Performing Wisdom : Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society [1 ed.] 9789401210584, 9789042038110

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Performing Wisdom

Matatu

Journal for African Culture and Society ———————————————————————

EDITORIAL BOARD Gordon Collier Geoffrey V. Davis

Christine Matzke Aderemi Raji–Oyelade †Ezenwa–Ohaeto

TECHNICAL

AND

Frank Schulze–Engler Wanjiku wa Ngũgĩ

CARIBBEAN EDITOR

Gordon Collier

————————————  ———————————

BOARD

OF

ADVISORS

Anne V. Adams (Ithaca N Y ) Johan U. Jacobs (Durban, South Africa) Ubax Cristina Ali Farah (Rome, Italy) Jürgen Martini (Magdeburg, Germany) Eckhard Breitinger (Bayreuth, Germany) Henning Melber (Uppsala, Sweden) Margaret J. Daymond (Durban, South Africa) Reinhard Sander (San Juan, Puerto Rico) Anne Fuchs (Nice, France) John A Stotesbury (Joensuu, Finland) James Gibbs (Bristol, England) Peter O. Stummer (Munich, Germany) Ahmed Yerima (Lagos, Nigeria)

— Founding Editor: Holger G. Ehling —  Matatu is a journal on African and African diaspora literatures, cultures, and societies dedicated to interdisciplinary dialogue between literary and cultural studies, historiography, the social sciences, and cultural anthropology.  Matatu is animated by a lively interest in African culture and literature (including the Afro-Caribbean) that moves beyond worn-out clichés of ‘cultural authenticity’ and ‘national liberation’ towards critical exploration of African modernities. The East African public transport vehicle from which Matatu takes its name is both a component and a symbol of these modernities: based on ‘Western’ (these days usually Japanese) technology, it is a vigorously African institution; it is usually regarded with some anxiety by those travelling in it, but is often enough the only means of transport available; it creates temporary communicative communities and provides a transient site for the exchange of news, storytelling, and political debate.  Matatu is firmly committed to supporting democratic change in Africa, to providing a forum for interchanges between African and European critical debates, to overcoming notions of absolute cultural, ethnic or religious alterity, and to promoting transnational discussion on the future of African societies in a wider world.

Performing Wisdom 

Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society

Edited by

Dominica Dipio and Stuart Sillars

Amsterdam - New York, NY 2013

Matatu Number 42

Cover image: Rose Kirumira, Oval Mask Photograph reproduced by kind permission of the artist The paper on which this book is printed meets the requirements of “ISO 9706:1994, Information and documentation - Paper for documents - Requirements for permanence”. ISBN: 978-90-420-3811-0 E-Book ISBN: 978-94-012-1058-4 ©Editions Rodopi B.V., Amsterdam – New York, NY 2013 Printed in The Netherlands

In memory of Chinua (Albert Chinualumogu) Achebe (*16 November 1930, Ogidi, Anambra State, Nigeria — †22 March 2013, Boston, Massachusetts, U S A )

T ABLE

OF

C ONTENTS

Acknowledgements

ix

] LENE JOHANNESSEN

xi

Introduction: Folklore and Cultural Memory: Promises and Pitfalls ] WOTSUNA KHAMALWA

1

Survival of the Fittest and Stories of Cannibalism ] SAIDAH NAMAYANJA

11

Mythical Implications in the Origin Stories of the Baganda and Bagishu ] CINDY E. MAGARA

21

The Concept of Heroism Among the Bunyoro ] DOMINICA DIPIO

37

Traditional Leadership Wisdoms and Their Contemporary Parallels: The Madi of Uganda ] SUSAN NALUGWA KIGULI

65

Audience Perspectives on the Music Festivals Phenomenon in Buganda ] ABASI KIYIMBA

79

Proverbial Imagery in Contemporary Political Discourse in Uganda ] AARON MUSHENGYEZI

125

Riddling Among the Banyankore and Baganda in Uganda ] GULERE WAMBI

139

The Popular Form and Structure of Riddle Discourse in Lusoga ] DANSON SYLVESTER KAHYANA

159

The Potential Role of Orature in Fighting the Spread of H I V / A I D S ] LILLIAN BUKAAYI TIBASIIMA

173

“Mudo”: The Soga ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ ] EDGAR NABUTANYI

187

Transplanting the Pumpkin: Folktales in New Media Formats for Children’s Instruction ] ISAAC TIBASIIMA

‘Heed my Voice’: Children’s Song in the Wake of Child Sacrifice

201

] STUART SILLARS

217

Afterword: Ancestral Voices Prophesying

MARKETPLACE — EDITED

BY

GORDON COLLIER —

] UZOECHI NWAGBARA

225

Achebe’s Fiction and the Changing Generation of Nigerian Women: Towards a Paradigm Shift in Leadership ] IGNATIUS CHUKWUMAH

247

Lazarus, Noah, and the Enunciation of the Resurrection Mythos in Soyinka’s The Interpreters ] OMOLOLA A. LADELE

255

The Àbikú Mystique: The Metaphor of Subversive Narrative in Buchi Emecheta’s Kehinde ] DELE BAMIDELE

AND

ROTIMI AGBANA

271

Richard Maduku’s Kokoro Compound: A Postmodern Reading ] H. OBY OKOLOCHA

AND

SOPHIA I. AKHUEMOKHAN

285

The Violation of Women’s Human Rights: Transformative Processes in Julie Okoh’s Edewede and Stella ‘Dia Oyedepo’s Brain Has No Gender ] BRIGHT MOLANDE

305

The Fatal Voyage: Colonialism as Tragedy in Steve Chimombo’s Writing ] ROBERT NATHAN

331

“The Religion of the Dream”: Colonial Myths and the Epistemology of Power in Alain Mabanckou’s Bleu blanc rouge

] W U M I R A J I



Born to Run

] NICK TEMBO

Three Poems

CREATIVE WRITING 355



365

] GORDON COLLIER



REVIEWS 369

Up Jumped a Jumbie ] TOSIN GBOGI



377

Destructive Deluge ] BOOKS RECEIVED



Notes on Contributors Notes for Contributors

380 385 391

Acknowledgements ———— º Many people have contributed to this volume, by writing and facilitating the writing process through administrative, editorial or financial help. It is a pleasure to thank them for their generosity and commitment to the project. In Uganda: Professor Venansius Baryanmureeba, Vice-Chancellor, Makerere University; Mr Mark Katusiime, Administrator, Folklore Project; Professor Edward Kirumira, Bergen N U F U coordinator; Professor Remigius Bukenya Ziraba, N U F U -Makerere main coordinator; Ms Winnie Ndagire, Secretary, Bergen–Makerere Office; Ms Annette Oloboo, Secretary, Folklore Project. In Norway: Inger Sofie Thorsen, Ove Stoknes, Geir Strom, Unifob Global, Professor Leiv Egil Breivik, Chair, and Arve–Kjell Uthaug, Director of Administration, Department of Foreign Languages, University of Bergen. This is the third collection of essays produced under a collaborative research project conducted jointly by the University of Makerere and the University of Bergen. It is composed in the main of essays that are the product of research by academics form Makerere, with whom those in Norway have been privileged to work during the past months. Their energy, enthusiasm, and commitment have been exemplary, and it is fitting that these qualities are given proper acknowledgment here. In addition, we are grateful for their kindness and generosity on the occasions when we have come together in Uganda. All of those who have taken part in the research owe the greatest debt to all of those who have contributed to the research programme, and the archive developed from it, by performing or recalling the traditional forms that are the subject of the work. Without them, there would be no collection and no project: it is to them that the major acknowledgement should be made, and for them that the archive stands as an important, and permanent, memorial.

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”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

L ENE J OHANNESSEN

———— º Introduction

Folklore and Cultural Memory: Promises and Pitfalls ABSTRACT “Folklore and Cultural Memory: Promises and Pitfalls” is a reflection on some of the more general challenges and potentials of oral traditions in their instance as cultural groups’ stored knowledge. Relating the demand for expectation and representation embedded in any generic convention to the complexity of always-evolving layers in the way knowledge and tradition are adapted, contested, and changed, it follows that one can also conceptualize of the space of cultural memory and its dissemination in terms of erasure and overwriting. For this part of the discussion the ideas of the palimpsest and the imaginary are useful, especially as they can be traced in the specific space of the postcolonial. Referring to Charles Taylor’s treatise on the social imaginary and other works on the abiding calls of folklore as first and foremost oriented toward the internal workings of a given group, “Promises and Pitfalls” attempts to re-route these questions to the far more difficult question of the defining call of the boundary. National, cultural cohesion is furthermore pivotal to any claims to sustainable progress and growth, and the project that all the essays here are part of, “The Role of Ugandan Folklore as Repository of Traditional Knowledge” should consequently also be seen as exemplary in the way it draws on the Humanities in order to secure the basis on which progress must rely. We see how the Humanities everywhere are decimated, and the project as well as the essays should therefore also stand as a reminder of exactly how seminal our kind of research is to the broader concerns of progress.

A

to some more general reflections on how Ugandan folklore and the larger research project that the essays collected here pertain to may signify beyond their specific context, I want to briefly turn to a very different historical and literary space. At the end of the seminal … And the Earth Did Not Devour Him (1971) by the Mexican American Tomás Rivera, Bartolo the Poet makes his annual visit to one of the many nameless towns that provide the setting for Rivera’s collection of vignettes and stories. The poet’s call is a cherished one, because “names of S A PREAMBLE

”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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the people […] appeared in the poems.”1 The anonymous narrator who relates this is one of a myriad of voices, who all weigh in on the chronicling of the migrant worker community in the American Southwest. He ends his brief account by saying that Bartolo “told the people to read the poems out loud because the spoken word was the seed of love in the darkness.2 The lines may serve as an introduction to thinking about the essays and thematic concerns collected in this issue of Matatu, for they are also such visitations: they mediate and reflect on the role of the spoken word in its many shapes and forms – as riddles, as proverbs, as origin stories, praise poetry. Like Bartolo the Poet, they chronicle the identities and the histories of the people. The individual research that each essay reflects is, however, also related to an overarching research project which is perhaps somewhat unusual, in that it tackles the challenges in a ‘developing’ country, not by focusing on sustainability in concrete, material terms but, rather, in relation to the threads that weave, tangle, and interrupt the fabric of culture on which sustainability in its more intangible yet deeply significant form relies. The project is titled “The Role of Ugandan Folklore as Repository of Traditional Wisdom,” and, to begin reflecting on the circumstances that frame the theoretical and methodological concerns that underlie it as well as the strands of inquiry gathered here, it may be useful to consider the meaning of the project title itself. Each and every one of the components making up the title comes trailing the freight of time and history, disclosing tremendous epistemological, cultural, and social complexities, challenges, and potentials. Of key importance are the terms ‘Folklore’, ‘Repository’, and ‘Traditional’, where the first gestures at the facts, stories, or beliefs pertaining to a given group of people. This, admittedly a simplified definition, links up with the idea of what is recoverable from storage, from the repository – that which has been put away for safe keeping. The two, ‘retrievable knowledge’, finally, align with ‘tradition’, a word that enters with various applications and implications. Here it will be understood in its most common usage – as “an inherited pattern of thought or action custom; a specific practice of long standing.”3 As the essays 1

Tomás Rivera, … And the Earth Did Not Devour Him, tr. Evangelina Vigil–Piñon (Houston T X : Arte Público, 1992): 147. 2 Rivera, … And the Earth, 147. 3 George A. Miller, “Tradition,” WordNet (Princeton N J : Princeton U P , 2009). http://wordnet.princeton.edu (accessed 10 January 2011).

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in this collection demonstrate, the overarching goal in the individual projects as well as the larger one of which they form part is to line up some of the wealth of retrievable, inherited bodies of knowledge and translate these into new circumstances of everyday life as well as into fast-changing modes of dissemination and reception. The concept of traditional wisdom is essential here, since, as Austin Bukenya shows, the wealth and flexibility of oral traditions are such that they must be “constantly examined and re-examined for new insights in the light of emerging realities and experiences.”4 If we add to Danson’s note the imperative in a specifically Ugandan context to create a broader, shared basis for a sense of national cultural cohesion across internal divides, the role of folklore seems essential to processes of negotiation and translation between various traditions of learning and practices. It is worth recalling that sustainability ultimately must relate to and negotiate the vulnerable scaffolding of cultural and social cohesion, which is already in a constant process of adaptation and change. Folklore, moreover, is not one thing, and, as literature or orature in their various manifestations, falls into various generic categories. As such, the multiple genres of tradition and wisdom inherently bear the insignia of purpose and function. These, as Peter Seitel notes, are never entirely coincidental in their orientation and provenance: A genre presents a social world or a partial view of one that includes configurations of time and space, notions of causality and human motivation, and ethical and aesthetic values. Genres are storehouses of cultural knowledge and possibility. They support the creation of works and guide the way an audience envisions and interprets them.5

When we go on to read Seitel’s observations alongside Mikhail Bakhtin’s remark that a genre “lives in the present, but always remembers its past, its beginning,”6 we can see how folklore (like any genre) is, in its instance of transmitting traditional knowledge, both potent and vulnerable: it is effective and powerful for its ability to ensure continuity, but it is also fragile and 4

Quoted in Danson Kahyana, “The Potential Role of Orature in Fighting the Spread of H I V / A I D S ,” 161 below. 5 Peter Seitel, “Theorizing Genres – Interpreting Works,” New Literary History 34.2 (Spring 2003): 279. 6 Mikhail M. Bakhtin, Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics, ed. & tr. Caryl Emerson (Minneapolis: Minnesota U P , 1984): 106.

