Some people have said that there is ability in disability.
This saying was demonstrated when members of the Wundia Foundation visited the
headquarters of the Spinal Cord Injuries Association of Nigeria in Lagos.
According to the CEO of the Wundia Foundation, Miss Toyin
Ogundipe, the purpose of the visit was to identify with the victims of spinal
cord injuries and donate gift items to them.
Speaking on behalf of the association, Mr. Ojo Ishola, who
represented the Chairman of the association, said the Spinal Cord Injuries
Association of Nigeria was founded in 1984 to cater specifically for the needs
of the physically challenged, adding that finances of the association had since
come form philanthropical organizations and government agencies.
Mr. Ishola, however, noted that in their disabilities, they
ran individual businesses, advising the physically challenged not to see their conditions
as an end to their aspirations in life.
While expressing his gratitude, he promised the association
would make judicious use of the items received, which include cloth, toiletries,
shoes, provisions and many more.
I went to Bariga, downtown Lagos, to visit a
childhood friend, Donald. As we were engrossed in a
conversation, talking Lagos-
its politics, people and impatience, a little boy of five, sauntered in our way,
with his flaking salver of bananas, well-adjusted on his small head. Like a
street hawker that he was and with grownup courage, he introduced his scanty
wares to us. We didn’t buy from him; my friend only doled out a bristly fifty
naira note to the boy. I wasn’t startled by the sight of a gaunt kid fending
for himself. It’s not a spectacle in Lagos. It’s like a portrait you see each
time you mooch past an artist’s studio. It has lost its allures.
‘The boy’s name is Paul. Don’t blame his
parents, they are no more. Don’t blame the kid, he has to survive. Blame me,
blame yourself, blame the police, blame the government, and blame corruption.’
He counselled.
‘You speak in parables.’ I retorted. ‘This is
the first time I have seen this kid, why will you hold me responsible for his
condition?’ I probed
‘He is the only child of the late
Bamidele Aremu.’ Donald noted.
‘The celebrated filmmaker who was allegedly
murdered by four policemen over his money one year ago?’ I asked. Donald nodded
yes to my enquiry.
Paul’s father was a renowned filmmaker who had
many international accolades under his belt. He had used his flicks to tell the
troubled story of Sub-Saharan Africa – its sit-tight leaders, usual reports of
election rigging, corroded infrastructure, failed government, ethno-religious
crises and conspiratorial role of the West in its affairs. His sophomore movie,
which unrepentantly exposed the corrupt exchanges in government circles, came
under the hammer of government. The country’s spokesperson unabashedly owned up
that the flick told too much about us.
The filmmaker, Bamidele Aremu,lost his wife to
our death-trap highways some months before he met his death in the hands of a
cluster of policemen.He had just returned from the United States where he went
to premiere his latest film, Heart of
Darkness. He was in his car driving home from the airport. The road was
free, devoid of the maddening traffic that has made Lagos notorious, though it
was late in the night.He ran into a police checkpoint and they flagged him
down. He obeyed instantaneously, landing his foot on the break and his sleek
Toyota Camry car let out a screeching sound. The car lunged forward and stopped.
Beaming with smiles, he greets the gangly police
officer who walks up to his motionless car. The officer orders him to produce
the documents to his vehicle. He obeys with celerity. Following the painstaking
check on the particulars, the lanky officer acknowledges its validity. Not
content, he commands the filmmaker to open his booth for the next check. He
complies, without protest. Inside the booth lies a big tanned travelling bag with
bulging stomach, which the traveller opens on the order of the officer. What
oozes out is the smell of few wads of mint dollar notes with a thicket of film
scripts.
‘Who are you and where did you get these foreign
notes?’ The officer queried in an authoritative tone, motioning to his
colleagues to join him. In minutes, other officers were nippily briefed about
the money and they formed themselves into a shield around Bamidele like a group
of wanton boy roasting a grass cutter caught by a trap. He explains to them he
is a filmmaker, who arrives the country that night after a successful premiere
of his movie in Atlanta, Georgia to an audience of white people.
‘I brought the dollar notes back from my
American trip. I’m the Bamidele Aremu.’ He courteously snapped.
‘We don’t watch movies.’ One of the policemen
blurted.
‘But you read newspapers.’Aremu said jokingly.
‘We only read other beats not entertainment.’
The lanky officer reacted speedily.
‘Am I free to go now?’ Bamidele enquired,
looking worried and stealing a glance at his wrist watch.
‘Yes, you can.’ The lanky officer said ditheringly,
glancing at the faces of other officers as though waiting for a contrary order.
Silence was their reaction. The film maker zipped up the travelling bag, shut
the booth, advanced to the steering wheel and drove off.
Ace Filmmaker Murdered: Body Found along Lagos
Highway, First-rate Filmmaker Murdered; Africa’s Number One Filmmaker Shot Dead
were the banner headlines of the following morning newspapers. The story, that filtered in later in the day was that the
filmmaker, was stalked by the police after leaving the check point and they got
him strangled. The story was told by an eyewitness but no evidence to probe the
murderers.
