by Reuben Abati

IT is 50 years since Nigerian writer, T (imothy) M (ofolorunso) Aluko published his novel, One Man, One Wife; the celebration that has been organised around the event reminds us again of the growth of the novel form in post-colonial Africa and the place of the novel in the definition of the African experience. Although Aluko had been writing short stories since the 1940s, winning a British Council short story prize in 1945, it was the publication of One Man One Wife, initially under the imprint of Nigerian Printing and Publishing Co. Ltd in 1959, that first brought him considerable public attention. In 1967, One Man One Wife was re-issued under the Heinemann African Writers Series, the series edited by Chinua Achebe, which more than anything else provided a platform for the promotion of writing and literacy in Africa and the growth of the African literary form and aesthetics.

Last year, Achebe’s classic offering, Things Fall Apart which ranks as one of the most successful novels written in the 20th century also reached the golden age of 50. Aluko’s literary oeuvre may be less celebrated than the works of Achebe, Soyinka, Ngugi, Ayi Kwei Armah and may not draw the kind of excitement that is associated with the current offering by the grandchildren and great grandchildren generation of African literary artists, but his remains a significant contribution to the development of the African novel. Born in 1918, now 91, T. M. Aluko in celebrating 50 years of One Man One Wife in his home at Ladipo Oluwole Street, Apapa, Lagos on Monday, November 9, also celebrates invariably more than 50 years of hardwork in the literary vineyard. This has produced such works as One Man, One Matchet, Kinsman and Foreman, Chief the Honourable Minister, His Worshipful Majesty, Wrong Ones in the Dock, Conduct Unbecoming, My Years of Service, First Year at State College, and The Story of My Life.

To mark the 50th anniversary of One Man One Wife, T. M. Aluko, this week, also presented to the public his latest work of fiction titled Our Born Again President (HEBN, 2009), which is the subject of the remaining part of this commentary. Originally an engineer, retiring in 1988 as a Consultant Engineer, after decades of service as Director of Public Works in the Western Region and Associate Professor of Public Health Engineering at the University of Lagos, Aluko reports in The Story of My Life that “growing the crops… and fiction writing (p. 312).” are his hobbies. It is for the latter, not farming, not engineering definitely, that he will be most remembered. His continuing productivity in his 80s and 90s (he published The Story of my Life, in 2006 when he was 88 and now Our Born Again President at 91) should inspire the younger generation of writers who across Africa are now confronted with a long list of elderly writers whose literary imagination remains active (Chinua Achebe, Nadine Gordimer, John Pepper Clark, Nawal el Saadawi, Wole Soyinka, Ngugi wa Thiongo, Gabriel Okara, Elechi Amadi etc).

T. M. Aluko’s novels present a certain thematic consistency in terms of the author’s pre-occupation with issues of conflict between tradition and modernity, identity, religion and the individual in society, corruption and value systems. His societies are transitional societies (One Man One Wife, One Man One Matchet, Chief the Honourable Minister, His Worshipful Majesty) but his bias is on the side of change and modernity, although ironically even when his females appear strong and influential, they are nevertheless victims of unreconstructed traditional chauvinism. The same trend is sustained in Our Born Again President. In the 60s and 70s, many African writers focussed on the challenges of the post-colonial state as the novel became the vehicle for analysing new realities, leadership challenges and the crisis of expectations.

Our Born Again President follows the same pattern decades later with a more contemporaneous edge. There are no radical departures, no startling surprises, or sleight of hand. It is typical Aluko. The setting is Riviera, an African country, looking forward to independence from British colonial rule within six months. The protagonist is David Tanbata, the Premier of Riviera, and leader of the Independence for Riviera Now Party, who is accused of conflict of interest, corruptly enriching his wife and uncle and is asked by the British Governor to tender his resignation. American-trained Tanbata, nursing and espousing an ingrained disdain for all things British, manages to outsmart the British establishment relying on extended family sentiments, Old Boys Association network, blackmail, and the rigging of elections in which the crookedness of the local elite is well displayed.

Tanbata ends up as President, Riviera gains its independence, Sir Angus MacFarlane, the representative of Her Majesty’s Government learns a few compulsory lessons about power, but the future of the newly independent nation is uncertain as it grapples with a conflict of values between the past and the present and an unknown future. It is well known that the set of African elites that took over power immediately after independence proved to be worse than their colonial predecessors, creating in the African continent, a dilemma: freedom brought the people little or no progress with the new ruling class interested in power for its sake. The Tanbata administration upturns the British legacy only to replace it with a system-wide acceptance of corruption as a mode of life. This essentially, is what the novel deplores.

