Murder in my Country

Murder in my Country

Episode One

By Thompson Taiwo

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.

Nollywood and Cultural Imperialism

Nollywood and Cultural Imperialism

By Thompson Taiwo

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.

Letter to Morita

Letter to Morita
By Thompson Taiwo

Dear Morita:

Ladi in Solitary Confinement

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.

Your husband, Ladi