Omoseye Bolaji writes on the hoity-toity lady

The post office gave the impression of being pared to the bone, too few people were present. The customary queues were non-existent today. It was a very cold day in the heart of the S.A winter.

I was perched at the other end trying to write a quick letter using one of the public marble-like tables. The cold made this simple process rather languid. I could hardly believe that so few people could be
around.

Presently I noticed that a lady was now on my left. I nodded to her, as a form of greeting but she hardly acknowledged this. She had an ambience of haughtiness and pride. In my mind I briefly dubbed her a hoity-toity lady, well dressed to boot. In the past one could have said she looked "a million dollars",
but apparently that is a cliche!

She was filling a form quickly, her expensive mobile phone beside her on the table, on my left. I
concentrated on my own letter, and hardly noticed she had left. But there was now nobody beside me. Then there was a sort of cold whoosh, draught, as a young man materialised on my left.

Now I was in full possession of my faculties, such as they were! It was just pure instinct. It just occurred to me that there had been a fine cellphone on the table - inadvertently left by the lady - but this new guy had just grabbed it with great speed! I wheeled around and faced the man. The crook!

“Don’t do that my friend,” I said. Obviously, he thought the phone was mine, that I was too busy concentrating on writing, and he could steal it quickly from the table.

The guy smiled at me, a typical tsotsi, skelm - (area boy, omo ita.) “I'm sorry, my brother”, he said. "Temptation." He handed the phone to me. “A very good phone, boss”

But of course the phone was not mine. I had no doubt in my mind that the owner would soon be rushing back after discovering the loss, or perhaps frantically phoning her own phone now with me! I finished my letter, and moved to the seats nearby. Let me wait a bit, I thought.

I had hardly sat down than the "hoity-toity" lady came rushing in, breathless and distraught. She made a beeline for where we had been earlier; the table. She looked as if she was about to cry when she did
not see her phone. I moved towards her and gave her her phone. "I knew you’ll come back for it", I said.

She was very happy, the erstwhile ambience of arrogance deserting her. “Oh, I am so grateful,” she said. “My phone is my life!”

I grinned. “Isn’t that an exaggeration?”

She replied, “Not really. I have countless vital phone numbers there. What about sms, facebook, twitter, etc? General internet in my phone. A fantastic camera in my phone too. Music. Games...”

I grinned again. “Maybe I should have stolen the phone,”. I joked. We both laughed...

Omoseye Bolaji writes on The lady bards

I must confess I have always had a rather ambivalent attitude towards poetry. To be absolutely blunt, on the whole I consider it to be a rather "inferior" genre of literature, especially nowadays when so many mediocre "clowns" are claiming to be poets! I realise many out there would be incensed but this is a general view of mine which is patently qualified. I mean the world has noted eg that T.S Eliot was a great poet and writer, he was also a great literary critic, dramatist and essayist. Nigeria has of course produced many great poets too - like Wole Soyinka, Okigbo, J.P.Clark, Niyi Osundare, Ofeimun, even Chinua Achebe. But note that these illustrious names are not just poets, they are also renowned critics, novelists, dramatists etc. My point is that I feel uneasy when a writer places all emphasis and credence on being a "poet", only, like it's the be-all and end-all of being a writer. To give a SA example, one of my favourite writers is Aryan Kaganof. He has published about ten books of poetry. Yet when I think of Kaganof as a great writer, I am not really thinking of his poetry, but his powerful novels like Uselessly and Laduma. This is a global approach, largely. Thomas Hardy was a great poet but virtually everybody concentrates on his novels. The same applies to D.H Lawrence And the same applies to African writers. When we think of great writers like Achebe, Dambudzo, Armah, Ngugi, Ata Aidoo, virtually everybody is thinking of their works of fiction, or literary essays - not their poetry. Yes, I myself am a published poet. I have published three books of poetry,but I am in no way surprised or upset that most readers and critics focus only on the fiction I have produced. As far as I am concerned, that is the way it is supposed to be! Yet having said all this, I am excited to see more and more young ladies in South Africa reading and writing poetry! I know they will benefit much more from reading prose, but at least they are still appreciating literature. As the great Achebe said, we must not presume to be policemen of literature! And so when three charming, brilliant young S.A women poets - spearheaded by the redoubtable Jah Rose Jafta - approached me to write a Foreword to their book, how could I refuse? In fact I was delighted to do it. The ladies' book, titled Free State of mind, is a fine anthology of poems. And the good news is that the ladies are still quite young and have lots of time to add more strings to their literary bows! - Omoseye Bolaji

Omoseye Bolaji ponders being a movie star...

