet for Okigbo ‘is no ordinary mortal but a divinely inspired artist, a possessed performer through whom hidden truths of the spirit are revealed and through whose influence mankind undergoes regeneration and spiritual rebirth”

Wow!!! a poet is between the gods and words? My heart sank and I started my own journey to understanding. I know for sure I am not in this for any truth-telling. What is the truth and why will I put myself out as the messenger of such a complex philosophical project. In any case there is an ongoing project all the participants from the different countries cannot avoid. We are expected to educate others about our respective countries.

The fellow from Mayotte, a country “located at the northern end of the Mozambique Channel in the Indian Ocean, between northern Madagascar and northern Mozambique” had the greatest burden of pointing out his country to us. The highly rated storyteller-poet from Kenya assumed we all would ask him about the embarrassment that Kenya has become just as the participant from Zimbabwe could not escape enquires about the mess Mister Mugabe is making of governance in his country. As a Nigerian how could I hide the scammers and looting political class who seem to be working really hard to permanently inscribe shame as part of Nigeria’s national identity? I know Nigeria has denied me many more times than I can recall but should I also at this point temporarily renounce my association with the nation?

SIDE ATTRACTIONS TO THE FESTIVAL PROPER

During the course of the festival I finally came face-to-face with the poet from Kenya whose performance a night before earned him a standing ovation. He had told the audience all they wished to know about the bungled election (and erections too). He introduced them to Kibera, one of the slums in Kenya that claims the first in all things negative. As we spoke it was obvious he thinks Nigeria, and not Kenya/ Zimbabwe, gives Africa the terrible image it has in the world. As you will expect, I protested and invoked the names of all the writers, known and unknown, I am sure I would have mentioned your names in defence. He was not impressed. He says for every Soyinka Nigeria can boast of there are over twenty corrupt politicians in the country. Not even my argument of our sheer number could shut this cantankerous man up.

His inconvenient truth was devaluing my ‘stock’ with the South African women who had a bag full of stories of their own to tell. The real pain is that of all nationalities a Kenyan whose country like a terrible copy-cat wanted to outdo Nigeria in electoral fraud. I felt like calling Fatai Rolling Dollar to tell him that Kenya kere si number wa (meaning they cannot be in our licking league. Nigeria is number one!!!

In my mind I tried to make light of it but never in my life have I felt like a poet of no nation. To take cover I started to introduce myself as the slave from Gainesville Florida in the United States of America. I tell you that identification won for me a few ears and…you fill in the gap.

One thing stands out each time I leave my base to another country. I always find the women more beautiful and receptive to advances. What is poetry if it cannot sing the love song with a brave mind. I sat by the river of my own Babylon and sang to Teresca, the other half of the Bushwomen performing sisters. On other days I transformed myself into the shadow of the three Goddessa girls. I wanted to be seen in their company and accompany them back stage just to have a sweet after performance hug.

My only regret is that I could not take former General Ibrahim Babangida with me to this festival. I still believe he is one of the best poets, who has not found time to encode his thoughts in print. You can imagine what he will write in Ode to Vasta or on Diming the Dimka star. If the other Africans think that Nigerians are crooks and that we alone account for the dictators Africa has produced they should wait for the festival when poets will pronounce Africa’s Poetocracy and subsequently bring to life the people’s republic of poetry. As the Yoruba people say, when a humongous problem floors one, is it not then that tiny ones gain access to one’s body?

It was with this Yoruba philosophical lens that I read the interesting situation of my brother from Kenya who appropriated the audacity of hope to pronounce that his own country is better and getting better than Nigeria all because I could not take my dear General along. Thank God the fellow from Zimbabwe arrived late who knows what he too would have been saying. I was not surprised when the women constantly asked “So where are you from Kole” and I in returned told them I arrived from Gainesville, Florida. Many times I lied and cried (not the hu! Hu!! kind of tears o) in my heart that like Peter, I have denied Nigeria three times before the ‘cock froze’ and went out of function.

RETURN TO BASE

On returning to my dull life as a Yoruba teacher in America, I soon exposed my backside to a group of brother arts writers. It was during our encounter that what Professor Harry Garuba will call doggerel came to life. I just needed to re-convince myself of my Nigerianess or Nigerianity as Double O introduced. Happy reading

I am a Nigerian…
My present may fool some
but the sum of my past and future
points to a greatness yet to unfold
My heart bears a load my art cannot express
My voice like that of a Toad
will not be suppressed
How will I speak of rogues who depress
and reporters who compress truth
as they cover those who loot
by failing to get to the root
or blocking the routes of those who steal
and seal our hope
I am a Nigerian
reared in the wildest of times
when military boots tortured the land
and brute force the brand of the time.

I am a Nigerian
by blood, deed and words
I am a Nigerian
in looks and by the books
I am a Nigerian
in my heart and in my art
I am a Nigerian
with a city address
but always in my Ijebu village dress
I am a Nigerian
blessed but stressed not the less
I am a Nigerian
like the rest of YOU
Kole

But before I wrote the above a few friends made me sit one early hour to write a lamentation…

Lamentation

Finally, I found my voice and found the words dropped
in the pit of hell.
The words wrapped in phlegm of the thickest mucus will
write the end-story of a forty-eight year old.
I was there when Nigeria was born by deformed parents
and my life has been spared to witness when a
could-be-great-nation started to die.
I saw old men in the secret of the night hit my dear
country on the head. Blood did not flow but oil ran
over and the communities have taken cover from
militants and war merchants.
I saw the military first throw away the sacred compass
of morality and then they settled to eat the eyes of
the people; finally at dawn they took the place by its
throat and they took out my nation’s soul; in its
place they buried bullets and bombs bought from
Taiwan.
Now it is mid-day and my age-mates have found a new
toy to play with. Nigeria limps with a battered head
and no heart.
Soon it will be night and my reporter friends promise
me a real good ceremony before and after death.
They have taken the truth from the letters of Nigeria
and replaced the N with nonsense and the I will be a
blind eye that sees nothing even with flood lights.
The G that was our symbol of greatness and greenness
has turned to a grime of the gutter spliced with greed
of the highest order.
Does the general disorder in the land not have its roots in greed?
You know the rest of the letters don’t you?
The E was for equality but now young men with fingers at the
keyboard insist it is for enrichment. They must become
rich like the old men who bashed Nigeria on the head
and led her to the gallows.
You will pardon me if I go further with this childish
game of alphabets; it is because the R of richness in
character has turned into real rubbish. The rubbish is
everywhere you turn and we all are blessed with a
fool’s return.
I leave you with the IA that is left for the
undertakers. The tombstone must have a Mark on the day
the country finally dies. Please do not Bank on any of
these words, let the light in you be the
representative of hope or hopelessness. With a heavy
heart I write and rise…  Is there a card for Happy
Death-day?

(c) Kole