SPECTRE OF HORROR

By Omoseye Bolaji

I basked in the salubrious atmosphere – although I was alone. Temporarily. The breeze was most edifying and I watched people of disparate colours moving hither and thither. I was sipping my drink VERY slowly; till Anna Marie suddenly metamorphosed beside me.


Anna Marie is a (white) lady who relishes the world of arts and culture. She just suddenly came to me and said: “Hi!” We exchanged pleasantries. “You are not supposed to be here alone?” she said nigh-accusingly. We chatted for a few minutes then a gentleman – also white - appeared. And she said to him, without actually mentioning his name to me:

“Hi...this is Mr Bolaji...he writes books...I know you like books; pity I have to run...” The gentleman to my surprise sat down beside me and ordered some drinks for himself. Meanwhile he tentatively engaged me about books, authors etc. “Yes, I love reading books. I have a library at home,” he vouchsafed. “But I must confess my knowledge of Black African, not even to say South African Black authors is very limited,”

So I became a ‘blabbermouth” for the next 20 minutes or so! Talking about notable Black writers not only in South Africa, but the African continent at large. Thereafter the gentleman insisted we must talk about my own writings too – and I briefly introduced him to my corpus of published work, as it were.

By now I no longer felt I was with a stranger, though that was what he was even now essentially. Now that there was a pause, I managed to say to him: “By the way, I am going on and on...such bad manners on my part... If you don’t mind, what is your name?”

The gentleman smiled, and said. “My name is Robespierre.”

I flinched. I suppose we are all largely haunted by the past; what we learnt when we were youngsters. In those days we had been taught what was apparently superficial knowledge about the French revolution of those days. The horrors of the past, starting with the storming of the Bastille and all that. The Guillotine. Horrific executions...

And we learnt in those days about “the reign of Terror” in France over 200 years ago. The most prominent name was that of Robespierre! His name for even centuries has been synonymous with bloodshed, heads rolling! Around 1793 – 1794 in France of yore; including the execution of King Louis and Marie Antoinette. And Robespierre, then lawyer and voluble politician was all for the King to die! Sort of spectre of horror...

‘Robespierre’ grinned at me now. “I can see you know about the most famous Robespierre in history,” he said. “Maximilien de Robespierre. French history – but that’s a long time ago.”

He went on: “My name is just a name – it took me some time to realise the ‘significance’ of my name and possible frightening connotations as it were. ...but we must also remember that the famed historical Robespierre was not all evil...for example he was one of the important people who long ago fought against the abolition of the slave trade which affected Black people so much negatively; such a long time ago, which showed his vision.”

I recalled now that the original Robespierre himself died in horrific fashion, in terrible pain after his jaw was shattered – by a bullet? History has recorded that even at the scaffold he was screaming with trenchant pain before the (guillotine) blade silenced him. But the point is that Robespierre will continue to be identified with those terrible days.

And the Guillotine. I knew in my mind that I would always associate this gentleman in this wise. Not that it was his fault. I said now: “Ag, it doesn’t matter. Pleased to meet you...”

Above pic: the historical Robespierre

SHAMELESS (Book) By Futhi Ntshingila

Book: SHAMELESS


Author: Futhi Ntshingila

Publisher: University of KwaZulu Natal Press


Review by Omoseye Bolaji

Is there a dearth of emerging talented South African female (Black) writers; or perhaps the spotlight is not being shed enough on scintillating young (or younger) talent in this wise? I pondered this after reading a short novel by Futhi Ntshingila titled Shameless.

