THE HEART OF POVERTY

Gabriel Griffin is the founder/ organizer of Poetry on the Lake, an annual festival of poetry and culture on Lake Orta in Northern Italy. He edits a companion anthology to the annual festival and has two collections of verses to his name: Compagno and the Mouthbrooders and Transumanza. I chanced on Griffin while ‘flipping’ through the Poetry Kit newsletter, a monthly webzine to which I am happily subscribed.

He clutched at me in greeting and held tight with a slew of running commentaries that caught me choking. They formed a set, had the stunning title of Caught in the Net and held up a cluster of dark themes for measured investigation. I found a fisher of truths under whose impassioned gaze the human condition seemed comprehensible like a scurrying crab. In the Net are eleven poems, but just the three reviewed here hold my interest for obvious reasons.

Lament for an illegal immigrant, the first of a patchwork of compositions is a heart stopping ode to a shocking find.          

No moon, but fishermen

are used to that and the sea’s chanting,

the descant of the nets.

…

Something didn’t sing, humped

in the net, thudding onto the deck.

Its ears heard no notes, its eyes

were blind to the men standing round,

its throat choked with words

that no-one would hear.

Caught in the pathos of that still moment, the fishermen are disoriented; “they let the sly octopus” escape and “forgot to stop the arch and leap of bream”. A requiem echoed in the dumb wail of the sea and the screech of gulls, but there was work to be done…

The men unfroze, thumped

what didn’t sing, what was lost for words,

over the hissing deck. Tipped that which

had no hope, had never had a hope,

back to the sea. No

word, no hymn, no prayer.

This graphic minute unfurls for me reels of history from the Atlantic slave trade to the realities invoked by Griffin’s poetic eye. No stopping his lament, even as time marched on unstopping, unstoppable.

But the rags of its clothes cried. The sea

beat its fists on the boat. And the wind got up

and howled till dawn.

It has been suggested by persons who should know, that poetry does not change anything. It is subtly implied thereby, that there are those who think it should, or can. What can not be denied is that poetry does infect and can affect.  Having read also, that poetry is the journalism of the spirit, I am content to let dormant emotions lie. But Griffin’s intense portrayal of the African situation is a subtle call to action that is all the more gripping for its affected distance and mutely suggestive imageries.

In Out of Africa, he operates a twin tour- to and from the continent.

We fly into Africa on an all-in,

They boat out of Africa all in.

We’ve taken a taxi to the airport.

They’ve jolted a week in a scorching truck.

Through “pressurised cabins” and truck compartments 50° C; “the latest jet” and “a leaking boat”; stewardess serving “drinks of choice” and water bottles that “run dry halfway”; air passengers “coach-borne to 5 star hotels” and seafarers “chucked into the sea still far out”, we arrive at the last telling contrast.

We see rain forest, silverbacks, mountains.

Their shore is a lava cliff, wave swept.

Not many see it.

This end phrase is the sum of the story though, as we know, airplanes crash and death is the trusted arbiter of class quarrels. But in it we behold that chilling presence in the fishing net.

 Vu’ Cumpra’? (a popular Italian term used to denote illegal African street pedlars, and a corruption of the phrase Vuoi comprare? Want to buy?) brings the rear of what I call a trilogy of dirges on the African predicament

 The racist pose may well be the poet’s alter-ego making a cynical jest of his self assurance:

You’re stopped.  Roast chestnut scent

slinks off, gives way to breath

of pepper, acrid herbs that bite.

Swish, swish, Griffin’s brush strokes produce a quick sketch of rancid poverty, (as only Europe can boast of) and the artful response of a suave resident to the attentions of a determined hustler.  

 But an undertone of condescension robs the encounter of its noble face. The native sees beyond the immigrant to his country,

watches in rows.  Like medals on those guys

who run his rundown land,

An offered drink takes him to the bedroom of the beggar’s soul. His curiosity has that mocking edge. “I curve both hands to chest, / cup phantom boobs.”

A grin. The Metro rumbles underground.

Repeats my mime, makes tits oversize.

…We laugh.

The answer to another impish query turns him into seer:  

His kids with locust legs, I bet, and white

lamb’s eyes. Kids who pull herbs, suck bones

and nibble bits of mushroom moons

Nonetheless, a transaction is made;

 I buy the torch. Sirens howl, brakes yelp.

It’s a valid conjecture if that torch will light the way through the jungle of such ingrained prejudice to the heart of poverty- his and the pedlar’s.  The latter disappears, perhaps to escape the police, even as Griffin produces yet another dismal stroke-

From slaughtered lands the sounds of flies.

