The Future of Literature in Africa
Editor's
note: Femi Osofisan, university professor, poet, essayist and playwright is one
of Africa's leading authors. This definitive essay was presented by the writer
in Accra, Ghana in 2006 during the African Literature Association 32nd Annual
Meeting and Conference. 
Brothers
and sisters,
Fellow writers,
This is a happy moment for me, one in which it would be most appropriate to burst into song. The award has admitted me into a most distinguished company, and to be so recognized by one's peers is something to celebrate. Indeed, the names of the eminent writers who have preceded me on this platform teach me humility, and show me just how generous you have been in selecting me. I want to say a profound thank you therefore to the Board of the Fonlon-Nichols Prize, and the African Literature Association, knowing, even as I say it, that the words are lame, and grossly under-state my emotions. But still, in spite of this obvious sense of elation, I must confess that all I have brought you in response is something that may be described as "Igún's burden". Igún, in Yorubaland, is the name we call the Vulture. And the story of the writer, in today's Africa, has become very similar, in my opinion, to that of the Vulture in one of our folktales. This is how it goes:
A-a-a-lo o!
A-a-a-lo o!
Ni igba kan lai lai…
Once upon a time, long ago, the Earth was undergoing one of its most difficult moments. The problem, this time, was drought, a prolonged drought that lasted several months. The heat had eaten everything up, and everywhere, the air was dry, acrid, and swirling with dust. All the animals, all the human beings, suffered badly from thirst and sunburn. The ponds and streams, the mighty rivers as well as the secret waterholes, all had dried up, and where the water used to be, only the cracked beds of mud showed in the sun like broken ribs. Many were dying; the trees and grasses were withering; the air burned the skin; the sands scorched the feet. But still the sun shone down relentlessly, and the rain refused to fall. At last, a meeting was summoned, of the whole community. Everyone was present, men and women and children, animals and birds. They met to discuss the situation, and were informed, after due consultations with the babalawos present, that the cause of the unusual drought was a quarrel between the Sky God and his former hunting partner, the Earth God. So a decision was taken. They would send a sacrifice to the Sky God up there in heaven and beg him to forgive whatever sins his friend might have committed, and urge him to release the rain.
The priests knew how to prepare the sacrifice. A couple of snails, a lamb's head, some palm oil and wine, and a pot of fire. All these necessary items were quickly assembled, and put in a big basket. Then the next problem came up. Who would carry the basket to heaven? Surely, it could only be a creature with the knowledge and capability of flying? But, to everyone's surprise, not one of the birds would agree to go on the errand. Each had a pressing excuse; none could be compelled to go. Yet the drought burned harder still, and more continued to die. The community tried all the prayers it could muster, all its remonstrations, but the birds would not budge. The frightening question in their minds, but which they could not voice out, was—Suppose the messenger did not return from such a dangerous journey? Then suddenly, just as everybody was about to give up in despair, they heard the Vulture speak up. "I will go," he said.
The people cheered lustily. And then, before he could change his mind, they quickly loaded the sacrifice on his head and bade him farewell, wishing him the best of luck. But if they had asked, he would have told them simply that it was because he had witnessed the quarrel between the Sky and the Earth Gods, and felt that he would be in a good position to mediate, and bring them together again. As soon as the appropriate ceremonies were concluded, Igún carried the sacrifice with his powerful legs, spread his wings, and lifted up. A terrible pain shot through his entire body as the flames of the fire burned his head and his neck, but he ignored it, and rose superbly into the air. Soon he was far up there, just a tiny spot in the clouds. And then even that spot was gone. The community cheered in collective relief and dispersed.
Then
the waiting game began, One week, another week, and then a third! Still the
people waited, and nothing changed. Could Igún have missed his way? Or had he
been crushed on the way? Their hearts filled with apprehension and foreboding.
Then—one day, on the first morning of the fourth week, the skies darkened
suddenly, and swiftly. There was a roar of wind, a clap of thunder, lightning
flashes, and the rain began to pour down! It rained and rained! The earth was
gorged. Laughter and dancing returned to the land!
The streams and rivers resumed their noisy life. The forest began to grow green again with leaves. Everywhere, the grasses could be seen with their hands raised in prayers of gratitude. Everywhere, the air thrilled with lovely birdsong. Happiness and bliss returned to the land. But nobody, in all this rejoicing, remembered to ask about the Vulture. Till one night, during a mighty tempest, the Big Bird returned. They heard his powerful wings as he alighted, and they also heard his terrible song of grief when he got to his house, and found that it had been destroyed in the storm.
Sad and tired, desperate for a shelter from the tearing storm, the Vulture turned away from the wreck and ran to his neighbour's house. But knock as hard as he could, the door would not open to him. He crawled to the next house, and met the same rejection. The frightened people cowered in their houses, afraid of the powers that the messenger might have brought back with him from such a mystic journey, and would not open their doors. But, thinking that perhaps they did not know that it was him out there, the Vulture put a song to his lips, and began to sing: [Here, my friends, I am going to need your help. You all know that the soup of stories cannot be eaten alone. So, as a good audience, you will please take the refrain with me. When I so indicate, like this, you will sing: "Ajanrete-ja!" Can we repeat that? "Ajanrete-ja!" Okay? Let's go:
Olunrete- Olunrete
Chorus: Ajanrete-ja!
Olunrete- Olunrete
Igun lo nkanlekun- It's the Vulture knocking
Olorun and Ile- The Sky God and the Earth God
Non bara won ja- Were the ones who quarrelled:
Orun loun legbon- The Sky God claimed to be the senior
Ile loun lagba- The Earth God made the same claim-
Olorun binu lo- Till the Sky God took umbrage
Lo ba mojo e dani- And withheld his rain from earth
Eji ko, ko ro mo- The rain refused to fall again
Gbogbo eda nkigbe- The whole world was groaning
Gbogbo aiye nku lo- Everywhere was dying
E ni ngbebo lo sorun- You made me take sacrifice to heaven
Mo si lo, mo fajo- And I went, and brought the rain
Mo fajo de, mo pada- I brought the rain, and returned
E jowo silekun!- Please open the door for me-
E silekun fun mi!- Open your door and let me in!
E silekun fun mi!- Open your door and let me in!
E jowo silekun!.... Please, open the door for me!...
He was singing to announce his name, begging to be allowed in, but no door would open for him. The Vulture went from house to house, recalling the mission he had undertaken on behalf of the entire community, and the sufferings he had had to endure on the way, and how he had lost all the hair on his head and around his neck, but it was as if he was singing to the deaf. No one would come to his help and welcome him. They just left him out there, shivering, abandoned to the hammering rain.
And
that was how, at last, Igun came to know the truth about the world, that the
one who carries a sacrifice never benefits from it. And since that day, you
will always find Igun all alone by himself on the top of trees, homeless,
forced to pick his food from rubbish heaps.
Olunrete-….
Alo mi re gbangba-lagba
Alo mi re gbangba-lagba
E gba lenu mi, ko dire o…
A simple but cruel story, you would say? But how prescient! How accurately it illustrates for us the fate of the writer in contemporary African society!
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