Decades ago, Nigeria’s Cyprian Ekwensi published his superb work, Jagua Nana which focuses on a prostitute and her desperations. But nowadays it appears even prostitutes have their pride; and the main protagonist of the novel Shameless, Thandiwe, despite selling herself, has patent confidence in herself. This does not prevent her from being subjected to the usual perils prostitutes face of course:

“Prostitutes disappear and their dead bodies are found decomposing in the alleys of Hillbrow…some have died horrible deaths in the penthouses of rich men who put their beautiful bodies in black rubbish bags. They ferry them in the dead of the night to Hillbrow bridges, only to be found by the hobos living in the underworld. Often the bodies are found as remains half-eaten by maggots”

(page 27)

There are three quite perceptive female voices here (in this work) though: Thandiwe herself, Zonke, who chronicles much of what the reader absorbs here; and the assiduous Black female “ambitious” film-maker, Kwena. But the emphasis is on Thandiwe, what makes her tick, her background, her profession and how she survives being almost killed in the end (shot by a jealous client, as it were)

Thandiwe unashamedly explains how she “pleases” men: “I am their priestess; I hear their deepest darkest confessions and I give them the absolution that no regular priest can”. ‘After their heavenly absolution from her, they feel satisfied yet empty, in need of another fix.’

Shedding more detail on her life as a prostitute, Thandiwe goes further: “Dickson became my second client. He hated me and yet, routinely, without fail he came for his fix at Sipho’s flat every Wednesday lunch hour. I think he bragged to his friends because soon I was picking up more clients at their parties…”

Reminiscing on Thandiwe's roots, we read: “To this day, the smell of cow dung reminds me of home. We would follow the cows in the morning and wait for them to shit and we would scoop their warm green shit and pile it up in a bucket. We would get home, sweep the floor, mix the crap with water and smear it all over, making patterns with the sides of our hands, leaving a fresh smell of green,”

(page 35)

We also glimpse how Zonke and Thandiwe became very close. “She saw me watching and her uncle saw her looking at the window. He got distracted, turned to look at me and that’s when it happened. That was the moment Thandiwe and I became blood sisters. It was quick as lightning…”

(Page 42)

And how film-maker, Kwena, bonds with Thandiwe later on: “When the filming is finished Kwena breaks into tears and holds onto Thandiwe. She sobs like a little girl. Thandiwe feels her pain and does what she sometimes does with her sad clients…”

Literary allusions are here in this work, though well modulated. For example on page 51: “At school we were studying Macbeth, and I worried that maybe Thandiwe was going to be like Lady Macbeth now, racked with guilt. She would have visions of bloody hands that could never be clean again…”

West Africans will be pleased to see the (partial) first hand knowledge the author has of food…at a Cameroonian eatery in Yeoville. “They both ask for fried bananas (plantain) and peanut butter spinach”

This is a well written, convincing portrait of a “lady of the night’ from an inside view – more importantly, the author is a woman and avoids the usual prurience and focus on the physical pleasure a male author would normally dish out. This is more of a psychological work tracing the antecedents of the protagonist; and the view of Kwena late on (as per her documentary on Thandiwe) in this work is also moving:

“She said Thandiwe had taught her to push past her fears and her shame – shame about her career and her choices, her life, friends and family – and be the best possible person she could be…the shameless ones are free from illusions. They have mourned the loss of innocence. They choose survival in the periphery’

The Truculent Passenger

By Omoseye Bolaji

The taxi driver barked: “This money does not total what it is supposed to be. One of you passengers has not paid! Who is it?”

Many of the passengers in the taxi froze. It was rare indeed for such a situation to happen in public transport “taxis” (more like buses really) in South Africa. People normally contribute the disparate fares and pay up in almost choreographed fashion. Indeed on a personal note I must congratulate South Africans for this frequent, quite axiomatic display of honesty and integrity.

But right now, there were ripples in the pond as it were. One of the commuters was not being honest. Everybody stared at each other, with mild, rather shocked inquisition. Who was it that had not paid? Would he or she own up? In such rare cases such a miscreant would quickly own up, apologise, and pay up. But not today. The man on my left stared at me knowingly. We both knew who the malefactor; the man who had not paid up!

Actually the man was seated exactly on my right; the seat beside me. When he entered the taxi he had been belligerent, drunk and raucous. When I and the gentleman on my left signaled that he should pay up he had shaken his head and we had left it like that. But not any longer. I was not about to speak up; but the worthy on my left now announced:

“Actually we know the person who has not paid…it’s this man here – “ he pointed at the man on my right. “We asked him for his fare but he refused to pay up. Ntate, why don’t you want to pay?”