It’s just as easy, to admire Griffin for his deft, acerbic touch and to despise him for its cold, sweeping cut. But these poems hold a candle to the dilemma of the African predicament in an emerging global village.

SINS OF OUR FATHERS

The world should have taken notice when Barack Obama penned a fabulous autobiographical account of a journey in search of a father he knew little about. In Kenya, he discovered his Old Man through the varied recollections of siblings, aunties and uncles. These tales exposed to him an African variant of the great American dream, that oft-cited spur for grandiose achievement by citizens of the US.

It seems likely that young Obama placed one vision alongside the other and asked himself the engaging question: What happens to a dream deferred?

The title of his book called to mind, therefore, an inheritance yet unclaimed. Though his Kenyan odyssey revealed to him a raisin roasting in the sun, the soreness of his father’s failings was the spring board for Barack Obama’s engagement with America, Little wonder he took to public service: to give- unlike his free spending father- not money that he did not have, but empathy for the down trodden and organisational skills for the alleviation of their common poverty. And so he triumphed, and brought a modern African tang to a stale American ethic.

What a challenge his story poses then for the youths of our continent as MacMillan’s “wind of change” coasts to a fateful tryst with the history books. Since the year 2010 came into reckoning, the din of festive cheers has been sweeping through Africa like one huge carnival dance. Still, one hears through the revelry and all, not boastful shouts of victory alone but sighs of wistful loss and grunts of despair. Soft applause reaching the ears salutes not the agile progress of Africa but the wiry faith of its suffering peoples.

This explains the spate of blatant cynicism that welcomed the golden jubilee celebrations of independence here in Nigeria. From Tunis to Lusaka, Nouakchott to Mogadishu, this attitude was replicated all over as the children of Africa scoffed at the paltry gains of national independence. The harvest was lean but the elements were not entirely to blame. Rather, the farm managers had sown their thieving hands and left the barns bereft of crops.

While the sour mood lasted, it was somewhat interesting to see private individuals celebrate their birthdays and other anniversaries with great jubilation and perverse sense of accomplishment. Balanced against their vociferous opposition to the federal government’s independence jamboree, the evident relish with which a particular media house reported the 50^th birthday bash of the wife of their proprietor, a former governor of Lagos, could only be described as farcical. With a typical penchant for enthroning ostentation over propriety, nobody bothered to ask the obvious questions about the probity of this extreme show of affluence. But that is really by the way. 

“Wind of change” aptly described the tide of nationalist agitation that swept through Africa by the end of the Second World War.  The triumph of the Allied Powers had proved conclusively that no race could lord it over another without question anymore. Decolonisation seemed the right price therefore for the contribution of the colonies to Allied victory. Yet, the new helmsmen to steer the ships of nationhood did not quite grasp the nuances of their task. They had flag independence like many a chartered vessel plying the high seas and nothing more besides. The destination of the ship and its motley cargo was much beyond their control.

Under their watch then, the continent regressed to a new era of rabid ethnic rivalries which colonialism had helped put at bay, though the colonists were not averse to exploiting these cleavages to advantage. Consequently, Africa suffered a second storm of oppression by internal colonists and home grown slave masters from which it is yet to be fully liberated. The post independence history of Africa bears out this fact. Nearly every nation south of the Sahara has tasted of the bitter gall of civil strife and quite a number are still enmeshed in war.

All over Africa, the great dream of independence was fostered on ambition alone: to take the place of the colonial overlord and become the new masters of the land- or “white man in black skin” as Augustus Adebayo puts it in a soul searching autobiography of the same title. Obama fights shy of reaching a similar conclusion, but the dreams of his father suffer a similar tragedy. The Old Man sought redemption in a painful refusal to sell his soul to the demons of compromise. But his defeat was the more damning when he succumbed to shallow pessimism.  

Thus, the sins of the independence struggle have left Africa nations gasping hard on the marathon trail of growth and development. The transgressions of our fathers constitute the dubious legacy of the present generation of African leaders. The challenges are enormous; to vacate the errors of the past and march to a new era of people oriented policies, transparency and accountability in government.

The old mind set remains and will not disappear soon as evidenced by squabbles in our country over the rotation of the presidency among the different zones of the country. The worship of false values, the mindless exhibition of ill-gotten wealth, the frivolous flaunting of social and political connections for its own sake, these persist as indicators of a continuing lack of focus and disconnect by the elite. But the question will not go away and will be ever relevant, perhaps till the end of time.

Shall we abandon the dreams of nationhood because of the sins of our fathers? 

