Prof
Wole Soyinka, An Enigma, At 70 By Ugochukwu Ejinkeonye Last
month, Tuesday, July 13, to be precise, Professor Wole Soyinka,
playwright, poet, novelist, essayist and rights activist, the first
black African to win the distinguished Swedish national award, the Nobel
Prize for Literature, was 70. And for the past few weeks, the nation has
risen to celebrate with characteristic ostentation and flourish this
writer of immense talent, accomplishment, and “universal relevance.”
In fact, the pleasant drum beats are still loud and beckoning, the
dancers are still pounding the square with amazing strength, the loud
ululations have reached fever pitch, and the sweet notes of the oriki
are still permeating the entire ambience with caressing impact. Indeed,
the Soyinka Festival, put together by faithful members of the tribe, has
thrived and flourished. I
think that Kongi deserves even more than these. In my own widely
published oriki
last year to mark Soyinka’s 69th birthday, I had insisted
that nothing short of an elaborate ceremony would befit
Soyinka at 70. Although I got a number of virulent attacks
because of that essay, I still insist that any genuine celebration of
Wole Soyinka must take into account the divergent facets of his art and
person that lend him his unique personality and enigmatic status. When
I talked of an elaborate ceremony for Soyinka, at no time did I envisage
what the bizarre and immensely talented clown, Mr. Charlie Boy, and his
like minds did for Kongi at a rowdy ceremony at a Lagos hotel recently,
where eighteen girls were “mandated” to each give the distinguished
writer a peck on the cheek. I felt highly disgusted on behalf of the
“trapped” Noble Laureate who had to sit there, in the very presence
of Madam, and allow his nose be assaulted by the conflicting scents that
oozed from eighteen obviously sweating girls! But from most of what I
have read these past few weeks, those who claim to be very close to the
Prof are saying that he is very accommodating, even of the worst of
fools. I
do not know how Professor Ali Mazrui will react to such a view, but I
have also read that Soyinka is generous to a fault; he, in fact, at
considerable personal costs and discomfort, can go out
of his way to maintain his acquaintance with people even when
they become serious pests,
leeching and sponging on him. I think that this is a commendable quality
which has before now been largely glossed over by Soyinka critics and
fans. However, I have taken my time to make a note of all those that
spoke so glowingly about Soyinka’s generosity, especially with
supporting testimonies of their personal experiences in that regard, and
equally examined their assessment of the man and his work. To my
surprise, I saw a clear bandwagon, with predictably identical views
about the man. When
criticism is inspired by base consideration, literature and scholarship
become the ultimate loser. No
doubt, I have thoroughly enjoyed myself savouring with relish the
several pieces about Soyinka published in the media in the past few
weeks. I do not know whether it actually worries Soyinka that majority
of those who “interpret” his themes, messages and place in African
Literature have never bothered to read him. They insult Soyinka by
making him appear very predictable, like a flat character. In other
words, once you look at Kongi, you should be able to know what he
believes in, what his works say, even when you have not read them! In
fact, it is painful, that Soyinka has had to carry this burden for
decades, and may continue to carry it, so long as anyone who attempts
to hint at even a counterpart approach to Soyinka studies is
hurriedly branded and taken to the gallows, unless perhaps, the person
is a Femi Osofisan or a Biodun Jeyifo, who derive immunity from the
“geographically correct” names they bear. Like
I said last year, anyone wishing to appreciate this dilemma about
Soyinka would find help in
the illuminating essay by Professor Stanley E. Fish captioned: “What
Is Stylistics And Why Are They Saying Such Terrible Things About
It?”(in the book, Essays in Modern Stylistics,
edited by Donald E. Freeman, and published by Soyinka’s own publishers
in London, Metheun and co., 1981, pp. 53-78).