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exposed because social worlds, ethical, and aesthetic values are subject to constant revision and transformation. Generic grids and expectations consequently always already constitute sites of potentially contesting worlds, an uneasy space subject to competing interpretations of what generic purposes and functions were, are, and should be. It follows that any genre at all times engages in the ever-present contemporization of its own archaic elements, its origins the guide to interpretations of social worlds. Such elements pertain to originary, often ritualized strategies for understanding, manoeuvering in, and inhabiting the world. One must therefore also keep fairly clearly before one the fact that genre is not “random”; as Hayden White cautions, Cultural and social genres belong to culture and not to nature, […] cultural genres do not represent genetically related classes of phenomena, […] they are constructed for identifiable reasons and to serve specific purposes, and […] genre systems can be used for destructive as well as for constructive purposes. So, genre is both “unnatural” and dangerous.”7

In relation to folklore specifically, its purpose is often taken to be that of expressing a given cultural group’s shared way of life, scholarly emphasis falling on, as Richard Bauman puts it, “the role of folklore in sustaining group equilibrium and the maintenance of the social system.”8 In a re-routing of this definition, however – and I return now to the Mexican American cultural space I began with – Bauman argues that the folklorist Américo Paredes, in relation to the Texas–Mexico borderland, introduced an important, revisionist emphasis that should be heeded also in a more general understanding of these matters: Certain elements of the Texas-Mexican repertoire (in folklore) […] are part of the shared traditions of Greater Mexico, but this is only half the picture, for a significant portion of the repertoire, the most distinctive portion, is generated by the stark social oppositions of the border region, a response to differential – not shared – identity.9

This observation is valid for any location where two or more cultures intersect and interact, and illustrates on a macro-scale the paraphrased Cartesian dictum that you are, therefore I am. It would be an oversight to focus only on the 7

Hayden White, “Good of Its Kind,” New Literary History 34.2 (Spring 2003): 367. Richard Bauman, “Introduction” to Américo Paredes, Folklore and Culture on the Texas-Mexican Border, ed. Richard Bauman (Austin: U of Texas P , 1993): xiv. 9 Bauman, “Introduction,” xiv. 8

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sharedness of folklore traditions; they also arise, crucially, in reaction to other traditions beyond internal perceptions of cultural uniformity. In the case of “The Role of Ugandan Folklore as Repository of Traditional Wisdom,” this dynamic is doubled: Not only do various cultural groups and their traditional forms of knowledge and memories strive to be aligned with each other under a rubric of shared Ugandanness; but this process also confronts a larger, much more powerful and omnipotent opposition: namely, the mechanization of technological and material modernity that encroaches on every aspect of everyday life. In the last instance, therefore, the essays gathered here also probe the various limitations and possibilities of folklore genres to survive the onset of Western modernization. On the other hand, across time and place, new always seeks to displace old; there is nothing really novel about this. What may be extraordinary in our current situation is the uniformity and speed with which such superimposition takes place globally, and the struggles over cultural remembering and practices that ensue locally. The predicaments that emanate from this pertain not only to Ugandan folklore but also to locales everywhere, forced as they are to negotiate the conglomerated grids of layers of history, the constantly emerging new worlds and imaginaries that adapt to, contest, and overturn what came before. I will here refer to such processes in terms of palimpsesting (as ‘layeredness’) and the imaginary (as ‘sharedness’), both signalling theoretical frameworks pertaining to and drawing on literary and cultural studies and forms, and both useful to thinking in more general terms about culture and its performances of remembering. For both palimpsesting in its many understandings and the imaginary as the fabric of social and cultural cohesion ultimately disclose the intricate relationships between culture, its memory and practice, and claims to the legitimacy of provenance and ownership. The above triangular underpinning, moreover, intersects decisively with attempts at grasping what Édouard Glissant calls “worldness” – an “earthly totality,” he explains, that has now come to pass [and] suffers from a radical absence, the absence of our consent. Even while we of the human community experience this condition, we remain viscerally attached to the origins of the histories of our particular communities, our cultures, peoples, or nations. And surely we are right to maintain these attachments, since no one lives suspended in the air, and since

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we must give a voice to our own place. But I must also put this place of mine in relation to all the places of the world.10

With Glissant’s idea of “worldness” in mind, it may be useful to consider in more detail the meanings of palimpsest and imaginary, for even if both are often-heard terms, their implications and definitions bear rehearsing. The former is, as most standard definitions in dictionaries go, “a parchment or other writing surface on which the original text has been effaced or partially erased, and then overwritten by another.”11 The practice of palimpsesting originally referred to the technique used by artisans to re-use scarce material for, in effect, their inscriptions of new ideas and ideals of new, emerging worlds. In its extended meaning, a palimpsest can more generally be described as “a thing likened to such a writing surface, esp. in having been reused or altered while still retaining traces of its earlier form; a multilayered record.” The term has thus become a powerful metaphor for what Freud would describe as the “receptive surface […] legible in suitable lights”12 – any surface, we may add, onto which New superimposes itself on Old. More recently, Rudolph Byrd has evoked Stuart Hall’s notion of metaphors of transformation, suggesting that the palimpsest may indeed function as a master-metaphor in this respect, challenging us to “think expansively beyond the boundaries of what is known about the relations between the social and the symbolic.”13 It is at this junction, the nexus of the social and the symbolic, that thinking about palimpsests merges with thinking about imaginaries. Imaginaries, namely, may be conceived of as spatially and temporally bounded constructs connecting social and symbolic spheres in their sacred as well as their secular structures and services. I do not mean ‘imaginary’ here in the rather loose, specular, Lacanian sense, nor in Benedict Anderson’s broader 10

Édouard Glissant, “The Unforeseeable Diversity of the World,” in Beyond Dichotomies: Histories, Identities, Cultures, and the Challenge of Globalization, ed. Elisabeth Mudimbe–Boyi (Albany: State U of New York P , 2002): 287. 11 For a thorough elaboration of the history of palimpsest, see Sarah Dillon, The Palimpsest: Literature, Criticism, Theory (London: Continuum, 2007). 12 Darby Lewes, “Homotextuality: Revealed and Revealing Texts,” in Double Vision: Literary Palimpsests of the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries, ed. Darby Lewes (Lanham M D & London: Rowman & Littlefield, 2008): xiv. 13 Rudolph P . Byrd, Charles Johnson’s Novels: Writing the American Palimpsest (Bloomington: Indiana U P , 2005): 2.

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application of imagined communities. Rather, I take my cue from the philosopher Charles Taylor and his discussion of the processes of the disembedding and disenchantment that are both constitutive of and constituted by the onset and development of modernity – and of subsequent modern, social imaginaries. It bears emphasizing that Taylor limits his elaborations to the specifically Western version of modernity, which of course binds his discussion to one, albeit most momentous, route in world history and the equally momentous epistemological and ideological trails it has left behind. Taylor summarizes what he sees as the most important features of the modern social imaginary as follows: (i)

the way ordinary people “imagine” their social surroundings, and this is often not expressed in theoretical terms, but is carried in images, stories, and legends. (ii) theory is often the possession of a small minority, whereas what is interesting in the social imaginary is that it is shared by large groups of people, if not the whole society. (iii) the social imaginary is that common understanding that makes possible common practices and a widely shared sense of legitimacy.14

More generally, he defines the social imaginary as the ways in which people imagine their social existence, how they fit together with others, how things go on between them and their fellows, the expectations that are normally met, and the deeper normative notions and images that underlie these expectations.15

Aligning these thoughts with the above notes on the palimpsest, we may conceptualize the notion of overwriting layers as pertaining to and expressive of new, emerging worlds and ideas. We can perhaps preliminarily suggest that any layer, literally or figuratively understood, is necessarily, in the final analysis, borne forth of the priorities and primacies of the pervasive imaginary obtaining at any given time: each and every layer derives its significance from that fact – it was, in its time and place, expressing the triumph of one imaginary over others.

14 15

Charles Taylor, Modern Social Imaginaries (Durham N C : Duke U P , 2005): 23. Taylor, Modern Social Imaginaries, 23.

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While it is true that even the most innocent of palimpsests implies “privilege, prerogative, and domination,”16 there is at the same time, and built into the dynamics of this very domination, the following: palimpsesting “paradoxically preserved [ancient texts] for posterity.”17 In other words, intended absence becomes unintended presence. Dillon refers to these hidden, ignored, and invisible layers as “ghostly traces,” an apt metaphor for literary as well as culturological analyses. The idea of ghostly traces can, moreover, be linked to the following passage from Bakhtin’s later work: There is neither a first nor a last work and there are no limits to the dialogic context (it extends into the boundless past and the boundless future). Even past meanings, that is, those born in the dialogue of past centuries, can never be stable (finalized, ended once and for all) – they will always change (be renewed) in the process of subsequent, future development of the dialogue. At any moment in the development there are immense, boundless masses of forgotten contextual meanings, but at certain moments of the dialogue’s subsequent development along the way they are recalled and invigorated in renewed form (in a new context). Nothing is absolutely dead: every meaning will have its homecoming festival.18

Transposed to the context we are relating to here, the social imaginary and the palimpsest, these notes speak of culture not as a linear, chronological history of human agency but, rather, as sites of excavation. More than that, the layers and their uncoverings also necessarily represent the succession and simultaneity of social imaginaries – the subjection and domination of one over others throughout “the mix of human times we commonly call history.”19 While so far all of this can be applied more or less universally to cultural history in the sense that the “mix of human times” invariably provide spatial ‘sites’ for future, retrospective-looking excavations, the specifically post16

William H. Wandless, “Richardson Agonistes: The Trial of the Author in the Contest or Authority,” in Double Vision: Literary Palimpsests of the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries, ed. Darby Lewes (Lanham M D & London: Rowman & Littlefield, 2008): 3. 17 Dillon, Palimpsest, 7. 18 Mikhail Bakhtin, “Toward a Methodology for the Human Sciences” (mid-1970s), in Bakhtin, Speech Genres and Other Late Essays, tr. Vern W. McGee, ed. Caryl Emerson & Michael Holquist (Austin, U of Texas P , 1986): 170.159–72 19 James Clifford, Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century (Cambridge M A : Harvard U P , 1997): 302.

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colonial site, which Uganda is, too, offers particularly dramatic arenas. Even if the concept of the postcolonial is too broad to be applied meaningfully across the board, certain shared features exist between the numerous locations that constitute the majority of the modern experience – that is to say, an experience characterized by the aftershocks of the Age of Discovery and Western Enlightenment that were to overwhelm most of our world. Indeed, already in its very designation the word ‘postcolonial’ comes trailing the records of the resulting multiple layers, their stories and erasures, and, in some cases subsequent retrievals. The very juxtaposition of ‘post’ and ‘colonial’, in fact, already gestures toward temporal and spatial fluidity, designating an uneasy balance between the spatial and the place-bound, and accentuating the concept of location as what Clifford elaborates as “an itinerary rather than a bounded site – a series of encounters and translations.”20 The description is not so much of a definite point in time marking what comes after these encounters and translations as of the continuations of the unintended presences that prevail despite subsequent over-writings and erasures by imperial, colonial social imaginaries. Postcolonial palimpsests thus summon from the depths of memory past conversations of routes and itineraries as they weave through history, concerning not only the most recent layer but also the (inadvertently) preserved encounters and translations that existed prior to these. They are not topics of theory and aesthetics alone; all of this, the unpredictable outcomes of such conversations and eruptions, have crucial and violent implications in the everyday lives of people in a great many places of the world – perhaps in most. Within the spatial continuities of the routes of stories-so-far that have brutally clashed with other stories-so-far, the urgency of excavating and restoring invariably leads to a race for the copyright over and monopoly of cultures’ memories and traditions. For all of the above ultimately revolves around memory and forgetting, retrieval and repression, and cultural primacy and value: whose imaginary, and whose memory – in other words, whose layer in the palimpsest? The kind of research that has resulted in the essays gathered in this issue of Matatu could be said to participate in the larger processes described above. From under the layer of colonial rule, Uganda emerged in 1962 as an independent nation. However, as with so many other countries, and as with so 20

Clifford, Routes, 11.

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many palimpsested imaginaries, underneath that one coating had been preserved relations that long preceded that of British rule, some of them with longstanding resentments across geographical, political, and tribal divides. Thinking ‘worldness’ becomes quite complicated in this situation, as do attempts at bringing such a conglomerate up to ‘Western speed’, marked as they often are by very particularly originated discourses of democracy and progress. Both worldness and modernization must necessarily heed the deposits of a multiple past; they must pay attention to that underlying dynamic amidst the rapid change inflicted by the global market economy; indeed, they must tackle the extremely difficult task of gauging the full impact of, in Clifford’s words, the long span of indigenous traditions and folk histories; the waxing and waning of tribes and nations, of empires; the struggles and ruses of conquest, adaptation, survival; the movement of natives, explorers, and immigrants, with their distinct relations to land, place, and memory; the changing rhythms of markets, commodities, communications, capital – organizing and disorganizing everything.21

The gathering and analyses of the many and varied folklore traditions of Uganda as we see them exemplified in the essays here have an impact in relation to all of the above, and in fundamental ways. Riddles, songs, poems, and stories – they all speak from and to a sense of origins and continuities, they all form pieces of the puzzle, which creates the basis for a social imaginary as a “common understanding that makes possible common practices and a widely shared sense of legitimacy.” Striving to bring together different stories of different routes that are still recovering from that most recent erasure of colonial rule, the Ugandan folklore project is, to conclude these notes, an important one, and in some ways exemplary. It cannot, of course, replace the work done to ensure and improve, for instance, infrastructure and economic growth, but it may be worth keeping in mind that as long as dispute and animosity exist between groups within the same borders, history shows again and again that no amount of infrastructure and economic growth will prevent the destructive eruption at any moment of past and buried conflicts. This particular research project is therefore also a reminder that the severe cutbacks which the humanities in universities all over the world are currently 21

Clifford, Routes, 302.

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suffering are detrimental to a much broader spectrum of inquiry than ‘just’, say, literary and cultural studies. The downsizing is, more significantly, a threat to certain kinds of knowledge and traditions which underlie and complement the understanding and furthering of general processes of progress. Again, I am not suggesting that recovering and studying stories and songs is sufficient for sustainable development, but as long as the causes and roots of conflict derive as often as they do from contestations between different versions of a shared past, the study, understanding, and bringing into dialogue of those very stories is precisely the kind of re-routing and re-rooting activity that is also needed. Projects like “The Role of Traditional Wisdom in Ugandan Folklore” and the individual researchers who participate in them are consequently in a unique situation to pursue and promote the kind of change that goes to the very heart of conflict and contestation.