THE COLOUR OF VALOUR

I have just finished reading the book, Gerrard: My Autobiography. Through it, I have come to appreciate the shade of subtle difference that may be found between the reds of Liverpool and Manchester United; the deeper tinge of the shirts from Old Trafford and the brighter sparkle of the Anfield jersey.

But team colours go beyond what is visible to the measure of teams, their fighting spirit and a sense of the things that define their style, or the lack of it. 

This is the regular message of football. The sermon is delivered on the pitch and off it, in the stands and boardrooms, the sports good shops and on the sporting pages that chronicle the enduring drama of the game for teeming fans around the world. Beautiful runs of play, thunderous cheers in the stands, increasing sales of club gear and souvenirs, the intermittent buzz of agents’ phones and spicy reportage of the thrilling game- all are woven into a seamless quilt.

 The players, the fans, the scouts, the managers, the marketers, the football association and the media are bound together by the wondrous fabric of their collective passion. Needless to say, this enthralling chain is as strong as its weakest link.

Consequently, if the players fail to deliver on the expected level of skills, the fans would find their thrill elsewhere and the clubs would rue their investments. If the rot infects the administration of the game, the entire league becomes trapped in a vicious circle of underperformance.  That is the sorry state of our local football league, but the sorrier tale is that our local football reporters are a part of the problem.

Let’s visit the English Premier League, where several of our football greats have showcased their talents to the warm admiration of all. Dan Omokachie, Celestine Babayaro, Nwankwo Kanu, Austin Jay Jay Okocha, Yakubu Aiyegbeni, John Utaka, Joseph Yobo, John Mikel Obi, Obafemi Martins, Victor Anichebe, Daniel Shittu, Seyin Olofinjana, Dickson Etuhu and of course Osaze Odemwingie and Obinna Nsofor both of whom crossed over from Russia and Italy respectively in the new season. Indeed, we could go way back in time to the likes of John Chiedozie, Rueben Agboola and John Fashanu, if we want enough names for a team and bench.

 Reading through the Gerrard book, therefore, one could not but wonder what these Nigerian players are lacking, that make them ineligible for story books of their own. One could count five names in the above list who have achieved more for Nigerian football than Gerrard has done for the English FA. Yet, we do not have their stories in lasting form for the enjoyment and education of fans and the growth of Nigerian football. Why is this so?

My diagnosis: a pervasive myopia that makes it impossible for our local sports writers to think beyond the next meal.

Take a look at these other persons: Paul Bassey, Onochie Anibeze, Ade Ojeikere, and Abdul Mumini. Between them we are looking at over a hundred years of sports reporting and analysis. Incredibly, none of them has a pamphlet to his name in the genre of a worthy record of the life of any sporting personality of his time. Yet they know many of these sporting heroes by their first names, have their phone numbers and can regale you with intimate stories about their lives on and off the field and track.  What has this to do with the growth of football, you might ask.

One only needs to flip through “Gerrard: My Autobiography” to see it all. Take away the rampant expletives; Steven does not spare himself or his readers the gritty stench of player-speak. He lets us into the dreamy world of a teenager struggling through the junior Liverpool ranks to make a desired impression on his managers and get into the first team.  From there to his captaincy of Liverpool FC, he affords us a prime view into the psychology of winning and the enormous preparation and managerial skills that produce a winning mentality. The book informs, educates and entertains.

By the time Gerrard and Liverpool FC come from a three goal deficit to lift the Champions League Cup off the groping hands of Paulo Maldini and AC Milan, the reader is well and truly won over, singing along with the fans the Liverpool chant, “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” You come away from the book feeling that valour is a Liverpool jersey be it red, green and yellow.

Steve Gerrard never claims to have written his engaging life story, but gives the credit to two reporters, who interviewed him at length for his account and reported it dutifully in a thrilling first person narrative. A similar feat is not beyond the gifted sports writers mentioned above or other fellows like them in other media houses. Sad that Austin Okocha left the game without a written document of his era from his own view point, while the likes of Ashley Cole and Rio Ferdinand have books that celebrate their achievements for club and country.

The market is there surely. A decent paperback on “Jay Jay” in his prime would have sold no less than 50,000 copies? Instead, our sports journalists are focused on selling jaundiced opinions of footballers and administrators. Our football is the worse for their mental laziness. Nwankwo Kanu is on his last legs currently.

Who can give to Nigeria the full story of the Papillo phenomenon, with its fuller import for the growth of our football? Come on guys, WAKE UP!! 