The man so accused, truculently stared at everybody; seemingly fidgeting around. “I have paid,” he lied. “You definitely have NOT” the man on my left reiterated. “Why are you doing this? Can’t you see the driver is angry now?”

The driver of the car swiveled around and stared at the belligerent man who had not paid. “Why don’t you want to pay?” he enquired. “Do you think everybody here is a fool? We operate on a principled, honest basis, but now you are upsetting the apple cart…” His face suddenly hardened and he brought the vehicle to a halt on the left side of the road.

“Please pay, Ntate;” many of the commuters said to the miscreant. “See all the trouble you are causing. The driver has stopped now!”

Indeed the driver of the bus (“taxi” in SA) was quite angry now. And the man on my right could see it. The driver threw open the main door and pointed at the miscreant: “Come here…out of my taxi… hona jwale! (now)” The man at the centre of this storm, realizing he could not get away with any chicanery now tried a belated apology. “I’m sorry my friend…” he started.

“Out of my bus!” The driver said. “I want no crook inside here. I’d rather make a loss from your seat,”

The malefactor was out of the bus now, belatedly brandishing his taxi fare. “Here is the money; I’m sorry,” he said.

With shocking swiftness and violence, the driver grabbed the man by his hand and threw him in the ditch. “Out! Out! I don’t want you in my vehicle!” And he entered the bus again and got ready to drive off.

My mind went back to the “old days” in Lagos Nigeria when “molues” the big, big commuter buses were all the rage. I thought about how difficult it must have been to be something of a conductor in those days as there were so many people, commuters to deal with as it were. How well I remembered the refrain “San wo e…san wo eh…” “Pay up; else!” with those conductors of yore sort of puffing themselves up in pugnacious fashion!

But now in South Africa the bus drove on….

The Prolific Ones

By Omoseye Bolaji


The weather bore the veneer of its own zaniness – during the night it had been intensely cold, punctuated with lugubrious barks, howling of dogs. Yet now little more than ten o’clock in the morning the sun was blazing forth! Your columnist needed a cold drink and though I was something of a stranger in this small town, I was bent on getting one.

Happily enough in South Africa at least ‘watering holes’ proliferate. After looking around for a few minutes the inevitable signboard showed that here was a place where I could quench my thirst, as it were. I ordered a drink and sat down outside near the terraces, where a big tree’s shade made the atmosphere almost wholesome.

People were coming in and out, some playing pool, others just quaffing as they drank. A self-important gentleman arrived full of bluster, scolding the cleaner for ‘doing his job late’ though the place had more or less just opened. There was no music thus far. I sat down on my chair soaking in the atmospherics, pleasantly enjoying my drink.

Presently as is my wont intermittently, I opened my small bag and brought out my latest book, to glance through it quickly again. Writers would understand this gesture; for quite some time an author is enamoured with their latest published book, carrying it around; surreptitiously flicking through. The consolation was that hardly anybody knew me here, at least physically.

Suddenly the guy to my left said: “Ntate, it appears that you wrote this book!”

I stared at him. “Why would you say that?”

“I can see your photo both on the cover, and on the back,” he said sharply. “Is it your book?” I smiled and he added: “I have never met a writer of a book before, not to talk of a Black one,” I gave him the book.

He and his friend – the guy on his right side - glanced through the book, mainly the cover and blurb. “It IS you!” the one who had spoken initially to me said. “There is no doubt about it; these are your photos. You wrote this book!”

At this stage I admitted rather quietly that I was the author of the book

“I’m Tshepo,” the guy said, introducing himself. “I did not finish my secondary school education, but I read some Shakespeare. I remember learning that William Shakespeare wrote more than 30 plays, books…how can anybody write that many books? Whites are great!”