W O R K S C I TE D Bakhtin, Mikhail M. Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics, ed. and tr. Caryl Emerson (Manchester: Minnesota U P , 1984). ——. “Toward a Methodology for the Human Sciences” (mid-1970s), in Bakhtin, Speech Genres and Other Late Essays, tr. Vern W. McGee, ed. Caryl Emerson & Michael Holquist (Austin, U of Texas P , 1986): 170.159–72. Bauman, Richard. “Introduction” to Américo Paredes, Folklore and Culture on the Texas–Mexican Border, ed. Richard Bauman (Austin: U of Texas P , 1993). Byrd, Rudolph P. Charles Johnson’s Novels: Writing the American Palimpsest (Bloomington: Indiana U P , 2005). Clifford, James. Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century (Cambridge M A : Harvard U P , 1997). Dillon, Sarah. The Palimpsest: Literature, Criticism, Theory (London: Continuum, 2007). Glissant, Édouard. “The Unforeseeable Diversity of the World,” in Beyond Dichotomies: Histories, Identities, Cultures, and the Challenge of Globalization, ed. Elisabeth Mudimbe–Boyi (Albany: State U of New York P , 2002): 287–96. Lewes, Darby. “Homotextuality: Revealed and Revealing Texts,” in Double Vision: Literary Palimpsests of the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries, ed. Darby Lewes (Lanham M D & London: Rowman & Littlefield, 2008). Miller, George A. “Tradition,” in WordNet (Princeton University, 2009). http: //wordnet.princeton.edu (accessed 11 January 2011). Rivera, Tomás. … And the Earth Did Not Devour Him, tr. Evangelina Vigil–Piñon (Houston T X : Arte Público, 1992).

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Seitel, Peter. “Theorizing Genres – Interpreting Works,“ New Literary History 34.2 (Spring 2003): 275–97. Taylor, Charles. Modern Social Imaginaries (Durham N C : Duke U P , 2005). Wandless, William. “Richardson Agonistes: The Trial of the Author in the Contest or Authority,” in Double Vision: Literary Palimpsests of the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries, ed. Darby Lewes (Lanham M D & London: Rowman & Littlefield, 2008): 3–14. White, Hayden. “Commentary: Good of Their Kind,” New Literary History 34.2 (Spring 2003): 367–76.

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———— º Survival of the Fittest and Stories of Cannibalism ABSTRACT This essay looks at folk stories and proverbs of the Bamasaba of Eastern Uganda, many of which have animal characters that speak and act like humans. In many of these folk stories, man-eating ogres known as kamanani disguise themselves as humans and prey on gullible humans. Things are not always what they seem to be, and one needs certain strategies to survive. The Bamasaba are reputed to be brave and fierce, but they are also known to be untrusting and suspicious, especially of strangers, and some people have even claimed they practised cannibalism. Since a people’s culture is normally informed by certain factors including historical and geographical background, as well as problems, needs, and aspirations, this essay traces the factors that may be responsible for the preoccupation of the Bamasaba with survival. It reaches the conclusion that, surrounded by warlike neighbours bent on raiding livestock and killing people in the process, wild animals such as hyenas and leopards which decimated populations of people and livestock, and a hostile mountainous terrain, the Bamasaba lived in a situation where one had to be tough, untrusting, brave and fierce in an environment where survival was for the fittest.

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‘ F O L K L O R E ’ means both a body of material and the academic discipline devoted to its study.1 In Germany, this discipline is called Völkerkunde and is synonymous with Ethnologie (ethnology) or cultural anthropology. Interest in the systematic collection and analysis of folklore in Europe coincided with European romantic nationalism. Philosophers such as Giovanni Batista Vico (1668–1744) in Italy, Johann G. von Herder (1744–1803) in Germany, and Henry Thomas Buckle (1821–62) in England used folklore as a basis for empirical evidence of what they claimed were the essentials of their respective national characters. In 1725 Vico pubHE TERM

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Michael Herzfeld, “Folklore,” in Encyclopedia of Social and Cultural Anthropology, ed. Alan Barnard & Jonathan Spencer (London: Routledge, 2006): 237. ”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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lished La Scienzia Nuova, translated as the Philosophy of History or the Psychology of Nations. In 1784, Herder published his Ideen zur Geschichte der Meschheit (Ideas on the History of Mankind) and in 1858 Buckle published his History of Civilization in England. The essential characters of these nations were supposed to be concomitant with the cultural glories of their common ancestors. Folklore thus became both the repository and the vehicle by which communities would demonstrate, to themselves and to others, the defining collective cultural glories that set them apart. In a word, folklore became the bridge that communities used to link themselves to historical and mythic ancestors whose exploits were claimed to have been largely responsible for the national characters of their respective countries. In pursuit of the interests of romantic nationalism, however, it goes without saying that many of these reconstructions may have involved elements of forgery, at worst, and embellishments, at best. There has been discussion among scholars with regard to the range of cultural variation within a given society: namely, between traditional, especially rural or peasant aspects of culture which are more impervious to change, on the one hand, and the urban bearers of the more progressive and fast-changing ‘greater culture’, on the other. Robert Redfield has argued that instead of this apparently differentiated set of two cultures, we should think of them as being a rural–urban continuum. People migrate from rural to urban settings, bringing with them certain ideas, beliefs, and practices. Likewise, these ideas, beliefs, and practices are modified in urban settings and then transferred back to the rural areas by those who live in the urban centres. In totalitarian ideologies like Nazism, folklore was used to invest notions of national and racial purity with scientific authority,2 whereas urban life represented the corruption of the pure national virtues. It should be borne in mind that the line between mythology and history is, at best, normally very thin and, at worst, non-existent.

Animal Characters in Masaba Folk Stories Masaba folk stories are replete with animal characters, including man-eating ogres known as kamanani which allegedly disguise themselves as human beings and often lure their unsuspecting victims into situations where they are 2

Herzfeld, “Folklore,” 237.

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vulnerable and helpless, and then devour them. In many cases, one animal character is pitted against a human being or another animal, sometimes in physical combat, but in most cases in a battle of intellectual agility. The common concern in many of the folktales seems to be survival, or the ability to detect tricks and traps – indeed, in being able to outwit the enemy by thinking faster, and in reversing the trap to catch the enemy who had set it in the first place. The tone of many of these folk stories paints a picture of life as being about survival in a capricious and treacherous world where reality is often deceptive and transient, and does not necessarily conform to its inhabitants’ perceptions. It is a life where one has constantly to be on the lookout for hidden traps, and where danger is always lurking in the shadows. In this life, survival is contingent upon and not necessarily determined by physical strength or agility but more often by the ability to smell danger using a sort of inbuilt earlywarning system, the power of an alert intellect and speed of thought. It is reminiscent of how wild animals and birds behave, always alert and on the look-out for predators. Even when they lower their heads to drink water or graze, they intermittently look up, crane their necks, stretch their ears, and survey the landscape for signs of lurking or approaching danger. The bigger and physically stronger animals such as the wanatalanyi (lion) and wananzofu (elephant) are often vanquished by far smaller and physically inferior but disproportionately more cunning wanakhamuna (squirrel) and matuyu (hare) in the dangerous game of survival of the fittest. This knowledge of survival is inculcated into the young through folktales, idioms, exhortations, and proverbs. There is a necessary link between folktales and proverbs. In many proverbs, words and actions which would normally be the preserve of intelligent human beings are ascribed to animals. Since the contexts in which particular animals are said to have uttered words or performed deeds are normally embedded in folk stories, hearers would be at a loss and invariably lose the plot unless they know the story. Both these folktales and the proverbs embedded in them are, of course, meant to communicate certain pedagogic messages, especially to the young who, it appears, are the main target audience. But the tales are not only meant for children, as proverbs and idioms are used as the currency of communication, both officially and informally. In most cases, the interlocutor only makes allusion to an animal character – for instance, what a hyena says to a dog – to underline his sentiment, and the respondent is expec-

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ted to understand the underlying point. If the respondent looks blank and lost, as happens more and more these days owing to lack of this cultural education, no amount of prodding will make the interlocutor explain his allusion, as doing so would spoil the whole essence of the verbal exchange. It would be like explaining a joke. If the listeners fail to understand, explaining the joke would rob it of the fun. Of all the animals that are invested with speech by the Bamasaba composers of folktales and proverbs, namunyu (hyena) seems to have been given the largest role. In these folktales, namunyu is normally depicted as a perpetual loser and easy prey owing to its incessant, insatiable, and unrestrained greed, which invariably leads it into compromising and potentially lifethreatening situations. These proverbs relating to namunyu include ‘Namunyu alomel’embwa ari makendo sikawa’. The literal translation is that the hyena told the dog that travels never cease. This can only be understood by reference to a folktale in which the hyena and the dog are the main characters. The two had an argument because, whereas both hunted and killed prey, due to its greed the hyena wanted to eat the prey alone, leading to serious disagreement with the dog. The latter grabbed a morsel and ran away with it, to the chagrin of the hyena, which left the former angry. This proverb is used in any situation where the interlocutor feels he has been treated unfairly. Another one goes: ‘Namunyu alomela libaale ari wakhasila newaulile’. Having tripped over a stone, namunyu was furious and started castigating it. When the stone did not respond, namunyu said, ‘Even though you keep quiet, you have heard’. It should be borne in mind that the hyena was constantly in interaction with people, sometimes as a welcome scavenger, but sometimes as a dreaded and loathed predator upon livestock. Folktales are generally believed to mirror the mind-set, concerns, and preoccupations of the community where they are found. It is appropriate, therefore, to surmise that the Bamasaba were preoccupied by the question of survival. Culture is shaped, inter alia, by various elements that best offer the community survival. The central elements are given due emphasis or accent and protected from disappearance in order to safeguard the community’s survival and identity. It would be plausible, therefore, to suppose that this preoccupation with survival entered the corpus of a community’s cultural traits at its formative stage, and became part of their world-view. In keeping with this, the community had of necessity to insist on certain cultural values, including tenacity, bravery, and astuteness.

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This suspicion is confirmed by early writers such as J.B. Purvis, John Roscoe, Sybil La Fontaine, Victor Turner, and Suzette Heald in their respective writings on the Bamasaba. But to explain the reasons undergirding this preoccupation with survival, one needs to look at their environment. Cultural ecology maintains that folk groups possess a very close relationship with the physical environment, and that their adaptive strategies are sustainable. People in folk cultures live on land, gaining their livelihood directly through farming, herding, hunting, gathering and fishing. A great many facets of folk culture relate at least indirectly to the local ecology and involve adaptive strategies […] their religions act to mitigate environmental hazards, their folktales honour great hunters, their proverbs offer wisdom about the weather and the proper time for planting…3

It is interesting to note that Richard Nzita and Mbaga–Niwampa describe the Bagisu or Bamasaba as having no tradition of an early migration from another land, and whose early life seems to have been anti-social, almost based on the principle of the survival of the fittest.4 One wonders whether this view was based on actual field research on their part, or on what was written about them by other authors. In any case, this view is shared by several other writers who wrote before them. For instance, John Roscoe, who wrote more than thirty years before Nzita and Niwampa, had this to say of the Bamasaba: They are treacherous and unreliable to persons outside their own clan, even members of their own tribe being unable safely to walk about alone among other clans, except at certain periods of the year when a truce is proclaimed in order to fulfil certain tribal customs and ceremonies. The land may truly be called a land without graves, because the dead are not buried but cast out of the villages in the evening, and during the night portions are cut from the corpse for a ceremonial meal, the rest being left for wild animals.5

It is evident that the Bamasaba were kept to the upper limits of the hills, hemmed in as they were by their marauding pastoral neighbours, the Jopa3

Terry G. Jordan–Bychkov & Mona Domosh, The Human Mosaic: A Thematic Introduction to Cultural Geography (New York: W.H. Freeman, 2003): 53. 4 Richard Nzita & Mbaga–Niwampa, Peoples and Cultures of Uganda (Kampala: Fountain, 1998): 81. 5 John Roscoe, The Northern Bantu: An Account of Some Central African Tribes of the Uganda Protectorate (London: Frank Cass, 1966): 161.

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dhola to the south, the Iteso to the west, the Karimojong to the north-west, the Kalenjin to the north, and the Nandi and Maasai to the east, all in search of livestock to raid. One such raid by the dreaded Maasai earned the community the appellation ‘Bagisu’. Legend has it that one day, while Mwambu was herding his father’s cattle, the dreaded Elgonyi Maasai attacked and raided them. Mwambu is said to have run home and raised the alarm for help. But while others were still mobilizing themselves, he singlehandedly pursued the raiders and caught up with them. Being warriors themselves, they were struck by his bravery. Instead of harming him, as they could easily have done, in recognition of his valour they surrendered all his cattle to him, and as a token of admiration for his exceptionally daring spirit they gave him a bull. Cows are known in the Maasai language as ingisu. By the time his kinsmen had mustered themselves to pursue the Maasai, they met Mwambu coming back, driving not only his father’s cows but also a bull. When he recounted the episode to the clan, his father, proud of his son’s accomplishment, gave him the nickname Mugisu in reference to the Maasai ingisu, a name by which he became known. This is the appellation by which the community came to be known, albeit mistakenly, following Semei Kakungulu’s annexation of the region after the declaration of Uganda as a British Protectorate. The region has continued to be known administratively as Bugisu, whereas the people are known as Bamasaba and their language as Lumasaba. Against the background of hostility from neighbouring communities, and as a means of self-preservation, the Bamasaba seem to have developed a strong sense of clan solidarity, and to have regarded strangers with suspicion and often hostility. This is in keeping with folk culture, which has been described thus: a rural, cohesive, conservative, largely self-sufficient group that is homogeneous in custom and race, with strong family or clan structure and highly developed rituals where order is maintained through sanctions based in religion or family, and inter-personal relationships are strong.6

Writing about them, J.B. Purvis observed: The clan feeling is very strong, and each individual is intensely loyal to the call of the clan in time of need. An insult offered to the humblest individual is offered to, and will be resented by, the whole clan. Consequently, clans are at

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Jordan–Bychkov & Domosh, The Human Mosaic, 33.