I suppose I should be gratified and grateful that I have experienced a number of gongs, exhilarating highlights in my life, thanks to my writing career, such as it is. A recent highlight was when the news broke in South Africa that a film documentary focusing on my literary contributions would soon be made by a major film-making firm. This development was published liberally, and many got to hear about it. Inevitably people, especially strangers were enthused about this, and I was congratulated everywhere. "We’ve read that a camera crew will be coming from Johannesburg to film you!" was a constant refrain. This happened virtually everywhere I went - inevitably at libraries, other public places including eateries and parks - it was a bit worrying that many people were construing the news as if it was a conventional block-busting movie! Hence, a large number of people, apart from the usual congratulation, would give me their phone numbers, and other details, including CVs! "We want to be in the movie too, my friend," they said. Actually I am very grateful to Winnie Mokhomo who packaged the documentary. But it was what happened at the main post office that startled me most. The section where I collect my assorted parcels. I got to the place where we rapp on the window-like panel, and took my place at the small queue. I saw two people inside the office, the officials suddenly stare at me and freeze. Then they smiled. The coloured (half-caste lady) went to a corner, and to my shock, brought out a large newspaper story on the film documentary to be made about me. It had been specially laminated! Those around beamed at this, and all eyes swivelled on me. I was embarrassed as the coloured woman hoisted the laminated piece around, saying” “You see,we were all so excited when we saw this. We said - we know this man! He comes here once, twice, a week to collect parcels," Another official, the slender young man, added - "We are very happy for you, and proud of you. Congratulations, Ntate. I am sure it would be a great movie." I thanked them for their goodwill, hoping the ground could open up and swallow me! Then the coloured lady added: "Do you think I am good-looking enough to appear in the movie?” - Omoseye Bolaji

Omoseye Bolaji reminisces on TV antecedents

Television, like modern technology generally, has grown by leaps and bounds. Now worldwide, via satellite TV there are countless stations to savour, including many specialised stations which millions - including myself - would never even bother to watch. Yet incredibly, it was not always like this. A few decades ago, most countries just had only one or two stations, mainly the national one. I was reminded of this recently when i made a brief acquaintance of an Australian tourist. Whilst we shared a few drinks he lamented the current boom in TV worldwide. "The good old days have gone," he said. "There is too much saturation these days. Then, there was the exhilaration of looking forward to, waiting days for the next episode of a TV hit, whether international, or our home grown Aussie shows." I grinned. “You mean like your Return to Eden? ‘ He smiled, not too surprised that I knew about this Australian series, featuring Stephanie Harper, Jakes Sanders etc. I added that as a kid, I also used to watch Skippy - Skippy, the bush kangaroo! He winced. "How could that be? That's many decades ago! Did youu grow up in Europe?" he asked. I replied that though I spent years as a kid in England, I actually watched most episodes of Skippy, the Australian show back in black Africa, so to speak. I explained: “You see, I happen to come from Ibadan, a Nigerian city which has the record of starting the first ever T.V station in the whole of Africa - over fifty years ago, so kids grew up watching shows from around the world. Like in your Australia etc then, it was black and white T.V of course. Colour came later." He said: "So in those days you watched our Skippy a lot?" He laughed. Ah, we were kids then! Did you know most of the stunts in the show were just film tricks? That even the kangaroo itself, "Skippy", was fake in the sense that many kangaroos were used, not just one? I myself learnt that many years later!" I shook my head. "No, we were too young then...you know even in those days, Nigeria had superb home-grown programmes too, including what is usually called soapies now. As you said earlier, the excitement was in waiting a week for the next episode!" My mind went back to Nigerian block-busting TV shows decades ago, like Village Headmaster, New Masquerade, Cockcrow at dawn, Suke, Fadeyi Oloro, Ripples. Gorgeous female stars of those days like Barbara Soky. My own personal favourite actor, Jegede in the comedy, Awada... I said: “Ah well, the world moves on. Now there is so much mushrooming of Nigerian movies, Nollywood. They are so popular here in South Africa! Even in the townships, synonymous with African Magic." The Australian sighed. “I prefer the old days,” he intoned, rather lugubriously. - Omoseye Bolaji