I grunted uneasily. It was clear that these were people who knew very little, almost nothing, about literature. I did not feel at such a moment I should apprise them about black African writers who have published at least 20 – 30 or more books – like Cyprian Ekwensi, Meja Mwangi, Zakes Mda, Chinua Achebe, Soyinka, Ngugi…

Tshepo was now going through the “Bibliographic pages” at the end of my book. He stared at me. “They say this is your bibliography…I mean…what…who wrote all these books here under your name?…like 30 of them?”

“I wrote them all,” I said, now quite embarrassed.

Tshepo flinched. “You wrote ALL these books! A Black man…how…?”

“I wrote them over the many years,” I said quietly, as many people were now interested and moving close. “I’m quite old now,”

“You are not old, Ntate,” Tshepo said. “We know old people, and you are not one of them. You are prolific. You have written 30 books! So you are like Shakespeare!!”

I shuddered. I hastened to tell him that I could in no way be mentioned in the same breath as Shakespeare. “I am just trying …a little…a bit,” I added.

People around now physically went through my latest book, praising the titles of some of the “Chapters” and asking what some of them meant. Alas, I was no longer enjoying my drink with all the attention. Unexpectedly, a gentleman came to my “rescue”! Tall, thin, very serious looking he came to the ravenous hordes…sorry, to the people here - and glanced at the cover of the book. “Ah Mr Bolaji,” he said with an air of unruffled competence. “Is this a new book of yours?” Everybody stared at him, as he went on: “I used to work at our local library – the one in toropo (town) and I know that many of Mr Bolaji’s books are there.”

“So you know this man has written 30 books?” Tshepo said to the newcomer, incredulity still etched on his voice.

“Perhaps not up to 30, but many,” the librarian said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Don’t be surprised. I am currently trying to write a book myself. Blacks can write books too; he’s not the only one…there’s Ntate Flaxman, Ntate Motheane, Ntate Lechesa…”

Thank heavens!

POETRY COMMANDO

Over the years I have had the honour and pleasure to write assorted Introductions, Forewords, or Prefaces to a number of books. I cannot pretend to remember all such books now, though I realise many of them are referred to, or available on Google Books. That’s modern technology for you!

Hence I was delighted to write a short preface to female writer, Charmaine Kolwane’s latest book, titled Poetry Commando (2013)

Excerpts from what I wrote:

“The author of this work (Charmaine Kolwane) suggested that I write an “Editor’s Note” for this book. Alas, it is a moniker I feel very uncomfortable with. I prefer to refer to myself as someone “who ironed out some of the creases in a work”, as it were.

I have always believed that authentic Africans’ do approach mainstream literature in a certain way with their own idiosyncrasies. A writer as illustrious as Nadine Gordimer (a Nobel Laureate) has said as much over the decades by referring to the “quaintness” of African writing; and partially explaining the same as “African writers are always translating (from their mother tongues)”

Perhaps. What is clear is that Africans, black Africans have contributed prodigiously to world literature. Names like Wole Soyinka, Chinua Achebe, Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Es’kia Mphahlele, Zakes Mda, Ayi Kwei Armah etc have gone down in history as respected world writers, rather than “African ones”. Yet we cannot take their “African-ness” away from them.

Literary history has recorded that the early works of Chinua Achebe and Gabriel Okara (to mention only but two African writers) took the world by storm mainly because of the special African ambience that pervaded the works; tincturing the grammar, syntax, structure, logic etc of the works. The best critics are broad-minded and discern merit in virtually all published works. But this is not a weepy apologia as it were!

When I first met Charmaine years ago, she was just in her early 20’s. I could hardly believe her passion for books and the world of letters whilst most ladies of her age were obsessed with material things including fine smartphones, cars, clothes, and the like. At the time, she was already churning out passionate poetry and essays – I smile wryly now as I recollect some of her letters which I published in newspapers and magazines at the time. I also had the pleasure of publishing some of her poignant poetry then.

