In Africa, the writer faces sundry threats: intimidations, censorship, internal deportation, exile and outright assassination. In the course of a bruising thirty-nine year campaign, Snooper has stared these demons in the face and damned the consequences. We once wrote a piece appropriately titled: Write and be Damned.
But it does seem as if the writer also has to contend with the enemies within, the furious psychological demons that turn a writer’s inner landscape into a battlefield. Art is indeed a jealous mistress. In order to excel in this business, you have to be an obsessive character obsessing about your craft twenty four hours a day. This is when the art overpowers and completely overmasters the artist. The prolonged and protracted torment over the choice of a particular word or phrase can be worse than actual assassination. The writer takes up residence in a hyper-real world of creative hallucination.
On his deathbed, the great French writer, Honore de Balzac, called out for a particular doctor whom he thought would be able to save him from imminent death. “Call me Banchioc!! Only Banchioc can save me now!!” he screamed. But there was a minor problem. Banchioc indeed was a great doctor. But he was not a living doctor. He was one of Balzac’s great fictional creations.
Two weeks ago, snooper was shaken out of deep early morning slumber by a bedside commotion. As we opened our eyes, there was Okon and Baba Lekki in deep prayer for the soul of the departed. For a moment, snooper was too paralyzed with indignation to do anything about the dismal and appalling comedy. Then Baba Lekki intoned in his cynical guttural voice. “Ki Olorun dele fun enia rere” (May be the lord receive the departed.)
Now, the massage has got to the scrotum. Snooper quickly sprang up. “But I am not dead. I was sleeping”, snooper screamed.
“You need to convince us because that is what they all say” Baba Lekki crooned.
“Baba, are you mad? Can a dead man speak?” Snooper blurted incoherently. Death& Tragedy
“Of course”, Baba Lekki sniggered.
“Oga di thing be say you dey talk and cry for una sleep. You dey scream say tata, tata, tata ntami. Oga who be dis tata sef?” Okon interjected. Snooper felt a wave of panic.
“And who be dem Uyi who dey give you oyi?” Baba Lekki hollered.
“Shut up Baba”, snooper bleated weakly. That day, we decided it was time to take a break
As this column proceeds on a short vacation, it is only appropriate to sign off with a brief rumination on the perils of penmanship in a post-colonial polity. In Africa, the writer faces sundry threats: intimidations, censorship, internal deportation, exile and outright assassination. In the course of a bruising thirty-nine year campaign, Snooper has stared these demons in the face and damned the consequences. We once wrote a piece appropriately titled: Write and be Damned.
But it does seem as if the writer also has to contend with the enemies within, the furious psychological demons that turn a writer’s inner landscape into a battlefield. Art is indeed a jealous mistress. In order to excel in this business, you have to be an obsessive character obsessing about your craft twenty four hours a day. This is when the art overpowers and completely overmasters the artist. The prolonged and protracted torment over the choice of a particular word or phrase can be worse than actual assassination. The writer takes up residence in a hyper-real world of creative hallucination.
On his deathbed, the great French writer, Honore de Balzac, called out for a particular doctor whom he thought would be able to save him from imminent death. “Call me Banchioc!! Only Banchioc can save me now!!” he screamed. But there was a minor problem. Banchioc indeed was a great doctor. But he was not a living doctor. He was one of Balzac’s great fictional creations.
Two weeks ago, snooper was shaken out of deep early morning slumber by a bedside commotion. As we opened our eyes, there was Okon and Baba Lekki in deep prayer for the soul of the departed. For a moment, snooper was too paralyzed with indignation to do anything about the dismal and appalling comedy. Then Baba Lekki intoned in his cynical guttural voice. “Ki Olorun dele fun enia rere” (May be the lord receive the departed.)
Now, the massage has got to the scrotum. Snooper quickly sprang up. “But I am not dead. I was sleeping”, snooper screamed. Death& Tragedy
You need to convince us because that is what they all say” Baba Lekki crooned.
“Baba, are you mad? Can a dead man speak?” Snooper blurted incoherently.
“Of course”, Baba Lekki sniggered.
“Oga di thing be say you dey talk and cry for una sleep. You dey scream say tata, tata, tata ntami. Oga who be dis tata sef?” Okon interjected. Snooper felt a wave of panic.
“And who be dem Uyi who dey give you oyi?” Baba Lekki hollered.
“Shut up Baba”, snooper bleated weakly.
•First published in 2010.
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