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Telephone Conversation

I read Wole Soyinka’s poem, Telephone Conversation when I was fourteen. I liked it so much I made it the desktop background on my laptop. Each time I turned on this shiny new device, I would read the words, ‘The price seemed reasonable, location indifferent. The landlady swore she lived off premises.’ The poem struck me. Perhaps it was because I was in an English boarding school, discovering for the first time my ‘blackness.’

‘How dark?’ Soyinka ‘s landlady asked the character who I assumed was Soyinka himself. ‘Facially, I’m brunette.’ Facially I was... I had never stopped to consider. I was Nigerian. My classmates, sensitive to but ignorant of the nature of my dislocation, would sometimes say as if in reassurance, ‘I think black people are cool.’ Why are you telling me, I would wonder but never ask?

My spine weakened a little when I moved to England. Confident, boisterous, perhaps overbearing in Nigeria, I became unsure in England: unsure of my accent, unsure of the value of what I knew, flabbergasted by my ignorance of Jack Wills and lacrosse. Soyinka’s poem put some calcium back in my bones.  Every time my eyes wandered to the bottom of the screen and read, ‘Friction, caused- foolishly, madam- by sitting down, has turned my bottom raven black,’ I would shake with laughter, the punch line new again. A new country was to be met with this verve, this panache, this style, this trademark Soyinka wit. No apologies for where I was coming from. None at all.     

A young Soyinka, harassed by landladies.

Telephone Conversation 

Wole Soyinka 

            The price seemed reasonable, location
            Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
            Off premises. Nothing remained
            But self-confession. “Madam,” I warned,
5         “I hate a wasted journey—I am African.”
            Silence. Silenced transmission of
            Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,
            Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled
            Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was, foully.
10         “HOW DARK?” . . . I had not misheard . . . “ARE YOU LIGHT
            OR VERY DARK?” Button B. Button A. Stench
            Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.
            Red booth. Red pillar-box. Red double-tiered
            Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed
15         By ill-mannered silence, surrender
            Pushed dumbfoundment to beg simplification.
            Considerate she was, varying the emphasis—
            “ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?” Revelation came.
            “You mean—like plain or milk chocolate?”
20         Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light
            Impersonality. Rapidly, wavelength adjusted,
            I chose. “West African sepia”—and as an afterthought,
            “Down in my passport.” Silence for spectroscopic
            Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent
25         Hard on the mouthpiece. “WHAT’S THAT?” conceding,
            “DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT IS.” “Like brunette.”
            “THAT’S DARK, ISN’T IT?” “Not altogether.
            Facially, I am brunette, but madam, you should see
            The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet
30         Are a peroxide blonde. Friction, caused—
            Foolishly, madam—by sitting down, has turned
            My bottom raven black—One moment madam!”—sensing
            Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
            About my ears—“Madam,” I pleaded, “wouldn’t you rather
35         See for yourself?”

Ember

As  the year’s fires burn to embers

Calendars draw to the months of ember.

Chaos stalks the days that fall,

In the ambush of all hallows and the year’s pall.

Tis the season for terror and mayhem,

Tis the time for murder by young men.

Lie in bed till morning.

For when gunshots not tales greet the moon,

Hark the forerunners of mourning.

The ones you seek do not come.

Who will dress them in myrrh,

And bring their widows gold?

Who will rain them with tears,

And see that their young grow old?

The ones you seek judge their lives too weighty for you,

So go home another way,

Young men seek to rob you.

Take another way.

The young men lie in wait for you.

Chibundu Onuzo (c) 2012

Once Upon a Time

I stumbled across this beautiful poem on the internet by the Nigerian poet called Gabriel Okara. His book, 'The Voice,' has gone straight onto my to be read list. Anyways, here's the poem.

Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time, son,
they used to laugh with their hearts
and laugh with their eyes:
but now they only laugh with their teeth,
while their ice-block-cold eyes
search behind my shadow.

There was a time indeed
they used to shake hands with their hearts:
but that’s gone, son.
Now they shake hands without hearts
while their left hands search
my empty pockets.

‘Feel at home!’ ‘Come again’:
they say, and when I come
again and feel
at home, once, twice,
there will be no thrice-
for then I find doors shut on me.

So I have learned many things, son.
I have learned to wear many faces
like dresses – homeface,
officeface, streetface, hostface,
cocktailface, with all their conforming smiles
like a fixed portrait smile.

And I have learned too
to laugh with only my teeth
and shake hands without my heart.
I have also learned to say,’Goodbye’,
when I mean ‘Good-riddance’:
to say ‘Glad to meet you’,
without being glad; and to say ‘It’s been
nice talking to you’, after being bored.

But believe me, son.
I want to be what I used to be
when I was like you. I want
to unlearn all these muting things.
Most of all, I want to relearn
how to laugh, for my laugh in the mirror
shows only my teeth like a snake’s bare fangs!

So show me, son,
how to laugh; show me how
I used to laugh and smile
once upon a time when I was like you.

Gabriel Okara

Someone Took the Money

Someone took the money,

That was supposed to buy the tools ,

To build the schools,

That would stop our youths from becoming fools.