GRAPPLING WITH MALIGNANT HATRED

By OMOSEYE BOLAJI “To the last I grapple with thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee!” Ahab, in the classic, Moby Dick The pigeons swooped down and flapped around majestically. They pecked at disparate morsels of food on the ground, jostling around with some frenzy as I watched them in desultory fashion. I had not come here at this particular park for some time. I savoured the ironically cold breeze. It was serene – but not for long! The first inkling I had that I was no longer alone here was when the birds suddenly flew away in an amazingly orchestrated manner! A man materialised beside me, a ginormous smile on his face. “Ntate! Long time!” he said. I stared at him now, and the penny dropped! It was a gentleman acquaintance I had not seen for at least four years, a rotund, amiable man. Now I could see he had put on even more weight. Immediately I also remembered that this man was always with a “twin”, a very close friend of his who was always by his side; a very tall man on the quiet side. I tried to remember the friend’s name... I failed. So I said – “Ah, Richard! Long time indeed. You have been more than scarce.” I smiled. And where is omo telele - the long (tall) man? I have never seen you without him in tow! “ Richard grimaced, a tragic expression suddenly etched on his face. He sat on the public bench beside me. “He’s no longer with us,” he said. “Joe (his tall friend) died a terrible death,” I winced “You see”, he went on. “You might not have known, but Joe had a sister that he loved very much. She was killed in a gruesome way by her boyfriend. It broke Joe’s heart, especially when the killer was somehow released from jail! The law system! Joe swore revenge, it festered with him. He wanted justice for his sister.” “So one day Joe went to the killer, and the mother of all fights ensued.” Richard shook his head. “It was terrible. There was blood all over the place. Both men died in the end. I lost my best friend.” There was silence. I thought about the Chinese saying, “Before setting out on revenge, you first dig two graves. I understood all too well what had happened. Actually, one of my books, Tebogo fails, is constructed around a similar theme. “Hmm, revenge,” Richard said. “It is a powerful thing that often leads to disaster.” I nodded. I thought of the classic book, Moby Dick, where Ahab wanted revenge on the awesome whale, Moby Dick; he hated it with all his heart, to the gruesome end - with virtually everybody on the ship dead because of this! C’est la vie?

ADIEU, RASHIDI YEKINI!!!

By OMOSEYE BOLAJI It was an unpalatable bolt from the blue for most of us to learn that “gangling” Rashidi Yekini is no more, the mercurial striker who regularly prodded millions into frenzied celebrations with his plethora of goals for his country. Ineluctably the world will always remember Yekini for his earnest, yet theatrical goal celebration at the World Cup finals in 1994. The pertinent photo is actually reproduced in one of my books,Eagles at USA 94. On a personal note again, I had the pleasure of publishing a long feature article on Yekini in the glossy, international magazine, World Soccer in 1994. Since the magazine is distributed in almost every country in the world, at the time,excerpts from my article were being used, quoted everywhere in many countries. The World Cup made Yekini world famous. Yet it was a long walk for Yekini. His early career is often overlooked, eg as a kid he actually starred for Nigeria at the 1984 Nations Cup finals where the Eagles unexpectedly reached the final, where Cameroon won 3 1. And how well I remember January 1984, at the Liberty stadium in Ibadan after a young Yekini had scored twice for the national side, Eagles against the Shooting Stars club, (a warm up session). The great Lekan Salami, now late, supremo of Shooting Stars said - “It was Shooting Stars that ‘killed’ Shooting Stars today!” A reference to the fact that the young Yekini had just been signed as a player for Stars club then. The pundits had no doubt then that Yekini will go on to score many goals for club(s) and country. And so it turned out, but it was not a smooth ride over the years. Yekini did score many goals till the early 90s, but one could hardly claim that he was fulfilling his early potential. In fact when Nigeria pulled out all the stops to qualify for World Cup 90 - and failed at the last minute - the attack in virtually all the key games comprised Siasia, Etim Essin, Owubokiri, and the late Okwaraji. No Yekini. Yekini was to bounce back later, adding more strings to his bow as a striker - apart from his ferocious, scorching shots - he became more versatile, with more close control, better passing ability, and adroit positioning. He was top scorer at both the 1992, and 1994 Nations Cup finals, the latter one won by Nigeria. His prolific goal scoring form helped Nigera qualify for the 1994 World Cup at long last, where he scored our first ever goal at the global finals against Bulgaria. But even at this highest level, it was still a case of "if only," for Yekini the great player... Nigeria might well have gone on to reach the World Cup final in 94 and made history for Africa if not for Italy's Maldini's sly, cynical yet horrific foul against Yekini who was set to score a crucial goal. Four years later, even at around 34 years old Yekini still made the Eagles squad that qualified for the 98 World Cup finals. Yekini made his mark again, even if not a regular starter. He was sensational against Spain, with an unforgettable overhead shot that just flew wide. But there was heartbreak again in the second round against Denmark who eliminated the Eagles. With his football career over, some did wonder what the future held for Yekini. Like England's tormented ex-football star, Paul Gascoigne, Yekini s whole life seemed to revolve around football. With their careers over, sadly, depression, general negativity seemed to envelope them despite their wealth and status. From the early days of the likes of Odegbami, Adokiye, Dan Amokachi, (all Nigerians), Gary Lineker,(England) , Doctor Khumalo, Mark Williams (South Africa) it was always clear that even when their playing days were over, life would still go on for them. Without being churlish, some former stars find it so difficult to make the transition. Maybe it should be a must that specialists in this wise,psychologists, psychiatrists, etc should be in regular contact with sports people throughout their careers? Quand meme, Adieu, Rashidi Yekini...and thanks for everything...