The abuse of the press as an official megaphone and its rather contradictory role in society is further exposed. However, the only voice of reason is Peter Bolade, Pastor of the Mount Carmel Pentecostal Church who turns the pulpit into a stinging forum of reason, condemning the new Government’s attempt to change the official oath to reflect an invocation of local gods: Shonponon, Sango and Ogun rather than the Christian God that the British left behind. This conflict of choice between tradition and modernity, between traditional worship and Christian religion bears echoes of T. M. Aluko’s One Man, One Wife, and His Worshipful Majesty as much as it describes the conflict between religion and the state that has been a major subject in post-colonial African societies and literatures.

But the story suddenly changes when David Tanbata, drug dealer, election rigger, womaniser and the foxy leader of Riviera decides to give his life to Christ, at the same Mount Carmel church led by his arch-critic. The rest of the narrative is devoted to his life after the sermon at Mount Carmel, doubts about his Saul-like conversion, his decision to return ill-gotten wealth to the state, the rebellion by his party members in parliament and their attempt to send him on compulsory leave to purge him of his newly acquired madness, his victory at a referendum, and surprising efforts at reform which includes a return to the same old colonial and Christian values that he had rejected.

But the novel soon falls flat as the rest of the narrative begins to focus on a review of Tanbata’s past dalliances, the disappearance of his mistresses and their incoherent letters, and his embrace of Christian piety celebrated in the return of his estranged former wife and the son he didn’t know he had: David Tanbata Jnr. In due course, the novel ends with the statement: “My dear people of God, this is the Lord’s doing and it is marvelous (sic) in our eyes”. One Man One Wife, whose 50th birthday coincides with the release of Our Born Again President had also ended with similar religiosity: “For the doings of the Lord our God are mighty wondrous.” In addition, strikingly, the high point of David Tanbata’s redemption is his embrace of the “one man one wife” Christian doctrine. Other leads that had been suggested in the story about the fight against corruption suddenly disappear, loose ends in the plot are left unresolved, and not much is heard again about Michael Atobatele, and the MD of Modern Finance Ltd., or the resolution of the students protest. The product is an uneven story, which nevertheless scores high in its portrayal of the uneasy relationship between state and civil society, corruption, the failure of the emergent African elite and the leadership system that produces them.

Tanbata’s being born again is slightly overdone as it smacks of evangelism. The author also appears too optimistic. The likes of Michael Atobatele, Josiah Akindiji and Stephen Craig, the thieving, double-faced hypocritical elements in the corridors of power and particularly Littleman John, the thug and kidnapper, share greater resemblance with reality than the less convincing David Tanbata, the born-again President. The born-again phenomenon is one of the key features of many post-colonial states in Africa, but in the real world, most leaders use being born again only as shield for greater recklessness. The change that is made possible in Our Born Again President remains elusive in the real world, a subject that had been explored at length in Aluko’s Chief the Honourable Minister, which also examines the crisis of leadership and corruption in post-colonial Africa.

Tanbata appears to be alone in his crusade. Long after the arrival of his true First Lady and son and his promise that he will not stray again, it remains to be seen how his reforms will play out, and whether the battle can be won by one man. There is an underlying hint though that Tanbata is a manipulative trickster, relying on popular gestures to win endorsement, but it is a possibility that is left unexplored after his conversion at Mount Carmel. T.M. Aluko’s characters are easily recognisable if not his optimism. He demonstrates once more, his ability to tell a story that sustains interest. He offers great insight into the emerging role, influence and contradictions of the Students Union Movement, the civil service and Pastors of the Pentecostal variety in post-colonial Africa in much the same manner as the Pastors in One Man One Wife and One Man One Matchet are spiritual and political figures.

But the production of the book to be fair is atrocious. The collapse of standards is the bane of the publishing industry in Nigeria. Careless editing and poor production pose a serious threat to the development of Nigerian literature. Heinemann Nigeria, the publishers of T.M. Aluko’s Our Born Again President do much disservice to the writer’s eminent stature by releasing in his name a book that is full of so many spelling errors. The name of the hero, Tanbata is mis-spelt in at least one instance, same with Riviera, the country. All through, the word cacophony is spelt as cocophony, gimmick as gymic and so on. The cure for this should be an immediate reprint.

In 1987, T. M. Aluko suffered a stroke, which left him paralysed in his right leg and right hand. In his The Story of My Life, he says, “this meant that I could no longer write…This was a frustrating experience for me particularly as a writer. There was no alternative but to start learning how to write with my left hand like a child learning how to write the alphabet for the first time. (p. 304)” He has since then published two books: the autobiography from which this quote is taken, and now Our Born Again President, and yet he uses neither a Dictaphone nor a laptop. Aluko’s doggedness is a statement in courage; the latest novel is a product of that strength of character in the face of adversity.