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variance. Their petty jealousies prevent any cordial co-operation or amalgamation.7

Much as the mountain ranges may have provided a safe haven away from attacks by hostile neighbouring communities, the Bamasaba had to contend with a hostile mountainous terrain, and, as John Roscoe observed, they “ventured down from the heights to cultivate their crops during daytime and climbed back to their homes in the evening.”8 However, with their evergrowing population, they could not continue living in the foothills and had to venture out in search of more land for cultivation and pasture for their animals. It has been observed that clans occupying the northerly and westerly slopes of Mt. Elgon in the Rift Valley, the largest and oldest solitary volcanic mountain anywhere in the world at base level, remained independent of British colonial control and that their exposure to the outside world came following the Uganda Agreement between the British represented by Sir Harry Johnston and the Buganda kingdom in 1900.9 Much as this irruption into their muchvaunted independence was resented and resisted by the Bamasaba, it brought them a measure of security. The introduction of control by central government reduced some of the inter-ethnic warfare, thereby enabling them to venture lower down to where the weather was warmer and more favourable to the growing of certain crops. It is interesting to note that this age-tested strategy is still in practice today. On a recent research tour with anthropology students through Bugisu to Karamoja, we noted a large swathe of cultivated fields but with no homesteads in the border area between the two districts. For fear of attacks by the Karimojong, people have moved away to live near Sironko, where there is a military and police presence, and come to work on their farms only during the day.

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J.B. Purvis, Through Uganda to Mount Elgon (London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1909):

274. 8

Roscoe, Northern Bantu, 162. Michael Twaddle, Kakungulu and the Creation of Uganda (Kampala: Fountain, 1993): 136. 9

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Stories of Fierce Warriors, and Claims of Cannibalism The Bamasaba have been described differently by different people, some accounts being neither flattering nor amusing, including such adjectives as ‘conservative’, ‘suspicious’, and ‘fierce warriors’. Harry Johnston even described them as “perhaps the wildest people to be found anywhere within the limits of the Uganda Protectorate,”10 and there have even been persistent claims that Bagisu eat people. In a country where a tiny minority practise the ritual of circumcision, and given the nature of initiatory ordeals culminating in a public display of bravery when candidates undergo circumcision without any anaesthetic, this claim may perhaps seem credible. Perhaps the earliest mention of the practice of cannibalism was by J.B. Purvis, a missionary who lived in Masabaland at the beginning of the last century. In his book Through Uganda to Mount Elgon, he linked the practice of throwing corpses in the bush to be eaten by hyenas to that of cannibalism: I have already referred to the custom of throwing out the dead practised at Masaba; and possibly this is responsible for, and not because of, the more loathsome custom of cannibalism. No Mugishu will own that he is guilty of such a practice, but every one says that some one else does it. Without doubt it is done and in a ghoulish manner; for the dead are not always left to the hyenas. The natives suggest that it is only done in the case of bitter enemies at war with each other…11

Another missionary, John Roscoe, writing over half a century later, refers to the community as a cannibal tribe. One suspects that Roscoe may have read the account of his predecessor missionary before setting out on his own study tours, as he was based in Nsambya, near Kampala, more than three hundred miles away, and only made trips to different parts of the country for purposes of research. Roscoe writes that a little after dusk the body of the dead person is carried from the village and deposited on the nearest waste land, and adds that soon after the relatives have returned from casting out the dead, certain old women proceed stealthily to the spot, cut up the body, and carry back portions to the village. These they cook for a sacred meal – restricted to relatives who have been fully initiated and who are now invited to partake of it in secret during the night.12 10

Purvis, Through Uganda, 268. Through Uganda, 352–53. 12 Roscoe, The Northern Bantu, 178. 11

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Women as Custodians and Preservers of Folktales It is quite obvious that the pivotal role women play in preserving and engendering cultural values couched in proverbs and folktales is often played down. Though men may know folktales, by and large the onus of disseminating them to younger generations seems to fall squarely on the shoulders of women. This may be largely due to the social structure, where women occupy the domestic space and stay with children for much longer than their male counterparts, who are mainly engaged in the social space. In the past, when education was mainly informal, girls would be educated by aunts and grandmothers, while boys would accompany the menfolk to graze animals and learn skills such as wrestling and hunting. But in the evening, these boys would join the girls in listening to folktales told by their mothers, aunts, and grandmothers around the fire while food cooked, or after supper before falling asleep. In the process of my research to collect folktales, proverbs, and idioms, it has been difficult to find men who were willing and ready to tell us folk stories. But, as expected, many were willing to tell us idioms and proverbs. We had hoped that women groups would provide a fertile ground for folktales, since it was traditionally women who told these stories to children around the fire. But with the advent of formal education, a major change seems to have occurred. Although a few women told us a few stories, the majority of them, in their twenties, thirties, and early forties, either could not remember any stories or could not remember the entire story. Surprisingly, however, boys and girls in their third and fourth years of primary-school education were the champions, as many of them had a litany of proverbs, idioms, and folktales to regale us with. When asked where they had learnt these folk stories, proverbs, and idioms, most said they acquired them from their grandmothers. When the generation of women who could not remember any folktales become grandmothers, they will have no such stories to tell their grandchildren. This seems to point to a problem in which many folktales, proverbs, and idioms are in danger of being lost unless urgently documented for posterity. With the advent of formal education, many children do not grow up with their grandparents. Those who do so do not have the luxury of sitting around the fire in the evening, as they have homework to deal with. Folktales and proverbs are repositories of cultural wisdom, and entertain while instructing. They mirror the historical and geographical problems, chal-

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lenges and aspirations of the composing community. Prescriptions and proscriptions are revealed and emphasized, as part of the larger process of equipping the young with cultural values and norms. They also contain fragments of important cultural history, embellished with legendary figures. Interspersed with songs, they are easy to imbibe, and assume more meaning as the individual grows older. But, over and above that, they reveal the immense repository of indigenous knowledge and wisdom inherent in the traditions of our forbears and existing among our different communities.

W O R K S C I TE D Barnard, Alan, & Jonathan Spencer, ed. Encyclopedia of Social and Cultural Anthropology (London: Routledge, 2006). Jordan–Bychkov, Terry G., & Mona Domosh. The Human Mosaic: A Thematic Introduction to Cultural Geography (New York: W.H. Freeman, 2003). Nzita, Richard, & Mbaga–Niwampa. Peoples and Cultures of Uganda (Kampala: Fountain, 1998). Purvis, J.B. Through Uganda to Mount Elgon (London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1909). Roscoe, John. The Northern Bantu: An Account of Some Central African Tribes of the Uganda Protectorate (London: Frank Cass, 1966). Twaddle, Michael. Kakungulu and the Creation of Uganda (Kampala: Fountain, 1993).

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———— º Mythical Implications in the Origin Stories of the Baganda and Bagishu ABSTRACT This essay is based on the arguments that arise as a result of our trying to categorize and re-categorize origin stories into myths or legends and vice versa. While legends are viewed as those stories that tell a more credible past, research has proven that myths about them, for all their ‘untruthfulness’, are more believable and have authority over legends and other historical narratives. This is because there has always been a tendency for people to hold so dear that which their myths identify them with. The major problem that this essay tackles is that of categorization which springs from ongoing research into the origin stories of the Baganda and Bagisu. By analysing the origin stories of these two ethnic groups, the essay shows how, first, as myths, they are a basis of language usage and a mode of structuring language as a way to store people’s values and norms of behaviour. It furthers shows, from interviews and discussions with different people on the matter, how interpretations have been made over time, to the extent of bringing these two ethnic groups into closer relation to what defines them. The essay concludes by showing the universal nature of myths, and how their belonging to a culture is not a matter of their existence in society but, rather, of the context in which their interpretation is made.

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centres on the difficulty of categorizing origin stories. For some scholars, and the people whose identity is defined in these stories, they are legends because when they are called thus, they are bound to be more believable. These and others reject the use of the word ‘myth’ because of its popular associations with something untrue. This study approaches the origin stories by analysing their language, structure, and themes in larger contexts, arguing that they should indeed be regarded as myths in a more specific sense of the term. Stories described as legends are often similar in their language to those described as myths, but may differ in referring to actual historical figures, whose existence is proven. These origin stories may well pass for legends because their characters are truly believed to have existed, but have elements that define them more properly as myths. N ONGOING BATTLE

”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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These arguments arise from a larger project that I am carrying out on the origin stories of the people of Central and Eastern Uganda, from the outset of which this problem of classification has been evident. I hope not to solve it, but instead to explore the issues involved and explain why I choose to categorize the stories as myths and not as legends. To many scholars, myths are those stories narrated about events of the remote past, explaining how and why society is the way it is today. The characters are mostly supernatural beings performing superhuman deeds that as a result make them heroes and exemplary figures. Mircea Eliade, for example, defines myths as those stories that narrate a sacred history that took place in primordial times, the fabled time of the beginning.1 In this view, myths are indeed a sacred history, sacred not in the restricted sense that they talk only about gods, but because there is an apparent social need for these stories and the events which they narrate among those to whom they refer, and to whose identity they are central. This analysis centres on two origin stories of two different tribes that, while not neighbouring one another, share something so significant that the stories have ceased to be mere hearsay and can actually be put to a simple test to see if they hold good. It has often been said that Kintu, the main character in the Ganda Myth, is actually Kundu the son of Mundu and Seera, the first Bagisu.2 In the story of the Bagisu, Mundu and Seera, the first man and woman, came out of a mountain and settled along the slopes. They gave birth to two sons, Kundu and Masaba. Kundu was trained to herd cattle while Masaba was trained to be a hunter. This was so that each member of the family had a specific task and everything could be prepared together. Mzee Weyawo explains that this kind of specialization helped because one was then sure to get at least something to eat at the end of the day. “If the traps do not yield then the cows will at least give milk if they are being looked after properly.”3 The story goes on to relate how, while Kundu is herding one day, high up in the mountain, he sees vast lands in the distance. He is mesmerized by the beauty of the lands and the only thing he can think about is how he will be able to graze his cows on their grass. So he leaves home. Later, Masaba, 1

Mircea Eliade, Myth and Reality (New York: Harper & Row, 1963): 6. See Wotsuna Khamalwa, “Myths and the Core Values: Circumcision of the mind,” in Performing Change: Identity, Ownership and Tradition in Ugandan Oral Culture, ed. Dominica Dipio, Lene Johannessen & Stuart Sillars (Oslo: Novus, 2009): 90–105. 3 In an interview, 23 April 2010. 2

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who has remained in his birthplace, meets a beautiful woman who agrees to marry him, but only if he is circumcised (to prove his manhood). He agrees to being circumcised. As suggested earlier, Kundu, who quits his home, is the Kintu of the origin story of the Baganda. As Kintu is herding his one cow, fearing that the rest have died, he is found by Nambi, who admires him and suggests that they should marry. He is taken to Nambi’s father and tested for manhood, in order to gain acceptance as her husband.4 Later, when they have built their home and had children, Walumbe, Nambi’s brother, begins killing their children one by one. Even Kayikuzi, the strongest, fails to make him go back home. And from that day to this, Walumbe – death – has stayed with us. Despite their apparent differences, these two stories are very similar on the level of language, in structure and events, and especially in the mythical aspects that they display.

Myth as Language and as Structured Language Our understanding of the concept of language in myth can occur on two levels, first as simple, plain language, or as individual words, and then as language (words) woven together to form that which we call myth. As Ernst Cassirer argues, “mythology is inevitable, it is an inherent necessity of language.”5 Language cannot develop without the daily constructions that people engage in with it to make it richer. We are always in the process of mythmaking even when we are least aware of it. That is why myth can be anything; it can be politics, it can be propaganda, “revelation or deception, sacred or vulgar, real or fictional, symbol or tool, archetype or stereotype,”6 all of which depend on the context in which these are being studied. As we engage with language in our everyday usage we discover or create proverbs and sayings, riddles, folk narratives, and then myths and legends. These, however, 4

See Saidah Namayanja, “Representations of Masculinity in Ganda Myth,” in Performing Change: Identity, Ownership and Tradition in Ugandan Oral Culture, ed. Dominica Dipio, Lene Johannessen & Stuart Sillars (Oslo: Novus, 2009): 106–20. 5 Ernst Cassirer, Language and Myth, tr. Susanne K. Langer (Sprache und Mythos: Ein Beitrag zum Problem der Götternamen, 1925; tr. 1946; Mineola N Y : Dover, 1953): 5. 6 Ivan Strenski, Four Theories of Myth in Twentieth Century History: Cassirer, Eliade, Lévi–Strauss and Malinowski (London: Macmillan, 1987): 1.

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take on a different identity altogether because of their content, which is more historical; but they still fall under the broad category of language. Language is therefore the strongest tool for realizing these myths, and it is true to say that the two are inseparable. The word ‘myth’ comes from a single Indo-European root *ma, realized in Greek as mythos, which means ‘speech’ and is related to ‘mother’ – hence the mother tongue.7 We learn everything through our mother tongues, suggesting that myths are also our mother tongues because they teach us our ancestry. Thinking about myths as language is both easy and highly complex. If considered as words of a language that belongs to a specific ethnic group or people, then myth might not be a difficult concept. But how, then, do we decipher myth as structured language? Take, for instance, a conversation between two people. The success of a conversation depends on the principle of turntaking; both or all the participants must be actively involved in the conversation if it is to be an effective dialogue. The basis of conversation in general is the principle of exchange, in which what one party has said elicits a direct reply. This may be a nod, or any other non-verbal reply, but it will be a reply all the same. In essence, myth, like conversation, is structured around such a pattern of statement and response, more generally developed into a relation of cause and effect. In the Bamasaba story, what causes Masaba to accept circumcision is the fact that the girl’s relatives will not allow him to marry their daughter if he has not proven his manhood. The practice ceases, only to be revived in order to abate a certain curse that has afflicted the sons of another Mugishu. They are told that the way to remove the curse is by circumcising the boys. It is then decided that all male sons will be circumcised, so that the curse is completely eliminated from society. Similarly, Kintu agrees to go through all the difficult tasks that he is given by his in-laws so as to marry Nambi. First and foremost, his cow is stolen, so he has nothing to feed on, as it was the only source of food. So he goes to Nambi’s home to get it. He expresses interest in Nambi, and this is when the tasks begin. One task leads to another because, as he proves himself, those around cannot believe that he has accomplished what he does, so they confront him with a more difficult challenge. When, finally, he is able to identify his cows among thousands, then that is when they let him take his wife. In this, the story demonstrates an exchange that resembles 7

Deeanne Westbrook, Ground Rules: Baseball and Myth (Urbana & Chicago: U of Illinois P , 1996): 5.