I was rather taken aback years ago when Charmaine told me she was writing a book about me. Although I did not say it at the time, my first feeling was that she was too “immature” to undertake such a task. I was however pleasantly surprised to see how brilliant the book she produced was. It can now be revealed that the book was written in record time too! Her analytical and critical nous (ability) is displayed in the work titled “Omoseye Bolaji: Channeling one’s thoughts onto paper”. The book was not only a great success locally and nationally, but is stocked in some of the best Universities in the world now.

I was delighted when she got a job as a librarian because I knew it was a literal case of a duck taking to water with elan! Regularly, one is regaled with stories from the public at large who narrate how when they went to the library Charmaine went out of her way to get pertinent books for them, or even advised them on particular books to read. Indeed Charmaine basks luxuriantly at literary occasions; and contributes magnificently at such times.

Her first book was published in 2005, and now we are lucky that her second offering will provide rich literary pickings for us! …”

- Omoseye Bolaji

SUPER EAGLES SWOOP TO GARNER CONTINENTAL LAUREL

By Omoseye Bolaji


‘I go die oh!

Yeeh! Yeeh!! Yeeh!!!

I go die oh!

Yeeh! Yeeh!! Yeeh!!!

Today na today!

Today na today!

I go die oh!’*

This was the song, the ‘war cry” of proliferating raucous Nigerians in South Africa before the mammoth football match with Ivory Coast as the quarter finals of Afcon swung into gear. But despite all the braggadocio, most Nigerians knew only too well before the game that Ivory Coast were the favourites to win; with their star-spangled squad indeed.

Yet Nigeria won the game quite easily, 2-1 and it could have been more. Superstars (of Ivory Coast) like Didier Drogba and Yaya Toure produced remarkably little substance in the game. Nigeria’s Emenike who scored a stunning goal in the match should have scored even earlier before he finally did so. It seemed to be a shambolic performance from the fancied Ivorians. Hence Nigeria moved onto the semi final where skilful Mali awaited.

The Eagles’ performance against Mali was magnificent; nobody, no pundit could have imagined Nigeria leading by three clear goals by the end of the first half. It was almost surreal. Nigeria, at least in the first half took the game by the scruff of the net and the goals kept on piling it. Coach Stephen Keshi and his assistant Daniel Amokachi were in raptures.

As Nigeria made it to the final, it became crystal clear that the two “Chelsea boys” Victor Moses and John Obi Mikel, were pivotal. Regularly playing at the highest levels for their clubs and used to gleaming pressure and glare, they rose to the occasion again and again. Mikel, in his no-frills manner dominated midfield spraying the balls around with elan and defending excellently too; including a priceless last-ditch tackle against the Ivorians.

Victor Moses deserves special praise for pulling up trees late on against Ethiopia in the last group match; a game that could have ended in humiliating disaster for the Eagles as they sought a crucial goal in vain. Moses it was who essentially won and converted crucial penalties with ice-cool competency. It was a template for the team to build on.

Who could have imagined after such an insipid display that Nigeria would suddenly rise to the occasion, play out of their skins and put the likes of Ivory Coast and Mali to the sword? It was as if the team suddenly got its second wind, realized the pedigree of the country over the decades in football and began to play with pride, passion and flamboyance.

We have highlighted the significance of Moses and Mikel, but the whole team deserves praise; the free-scoring Emmanuel Emenike who provided a decisive cutting edge to the team’s play; and of course the superb goalkeeping antics of Vincent Enyeame. He was outstanding in South Africa during the 2010 World Cup, and back again on South African shores (Afcon 2013) Enyeama did much to help the Eagles to success.

Coach Stephen Keshi deserves praise for continuously protecting his players during the tournament and presenting them to the world as if they were still brandishing learners’ plates! Keshi admirably downplayed his “very young team…” “still developing squad” “they have a lot to take on board” etc…whilst the players marched on to a continental final! This speaks volumes for Keshi’s experience and savvy.