Narrow Escape

“Congratulations, my brother”

“Who win lottery?”

“Nigeria. Shake my hand. We are in the World Cup next year in South Africa. God has put a smile on our faces. We thrashed Kenya 3-2 and the Mozambicans helped us to beat Tunisia yesterday. What further proof do you need that God is on the side of Nigeria?”

“A nation of gamblers. Are you sure we really won fair and square? Or that our victory is a case of you rub my back, I rub yours? Mozambique needed us to beat Kenya. We needed Mozambique to help us beat Tunisia. I smell a rat.”

“Come on, try and be patriotic for once. When people do well, be nice enough to praise them.”

“Well, must our players give Nigerians hypertension all the time? Must we leave everything till the last minute? I am not excited that we have qualified for South Africa 2010. I am just emotionally exhausted.”

“Don’t worry. You will have greater cause to smile when the country’s Under-17 team takes the trophy of the FIFA U-17 World Cup.”

“Don’t count your chickens before they are hatched, mother told me.”

“No. We can count these ones. In fact, I can see the chickens growing into big birds already with fantastic wings. Have you not seen how the Eaglets have been playing since the Quarter Finals. Oh come on, Switzerland is a walk over. In fact, the pounded yam party can start right now.”

“You can talk so confidently because you know your Golden Eaglets are not in any way under-17. These are professional footballers. Under 30s! Adokie Amiesimeka who should know has already said so.”

“Why is it that Nigerians don’t like their country?”

“Some people just like the truth to be told. All the Under-17s that I know are in secondary school. These your Under-17 players, which secondary schools are they attending? Why are they not in school?”

“Is it every child that must go to secondary school? They have chosen to play football and that is it. And what of the other countries? Why are the players also not in school? Look, leave this matter about age.”

“I understand FIFA is conducting MRI test at last. Four players in each team selected at random. It will be disgraceful if at the end of the day, Nigeria is found to be one of the cheating teams and the country is publicly humiliated.”

“Don’t worry. MRI no dey catch Blackman.”

“But we can all see? When the Golden Eaglets kick the ball like this, you’d see that every shot is pounded yam and akpu assisted.”

“Plus ewedu and edikai nkong”

“Do you know what I think?”

“What?”

“Nigeria’s hosting of the U-17 should take the scam of the year award. Have you not heard that the Minister of Sports has had to direct that no further funds should be given to the Local Organising Committee (LOC), unless the N12.1 billion they have so far collected is accounted for?”

“I know.”

“But the LOC is not willing to do so. It is even owing service providers including the MTN.”

“I call for a probe.”

“More than a probe, I call for sanctions.”

“Other countries make money when they host international tournaments.”

“We have lost money”

“And we may lose face too.”

“Well, may be not. Jack Warner is our friend.”

by Olu Obafemi

I write with a certain trepidation on this year’s NNLG Prize for Literature, which has generated so much passion, anger and furore.

Trepidation because on a matter like this, it is difficult for one’s intended objectivity to be believed if there is any evidence that there is a certain slant, one way or the other, towards a direction of the seemingly clear divide on the issue.

Trepidation also because of the history of one’s involvement in the NNLG at its take-off point and also the distance one has kept away from it after the initial controversy which the conduct and management of the Prize generated after its first year of disbursement.

Most people who have cajoled me to comment on this heated debate arising from this year’s Award or non-award believe that I must have an opinion, one way or the other, based on the facts that, one, I was the Chairman of the initial Panel that NNLG put together to work out the modalities, regulations and criteria for awarding the Literature Prize; two, that I was one of the Presidents of the Association of Nigerian Authors that served on that take-off Panel before the NNLG reconstituted it; and three, I am a member and Fellow of the Nigerian Academy of Letters presently alleged to have awarded the Prize to itself, having pronounced that none of the nine poets on the final shortlist merited the Prize.

It is also important for me to add, if that would persuade people of my capability or competence to offer an objective opinion on this issue, that in spite of all the above credentials of involvement, I have since been distanced from the Award, even at the mere ceremonial level, since in the past three Awards, I have not played any part in the Award, not even being invited as a mere guest in Award ceremonies.

I wish to re-state here that, in spite of the difficulties, challenges and errors of rendering of the Award, I remain a firm believer in the NNLG Literature Prize, or as the NNLG itself controversially christens it, the Nigerian Prize for Literature. I believe that the Prize can directly or tangentially promote, nurture and enhance the growth of Nigerian literature, if only at the level of inspiration or motivation of writers to write creative works in all the genres that can win such a prestigious prize and inexorably produce qualitative literary masterpieces. This is the sole reason why I consider myself an interested party in the Prize—not because of the initial history of my involvement with it nor because of my membership and Fellowship of the Nigerian Academy of Letters presently under fire –justifiably or nay.