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that of a conversation, developed to the extent of involving a series of causes and their consequences that make up the components of a dialogue. Throughout stories of this kind, there is a marked plot. It begins with some sort of exposition, moves on to the stage of conflict, which is usually longer, and concludes with the resolution of this conflict. Claude Lévi–Strauss abstracts this process to assert that myths are systems of abstract relations and objects of aesthetic contemplation.8 This might seem obvious to the literary scholar, but it is not so evident to readers for whom myths have been described as tales of history. By placing emphasis on these literary aspects, I mean to qualify the myths as complex and very important structures that have gone through a complex process of creation and modification. In consequence, they exist both as explanations of origin and identity and as rich literary structures. Another aspect of language that is relevant to the discussion is the similarity of the two languages that the different tribes use, which perhaps might confirm the claim that the Baganda were actually Bagishu. I will begin with the two names ‘Kundu’ and ‘Kintu’. They sound very similar, and when written are almost the same. The only difference in these names is the ‘u’ and ‘d’ in the first one and the ‘i’and ‘t’ in the second, and this could be attributed to the fact that the Baganda do not have names beginning with ‘ku’. Ndawula emphasizes this in his speculations, saying that “perhaps it is true the Baganda were not actually the first on earth, so even with this name we could just have failed to pronounce the name of the man, which was Kundu, and we called him Kintu, which is more suitable to our language.”9 The other aspect of language I wish to consider is the similarity of the two languages of Luganda and Lumasaaba. Wangwe Arnold, in a private communication, has claimed that the Bagisu passed their language on to the Baganda, who, because they could not pronounce some of the words properly, simply modified them. The issue of who spoke the language first is highly contentious, but I will give examples of some words that are quite similar in writing, pronunciation, and meaning. In the circumcision ritual, one of the tools used is the ‘inyembe’, the circumciser’s knife. In Luganda there is also a tool which is used mostly for cutting in plantations and is called a ‘jembe’. 8

Claude Lévi–Strauss, The Savage Mind, tr. John & Doreen Weightman (La Pensée Sauvage, 1962; Chicago: U of Chicago P , 1968): 25. 9 Interview with Ndawula Peter at Kawempe, 10 June 2009.

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However, we should also note that most Bantu languages are quite similar in structure and in meaning, so this is not peculiar to these two tribes. The word ‘jembe’ has a Swahili origin, so it is not possible to say that it originates among the Bamasaba. In his analysis of the pre-eminence of kinship in the proverbs of the Bamasaaba, Wotsuna Khamalwa cites the proverb ‘bulebe munwa kwangaki kubimba kulyaasa’ (kinship is like missing teeth, which are camouflaged).10 Some words in this proverb, such as ‘munwa’ and ‘kubimba’, are very close to equivalents in other languages that have the same meaning. ‘Munwa’, which is ‘mumwa’ in Luganda, means mouth, and ‘kubimba’, which is spelt the same way, although the tone changes in pronunciation because Lumasaba is a very tonal language, means ‘to grow large, increase in size’. This is the meaning that is implied in the proverb – the mouth grows big in order to cover the missing teeth.

Sacred Customs These are perhaps the most important characteristics that identify a myth as different from other stories. The only reason why myths are sometimes not believed is that they show the sacred in such a superfluous way as to make it hard for some to believe it. The sacred involves not only the gods but also all those attributes of the story that must not be questioned, that encompass a people’s belief-system. The story of Kintu, for example, states that Kintu came from Gulu. ‘Gulu’ literally means ‘heaven’, so, in a way, this shows that he was sent by God. However, if one adds the morpheme ‘wa’ to make ‘wagulu’, the latter means ‘a place above’. This takes us back to where Kundu, who is believed to be Kintu, came from: the mountains, which in all senses are above the normal level of the ground. But, in whatever sense we choose to take the idea of Gulu in the story, it still remains one of the most sacred things in it. The fact that Kintu passes all the rather ambiguous tests is something extraordinary, and can thus be considered sacred because it reveals Kintu as superhuman. When he is given baskets of food to eat and many gourds of beer to drink, he is utterly confused. A hole opens up in the floor, into which he pours all the remaining food, but to the in-laws he has managed to eat it all. 10

Wotsuna Khamalwa, “Masaba Proverbs and the Pre-Eminence of Kinship,” in Performing Community: Essays on Ugandan Oral Culture, ed. Dominica Dipio, Lene Johannessen & Stuart Sillars (Oslo: Novus, 2008): 51–69.

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What is supernatural in this is how the hole opens up and how he gets the idea that he should pour all the food in it. Other tests take on the same quality. He is told to fetch wood cut from a rock, but when he cannot cut it a bolt of lightning splits the rock for him. He is told to fill a pot of drinking water with dew, which he cannot do; but suddenly the pot is filled with dew, which he takes to his father in-law. Even his in-laws think he is a supernatural hero, and for this reason grant him his wish to marry Nambi. Another issue that is sacred in this story is the idea of death. To the Baganda, the story of Kintu explains how death came about. Walumbe /death is not told about Nambi’s marriage, yet because, as her brother in-law, he is entitled to know, he decides to go down with her to earth. But Walumbe is feared because he causes havoc, and, not long after they have settled on earth, he begins his task of killing the children of Kintu and Nambi. The fact that this story explains the coming not only of life but also of death makes it sacred. In a place called Tanda there are very large holes that show where Walumbe disappeared after Kayikuzi, the brother of Nambi, tried to get him to go back to their father. The Baganda hold a belief that this is the reason we are buried in the ground, because that is where Walumbe /death takes whomever he wants to take. When it comes to the story of the Bamasaba, the very beginning shows that it is sacred. It begins with two people, a man and his wife, coming out of a hole in the mountain. The Bamasaba regard this as sacred and call themselves the people of the mountains because they believe they came from somewhere in the middle of mountain Elgon. In another development of the story, they hold elaborate ritualistic circumcision ceremonies. The ritual practices involved are believed to be true. For example, if one of the initiates cries or as much as drops a single tear during the actual cutting of the foreskin, this will bring a curse on the whole clan. Because of this belief, many do not move an inch during circumcision. In essence, this is done to prove that you are not fearful, and that you understand the importance of what you are doing, otherwise why should you do something which causes you so much pain. The Bamasaba believe strongly that any man who is not circumcised is not a man. If you agree to having the operation carried out but go to the hospital to have it done, it will not be regarded as valid, because you have thereby not shown publicly that you are brave. In fact, any Mugisu who goes to a hospital for circumcision is despised. Muslims who are also Bagishu, who would according to Muslim practice circumcise their babies at two weeks, either

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wait for the boy to grow up or, if he is circumcised, will later perform another operation in the traditional way. The importance of traditional circumcision for the Bamasaba lies more in the outcome than in the practice itself. This outcome begins with having become a man – ‘Musinde’ – and an educated man in the ways and beliefs of your people, because there is a great deal of instruction that goes on in the private gatherings of the initiates.

Myth as a Universal Story In order to comprehend myths we must consider the universality of the themes they contain. In his explanation of Ernst Cassirer’s theory of myth, Ivan Strenski notes that Cassirer observes that the tonality assumed by the particular concepts within mythical consciousness seems at first glance wholly individual, but to contain something which can only be felt but in no way known and understood. He further argues that beneath these individual phenomena there lies a universal quality which encompasses and determines the particular configuration of this thinking and, as it were, sets its imprint upon it.11 What Strenski is saying is that if we are able to read in myth that which is universal, that which encompasses all human beings and is not specific to a certain ethnic group or people, then we can claim to understand myth. While the Kintu story is specifically used to assign gender roles and the result is a partriarchal society,12 the Bamasaba concentrate on the aspect of manhood; but, as is clear from the earlier discussion, both myths elevate the men in their respective societies. In most African settings, men are always treated as superior, thus making this something quite universal. We can also try to see if these two myths are universal by looking within them rather than at their social settings. The events recounted in them show a certain degree of similarity, even though one comes from the people from the far east and the other from the people of central Uganda. Colin Falck asserts that myth is a universal phenomenon, “not merely as a primitive residue which has not yet been superseded by rationality or true belief, but seemingly a contining substratum of the basic structures of experiencing.”13 These structures of experience are the processes described in the origin stories, such as 11

Ivan Strenski, Four Theories of Myth in Twentieth Century History, 29. Namayanja, “Representations of Masculinity,” 106–20. 13 Colin Falck, Myth, Truth and Literature: Towards a True Post-Modernism (Cambridge: Cambridge U P , 2nd ed. 1994): 129, quoted in Westbrook, Ground Rules: Baseball and Myth, 7–8. 12

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the practice of going through tests to prove your worth, which is initiated by the young woman in both stories. In the Kintu story of the Baganda, Kintu is made to go through several tests, today represented by the things the bridegroom takes to his in-laws and the questions asked during the traditional marriage ceremony. Similarly, the practice of circumcision among the Bugishu came at the insistence of the bride’s parents. Thus, in a sense, these myths are similar both in content and in meaning – something which connects them and the people to whom they belong.

Contextualizing Myth To understand these myths, they should not be removed from their specific contexts, because some customs and beliefs are specific to certain societies. Certainly, circumcision as a sacred custom is not only carried out by the Bagishu; but what makes it particular to them is the way it is carried out and the ritual that goes along with it. To the Bagisu, the year of circumcision (which is usually an even year) begins with festive dances, which continue throughout the year. The would-be initiates are the ones mostly involved in the dances, to express their interest in becoming men. The circumcising tribes in Kenya follow a broadly similar practice; Muslim societies, conversely, treat it as a religious practice, which must be carried out as soon as a boy is born, and with little or no social ritual. But it is to be noted that a brief prayer is performed before the actual cutting of the foreskin. In a sense, then, circumcision becomes a universal practice as long as its underlying concept of the spiritual is understood in the context in which it is carried out. The creative process of myths is dynamic and complex. Myths change in structure and meaning as they are retold to different people. In a way, societies are always trying to re-invent their own traditions.14 Like the cultures of which they are part, they are constantly changing. Myths themselves may not change so much, but the interpretation placed on them is bound to change to suit the changing times. Trying to treat an origin story as a myth is no easy task, because of the element of falsehood that the word ‘myth’ carries with it. However, if myth is to be understood as an aspect of language, then this conventional aspect of its 14

See Eric Hobsbawm & Terence O. Ranger, The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge U P , 1983).

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meaning is removed. Myth is a synthesis of values which uniquely manages to mean most things to most men. For the interpreters, the people in the society that uses these myths, it is a case of endowing them with new meanings to explain the events that take place in their own time. This is why it is very important to interpret these myths in the specific contexts in which they are told. Myths will always live with us. As Westbrook further argues, a myth is not something humans outgrow, or that evolve beyond them so that they become as useless as the appendix: instead, it is something that societies retain as a way of making sense of the world in which they live.15 This is why this research is important: it tackles the core of our understanding and the basis for it, which is myth.

W O R K S C I TE D Cassirer, Ernst. Language and Myth, tr. Susanne K. Langer (Sprache und Mythos: Ein Beitrag zum Problem der Götternamen, 1925; tr. 1946; Mineola N Y : Dover, 1953). Eliade, Mircea. Myth and Reality (New York: Harper & Row, 1963). Falck, Colin. Myth, Truth and Literature: Towards a True Post-Modernism (Cambridge: Cambridge U P , 2nd ed. 1994). Hobsbawm, Eric, & Terence O. Ranger. The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge U P , 1983). Khamalwa, Wotsuna. “Masaaba Proverbs and the Pre-Eminence of Kinship,” in Performing Community: Essays on Ugandan Oral Culture, ed. Dominica Dipio, Lene Johannessen & Stuart Sillars (Oslo: Novus, 2008): 51–69. ——. “Myths and the Core Values: Circumcision of the Mind,” in Performing Change: Identity, Ownership and Tradition in Ugandan Oral Culture, ed. Dominica Dipio, Lene Johannessen & Stuart Sillars (Oslo: Novus, 2009): 90–105. Lévi–Strauss, Claude. The Savage Mind, tr. John & Doreen Weightman (La Pensée Sauvage, 1962; Chicago: U of Chicago P , 1968). Namayanja, Saidah. “Representations of Masculinity in Ganda Myth,” in Performing Change: Identity, Ownership and Tradition in Ugandan Oral Culture, ed. Dominica Dipio, Lene Johannessen & Stuart Sillars (Oslo: Novus, 2009): 106–20. Strenski, Ivan. Four Theories of Myth in Twentieth Century History: Cassirer, Eliade, Lévi–Strauss and Malinowski (London: Macmillan, 1987). Westbrook, Deeanne. Ground Rules: Baseball and Myth (Urbana & Chicago: U of Illinois P , 1996).

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Westbrook, Ground Rules: Baseball and Myth, 6.