NO ORDINARY SPIRIT

She wafts through the speakers of my old laptop, a welcome temptress, to lure me from the sexless screen and its halting word-flow to a fanciful island of illicit delights.  She is a friendly spirit, a Tinkerbelle to playful souls. My ears tingle with that hoarse, feathery softness and my thoughts trip on those engaging lyrics. She is… Sade Adu.

If I tell you how I feel…sweetest taboo… That’s why I’m in love with you…Everyday is Christmas…and every night is New Year’s eve…When you keep on loving me…bringing out the best in me…

I did find in her a worthy companion for a tiring search. I had gone down memory lane for fifty golden moments, if you like candles, to decorate our golden cake of national independence. The idea had come from all that bitching about our fiftieth independence anniversary. A very vocal, very cynical section of the media did not think we had anything to show for fifty years of nationhood.

Flipping through many hazy yesteryears however, one was able to record occasions of sheer joy when one had felt very proud to be numbered among the strange specie of folk who describe themselves as Nigerians.

New Year Eve at Lekki Beach: the soft throb of a slow Latin tempo funk beat merging with the ocean breeze sets loose in a cheerful bunch of revelers a gentle hip swinging dance style that came with the chart topping composition. SAP, the development tonic that failed to rejuvenate the national economy was beginning to take its toll on the psyche of the ailing middle class. The wisest of that engendered set were starting to make long term plans for a swift change of location across the wide seas. Sadder days were yet ahead and so, we could afford to rock to Smooth Operator and celebrate at once the sweetness of easy cash flowing on the heels of Babangida’s two-tier forex system.  

Yet, the greater joy was in acknowledging our own; a home girl made good, who had earned us our first ever Grammy for Best New Artiste. Deny it who can, did we not flaunt the fact that she belonged to us- never mind, the trifle about never having grown up here? That is what nationalism does to you; makes you want to reach out and grab everything that burnishes your identity and self respect as a citizen.  Why? Because, they bring out the best in you!

Again in 1994, Helen Folasade Adu won the Grammy for Best R& B Performance, literally sending us to Paradise once more in 2004 with Best Pop Vocal Album for Lovers Rock. It was a while too before Seal, another Nigerian, draped our spirits with the bubbly of another Grammy, though Femi Kuti’s nomination is worth observing for the gravitas it bestowed on afro beat outside our borders. 

But this piece is seriously about Sade Adu and the incomparable style that characterizes her discography. Researching a compilation for the Star musical promotions two years ago, I came upon references that put her in the ranks of Al Jarreau, Anita Baker, Chaka Khan, Erica Badu and the like. The comparison sprang from smooth jazz; the fusion thing between traditional jazz and varied pop idioms across Europe, the US and Latin America.

Well, I don’t mean to take anything from these other great artistes, but our dear Sade is verily in a class of her own. She makes love to the eardrums like cool breeze on warm skin in the lazy, sleepy hours…fresh, natural, unsullied by hi-tech…

I am amazed to learn that her curious hold on the music scene is the rare attribute of a very enigmatic spirit. This comes from a recent Ebony magazine which sought to review her latest album, Soldier of Love. In a world where show business is seen as showy business and many a musical career would shrivel from lack of publicity, this British Nigerian, as the magazine describes her, shuns the glamour world of photo ops and self promoting sound bites. In fact, she is very nearly a recluse whose reticence has kept the rumour mills working overtime in that part of the world.

I could not help feeling that she was helping to present to the world a new face of the very dim Ebony magazine. ‘Eureka’, I almost heard them screaming from the high towers of the Atlanta publishing house: ‘There are other achievers outside the African American branch of the universal African family!’ Okay, they profiled Mandela and Tutu so long ago, if I remember correctly, but the Ebony perspective has always appeared myopic to me. The editors may have woken up to the reality that the African world is theirs to conquer, and lies much beyond the ghettos and suburbs of the US of A. It’s a post Obama thing maybe. ‘Better late than never,’ I say.

The article was filled with tender recognition of Sade Adu’s liberating self assurance and confident rejection of the crass commercial ethos of the international music industry. Fans commended her Soldier of Love video for its lack of nudity. She reportedly said: “I think it is good to remain true to the spirit of the song. (To be half naked) would be a distraction.”

Spirit of the song! Spoken like a true country woman. No ordinary spirit that and clearly, Sade Adu has it in abundance. Wishing here that our home bred musical wannabes, who dub every thing good and bad that is Western, can follow her example. Wishing also that one day soon, Sade Adu will come do a show here, in Nigeria, for her teeming homeland fans.

Somebody tell her that!