Indeed, Keshi is one of the all-time greats of African football. Even now, all over Africa he is still referred to as “the big boss” the man who opened doors for a medley of African players to ply their trade overseas over the last few decades. Those who still remember his playing career well – this columnist for one – will always relish his utter dedication and love for his country; his superb defending and blistering shots wherefore he scored so many vital goals for the Eagles in his heyday…

Sunday Mba. Very much under the radar when Afcon started; one of the unsung home-based Nigerian players. Now he is a superstar, thanks to his priceless two goals at the tournament. He seems to specialize in spectacular goals. Firstly he sank much-fancied Ivory Coast in the quarter finals with his fine individual effort. He repeated the trick in the Final – against Burkina Faso – winning the game, and the Cup for his country with an adroit flick and shot that found the net. Hence, Nigerians worldwide are celebrating…

• “Death” in the metaphorical sense; more like throwing the gauntlet as it were

IT COULDN'T MATTER LESS (Bolaji new book)

By Omoseye Bolaji

I must confess that one of my shortcomings involves having something of a whimsical, sardonic, perhaps even wicked sense of humour – sometimes. Hence, intermittently even whilst alone, I can be savouring a joke and smiling, or even laughing in a corner...an embarrassing thing!


And so it was today. There I was in a corner of a major street absent-mindedly staring at an impressive, rather marmoreal building. Then it happened; something that seemed funny to me came to my mind and I began to smile broadly...chuckling... alas, an acquaintance of mine now saw me!

“Ntate!” said he, coming closer to shake hands. “You scare me when you smile like that. I have heard that when you smile it means something bad is gonna happen – to someone else!” He was joking of course, and we both laughed.

I grinned. “You are being polite; surely we both know that when a man starts laughing alone or talking to himself in a corner, it usually indicates that the strait jacket should be got ready! Why not say I’m going bonkers in my old age?”

He laughed. “If only that were so. No mad man can do all those things you always do, write, edit, galvanise, organise...ah, by the way I have got you! Maybe I know why you are smiling...is it because your new book is out now...?”

“My new book?”

He said: “Come on Ntate! Don’t bluff me. So you didn’t want me to know that your new book is out. I saw a copy with Mr Lechesa, Pule Lechesa the writer, critic; whatever that is...your new book is titled It couldn’t matter less. Red cover,”

I looked apologetic, but he went on swiftly: “It’s as if you don’t want people to know the book is out, at least locally here. So far I have seen no stories about your new book in the papers and magazines...it was only when I checked the internet that I saw some references on your new book, mainly that interview. Why the secrecy this time around?”

“Maybe I am tired of publishing books every year,” I said. “Let it be done quietly this time around!”

“You don’t care about sales?” he probed.

“Publicity does not necessarily mean that book will sell; we know our markets anyway, and the relevant literary protagonists who will snap up the book immediately. On my own part, I am always anxious that people who really embrace literature, who love writing, reading – like Ntate Lechesa who you mentioned now – get to see new books...”

“In other words you do not care about ‘illiterates’ like me,” he said, simulating the ambience of one who is hurt. But I knew him for the wag that he is!

“Don’t put words into my mouth,” I said. “It’s still early doors yet, as they say; the book is just out. Yet you already know about it,”

“I flicked through it (the book)” he said proudly. “There are many interesting chapters there. “It reminds me of your previous book, Miscellaneous Writings. Anyway, it’s obvious it is a collection of your latest pieces written recently. Very fine cover,”

I grinned. “So you are judging the book by its cover...you understand my alleged apathy over the book now?”

“Don’t be cynical, Ntate. Seriously many of us like the world of writing more than you think. I am writing a book too, maybe you’ll go through it for me when I finish,”

“You have been talking about the book you are writing even before your daughter was born some ten years ago,” I said rather harshly. “And yet you never finish it! Sometimes you say it’s poetry, sometimes you say it’s your biography, then again you sub it fiction...hawu!” We both laughed; he knew that it was true that for quite a number of years now, he has been talking about working on a book – which I suspect is non-existent!

We both fidgeted, knowing it was time to move on now. He said: “Anyway, I just wanted to congratulate you on your new book; and maybe you can tell me how I can get my copy?”

“Okay,” I gave him the pertinent information.