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———— º The Concept of Heroism Among the Bunyoro ABSTRACT This essay looks at how the Banyoro perceive, present, and use the concept of heroism. It was inspired by the Republic of Uganda’s honouring of Omukama Kabalega and other Banyoro as national heroes in 2009. My interest is in exploring whether the concept of heroism has ever existed and, if so, whether it is evolving to fit current circumstances. What yardstick did our ancestors use in awarding Ekondo (the crown) and what are the current ones? I will explore the current Bajwarakondo (crown-wearers) to afford an insight into such questions as: where and who are the role-models? How can they inspire people to combat the challenges facing Bunyoro, such as poverty? Who is a hero (Omujwarakondo) in the Bunyoro of the twenty-first century? The general feeling among all respondents was that Bunyoro and Uganda at large need to borrow from the traditional Kinyoro parameters of electing heroes. There is a need to reconstruct Emanzi (the hero / heroine) in Kinyoro folklore so that its relevance for the masses can be felt even if it is by way of showcasing role-models (who were apparently few). Such role-models would be seen to inspire more heroes and thus lead to further social development.

The Omujwarakondo Custom In Africa […] traditional modes of life are a major factor in shaping public policy. (Christopher B. Sabiiti, Chairperson of the BunyoroKitara Clan Council, 1991). Abantu emanzi, nibo bajwara Ekondo (It is heroes / heroines who receive honours / medals). (Runyoro adage).

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N T R A D I T I O N A L B U N Y O R O , the custom of Omujwarakondo remains current. The Omujwarakondo can be any person from any clan who has done something extraordinary for the Bakitara.1 The honoured Bajwara-

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The people of Bunyoro Kitara Kingdom (the Banyoro) are sometimes called the Bakitara to mean the people of Kitara Kingdom. They are also commonly called Banyoro (plural) and Munyoro (singular); the language is Runyoro-Rutooro. ”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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kondo would form the council of chiefs to advise the Omukama on various issues.2 These Bajwarakondo came from various places, and would further advise the king on the next heroes to be honoured. The honour usually came with many gifts such as land, a medal, cows, and status. One became a chief by virtue of being Omujwarakondo. The Banyoro live in western Uganda on the east of Lake Albert (locally called Mwitanzige). They inhabit the present districts of Hoima, Masindi, Kibale, and Buliisa. They speak a Bantu language, Runyoro-Rutooro, and their origins, as with other Bantu, can be traced to the Congo region. In the traditional Bunyoro-Kitara Empire, the Banyoro were politically organized under a king (Omukama). The King was the commander-in-chief of the armed forces and each provincial chief was the commander of a military detachment stationed in his province. The King was assisted by a council of advisors known as the Bajwarankondo (wearers of crowns made from monkey skins)3 and, in administrative matters, by the provincial chiefs and a council of notables. Owekitiinisa Henry Ford Mirima,4 who is the press secretary of the Omukama of Bunyoro-Kitara, explains that the Banyoro have had the concept of heroism since time immemorial. The title of Ekondo was given principally to Banyoro military commanders, but could be awarded to anybody living in Bunyoro who had achieved victory over Bunyoro’s adversaries. Bunyoro-

2

‘Omukama’ (king) comes from the verb ‘kukama’ (‘to milk’). ‘Omukama’ thus means the ‘milker’. A good king milks the cows of prosperity to nourish his people. 3 http://www.ugandatravelguide.com/bunyoro-culture.html and http://www.bunyoro -kitara.com (accessed 13 June 2010). See also: Carole A. Buchanan, “The Kitara Complex: The Historical Tradition of Western Uganda to the 16th Century” (doctoral dissertation, Indiana University, 1973); John Beattie, The Nyoro State (London: Oxford U P , 1971); J.W. Nyakatura, Anatomy of an African Kingdom: A History of BunyoroKitara, ed. G.N. Uzoigwe, tr. Teopista Muganwa (Garden City N Y : Doubleday, 1973). 4 Interview with Henry Ford Mirima on 29 March 2010, in which he gave detailed information about heroism in Bunyoro. Mirima is a former spokesperson of the Bunyoro-Kitara kingdom and a journalist by profession. He is also the Press Secretary of the Omukama of Bunyoro-Kitara, Gafabusa Iguru. See http://ugandansatheart.word press.com/tag/henry-ford-mirima (accessed 23 June 2010). Mirima has debated in the media on issues concerning Bunyoro. One of his controversial debates on the Internet can be found at http://ekitibwakyabuganda.wordpress.com/2010/01/01/did-the-bunyorokatuguuza-incident-happen-or-not (accessed 23 June 2010).

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Kitara, like other traditional kingdoms, was a warring state that expanded her territory by conquering and subjugating her neighbours. Mirima elaborates: It is possible that in Uganda’s cultural institutions only Bunyoro-Kitara Kingdom has got traditional, cultural, knighthoods for recognizing people’s heroic performance. Bunyoro-Kitara Kingdom awards the knighthood, ekitiinisa (honour), of Omukwarakondo (crown wearer), in recognition of a person’s heroic acts.5

What might be seen as postmodern in the Bunyoro view of heroism is that anybody could indeed become a hero, as long as the society saw the person as befitting this designation. This is in line with Dominica Dipio’s analysis of a hero: There is a symbiotic relationship between a hero and the community he emerges from, for no one can become a hero without the community’s consent. Communities recognize and acknowledge them because heroes represent the good, the true, and the noble. Heroes receive the community’s recognition because they synchronize its values and live with them, in a challenging and inspirational manner.6

Unlike the classical hero, who must be of royal descent, the Munyoro hero can be either royal or an ordinary person who has done something extraordinary in the interests of the community. What is important is that, by implication, the community makes the hero. However, the values of the people are not static but keep changing, so that the criteria by which the hero is chosen also change. Byabagambi and many other respondents agree: a hero is somebody who is consistent, straight (morally upright) and can stick to his goal or idea for as many years as possible. A hero surrenders himself for the interest of others especially the majority.7

5

Interview with Henry Ford Mirima, 29 March 2010. Dominic Dipio, “Reconstruction of Traditional Heroism in Contemporary Contexts: The Case of Princess Koogere Atwooki of Tooro,” in Performing Change: Identity, Ownership and Tradition in Ugandan Oral Culture, ed. Dominica Dipio, Lene Johannessen & Stuart Sillars (Oslo: Novus, 2009): 161. 7 Personal interview with Byabagambi Gerald (police officer attached to Hoima Police), 25 June 2010. He was born in Bugangaizi, Kibale.The name of the hero that comes instantly to his memory is Kazairwe. 6

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The challenges of Bunyoro have changed and thus there is need for new ways of identifying heroes. We realize that, today, Byabagambi could not honour only warriors as heroes. From traditional to modern Bunyoro society, Banyoro heroes and heroines have some elements of an epic hero, a tragic hero in the Aristotelean mould, and a modern tragic hero. But, traditionally, Banyoro’s recognition of heroism was based on military prowess. All the old Bajwarakondo (crown-wearers) achieved their honour because of their military heroism.8 Mirima says that the heroes have become legends of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries: The most renowned Mujwarakondo is Joseph Mujoobe Kazairwe. He was knighted in 1965 by Omukama Tito Winyi. He was knighted together with Kosia Rwebembera, son of Kikukuule, Erisa Kaliisa and Prime Minister Milton Obote. Rwebembera and Kaliisa were recognised for their contribution towards the freedom of the lost counties, while Prime Minister Milton Obote, a nonMunyoro, who later became the President of Uganda, was knighted for having ensured that the Referendum Act of 1964 was enacted by parliament, and that the referendum was transparently conducted. There are other Banyoro who had previously got this knighthood, like military commanders Rwabudongo, Ireeta, Byabacwezi Kikukuule among others. To date we have two living Bakwarakondos: Neeriko (Henry) Bamuseeha and Andereya Kalibeera (Lubega).9

Bunyoro-Kitara faced many challenges, the most serious during the reign of Omukama Kabalega. Just when King Kabalega was recovering the territories lost to the aggressive Buganda and the erratic Tooro prince Kasagama, the 8

Interview with Henry Ford Mirima, 29 March 2010. Interview with Henry Ford Mirima, 29 March 2010. Lost counties (Bugangaizi, Buyaga) are counties that had been annexed by Buganda Kingdom during colonial times but were returned to Bunyoro in 1964. There are many counties that were given to Buganda Kingdom by the British colonialists: namely, Buheekura, Buruuli, Bunyara (Bugerere), and Rugonjo (parts of Bulemeezi and Singo). See also Christopher B. Sabitti, paper presented at a Federal Constitutional Seminar at Pope Paul Memorial Community Centre (9–10 May 1991), http://www.federo.com/index.php?id=104 (accessed 15 June 2010). Sabitti was a chairperson of the Bunyoro Clans council in 1991. Sabitti chronicles the problems that were faced by the Bunyoro-Kitara Empire. He argues: “Just when Bunyoro-Kitara was beginning to pick up culturally in the reign of the Omukama Sir Tito Gafabusa Winyi IV (1924–67 years of reigning) Milton Obote struck, starting a fresh era of terror and violence upon our people; an era of such consequences that to-day even the name of Bunyoro-Kitara has been erased from the map of Uganda.” 9

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British imperialists came and changed the course of events. The following extract from the Bunyoro website summarizes some of the nineteenth- and twentieth-century Bunyoro tribulations: In 1869, Kabalega succeeded his father Kamurasi as the King of BunyoroKitara and he tried to reorganize and reconquer the lost glory of BunyoroKitara. He trained and equipped his new standing army (the Abarusula). He embarked on wars of recapture. He started with Toro and then Chope. As he was beginning to move against Buganda, the British colonialists arrived. They supported Toro and Buganda against Kabalega and defeated and exiled him to Seychelles in 1899. Some of Bunyoro’s provinces of Bugangaizi and Buyaga were given to Buganda. This left Bunyoro with only the present districts of Hoima and Masindi.10

The struggle for the return of the two lost counties to Bunyoro is the major story behind the legends of the Kazairwe, Neeriko Bamuseeha Rwakinembe, Andereya Kalibeera (Lubega), Erisa Kaliisa, and Kosia Rwebembera. The annexing of Bunyoro counties to Buganda saw the Banyoro devise many different means to attain their freedom. The Baganda chiefs were ruthless, and imposed Kiganda culture on the indigenous Banyoro. The then president Milton Obote resolved the problem by holding a referendum in 1964. This eased the problem temporarily, but the aftermath of both local and foreign imperialism is still felt today. There are problems of language and identity: the people of Kibale district speak a hybrid of Runyoro and Luganda, and some of the people still have Kiganda names yet they are Banyoro, which causes segregation and stigma. They cannot fit well into the two ethnicities. The escapades of Kazairwe as narrated by Henry Ford Mirima highlight further the problems discussed above, and reflected below. Joseph Mujoobe Kazairwe is a modern legend, whose name reigns today. His heroic acts range from his military leadership of the Mubende Banyoro Committee from 1951 to the time of his death in 2003. He died still struggling to get full independence for the lost counties. Bunyoro, the once great empire, lost most of her territory and crumbled to the current state of four districts. However, the two counties that form three-quarters of the district of Kibale 10

http://www.ugandatravelguide.com/bunyoro-culture.html (accessed 13 June 2010). For related information, see also M.S.N. Kiwanuka, The Empire of BunyoroKitara: Myth or Reality? (Makerere History Papers, Kampala, 1968): 13–14, and J.W. Nyakatura, Anatomy of an African Kingdom: A History of Bunyoro-Kitara.

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are still under contention, as the absentee Baganda landlords want to be compensated for the loss of the land that was given to them by the British colonialists. Kazairwe’s heroism is recognized by his introduction of militarism in the lost counties’ struggle in 1951. Before he was elected leader of the Mubende Banyoro Committee, the Banyoro were meekly content with demanding chieftainships and to be allowed to speak Runyoro-Rutooro, their mother tongue. Apparently the Baganda chiefs had passed a decree directing that people speak only Luganda. Whenever a child was born, they would take over the naming. Since Buganda and Bunyoro have similar clan systems, the Ganda chiefs would name a Munyoro child according to the corresponding Kiganda clan names. This Kazairwe could not withstand, which is why the people of Kibaale even today still have Kiganda names. Upon election as Secretary-General of the organization, Kazairwe changed course and told Banyoro that they must use military tactics in order to regain the counties from Baganda. Hence, from 1951 onwards, Mubende Banyoro Committee youths began using military tactics to harass Baganda and drive them out of the lost counties. Because of these military tactics, the Baganda vacated chieftainships in the lost counties and returned to Buganda, where they came from. When Kazairwe was arrested by Baganda in 1963 he sent military command messages from jail and continued to conduct the struggle from there. One memorable act he performed while in jail was to organize Banyoro to go and burn the residence of the Muganda county chief, Kyambalango of Buyaga, Kibaale. The residence was burnt using petrol collected from Bujuni Catholic Parish. Kazairwe persisted in the struggle, directing it from jail in Kampala until the referendum of 1964 was held and Banyoro overwhelmingly won it. For his heroic struggle to wrest the lost counties from Buganda, Kazairwe was awarded the Kinyoro knighthood of Omujwarakondo in 1965 by Omukama Sir Tito Winyi, becoming a chief as a result. Earlier, Kazairwe was a combatant in World War Two. He acquired the rank of sergeant in the King’s African Rifles (K A R ). In 1971, the then president of Uganda, Idi Amin, toured Bunyoro and spotted Kazairwe’s military medals on his chest. These had been acquired on the battlefield in the war in Burma. Amin, militaristic and a field-marshal, acknowledged Kazairwe’s participation in World War Two by unilaterally promoting him from the post of a mere county chief to that of Assistant District Commissioner. Despite this, Kazairwe is remembered more as an active advocate for Banyoro freedom in his struggle to return the lost counties and land to the Banyoro. He persisted in

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his desire for the freedom of Bunyoro from Bagandan imperialism. The Mubende Banyoro Committee still exists, and is one of the popular activist groups in Bunyoro. His funeral in 2003, as befits a a modern hero, was broadcast live on Kagadi radio, and the flags in Bunyoro-Kitara kingdom flew at half-mast during the days of mourning. He was succeeded by his children, who have maintained his activism and continue to immortalize his name. Indeed, Kazairwe is a legend and a hero. Aaron Mushengyezi, quoting Isidore Okpewho, gives the definition of legends as “stories that may be defined as accounts of historical personalities or events that are so memorable that they deserve to be constantly reminisced over.”11

Heroism in Present-Day Bunyoro In Bunyoro today, the Omukama, His Highness Agutamba Solomon Gafabusa Iguru,12 is rejuvenating the concept of Omujwarakondo in his administration. African scholars argue that there is a need to look back into the past to shape the future. Iguru is aware of the cultural setback to which history subjected his people. Bunyoro faced the wrath of President Milton Obote in 1967, when he abolished all Kingdoms. The Kingdom and her citizens, who had been used to the caretaking hand of the Omukama, had to adjust to the central government, which seemed far too rich for their liking and failed to provide the guidance, security, and unity that the King had provided. Since Bunyoro had suffered cruelty at the hand of the British, the Baganda, and now through President Obote’s abolition of the Kingdom, the people had lost their own cultural identity. The Banyoro were segregated in punishment for their resistance to the foreign and local imperialists. They had to work an extra load to achieve 11

Aaron Mushengyezi, “Heroic Women in Ankole and Kigezi Legend,” in Performing Change: Identity, Ownership and Tradition in Ugandan Oral Culture, ed. Dominica Dipio, Lene Johannessen & Stuart Sillars (Oslo: Novus, 2009): 72. 12 See http://www.bunyoro-kitara.com (accessed 5 May 2010). “Welcome to the official web site of Bunyoro-Kitara kingdom – the oldest Kingdom in East Africa and once the strongest military & economic power in the Great Lakes area. Get an insight of the Kingdom’s inspiring history, its rich culture, development projects and what the King, His Highness Agutamba Solomon Gafabusa Iguru and the Royal family is up to lately.”