The essay is not talking about Soyinka, but in it Stanley Fish
submits that stylisticians
in their desperation to give “scientific” and “empirical”
interpretations to literary texts as opposed to what they call the
“impressionistic” views of literary critics derive their meanings
not as a result of the capacity of the examined texts to yield them but
simply as a result of their eagerness, predisposition, and “ability to
confer” the meanings. They
therefore arrive at what I have termed “critical imposition” of
meanings as opposed to meanings
derived purely from close, critical evaluation of texts. This has
equally been the main problem of a major slice of Soyinka criticism, as
I see it. But a lie remains
a lie, no matter the good intentions and prodigious talent of the fellow
who concocted it. We
sometimes give the impression that we are scared of appreciating the
very rich roundedness in
Soyinka’s art and person, a quality that would greatly enrich
the scope of his studies. May be, doing that would explode our
cherished myth and give us an equally impressive reality that may not
fit into our preferred stereotype. Professor Femi Osofisan started us on
a very sound note some few week ago when he said in a brilliant
interview with TheNEWS magazine that the “only thing
constant about (Soyinka) is his productivity.” If we would at least
concede to Soyinka that he is indeed a conscious artist, who carefully
chooses his themes and messages, then there would be no point
quarrelling over the fact that the inconsistencies and contradictions
critics often point out in the man and his art are intentional outputs
deserving critical acclaim. The
preference by Soyinka critics, especially those largely inspired and
motivated by predictable considerations, to not transcend intelligent
guesses in their “interpretation” of Soyinka sometimes make a lot of
them look utterly stupid? I will cite one instance. In an early number
of the journal, African Literature Today (in 1968 or so),
Derek Elders wrote a review of Soyinka’s THE INTERPRETERS
in which he wondered what really the book had to offer to justify the
pains one took to burrow through the massive heaps of impenetrable
clauses. But in his prefatory note in the same edition of the journal,
Professor Eldred Durosimi Jones, the Editor, and one of those
distinguished scholars who had done so much to spotlight Soyinka’s
work, overtly growled that Derek Elders’s opinion did not go down well
with him, and threatened to publish a counter-view. And to hurriedly
atone for his “critically incorrect” remarks, Derek Elders came back
in the very next issue with another review, this time descending
with blind fury on G.D. Killam’s book on Chinua Achebe,
dismissed it, Achebe’s books, and in fact almost everything written by
African writers at that time. Then he declared magisterially that,
perhaps, only Soyinka’s novel, THE INTERPRETERS (the
same novel he had earlier sent to the bin) could qualify for a novel in
the real sense of the word among all the novels published by Africans at
that time. Reason? Soyinka’s portrayal of the Oguazor party in the
book was superb. Wonders! Well,
Professor Eldred Jones still made good his threat and published what he
called, “Reading Notes On Wole Soyinka’s The Interpreters,”
but what indeed did he say? Professor
Sola Adeyeye told us in a recent interview that Soyinka calls himself
Ogun’s son. That is entirely within his rights, except that his
fanatical adulation of Ogun, a blood-thirsty tyrant, does untold damage
to the democratic credentials his boys force on him. As hero of his
lengthy poem, IDANRE, Ogun revels in extreme militarism
and boundless dictatorship, and kills just to satisfy his blood lust.
Soyinka does not even try to disguise his boundless fascination with
this reprehensible character. After killing his enemies, he turns
around, in a fit of sadistic orgy, to kill his own people, the Ire
people. Imagine the wanton, gruesome slaughter of the wine-girl! Yet,
Soyinka celebrates all these with incredible flamboyance. One searches
in vain for the minutest tinge of resentment for this character. Even in
Soyinka’s other play, THE ROAD, Professor has the same
Ogun image: power-drunk and ruthless. And instead of lampooning these
characters, Soyinka celebrates them with wild excitement. Today
we can afford to debate Soyinka’s place in African Literature because
there is an African Literature as a result of a few people’s
conscious, selfless effort. It has become convenient to forget that
while writers like Achebe argued at every forum that African literature
is real, and a very rich corpus with its own standards, ethos, rhythm
and identity, others were prostrate before the Western literary
“lords” pleading to be accepted as "universal" writers,
swearing that their Africanness was a mere coincidence, and that they
were too big to be confined within the crude fences of African literary
aesthetics. Of course, they got dully rewarded for saying the
"right" things, and throwing well-timed
“bomb shells,” to discourage Afro-Literary activism,
but as it stands now, African literature, whose autonomous
existence they tried to frustrate, has turned out to become their only
abiding identity, and, in fact, without its rescuing hand and landing
space, many of those writers would have been since lost in the dark
bottomless pit of Euro-universalism. Unfortunately, Okigbo, one of the
“world” writers, is no more here to witness this truth unfold. He
probably, also, would have, been rewarded
with the Nobel for the “universal import” of
say, “Idoto”., and his “correct” interviews
like the famous 1965 one, published in the Journal For
Common-Wealth Literature. Okigbo was even to declare
emphatically later that there was nothing like African Literature, or
Black Writing. In fact when his poem was given an award
at a Negro Literary
Festival in Darkar, he scornfully told Professor Sunday Anozie, his
biographer, in one his letters, that he disliked the idea of having body
of literature known as “Black Writing.”
But unknown to this brilliant poet, when the West talks of
“universal standards”, they actually mean “Western standards”.
