KUNLE APANTAKU (Book)

Book: KUNLE APANTAKU
Author: Omoseye Bolaji
Publisher: Motheane Associates
isbn number: 978-1-920670-00-9
Reviewer: Pule Lechesa

In this new book, it is remarkable how many sweeping, far-ranging literary allusions author O Bolaji resorts to whilst paying this heart-felt tribute to his friend and literary colleague, Kunle Apantaku. My intention here is to briefly point out some of these references.

Bolaji mentions a raft of literary protagonists, most of them among the best the world has ever seen. These writers, African and Eurocentric, include Wole Soyinka, Kola Onadipe, Cyprian Ekwensi, Chinua Achebe, Ama Atta Aidoo, Ben Okri, Dillibe Onyeama, R.L Stevenson and Herman Melville.

Other wordsmiths mentioned in this new book are William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, Philip Roth, John Steinbeck, Bessie Head, Dambudzo Marechera, Ayi Kwei Armah, Sol Plaatje, Njabulo Ndebele, Melvyn Bragg, Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Enid Blyton, Sidney Sheldon, William Shakespeare, Nostradamus (the great seer), Frantz Kafka, Tsitsi Dangarembga, Flaxman Qoopane, and Ishmael Mzwandile Soqaga.

Reminiscing on their youthful writings long ago (he and Kunle) Bolaji states: “Now looking back on it, it is rather strange that we considered ourselves as “old” at that time, and even the themes of what we wrote reflected this: love, philosophy, sex, crime etc. There is a very impressive corpus of African literature anchored on children’s books. Even in those days, the outstanding African writers like Chinua Achebe, Cyprian Ekwensi, Ama Ata Aidoo and Ngugi wa Thiong’o had penned some children’s works. But although we had read countless Eurocentric works of this ilk some years ago (the Enid Blytons, Biggles series, Three Investigators, Hardy Boys and the like) we now firmly considered ourselves – even at 15 – as mature, rather wizened wordsmiths!

 “I have always maintained that the youth must devour pertinent literature (Children’s books) when they are very young – let’s say from around 4, 5 upwards. Nothing can be more exciting than reading such books at the right age. In this wise, I must pay a brief special tribute to one of the all-time greats of Black African writing pertaining to children – Kola Onadipe.

“His books were – are - extraordinarily interesting for the young ones, with works like the exhilarating The adventures of Souza. Mr Onadipe (now deceased) was a very prolific author of such books for the young; his published titles include The adventures of Souza, The boy slave, Koku Baboni, Sugar girl, The magic land of the shadows, The forest is our playground, The return of Shettima, Footprints on the Niger, Sunny boy, Sweet mother, Around Nigeria in thirty days, Call me Michael, Halima must not die : and other plays for schools; Happy birthday : queen for a day; Mothers-In-Law, The Other Woman, A pot of gold, Beloved daughters, The king is naked : and other stories, The mysterious twins; and Binta : beautiful bride…”

Do writers belong to the loony bin? Are they a crazy breed? Here are Bolaji’s views on this:

“We think of excellent (now dead) African writers like Dambudzo Marechera and Bessie Head, who were also “oddities” in their own way. Their idiosyncrasies and “weird” behaviour have been chronicled by scholars over the years. Lunacy also seems to loom large in the magnificent novels of Ayi Kwei Armah (especially in Fragments)

“How many times over the years have I heard African writers complaining in this vein: “Few people appreciate writers; they think we are crazy. We Blacks just want to enjoy material things, not things of the mind. Why can’t we wordsmiths be appreciated?” “But it is not only “Black Africans” who might view writers with suspicion. Consider the case of Herman Melville, American, now world famous for his fantastic novel, Moby Dick in particular. Yet during his lifetime he was often derided; family members even prevailed upon his wife to leave him, “the madman”.

 Incredibly, here is how a national publication (The New York Day Book) commented on the great Melville in those days (1852): “A critical friend, who read Melville's last book, Ambiguities, between two steamboats accidents, told us that it appeared to be composed of the ravings and reveries of a madman. We were somewhat startled at the remark, but still more at learning, a few days after, that Melville was really supposed to be deranged, and that his friends were taking measures to place him under treatment. We hope one of the earliest precautions will be to keep him stringently secluded from pen and ink..." Bolaji in this book also remembers how Kunle used to mention then-young writers, Ben Okri, and Dillibe Onyeama. Bolaji concedes that Okri is by far the more famous now, adding:

“But here is a brief literary sketch of Onyeama for record purposes: The writing career of Dillibe Onyeama, a Nigerian, has straddled five decades - though he was only born in 1951. Author of the famous book, Nigger at Eton, Onyeama was reputed to be the first Black African to study at that institution (Eton College). He went on to publish over twenty books and has contributed prodigiously to African publishing after returning back to Nigeria. “His other published books, over the decades, include John Bull’s Nigger (1974), African Legend, The Return, Juju (novel) Secret Society, Boomerang (short stories), Notes of a so-called Afro-Saxon, Godfathers of Voodoo, Female Target, The Night Demon, The New Man, Revenge of the Medicine Man, Book of Black Man’s Humour; and God, Sex and the English man (2012). Readers of Onyeama’s books insist that in works like Juju, he matches the best of Eurocentric mystery/thriller fiction…”

Whilst adumbrating on diverse literary styles Bolaji writes; “Take three disparate writers for example, all Nobel-award winners in literature; William Faulkner (USA), Ernest Hemingway (USA), and Wole Soyinka (Nigeria). Their approach to writing is completely different; you might say the simplistic, “journalistic” approach of Hemingway is the complete opposite of that of the dense, profound, intricate style of Soyinka. Faulkner might not be as complex as Soyinka, but he is certainly streets ahead of Hemingway in this wise. And what about the “streetwise” John Steinbeck (American too) who also won the Nobel Award?” Thereafter Bolaji quotes Faulkner with great relish (even making it come out in bold type in this book);

“Let the writer take up surgery or bricklaying if he is interested in technique. There is no mechanical way to get the writing done, no shortcut. The young writer would be a fool to follow a theory. Teach yourself by your own mistakes; people learn only by error. The good artist believes that nobody is good enough to give him advice. He has supreme vanity. No matter how much he admires the old writer, he wants to beat him...” 

Bolaji is also happy to reproduce what distinguished British writer, Melvyn Bragg has written as regards literary criticism: “…the teaching and programming of literature has let loose armies of ‘readings’ and interpretations which – whatever the quality –have threatened to divert the attention from the novel itself, to the theory erected around it,”

There is a lot more – Bolaji even deprecates and undermines his own contributions to literature over the decades – but it is appropriate that Bolaji ends his tribute to Kunle by making an allusion to William Shakespeare. Better still let us reproduce the very end of this book: 

“Olakunle Olubukola Apantaku was one of the finest literary talents Africa has produced. It does not matter that due to strictures etc of his time he could not publish much during his lifetime. And so what? The great European writer, Kafka (Franz Kafka) published very little during his lifetime; and it was only later on, posthumously that those who had been close to him began to publish the bulk of what he had written.

“Now we come to the terminal stage where we spew the clichés: Rest in peace, Kunle.

Or in Yoruba: Sun re oo…O di’gba ose… 

Ah, but Kunle also revered Shakespeare. So as Horatio says in Hamlet: “…and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest…”

In effect, Kunle Apantaku and international literature are intertwined in this illuminating new book.

* This edition of this column features a review of Bolaji's new book which is a tribute to the late Mr Apantaku (above)

Windmills Of The Dames

By Omoseye Bolaji

Although rather inadvertent, I was happy to see the coterie of Senegalese gentlemen again after a long, long time (since some five years) Here they were now, their technicolour shops ensconced in this big South African market.

Once again I marvelled at their extraordinary camaraderie, close-knit ambience, and bonhomie. Yes everywhere you go in South Africa, the Senegalese communities are unmistakable. I was well known to this particular lot though I had not seen most of them for years (save for intermittently bumping into each other in toropo- the city)

We hugged each other, shook hands, catching up. Incidentally they are all Muslems so their names ranged from Mohammed to Hassan etc. Over the years I had helped many of them with their “papers” and other documents, hence it was no surprise they seemed genuinely pleased to see me.

At last I set eyes on one of my favourites (let’s call him Ahmed). Tall, wiry, very dark and brimming with his usual energy – though I could see that his moustache was getting quite grey now. We greeted each other heartily. “Ah Monsieur,” he said. “Ca va. Ca va!” how’s it been? Another one of them gently dragged me to his shop, saying: “I remember you love sun shades (dark glasses). I can give you one for free. I know you won’t buy; you are too stingy for that!”

I grinned. “You mean, I am too poor!” The temporary fanfare continued till I put my foot in it (as usual?). Thinking of his taciturn, good natured wife I said to Ahmed: “By the way how is Madam? Your wife?”

The convivial atmosphere suddenly exploded into smithereens. Ahmed clenched his fists angrily and for a terrible moment I thought he was about to punch me! His face convulsed with anger and revulsion. What had I said wrong? “I am sorry…” I quickly said.

Trying to pull himself together, Ahmed managed to say: “Mon ami, never never ask me about that woman again…”

Meanwhile, one of his compatriots dragged me to a corner and said: “Of course you have not heard. Ahmed and his wife parted a couple of years ago. She…she just left him…for another man…these women. You know Ahmed is a man of peace very gentle; it was a big shock to him; despite the fact he had seen it happening to many of us…I mean our SA women leaving us,”

“I did not know,” I said weakly. I was about to move to Ahmed and apologise to him when he (Ahmed himself) suddenly materialized beside us and he apologised. “I am sorry,” he said. “It’s not easy for a woman; one’s wife…to leave one, and go to another man. She actually faced me directly that fateful day and said she was leaving me for another man; despite the child we shared, and her first child (fathered by another man) that I treated for years as if she were mine!”