This is the reason that I am coming out of my ‘shelve’ to make a few guided, near-neutral comments (if that were at all possible) on the present imbroglio over the 2009 edition of the Prize. In doing this, I have tried to find out, as much as I can, from sources close to the management of the Prize, how it got to this impasse or is it a cul-de-sac? It is important to make my position and understanding clear right from the outset before discussing the various departures on the issue. I am persuaded that there has been a technical error in the management of this year’s edition of the Prize for Literature.

By this I mean that there has been a procedural hitch. While I know that the panel of Judges reserves the right not to make an award in any particular year, it must do so credibly and convincingly. Not many are convinced that the judges have arrived at the decision not to award in as clinical and faultless a manner as it could, given the unassailable integrity and intimidating statures of its members. The decision to make conclusions from an unwieldy short-list of nine, while indeed, the usual practice is to draw a final shortlist of three, is marveling.

Why wait till the Award Night to find that none of the nine poetic entries was good enough to win the Award, and after having goaded the public and the involved poets on till the very last moment? The earlier comments made by members of the Panel had led everybody to the conclusion that an award will be made and a winner or joint winners would be declared. If the example of the Science Panel is anything to emulate, there was a year when the panel did not find any of the entries good enough to win and they said so long before the Award Night and no controversy evolved. The Award Ceremonies are not just about an award and could still be held even when there would be no winner, as it had been done before with the Science Prize.

There was also some administrative shoddiness in the way in which many of the poets on the shortlist did not even get properly invited to the ceremony, leading to the allegation of inequity in the treatment of the would-be winners.

Secondly, the manner in which the decision to offer the Prize money to the Academy of Literature (not Letters, as the MD of the NNLG pronounced it), leaves a lot to be desired, especially given the fact that prominent members of the Nigerian Academy of Letters served on the Panel. I say this because of the known fertility of the Nigerian mind. No doubt, there is a furioso-claim that the Nigerian Academy of Letters constituted the panel of Judges or indeed ran the Prize as is the case with the Academy of Science. This is an erroneous perception of the situation. Members of the Nigerian Academy of Letters on that Panel were nominated by the NNLG, in their individual capacities, not as representatives of NAL, nor was NAL consulted as a body to name judges or run the Award. The same misconstruction prevailed a few years ago when some of us from the Association of Nigerian Authors were invited, individually, to serve on the inaugurating Panel that ANA was running the Award. The decision to hand over the money for the development of literature could have been done, either through a joint committee of ANA and NAL or through an independent body, with the terms of reference clearly stated. It is indeed unfair of the NNLG to announce, on the spot and without prior consultation with the Panel, that the money was being offered to NAL to help develop Nigerian literature.

The manner of handling the affair habours the possibility of compromising the integrity and altruism of the panelists in the eye of the public and raising opprobrium for them by the contestants, as it has indeed happened. It is an unfair compensation for those panelists who have come a long way with their name and integrity intact for many decades. Perhaps the spokespersons of the Panel ought to have expressed their consternation and reservation over this manner of handling the matter publicly then or immediately later.

As I have averred earlier, the jurors reserve the right to name or not to name a winner, but they ought to have done so in no unclear and uncertain terms and certainly not from a short-list of nine, whose works had been publicly read and positively critiqued by members of the jury only to be later declared unfit to win Prizes. I hear that the decision not to award the prize this year was a unanimous one by the jurors but it was marred by temporal and spatial circumstances. It should have been done long before the Award Night after so much hope has been raised and it should have been done when a shortlist of three could not be found. This error in itself does not constitute a verdict of failure or self- compromise on the part of the judges, as it is being unfortunately put out. It is however a critical lesson for all involved in the Prize, both at the technical level of adjudication and on the management level by the NNLG itself, which did not help matters in the way the invitation of short-listed members was handled and the racy manner in which the pronouncement to hand over the prize money to the Nigerian Academy of Letters.

Now, the poor Nigerian Academy of Letters, the highest professional body in the Humanities, has since been passed through nebulous lenses, including the mischief of saying that it is a body set up by Government! This is one of the needless and avoidable injuries that have been inflicted on a body that has nothing to do with Government and has been run through its own modest means to endow the Humanities and excelling humanists in Nigeria.

The NNLG’s Prize is a good thing notoriously marred by poor management. It can correct itself and serve the noble goal of promoting Nigerian literature—when the storm finally subsides.

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