Author: Ohikhuare Isuku
When I was quite younger, I had this childish belief that those
who wrote books were of celestial perfection. They never inhabited this world,
or if at all they did, they were as precious as saints. I reverend books
because it struck me sometimes how stories were imagined; how characters were
moulded and allowed to play definitive roles throughout a book. There was no writer closed by which could
neutralize this claim. I was silent too: I sought no one’s consent as regards
the thought I had brewed. So, throughout my infant years, this thought led me
through, and thus I saw printed books as sacred: things which fell from the sky
and those whose names were inscribed on the cover as authors, I saw them as
gods of books.
We were not taught Literature throughout primary. Then, the
subject – Literature – was not in the state’s educational curriculum. But my
mum bought books for me sometimes when she went to the market. So, I was not
alien to literature, and in fact, we read comprehension passages in our English
texts adapted from such great African classics as Chinua Achebe’s Chike and the River and Things Fall Apart, as well as Kenneth
Kauda’s Zambia Must Be Free.
Before entering Secondary, I had read all the children books
my mum bought for me, from Ngozi Goes to the Market (a pamphlet with so much picture
illustrations) to Sugar Girl (a book which first pulled tears from my eyes). My
elder sister was already in Secondary by then and she bought all the
recommended literature texts, such as: Rag
to Riches, Shattered Dream and Medicine
for Money. I read those books when she came back from school during
weekends or holidays.
By the time I got into Junior Secondary, I was already well-prepared
for literature than any of my mates. The day we travelled down to school – to
the apartment my sister and brother were already living – I found Cyprian
Ekwesi’s An African Night Entertainment
somewhere on the pile of books. It was a novel my brother had read in Class One:
about Zainobe and Kumurikiki – a book of love and vengeance. My brother had
told me about this book and it had formed a solid thought in my mind even
before I travelled to join them in Secondary School. I read that book in one
stretch because the language was friendly and the plotting was genuine.
In Class One, we read three novels. In first term, it was Eze Goes to School. Second term was Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare and third
term was Treasure Island. Our
Literature teacher was the principal of the school. He was an old man with
protruded tommy and a spirited walk. He knew me personally, so I had to be
attentive whenever he was in class.
His teaching was thorough; full of life, and for the first
time in my life, fictions became real. I wanted to be Eze in Eze Goes to School, live in the little
hamlet of Ohia under thatched roof, and trek three miles to the village of Ama
to attend school. When we began reading Lamb’s
Tales, I loved The Tempest, Much Ado
About Nothing, A Midsummer Night Dream, Twelfth Night, Merchant of Venice and Macbeth. I wished I existed in the
period in which the plays are set. Sometimes, I imagined being in the vividly
described settings, dining and chatting with the characters whose pictures have
become real in my thought.
In Class Two, apart from Cyprian Ekwesi’s Passport of Mallam Ilia we read, other
books we read were plays such as: City of
God, The Verdict of the Gods, Yawning Hollow, etc, and then poems such as: Abiku by J.P. Clark, Abiku by Wole Soyinka, The
Vultures by David Diop, Piano and Drum by Gabriel Okara. Our Literature
teacher was a dedicated woman who taught us these works passionately by going
as far as outlining the figure of speeches as well as the themes of these
fabulous works. This flared my literary interest and would later have a
positive impact on my literary odyssey.
In Class Three, the literary interest fell because we had a
new teacher for literature. The new teacher was dedicated of course, but her aim
(either intentionally or unintentionally) was to cover the syllabus so we could
do well in our forthcoming external exams. But we read novels such as: My Only Son, College days of John Ojo and Ngozi My Daughter. In Class Four, we read the plays: Sons and Daughters and Government
Inspector; and in Class Five which was my last Literature year, we read the
Novels: Silas Marner and Buchi
Emencheta’s The Joys of Motherhood.
But I had started writing earlier on. In Class Two, after
reading the Plays: City of God, The
Verdict of the Gods and Yawning
Hollow, one afternoon I returned from school to begin writing what I
intended to be a few-leafed play, but as I wrote, the story expanded and took a
different form in my brain. I remember the storyline was about accusations and
vindication. After writing many different leaves before sunset, I bound them
together using a broomstick. Not long after, I wrote a novella – John Laslie –
and began a novel – The Slave Twins – which I later abandoned because the
storyline would not wind up into a close.