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success. For a Munyoro to go to a good school in central Uganda, he had to adopt a Kiganda name and conceal his true identity. Christopher B. Sabiiti argues: This terror upon our people which started 100 years ago with the wars of Captain Lugard in 1891 has created an inferiority complex. Some Banyoro to-day will hesitate to speak their own tongue on the streets of Kampala, Nairobi, London, or New York. In many areas the Banyoro do not speak their own language until challenged to do so. In Mubende District Runyoro is spoken secretly. Professor Beattie reports that Banyoro-conscripts in the First and Second World War registered as Baganda for fear of the consequences of registering as Banyoro. Bunyoro-Kitara suffers from a crisis of identity and lack of vested interests. In turn, these are worsened by the lack of power to effect development.13

When the administration of President Yoweri Museveni restored the traditional cultural institutions in 1993, Prince Solomon Gafabusa Iguru, a descendant of Kabalega, was installed as an heir to the throne of Bunyoro. Unlike his ancestors, he is a cultural leader with no political and administrative power. Nevertheless, under his patronage, the Banyoro are striving to salvage and maintain what they can of their age-old culture. Omukama Iguru is aware of his history and the feelings of his citizens, who have never ceased to blame the British for the quagmire they are stuck in. In Bunyoro, even children know that the events from the time of the declaration of the war against Kabalega (1891–99) did not favour a stable cultural situation. The events worked directly against Banyoro, with poverty, death, disease, hunger, ostracism, and a deliberate policy to underdevelop Bunyoro. The Banyoro people in other areas were sometimes persecuted and treated as second-class citizens. Sabiiti confirms this from his own experience: I met a group of young men while escorting the Agutamba of Bunyoro-Kitara on his tour of cultural sites. I was amazed to hear that some of these young people spoke Runyoro secretly. Although I was not disposed to believe them, this showed me the extent of cultural alienation in areas that are no longer part of Bunyoro-Kitara. It is amazing!14

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Christopher B. Sabitti, contribution to a Federal Constitutional Seminar at Pope Paul Memorial Community Centre 9–10 May 1991. http://www.federo.com/index.php ?id=104 (accessed 15 June 2010). 14 Sabitti, seminar contribution.

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Omukama Gafabusa Iguru is today making an effort to borrow from the administrative tactics of his ancestors, and has embraced the Omujwarakondo tradition. In 2008 and 2009, Omukama Iguru named two heroes from Kibale: Neeriko Bamuseeha Rwakinembe and Andereya Kalibeera (Lubega). As discussed above, Kibale is one of the most troubled districts in the Bunyoro region. Henry Ford Mirima briefly recounted to me the ordeal that led to Rwakinembe’s and Kalibeera’s knighthood. Neeriko (Henry) Bamuseeha Rwakinembe, of Kirangwa village, Bwamiramira sub-county, Buyanja County, Kibaale District, Bunyoro-Kitara Kingdom, was knighted in 2008 by Omukama Solomon Gafabusa Iguru, in recognition of his heroic acts in the struggle for the seven lost counties. He was a very active youth, mobilizing his coevals around Kaaruguuza, Kirangwa, and Kibingo. One of his most memorable heroic acts was when, in 1961, he took a gun and, in broad daylight, marched through the streets of Karuguuza trading centre, loudly calling upon everybody to follow him because he was going to kill a Muganda magistrate at Kibaale magistrates’ court who was jailing Banyoro for no other reason than speaking their mother tongue, Runyoro-Rutooro. He got about twenty youths to follow him. He went and found the Muganda magistrate in session sentencing Banyoro to jail. He courageously raised his gun and shot three times in the lower parts of the magistrate’s body, seriously wounding him; he then made him close session and told him to run very fast and to return to Buganda, Mengo, and send the message to the Buganda kingdom that the Banyoro were fed up with their rule, and that all Baganda must leave Buyaga County. The magistrate limped away, dripping blood, and went to Mubende, where he got transport to return to Buganda. The message reached Buganda kingdom, the main purpose of the attack, and Buganda kingdom never replaced the magistrate. From that day on, Banyoro have freely and openly spoken their language without interference from Baganda. Rwakinembe also commanded youths to storm Kibaale prison, setting free scores of freedom fighters. Arrested for the actions of some youths who, in the process of protesting, looted shops, he was sentenced to fourteen years with hard labour at Mutukula. For these heroic acts, Neeriko Rwakinembe was awarded the Kinyoro honour of Omujwarakondo. Andereya Kalibeera (Lubega) is from Buyaga, Kibale. Kalibeera’s heroic acts also occurred during his participation in the military struggle for the lost

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counties from 1953 to 1965. Kalibeera was a shaper of opinion and, highly effective in mobilizing fighters, in 1953 was appointed a representative to the Buganda Lukiiko along with Joseph Mujobe Kazairwe and Yakobo Mukasa. These three strong men led fellow Banyoro in resisting Buganda rule. Kalibeera was involved in fighting Kabaka’s Kawonawos (militants) who had been sent to Buyaga County to vote against Banyoro in the Buyaga /Bugangaizi 1964 referendum. Before the referendum, the riots and fighting between Baganda and Banyoro were at their most intensive. The press at the time was not covering activities in these lost counties, and it will never be known how many people, Baganda and Banyoro, were killed in this struggle. On the Bunyoro side, the struggle was conducted mainly by three members of Buganda Lukiiko, Kazairwe, Kalibeera, and Yakobo Mukasa. First and foremost, in 1953, they refused to speak Luganda in the Lukiiko. They said they had been elected by Banyoro, and therefore they had to speak the language of their constituents. Ironically, Kalibeera had a Kiganda name forced on him (Lubega) but he refused to speak Luganda. Kalibera and his two colleagues were dismissed from the Lukiiko. However, they instituted a legal case in the High Court. They won the case and were returned to the Lukiiko. On their return, they continued to speak Runyoro, while other members spoke Luganda. Their refusal to speak Luganda, the language of the oppressor, was seen as an heroic act for Banyoro. Andereya Kalibeera (Lubega) was knighted by Omukama Solomon Gafabusa Iguru in 2009 in recognition of his contribution to this struggle. Scholars of cultural studies, anthropology, and literature argue that if you take away language from a people, they are left baseless. Ng×g´ wa Thiong’o argues that, through language, the people’s way of life is passed on to future generations. The Banyoro thus risked extinction if they were to relinquish their god-given heritage Runyoro.15 Through the concept of Omujwarakondo, we realize that the concept of heroism is shifting from a warrior’s exploits on the battlefield to other aspects of life that are currently relevant. Omukama Gafabusa Iguru knighted Kalibeera for his efforts in ensuring that Runyoro is spoken by the Banyoro. During the June 2010 Empango16 celebration, Iguru knighted Henry Kajura Muganwa for his achievements on behalf of Bunyoro: 15

See Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Decolonising the Mind (Nairobi: Heinemann, 1986). See http://www.ugandatravelguide.com/bunyoro-culture.html (accessed 5 May 2010): 16

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Omukama Gafabusa Iguru elevated the 2nd Deputy Prime Minister and Minister of Public Service Hon. Henry Muganwa Kajura, to a prestigious Ekondo status which makes Mr. Kajura one of the caretakers of the Kingdom.17

At the time of writing, Omukama Iguru is awarding the title of Omujwarakondo to distinguished Banyoro so as to create role-models in the region. However, people feel that he still has the mind-set of the traditional yardstick of heroism. There is a tendency on the part of the Bunyoro and Uganda govThe Banyoro observed the new moon ceremonies. During a new moon ceremony, people would assemble at the King’s courts to dance to the tune of the music played by the royal bands-men. This was to celebrate the Omukama for having lived to see the new moon. The royal band, which comprised about twenty men, performed the ceremony. They participated in relays, playing drums, flutes and other wind instruments. The festivities of the new moon would go on for a few days at the King’s palace. There was also an annual cerebration which used to continue for a period of nine days, with seven days celebrated at the King’s mother’s enclosure. This ceremony Empango was normally held in the dry season between December and January. During the colonial period, this ceremony was modified and it was carried out once in three years for two to three days. Today the Empango ceremony is celebrated annually for one day on the coronation anniversary of the King, but there are cultural rituals and preparations that last two to three days. It is one of the most popular activities in Bunyoro Kingdom; it is usually also embraced by Banyoro from the diaspora, other cultural leaders, and the central government. 17 See “President Museveni hails King Iguru at Bunyoro Empango,” http://www .weinformers.net/2010/06/14/president-museveni-hails-bunyoro-king-iguru-at-bynyoroempango (accessed 16 June 2010). The president said: I am happy the Omukama has demystified the fact that the people in the North and South are not different; they are one people. I wonder why some people waste time working to divide people instead of uniting them. We shall not allow it. We shed blood to bring about unity of our people and shall explain to the masses the importance of unity and integration of East Africa and Africa. Kingdoms and traditional leadership is for uniting and not dividing people and no one should dream otherwise. We realize that Iguru is putting effort in educating his people about their heroic history and advocating for unity. According to him, the Bantu and the Nilotics, were all once part of BunyoroKitara, so they should be united instead of getting divided on small differences that are caused by political opportunists.

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ernment to look at heroism in terms of war. The respondents I interviewed, by contrast, saw heroes in terms of modern challenges. Heroes have to be selfless and to show exemplary leadership that benefits the masses, by fronting up to the struggle for much-desired social needs such as medication, food, shelter, education, and good health, and for the human rights that give them liberty to express themselves. Byabagambi views Omujwarakondo as a person who “sacrifices for the good of others for example, can give land for the construction of a school, hospital, a sports pitch.” This is not usually evident when one analyses the list of national heroes, made up as it is of politicians and people who helped during the national liberation war. Bunyoro has many problems, and the tradition of Omujwarakondo can be used to accelerate the slow pace of its development. Byabagambi argues that there are many heroes that are not recognized “because they are not rich and they are not known.” The king and any other responsible people should use the concept of heroism so as to recognize people who will inspire others in one way or another. For example: Babi Ali organized people to demonstrate and they walked miles to Kampala to demonstrate the anguish of the Banyoro over the slowed down construction of the Busunju–Hoima road in 2004. This is a hero that our children can emulate. I insist a hero should be someone focusing on the development of Bunyoro and Uganda at large. You know things are not okay in the country and more especially in Bunyoro. But Babi Ali and his colleagues have not been recognized, in fact some political opportunists called their action anti-government.18

This shows that for one to be considered as Omujwarakondo, he must be rich or should have fought physically to defend Bunyoro or Uganda in one way or another. But Dipio argues that in the modern world a hero is one who is committed to creating and defending values that promote life and is endowed with the moral strength and stamina that can carry him or her through challenging situation […]. A hero may be defeated but he must remain undaunted in pursuit of his goals.19

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Personal interview (25 June 2010) with Byabagambi Gerald (police officer attached to Hoima Police), born in Bugangaizi, Kibale. The name that comes instantly to his memory is Kazairwe. 19 Dominica Dipio, “Reconstruction of Traditional Heroism in Contemporary Contexts: The Case of Princess Koogere Atwooki of Tooro,” Performing Change: Identity,

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The modern hero, an ordinary, morally upright person, should see and act beyond simplistic politicking. In Uganda we lack role-models. The youth who are the future of the country are a majority. However, they have few or no role-models to emulate. It is for this reason that they end up copying foreign behaviour from popular art (television, film, and music). The concept of Omujwarakondo has been infiltrated by party politics. As Mugisa Joseph argues, the stakeholder’s parameter for choosing heroes is no longer majorly merit but the political party one belongs to and the general ideological standpoint. This has become a problem because the qualified role-models: good politicians, the hard working teachers, nurses, artists, selfless people are never looked at objectively.20

Generally, people work without the hope of ever being recognized, but they dare to face challenges in order to solve their immediate problems. For example, in 2010 Mujwarakondo Henry Kajura Muganwa was awarded the honour because he is one of the influential elders in the kingdom. He has supported all activities in the kingdom financially and morally, and he lobbies for that kingdom, since he is in government and the kingdom has no political power. Beatrice Kagubaza Bigirwa believes that the Omujwarakondo is someone, young or old, who works for the development of the people and our heritage: In Bunyoro, we have people who struggle every Sunday to teach the language Runyoro-Rutooro to the people on the radio. They teach our customs and beliefs to us. You know Bunyoro welcomes everybody and currently there are many non Banyoro in this area who speak our language, sometimes new dialects have developed […] the hybridization is causing a new culture. Our children go to other areas and bring back bad behavior like homosexuality. So having people stand their ground and teach us every day the ways of social conduct in Runyoro is being heroic.21 Ownership and Tradition in Ugandan Oral Culture, ed. Dominica Dipio, Lene Johannessen & Stuart Sillars (Oslo: Novus, 2009): 163. 20 Interview with Mugisa Joseph Amooti of Hoima Bulindi, Kyabigambire, 23 June 2010. 21 Personal interview with Beatrice Kagubaza Bigirwa of Parakwoki, Kitoba subcounty, Bugahya county, Hoima, 23 June 2010.Personal interview with Bigirwa Julius Mucwa of Parakwoki, Kitoba sub-county Bugahya county, Hoima, 23 June 2010.

