Sola Osofisan
05-13-2007, 03:44 PM
FRANK BURRES, American journalist and writer, recalls his first visit to Lagos, as well as his encounter with a section of the city's literati
“It's always like this,” said Jahman Aniklapo, the arts editor at one of the big papers in Lagos, who was sitting next to me. He pointed to all the other tables around us, filled with people drinking and talking. “All these people will be discussing something similar,” he said. “Once I was at a table, and someone said, 'Soyinka is a crap writer,' and it started just like this.
“It's always like this,” said Jahman Aniklapo, the arts editor at one of the big papers in Lagos, who was sitting next to me. He pointed to all the other tables around us, filled with people drinking and talking. “All these people will be discussing something similar,” he said. “Once I was at a table, and someone said, 'Soyinka is a crap writer,' and it started just like this.
“As the discussion raged, I turned to Chike Ofili, a poet and corporate branding consultant. I asked him where he thought Nigerian literature was now, and where it was going, compared to where it had been.
“The first generation,” he told me over the din, “dealt with the white man, with colonialism, with independence. The second generation dealt with ideology. Now, our generation is dealing with the anger of unfulfillment.”
When he said this, I knew it. This was the piece I'd been looking for. This was why these new writers had begun to resonate across the gulfs that separate Nigeria from America. That anger is something we know well, the feeling that something promised us but never received. And that anger, that grasping, is a major force driving the new arts movement in Nigeria. As in Kenya, where hip hop artists blazed a trail and left a cloud of energy that is spilling over into Nigeria's theater, literature, and film.
Everyone in Nigeria senses this momentum. Some see it as slight, but many see it as tectonic. Chiedu Ezeanah told me we were witnessing a very serious revival. Nduka Otiono, general secretary of the Association of Nigerian Authors, said Nigerian writing is without a doubt on its way up. Writer Omowumni Segun says she has seen many new young writers doing great work, but that most remained undiscovered because there were so few outlets, so few publishers.
“We are undergoing a fermentation period in Nigerian literature,” Jossy Idam, an editor at The Sun newspaper, told me confidently. “The real Nigerian novel is going to emerge. I don't know where it's going to come from or who is going to do it. But it will come. We are at the beginning. The world hasn't seen anything yet.”
I asked Odia Ofeimun, one of the grandfathers of Nigerian literature about this too one day, as we sat at his house in Lagos. Over the roar of his generator, the old man swore up and down that there wasn't any kind of revival or renaissance or anything underway. But then, as I was on my way out of his house, he stopped me and held up his finger.
“The next five years,” he said in a mark-my-words tone, “will be very exciting for Nigerian literature. All these poets who have been winning awards and getting prizes will be coming to maturity.”
Even he, it seemed, could sense something in the air.
At the French Cultural Center, the talk eventually died down at our table. The beers and the suya were finished; the argument about talent versus marketing was not, and probably never would be.
Toni Kan and I said goodbye to the others, got up and went to his car, then drove out into the city. Finally I asked him where he thought Nigerian literature was.
“Things are happening,” he said, “This is our time now.”
Source: Unknown
“It's always like this,” said Jahman Aniklapo, the arts editor at one of the big papers in Lagos, who was sitting next to me. He pointed to all the other tables around us, filled with people drinking and talking. “All these people will be discussing something similar,” he said. “Once I was at a table, and someone said, 'Soyinka is a crap writer,' and it started just like this.
“It's always like this,” said Jahman Aniklapo, the arts editor at one of the big papers in Lagos, who was sitting next to me. He pointed to all the other tables around us, filled with people drinking and talking. “All these people will be discussing something similar,” he said. “Once I was at a table, and someone said, 'Soyinka is a crap writer,' and it started just like this.
“As the discussion raged, I turned to Chike Ofili, a poet and corporate branding consultant. I asked him where he thought Nigerian literature was now, and where it was going, compared to where it had been.
“The first generation,” he told me over the din, “dealt with the white man, with colonialism, with independence. The second generation dealt with ideology. Now, our generation is dealing with the anger of unfulfillment.”
When he said this, I knew it. This was the piece I'd been looking for. This was why these new writers had begun to resonate across the gulfs that separate Nigeria from America. That anger is something we know well, the feeling that something promised us but never received. And that anger, that grasping, is a major force driving the new arts movement in Nigeria. As in Kenya, where hip hop artists blazed a trail and left a cloud of energy that is spilling over into Nigeria's theater, literature, and film.
Everyone in Nigeria senses this momentum. Some see it as slight, but many see it as tectonic. Chiedu Ezeanah told me we were witnessing a very serious revival. Nduka Otiono, general secretary of the Association of Nigerian Authors, said Nigerian writing is without a doubt on its way up. Writer Omowumni Segun says she has seen many new young writers doing great work, but that most remained undiscovered because there were so few outlets, so few publishers.
“We are undergoing a fermentation period in Nigerian literature,” Jossy Idam, an editor at The Sun newspaper, told me confidently. “The real Nigerian novel is going to emerge. I don't know where it's going to come from or who is going to do it. But it will come. We are at the beginning. The world hasn't seen anything yet.”
I asked Odia Ofeimun, one of the grandfathers of Nigerian literature about this too one day, as we sat at his house in Lagos. Over the roar of his generator, the old man swore up and down that there wasn't any kind of revival or renaissance or anything underway. But then, as I was on my way out of his house, he stopped me and held up his finger.
“The next five years,” he said in a mark-my-words tone, “will be very exciting for Nigerian literature. All these poets who have been winning awards and getting prizes will be coming to maturity.”
Even he, it seemed, could sense something in the air.
At the French Cultural Center, the talk eventually died down at our table. The beers and the suya were finished; the argument about talent versus marketing was not, and probably never would be.
Toni Kan and I said goodbye to the others, got up and went to his car, then drove out into the city. Finally I asked him where he thought Nigerian literature was.
“Things are happening,” he said, “This is our time now.”
Source: Unknown