On his part, Soyinka would have nothing to do with the African Writers
Series (AWS). Such a
ghetto-like grouping, as he called it, was far beneath an
“international” writer like him. But how many people got to read the
“world” writer all the time he was published among his fellow
“world” writers? The story of how he eventually came to be
published in the African Writers Series is too laughable to be recounted
here. At
seventy, and with the Noble Prize already in his kitty, it is expected
that Wole Soyinka, would have risen above the desperation that goad some
Africans into pursuing and promoting “world” dreams at the expense
of their race. The Noble Laureate have to now re-read his contribution
to the debate on Professor Skip Gates’ film, “Wonders of the
African World”, and ask himself what on earth could motivate a
great son Africa like him to take sides with a film that grossly
denigrates his race. Is it bad enough that this controversial film
sought to tarnish Africa by placing on the continent’s shoulders the
whole blame for slave trade, a matter that adversely affected to a large
extent the growing cordial relationship between Africans, Afro-Caribbeans
and Afro-Americans? Had the
Africans any choice? Weren’t they forced to
bow under the cruel fire power of
Western merchants who forced them into pre-occupations that were
alien to their existential experience?
Why is Soyinka backing a project that was solely designed to
transfer the guilt and burden of the heinous crime of slave trade from
the sole culprit, that is, the West to the “traditional burden
bearers”, namely, Africans? Has he now accepted the Europhile and
Euro-centric ribbon he is continually being decorated with by some
critics? That the film was
produced for the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC), a repository of
colonialist and imperialist thoughts, ideas and sentiments should have
been a warning enough to Soyinka about its intent and purpose. Again he
should have seen the wisdom of avoiding to take on Professor Ali Mazuri
who had registered his disapproval of
the film, since it was clear from the outset that Mazuri should
have superior points given where he stood in the argument. The great
Nobel Laureate looked pitiable as he only he wallowed in ad
hominem, hauling impotent insults at Mazuri, which was quite
otiose to the argument. He made things difficult for the likes of
Professor Biodun Jeyifo who felt compelled for obvious reasons of
geography to take sides with him. Does Kongi need to do all these,
expecting us, as always, to take sides with him merely because it is he,
our own WS? Yes, we have heard the “rumour” that the
Skip Gates fellow was the person that nominated him for the
Swedish prize, the Nobel, which he won in 1986, but was that sufficient
reason? Is the great Kongi now incapable of rising above such base
considerations? Last
time, Soyinka had a number of hot exchanges in the pages of newspapers
with his school days friend, Professor Muyiwa Awe, over the vexed issue
of cultism in our schools. Prof. Awe, while studying with Soyinka at the
University of Ibadan, co-founded the Pyrates Confraternity, an otherwise
well-intentioned group, whose existence, maybe, unwittingly, inspired
the proliferation of cult groups in our various campuses, against the
real motives of the founders. Awe, it appears, has now given himself the
task helping to combat this
malaise, and surprisingly, Kongi has launched some vitriolic attacks on
the man. The last article by Awe that I read contains his passionate
appeals to Soyinka to desist from further distracting him with newspaper
exchanges from the noble work he has committed himself to do. And when
you consider that about two weeks ago, the New Age
Newspaper quoted Soyinka as saying that the best brains in the world are
confraternity members, you will understand that, sometimes, it takes a
lot of contradictions to assume an enigmatic
status. I
must point out here that none of the observations so far made in this
essay denigrates the person or work of Soyinka. To be an enigma,
especially the Soyinka way, a lot of contradictions must collaborate to
constitute the man. Soyinka has indeed come a long way, and can rightly
be described as the best playwright to come out of Africa. His vision,
direction, and even stand on a lot issues we had always thought we could
accurately guess his position because of the social commitment he is
often credited with by his army of admirers and sympathetic critics, may
in fact contain certain blurring ambiguities, but his mastery and
manipulation of the English language with which he expresses his chosen
positions on issues and ideas approximates to what Longinus calls “The
Sublime.” His
style of oral delivery is particularly overwhelming. I may not like the massage of Soyinka’s Death And The King’s Horseman, but the dignity and carriage of characters like Iyalooja and Elesin-Oba constitute, as Aristotle would agree, in his classical work, POETICS, the ingredients with which great literature is made. They surely constitute an improvement to the queer, eccentric characters we have in, say, The Interpreters, who are unable to convince anyone that they really subscribe to any ideology to which on can attach a label, or that they possess what it takes to be the custodians of societal morality, as against the other members of the establishment they view with boundless scorn. Indeed, I may always agree with Professor Soyinaka’s themes and messages, but his ability to convey them in very intimidating prose cannot cease to awe and to bewilder. I
congratulate you for turning seventy. I wish he could fully utilize
these ripe age of immense
wisdom to show greater commitment to issues that uplift the dignity of
the black African. I salute this great son of Africa, a great Nigerian,
and one of our major literary ambassadors. Happy
Birthday, Prof. Ugochukwu
Ejinkeonye
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