Someone took the money,

That was supposed to pave the roads

To bring the jobs,

That would sate the mobs.

Someone took the money,

That was supposed to light our streets,

And ease the load,

Of investors wishing to turn cash to gold.

Someone took the money,

That was supposed to train the men,

To stop the bombs,

And terrorist guns.

Someone took the money,

Because they were too shortsighted,

To read the sign:

CONSEQUENCES CAN ONLY BE PUT OFF FOR A TIME.

Literature is Not Dead

The prevalent view is that literature is only for the rich in Nigeria. Poor people don't read. If they do, its by accident and its nothing intellectual. Thus when my Aunt, Mrs. Mobolaji Adenubi, invited me to a meeting of the Association of Nigerian Authors (A.N.A), I had a very clear picture of what the meeting would be like. It would be on the island, because as we all know, nothing posh happens on the mainland. There would be a few expatriates.The people at the venue might be simply dressed but there would be many fancy cars in the parking lot. Now I must confess that I've never been to a literary event in Nigeria before but from looking at pictures and reading the news coverage, the vibe I've gotten has been that these events have swung more towards the aje botas.

So I was pleasantly surprised to find that most of the people who attended yesterday's meeting did not belong to the privileged class. Even though it rained terrifically, many of the people present took public transport to make that meeting. You cannot understand the full import of this until you have been caught in Lagos rain. The only umbrella I had was my England one: a sturdy thing that has served me well over there but was no match for the Eko rainy season. I came in a car to the meeting and only had to walk about ten metres to the venue. Yet by the time I reached the entrance, the rain had made a mockery of my umbrella and beaten me well well. Now, imagine coming to such a venue in a danfo or even worse on an okada. Even after sitting under a roof for four hours, there was one lady who still left the venue with damp clothes.

The meeting started about an hour late but that was due to the rain. The roads flood in Nigeria during the rainy season and thus traffic increases exponentially. Again, it wasn't a full house because of the rains but those that came, came with their works, ready to read them. Even I, first timer, was offered a chance at reading to the gathering. There were about five poetry readings and one prose piece. After each, the members would critique and advise. The two poems that caused the most debate were about Africa. One member protested about the blanket use of the 'black' to describe Africans. Another countered that majority of the people in Africa were black and even those in North Africa had dark skin. One member found one poem too optimistic about the state of Africa. In his view, the writer was 'deceiving herself.'

Perhaps it was because he was a man or perhaps because the woman who wrote the poem was a shy, the other women in the group took up her cause and after some close text analysis, dragged the rest of the group to the conclusion that the poem was neither overly optimistic or pessimistic but a good balance. There was one man who read so passionately that he could not remain on his seat. He read his poem twice and each time, he started sitting and by the end he was standing, pacing and declaiming his work.

Even I got my own few minutes. Though I had nothing of my own to read, when my Aunt told Dagga Tolar the Chairman of the Lagos branch that I had a book coming out next year (D.V), he put me next to the guest speaker who had come all the way from Ibadan and did a sort of joint interview with both of us. At the end, a small library of books was brought out for members to peruse. Some of the books were from members who had self published and left a copy of the book with the organisation but quite a few were international works. I spotted a copy of Isabel Allende's House of Spirits. All in all, I enjoyed my first meeting of A.N.A. It has shown me that high culture is for everyone.

Jerusalem

I rewrote this hymn some time ago because it's one of my favourite ever. William Blake was the original genius who penned it and I thought, if you altered some words, it could be about Nigeria. So here's my version which I feel is particularly apt at the moment because of elections. Its our time to build a new Nigeria. Read the original.

Jerusalem

And did those feet, in ancient times,

Fish upon Lagos’ bounteous seas,

And was the holy Lamb of God,

On Jos’ verdant mountains seen?

And did the Countenance Divine,

Shine forth upon our dusty plains?

And was Jerusalem, builded here,

Among those dark satanic rigs.

Bring me my bow, of burning gold!

Bring me my arrows of desire,

Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!

Bring me my chariots of fire!

I will not cease from mental fight,

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand

Till we have built Jerusalem

On Nigeria’s green and pleasant land.

P.S
Listen to them sing it in the brilliant movie Chariots of Fire.



And of course the famous opening scene.

March is Here

Exams are coming.

Yepa!

Deadlines are closing.

Gbosa!

But the sun is shining,

And the sky is smiling.

The spandex joggers have come out again,

And tourist chatter fills the trains.

Young girls bare their thighs,

Some men try to cover their eyes,

Most stare like they are seeing suya.

March is here for better and worse.

I Was Not

I was not born to fulfil some man's fantasy of what the ideal woman should be.

I was not born to help him along to his destiny while mine languishes as I wait for him to glance at me.


I was not born to cook, to clean or wash the dishes.

I was not born to look, to be admired, or to grant him wishes.

I was not born to complete a man.

God made me whole.

I was not born to be thought for by a man.

God gave me a soul.


I was born to reach the destiny that God has set for me.

I was born to be the woman that God created me to be.