“Don’t talk about it,” I said. “You’ll move on…”

“I am NOT going to move on,” Ahmed said, acerbity in his voice. “I will never have anything to do with these women again. Believe it or not, she told me that she had met another man who would take care of her much better than I could! A tsotsi! Imagine all the money I spent on her first child alone, who’s not even mine, sending her to primary school; transport, food every time…”

“Ag, don’t think about it Ntate. Life can be unfair…let’s forget it,”

But Ahmed spoke on: “It’s because I am a foreigner that she treated me like that…like I am nothing…”

However I did not believe this, though I said nothing else. How many times have I heard even my SA male friends complaining about how their women treated them “shabbily”; “used them”; “destroyed them” or ultimately left them. Probably a sign of the times. C’est la vie…

Adumbrating Literary Criticism

By Omoseye Bolaji

We talked briefly, in an interesting if unspectacular office. There was a painting to the left, depicting an animal that might have been a rottweiler (I am no great shakes as regards fauna!) Yet it was the fresco on the other side that largely attracted interest as a prodigious amount of creativity and talent had apparently gone into it. The fresco merged almost seamlessly with the wall. There was a computer on one of the tables here; and it was a sign of our times that a young gentleman trying to use it referred to it as a “fossil”. There were fragments of annihilated pieces of paper on the floor in another corner of the room, no thanks to a “rat” I was told. So, nature and modernity continue to co-mingle!

Hmm, the young lady I was chatting with was voluptuous, charming, well spoken, very intelligent; focused. And a published poet to boot.

We spoke about the world of writing in general; she explained how she had come to love writing; how she was a great “debater’ from her early time in school, and the like. She explained how her debut book had come into fruition. I was quite impressed with her single-mindedness, savvy, and determination to make her mark.

And how is she savouring the fact of being a published writer? She told me that it was a wonderful feeling “My book launch was a remarkable occasion graced by many people who have made it in the world of letters. Though I am still young I think I have made a positive step forward” she vouchsafed.

Then we touched about “local literary figures” who had inspired her, or the writers she knew about. She mentioned a few figures explaining what she liked about them. Smiling, I remarked: “What about Pule Lechesa (pictured above)? Do you know him? Have you ever met him?”

The lady flinched, fear suddenly etched on her face. “Pule Lechesa?” she repeated. “The dreaded literary critic?”

“The very same one,” I commented, enjoying her sudden discomfiture.

It was clear that mentioning this name had unnerved this young female writer. Her whole mien seemed to be transformed; fancifully I imagined the horrifying fear of the days of yore when an “apostate’ heard anything about the “Inquisition”

I grinned. “You are reacting as if Mr Lechesa (a South African literary pundit) is the devil himself!”

“Yho! People are scared of him…writers are really afraid of that man,” the young poet said, as she physically shook. “From all the stories I have heard about him and his reviews, criticisms…he’s some sort of bugbear!” she laughed.

I smiled, thinking briefly of other writers who were not too enamoured with Mr Lechesa, the “critic”. As far as many of these writers are concerned, here is a fearsome, dreaded figure always ready to pull them down as it were. Yet he continues to be respected nationally and internationally by people who know what literary criticism is all about. Indeed a number of Eurocentric literary observers have told me a number of times that it is “a pleasure and honour to be reviewed by Mr Lechesa” But how many writers on the ground believe this?!

I told the young female poet now that it seemed to be the norm that writers were scared of critics anyway. I gave her some examples drawn from around the world. “it seems the critics are doing great jobs introducing books, analyzing them but the pertinent writers are reluctant to have any ‘weaknesses’ in their works pointed out. Seriously it is a long-standing practice in the western world. Literary criticism. Countless thousands of books have been published on diverse writers and their works. But as Lechesa himself would say, most of our African writers would just like to be praised instead of having their books evaluated properly,”

“But why is he (ie Lechesa) so ‘tough’ on writers?” the lady asked. “We can’t bring those high white standards here…”

“Then we might as well give up on proper, widely respected literature here,” I said. “If we want to be taken seriously even at the most rudimentary level, we cannot turn our backs on literary criticism,”

“But Ntate,” she said after a while. “Come to think of it, you are also an internationally recognized critic too. I have read a lot about you. But how come writers are NOT scared of you?”

I grinned. “If I was such a good critic, people would be scared of me too,” I said. “but alas, the opposite is the case…so let’s agree that I’m just not up to scratch!”

·         NOTE: This columnist got the permission of Mr Pule Lechesa to publish his name whilst recalling this real-life encounter with the lady poet