What
defines us as African is our ‘Africaness’. What differentiates Nigeria from
other black nations, is our ‘Nigerianess’, in terms of our cultural pattern,
ethnic composition, moral feelings and other social realities. These peculiarities,
I believe, should be the fulcrum upon which the fast growing Nigerian film-making industry, Nollywood, rotates. Our movies should appositely represent
who we are, and conform to our necessities, needs and wants. Sadly, however,
reverse is the case. Rather than promoting our national outlook, some
filmmakers in the country unabashedly glamourise and patently espouse the
cultural ideals of the metropolitan countries, thereby, promoting cultural
imperialism.
Cultural
imperialism refers to external influence on receiving cultural system, which
may be imposed or actively invited. A section of film producers in Nigeria, are
guilty of indorsing the worldview of materialism, capitalism, obscenity, individualism
and objectification of women, which are synonymous to Western motion pictures
industry. This negative attitude, consequently,threatens the sanctity of our
identity.
Our
artistes, in an attempt to imitate Hollywood superstars, end up making a
caricature of themselves and, thus misinterpret roles that require local
flavour.Nollywood must learn to be original, like Bollywood.
I FOUND this letter so hard to write but
not impossible. Perhaps the last chance for me at this moment, to clear
all surging doubts, to right those ubiquitous rumours, which trailed my
journey to prison, my life in prison and share the uncertainties that
becloud my days with the loved ones. A national daily once reported me
dead. Another alleged I died of food poisoning. Deep inside me I had no
intent to spite the sources of these dispatches. Their authors, the
protagonists in the struggle to effect my unconditional release. My
pin-drop silence for years I believed bore the reports.
Life in
prison started in seconds. Seconds exploded to minutes. Minutes in a row
stretched to hours. Hours prolonged to days. Days crawled into weeks.
Weeks extended to months and months wore the garb of years. Today marks
my fourth year in solitary confinement.I would weep like a tot scavenging for his mother when the
images of my wife and children lodged in my troubled mind. Tears, my
companions were not so strong to effect my release nor at least crush
the conspiratorial gate of hell for possible escape to other land. And
when I was lost in thought, my thoughts ran riot, almost conspired
against me. My growing years of loneliness had set my stubborn hope
ablaze. Life had been so hard, greedy, tough and heartless towards me.
Who knows if this cup will pass over me?
As a journalist convicted
of libel and treason by this despotic government, my cell stood apart,
apparently small and windowless, its gate carved from strong iron bars,
looking firm like a mountain. It would take any officious device two
thousand seasons to defeat its strength. I had never been allowed the
freedom to step out of my cell since my incarceration on December 1st,
1991. It seemed the powers that be had signed a pact with loneliness to
edge me out.
My arrest came hot on the heels of a write-up
in one of the leading newspapers in the country – DAILY MIRROR – which I
worked for. The write-up was indeed an indictment of the military
government and a knock against its insincerity towards the conduct of
the June 12, 1993 general election. It was this insightful piece that
invited the attention of many Nigerians, leading to a mad rush to the
newsstand for that day’s edition of the newspaper. Those who could not
afford copies from the smiling vendors owing to the paucity of their
purses managed to square with those who could. Some even offered to go
with other citizens who got copies to their different destinations,
hoping to catch a glimpse of the piece homewards.
On the
noon of that day which was Tuesday, I sauntered to a newsstand. I espied
a crowd of people taking incongruent postures and positions at the
stand, jostling to outsmart one another in the struggle to peruse the
write-up. Inwardly, I never had forethought to walk up to the newsstand.
I did, by stroke of disappointment and after casting heavy aspersions
on a driver who brought me in contact with the crowded stand.
How do I mean? Having left Daily Mirror's headquarters on that day, I
caught a rickety molue going towards the area where I lived and the bus
was to pass through Ikoyi, the site of the newsstand. At Ikoyi, the bus
developed a fault and screeched to a halt. Accordingly, the conductor
got off hurriedly to fetch a repairer. There was no roadside
auto-mechanic to fix its malfunctioning engine. Consequently, a number
of impatient passengers and I alighted crossly from the stationary molue
excluding those who had previously paid their fares to the disheveled
conductor but had not gotten to their destinations. They waited in vain
to get back their money as the garrulous conductor insisted they had to
share the loss with him. This mass disappointment drove me to the
crowded newsstand.Though, the insightful piece was not
written by me, it was from someone much like me. My arrest, a mistake of
identity.
Every morning, one of the prison warders, Mr.
Bako would say bluntly, “Young man, here is your food. Eat so that you
won’t die. Food given to prisoners is not to please them. Just to save
them from the cold hands of death." Morita. Take of my of
my children as Mr. Bako informed against the authorities this morning
that I would be hanged in ten days. The same way they hanged my brother,
KEN-SARO WIWA.