In those days, whenever I wrote, I read and appreciated my
works alone. My immediate family had never thought it was sane for someone who
had once aspired to be a Mechanical Engineer, to be seen doing what those who
would major in the arts should do. But they did not discourage me though, and
even if they had tried, my strong-willed soul would have spurned any attempt.
In my home, my brother was a bit close to literature. He had
read all the books I had read, but there were some of the books he read that
was kept away from me intentionally or otherwise. I was still young when he
read Things Fall Apart. Our mother
bought it for him, because she too had been obsessed with the character – Unoka
– when she read the book in her own days. She spoke to us about Unoka as if she
had met the fictitious character once in her life. When she teased me as being
lazy, she saw me as Unoka – Okonkwo’s father – who was improvident; a man who
while men crossed seven forests and rivers in search of virgin land, pitched
his farm in an expired land closed by. I did not read Things Fall Apart because our mother felt I was still too young to
comprehend the vocabularies used. But, before then, I had begun to search Michael West Dictionary, for unfamiliar words. Perhaps, the old lady
knew little about this progress.
It was after my secondary education I actually began an
active literary life. Before now, my novel manuscript which I had dreamt of
working on had got missing while packing out of my dormitory, and the damsel I
was so obsessed with in secondary had parted ways with me. Due to these
occurrences, I reclined to solitude for one year I sought admission into the
University.
Our home was a brown bungalow almost on the tail of an
isolated street. The compound was a very large one, lined with coconut, pear
and mango trees at the edge where it bordered the wide red-earth street. During
the dry season, especially afternoons, when the sun took a fierce look at the world
from the peak of the bluish sky, it was under the mango tree we camped. Here in
this partially isolated home, I stayed for several months, reading and writing
poems and plays – those infant works I have since disowned.
It was the poetic trail my brother crossed that led me into
the world of poetry. I remember he had written two fascinating poems – Marriage and Matrimony and The Black Gold. Taking up the challenge,
I drew out my first poems for him to see. I became engrossed with the art soon
afterward, so that when he stopped writing poetry, I continued with the craft.
During this period, I bought a phone which could access the internet. It was
with the aid of this device, I read over two thousands poems: great works from
W.B. Yeast, Edgar Alan Poe, T.S. Elliot, Maya Angelou, Pablo Neruda, William
Shakespeare, Andrew Marvell, Rudyard Kipling, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and so many
other great poets of the western world. At this same time, my friend – Victor –
who was also in love with literature gave me an African Anthology. In that
Anthology, I rediscovered wonderful African poets like J.P. Clark, Wole
Soyinka, David Diop, Leopold Senghor, MJC Echeruo, Gabriel Okara, Kofi Awoonor,
Kwesi Brew, etc. Later, after reading Poems
of Black Africa edited by Wole Soyinka, I would discover other younger
generation of African poets like Odia Ofeimun, Afam Akeh, etc.
It was the same friend of mine – Victor – who is worthy of
my thanks that gave me many of Shakespearean plays to read. Plays such as: A Midsummer Night Dream, Twelfth Night, Julio
Caesar, Merchant of Venice, Macbath, Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet. Also from him, I got Wole
Soyinka’s The Lion and the Jewel and J.P.
Clark’s Three plays: The Songs of Goat, The raft and The Masquerade. These
last few books moulded my playwriting life forever. Later on, I would read Soyinka’s The Jero’s Plays, The Strong Breed, Mad and
Specialists, A Dance of the Forest, Kongi’s Harvest, Death and the King
Horseman, A Play of Giant, The Interpreter, Ake: The Years of my Childhood,
as well as Ola Rotimi’s The Gods Are Not
To Blame.
Of recent, I read all of Chinua Achebe’s fictions and read
and reread Chimamanda Adichie’s wonderful novels. My writing skill has also
been nurtured over the years and I am trying to build a very unique voice. I
have written many play manuscripts and so many poems. Poema so many hearts have
enjoyed. The first draft of my novel is underway. My debut play – The Ballot
and the Sanctuary (written with the name: Emmanuel Isuku) – was published in
2014 by University Press PLC Ibadan.
Yet, as I advance in my writing age, I have got to realize
that I do not write for people to be happy (they may be). I actually write
because it is my life; and if I dare don’t do it, I will fall into depression.
Ohikhuare Isuku,
(Author of The Ballot and the Sanctuary)