ADUMBRATIONS OF JOHN BROWN...

By OMOSEYE BOLAJI The arguments and polemics ricocheted around me in this South African township house. I was in the house of a friend, and as alcohol and food flowed it fuelled a somewhat acerbic debate. It was a familiar topic in South Africa, how the white man was essentially “the enemy” of blacks, never having their interests at heart. I listened in desultory fashion; at a moment chuckling as I remembered early Nigerian nationalist Herbert Macauley’s famous dictum (in Lagos of a century ago or so): “The dimensions of the true interests of the natives at heart’ are algebraically equal to the length, breadth and depth of the whiteman’s pocket,”! But to be honest, I have always been of the simplistic opinion that human beings on the whole are just that – human beings; roughly divided into good or bad, regardless of colour, country or creed. I often find it exasperating when all the black man’s shortcomings and weaknesses – and they are endless really – are laid at the feet of white people. Need we recount the frightening panoply of horrors the Black man has visited upon his own brethren even long after the white man ceased ruling African countries? But now, one of the gentlemen here had become not only exceedingly vocal, but nigh-threatening. He was almost like a triton among the minnows. In a casuistic manner he went on to “explain” that there was nothing good about the white man; that they had never done anything good for the Black man. He went on almost violently to add that even modern technology brought by the whites had turned African culture and society into a living hell. I laughed and grinned at him. “You agree with me my friend?” he said. “Why are you laughing?” In pithy fashion I told him that he would be hard-pressed these days to find any young African agreeing with him in this era of smart cellphones, facebook, computers, general internet, satellite TVs, popular movies etc. I added: “You have mentioned Steve Biko many times as being your role model. Do not forget that Biko did not hate whites, he was very close to whites like Donald and Wendy Woods for example...the Woods’ went on to endanger their own lives terribly because they believed in Biko’s cause,” The man stared at me, incipient hostility etched on his face. “Okay, assuming Donald Woods was a rare exception...where will you ever find the white man fighting the cause of Blacks, in the history of the world?” I reminded – or informed him – about the Abolitionists Society overseas centuries ago which did all it could to fight Black slavery; including humane whites like William Wilberforce. He pondered a bit, reluctant to be proved wrong in any way. Then an idea seemed to strike him! He said pugnaciously: “You are referring to privileged whites who were somewhat liberal. Did they really put their neck on the block? Can you imagine any white man actually dying or ready to die for Blacks?” He stared at me triumphantly. I don’t know what possessed me, but a melodious, stirring tune I had not heard for decades suddenly began to issue from my lips: “John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave But his soul goes marching on! Glory glory hallelujah...his soul goes marching on!”... I was embarrassed myself! I had not recollected this tune for decades since I was a primary school student in Sierra Leone – with my original nuclear family just back from England. I remembered faintly that a Creole teacher used to sing this tune to we kids at school long ago... “Who’s John Brown?” some people asked me now. Then it struck me why I subconsciously recalled the tune. I told them that John Brown was a white American in the first part of the 19th century (almost 200 years ago) who had been so much opposed to black slavery that he had actually killed mainly whites for this, and was hanged (killed) for this. His life and principles had contributed a lot to the USA civil war that had led to freedom for Black slaves. And the melodious song was a legacy of what he had stood for and sacrificed his life for. Another guy laughed now. “Ah, in other words we can not say whites are always our enemy. Actually in South Africa here even during apartheid some whites were also hanged for supporting the cause of the oppressed...” I was somewhat vindicated when this new speaker went on to further enlighten the man who had stoked all these polemics... Above photo: John Brown