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On the above idea, Julius Bigirwa Mucwa adds that an Emanzi (hero) is someone who is courageous and fearless so that, even in times of danger, she or he will face it to save a multitude of other people. He concludes: His Highness Iguru should be encouraging people to work harder and establish Omujwarakondo in all aspects of life, arts, culture, exemplary politics, social development, fighting diseases, the writing of books in Runyoro. Basically, the award categories can be as many as the existing key challenges.22

The Omukama has to be very careful with the beloved custom of Omujwarakondo. He is always reminded by politicians that his role is ‘cultural’. Any leader without power (financial and political) in most cases becomes ineffectual in the eyes of his subjects. But what the people feel strongly is that the hero of today is someone who does not fear to face challenges, war, or any other calamity and that the concept of heroism should be used to encourage development. Dr Katahoire Abel Atwooki,23 like other respondents, emphasizes that the purpose of the heroic act must be for the benefit of the community. The King and the central government that recognize heroes need to expand their scope so that they can become relevant to the majority of young people by providing role-models. Oprah Winfrey, Nelson Mandela, Lucky Dube, Wangari Mathai, and Mother Theresa are good role-models, but there is a need for local rolemodels. There are heroic people all over Uganda whose efforts are not publicized. These would make more sense as heroes, because the environment in which they have carried out their feats is familiar to that of the Ugandan masses. We surely have people who are as generous and inspirational as Oprah, but the difference is that we don’t know about them and Oprah is constantly flaunted on television. In connection with the above argument, Kabalega has become a symbol of Banyoro’s identity because of the wealth of information about his resistance to imperial power for a full decade. His feats have been much documented and studied. His political and social models of leadership are being adopted by the Omukama Iguru and many African leaders. Among the Banyoro, 22

Personal interview with Bigirwa Julius Mucwa of Parakwoki, Kitoba sub-county Bugahya county, Hoima, 23 June 2010. 23 Interview (March 2010) with Dr Katahoire Abel Atwooki, of Karongo, Bugahya, Hoima district. He is an opinion-leader in Bunyoro and Uganda at large, and a successful businessman in Eastern and Central Africa.

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Kabalega had been long viewed as an icon of resistance and unity, so that he is now looked upon as the centre of Bunyoro’s identity. For example, the Banyoro, in times of trouble or challenge, will chant ‘Kabalega lega’ (Kabalega extend the spear) and be rallied and strengthened to fight together. In times of joy they will chant the same thing, to feel the greatness that comes with their forefather Kabalega and justify their success. They believe, as descendants of Kabalega, that they have to succeed. On the streets in a foreign country, a Munyoro, on hearing someone speak Runyoro, says ‘Kabalega’, and the other person will respond ‘Kabalega’. The word is almost like a greeting, and it also establishes the relationship: it is used to say ‘my sister’or ‘my brother’ by ethnicity. This has given the young and the old the courage and pride to feel they can achieve freedom like Kabalega. The discovery of oil in Bunyoro has raised the self-confidence of the Banyoro. A myth developed that Kabalega knew that he had oil and gold in his kingdom and that is why he fought tooth and nail to defend it. As explained above, the whole concept of heroism and Omujwarakondo awards may be used to achieve social, political, and economic development. The heroes should be declared every year by the state and the Omukama so that the direction of acceptable human behaviour can be established and carried on through the heroes as role-models. The symbol of modern Bunyoro’s history, Kabalega has become an icon that every patriot discourses about in one way or another. Since the concept of Omujwarakondo is transhistorical and our heterogeneous nation, Uganda, has a national Heroes Day where distinguished Ugandans are honoured for their deeds towards the country, it is necessary that the traditional custom of Omujwarakondo be more encompassing in the range of achievement it considers. This is emphasized by Sabiti’s view that “traditional modes of life are a major factor in shaping public policy.” There is a need for a concerted effort in Bunyoro to have the concept of Omujwarakondo boost the development that is so urgently necessary. People of all ages need to have role-models they can relate to and be inspired by in order to deal with their day-to-day challenges. Bunyoro, and Uganda at large, need look no further for heroes: they have heroic stories that need to be documented and publicized.

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W O R K S C I TE D Dipio, Dominic. “Reconstruction of Traditional Heroism in Contemporary Contexts: The Case of Princess Koogere Atwooki of Tooro,” in Performing Change: Identity, Ownership and Tradition in Ugandan Oral Culture, ed. Dominica Dipio, Lene Johannessen & Stuart Sillars (Oslo: Novus, 2009): 160-79. Kiwanuka, M.S.N. The Empire of Bunyoro-Kitara: Myth or Reality? (Kampala: Makerere History Papers, 1968): 13–14. Mirima, Henry Ford. “did-the-bunyoro-katuguuza-incident-happen-or-not,” ekitibwa kya buganda word press (1 January 2010) (accessed 23 June 2010). Mushengyezi, Aaron. “Heroic Women in Ankole and Kigezi Legend,” in Performing Change: Identity, Ownership and Tradition in Ugandan Oral Culture, ed. Dominica Dipio, Lene Johannessen & Stuart Sillars (Oslo: Novus, 2009): 69–89. Ngugi wa Thiong’o. Decolonising the Mind (1986; Nairobi: Heinemann, 1986).

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———— º Traditional Leadership Wisdoms and Their Contemporary Parallels — The Madi of Uganda ABSTRACT This essay discusses traditional leadership in the context of contemporary leadership in Africa, using the Madi traditional leadership model as an example to explain trends in contemporary African political leadership. I argue that part of the reason why the leadership question remains a challenge is the traditional mentality with which leaders and the people they lead approach their new offices. In order to fit in with the times, African leaders have largely felt forced to adopt a version of democracy they neither believe in nor fully appreciate. Thus, many countries may be apparently democratic republics but in reality operate along traditional leadership lines. This presents contemporary political leadership as a problem area, as seen in several literary works and aspects of development research. The enduring qualities of good leadership, traditional or contemporary, African or Western, are the same. The essay uses the conceptual frame of leadership theories to assess the traditional leadership practices of the Madi and appreciate them in relation to contemporary concerns and approaches, thereby drawing parallels between the two. The major objective of the essay is to look to tradition in an effort to appreciate contemporary problems at their roots. The research also contributes towards generating fresh literature for the pool of material discussing traditional African leadership.

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and development studies researchers, among many others, point to problems with leadership as one of the major reasons for Africa’s underdevelopment. As shown in Nkomo’s comprehensive review of African leadership and management in organization studies,1 African leadership in contemporary democracy is caught up in the challenges of defining itself. One of the emergent issues in her paper is the scarcity of literature on African leadership models. Where leadership exists, it REATIVE WRITERS

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See Nkomo Stella, “Images of ‘African Leadership and Management’ in Organization Studies: Tensions, Contradictions and Re-visions,” paper delivered at the University of South Africa, 7 March 2006. ”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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is represented as the opposite of the Western type, which does not capture the peculiarities of the various African communities. Instead of Western individualism it favours communalism, and privileges traditionalism over modernism. Yet the implicit representation of Africa as homogeneous paints a simplistic picture, balancing the reductive approach of using the West as the benchmark for evaluating African leadership. To counter this tendency, a growing body of literature from African management philosophy draws attention to Africa’s past in an effort to address contemporary leadership challenges. Among these scholars are William M. Makgoba, Valentine Y. Mudimbe, and C.O. Nzelibe, all of whom argue for an African Renaissance and work from an afrocentric perspective.2 If in the past Africa had great leaders who are still remembered in their community’s narratives, what can contemporary leaders learn from them that is still relevant in our contemporary contexts? Creative artists have, in the same way, used art as an interventionist tool to address leadership challenges, often by satirizing postcolonial African leaders’ abuse of office. In these representations, seen in the broad reviews of the Nigerian situation by Ayo Kehinde and Adekunle Olowonmi,3 there are few examples of inspirational contemporary leaders. Most African fictional texts are informed by social realism and represent different facets of the continent’s leadership crisis. Often the continent’s great human and natural resources remain potentials still to be developed because of this miscarriage of political leadership. The African leadership elite have let down their own people after independence. The continent’s search for leadership is expressed in creative works such as Ousmane Sembène’s Xala,4 a biting satire in which the politi2

African Renaissance, ed. William M. Makgoba (Sandton: Mafube, 1999); Valentine Y. Mudimbe, The Intervention of Africa: Gnosis, Philosophy and the Order of Knowledge (Bloomington & Indianapolis: Indiana U P , 1988); C.O. Nzelibe, “The Evolution of African Management Thought,” International Studies on Management and Organization 16.2 (Summer 1986): 6–16. 3 Ayo Kehinde, “Rulers against Writers, Writers against Rulers: The Failed Promise of the Public Sphere in Postcolonial Nigerian Fiction,” Yaounde: C O D E S R I A 2008, http://www.codesria.org/IMG/pdf/Ayo_Kehinde.pdf (accessed 6 July 2010); Adekunle Olowonmi. “The Writer and the Quest for Democratic Governance in Nigeria: Transcending Post-Independence Disillusionment,” Journal of Pan African Studies 2.3 (March 2008): 55–67, http://www.jpanafrican.com/docs/vol2no3/TheWriterAndThe QuestforDemocraticGovernanceinNigeria.pdf (accessed 6 July 2010). 4 Ousmane Sembène, Xala (Paris: Présence Africaine, 1973).

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cal and economic elites are metaphorically afflicted by the curse of impotence that makes them mindlessly ape whatever is Western, to the detriment of their very identity and rich cultural values. In their pursuit of selfish interests, the African educated elites have destroyed fundamental patterns of communitarian Africa. The author suggests there can be no holistic development beyond the principle of communalism and solidarity so cherished by traditional African values. Ng×g´ wa Thiongo’s writings, such as Petals of Blood, Devil on the Cross, and I Will Marry when I Want,5 continue the tone established by Sembène, where the recurrent theme is the betrayal of the masses by the leadership groups who have totally lost their consciences in the pursuit of their own interests. They have forgotten that the people they have dispossessed will not give them the peace to enjoy their ill-gotten wealth. On the other hand, Wole Soyinka, in Kongi’s Harvest,6 presents a model of leader who takes over from a traditional figure whom he considers retrogressive to launch a new era in the nation’s development. However, Kongi’s approach is an attempt to replace traditional leadership with one based on Western models. The result is a lunatic and coercive regime that sits badly on the people because the leader has turned himself into a god who must not be opposed. His rule does not serve the people; instead, he creates a personality cult and becomes larger than life. Kongi’s reign makes Oba Danlola’s traditional leadership, which itself has its unpleasant sides, look more humane. Soyinka’s suggestion for a desirable form of leadership that merges the old and the new in the persons of Daodu and Segi does not offer much hope under Kongi’s angry and repressive rule. If Kongi’s Organising Secretary is corrupt, Chinua Achebe in A Man of the People7 and Ayi Kwei Armah in The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born8 represent corruption as a disease that has infected the moral fibre of the entire community. In A Man of the People, Chief Nanga, the member of parliament, has perfected corruption to a fine art, and 5

Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Petals of Blood (African Writers Series; London: Heinemann,

1977); Devil on the Cross (African Writers Series; London: Heinemann, 1982); I Will Marry When I Want (African Writers Series; London: Heinemann, 1982). 6

Wole Soyinka, Kongi’s Harvest (London: Oxford U P , 1967). Chinua Achebe, A Man of the People (African Writers Series; London: Heinemann, 1966). 8 Ayi Kwei Armah, The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born (African Writers Series; London: Heinemann, 1968. 7

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Odili, who stands against him, does so not out of principle but because he has a personal score to settle with Nanga over the love of a woman. Similarly, in The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born the apparently morally superior man who opposes the corrupt politician, Koomson, lacks conviction about why he resists the pressure to engage in the all-consuming corruption. He lacks the capacity to inspire anyone. The situation in Nuruddin Farah’s Sweet and Sour Milk,9 part of a trilogy on dictatorial leadership in Somalia, occupies the same terrain of lacklustre leadership. In this novel, under the General’s rule, the family is manipulated into becoming an instrument of terror and control. The stifling political atmosphere is no place for progressive people. In the context of Uganda, Okot p’Bitek’s Song of Lawino and Song of Ocol10 lament the educated elite’s loss of identity and uncritical imitation of all that is Western in the name of modernity and civilization. The traditional voice of Lawino calls for a decisive return to indigenous sources to gain wisdom in order to leap forward, though this is rejected by her husband, Ocol, as backward. In Africa’s mechanical imitation of the West, Okot advises his readers not to “uproot the Pumpkin.”11 The above examples point to postcolonial leadership as something that causes disquiet in the continent. The need for hindsight is important, to provide a historical perspective on Africa’s heritage.African kingdoms, empires, and chieftaincies have had solid structures of governance, as seen in Achebe’s Things Fall Apart,12 and the performance of empires like Songhai, Ashante, and Zulu which were organized in details of administration still remain points of historical reference. Western imperialism, with its superior cultural attitude, rejected African cultures as inferior, leading to Africa’s decreasing self-esteem about its legacies and values. At independence, the leadership model inherited by the continent was mostly premissed on Western models, either capitalist or socialist, which are still formally in practice. In order to fit into modern democracy, African leaders are being ‘forced’ to adopt ‘democratic’ systems that they do not fully 9

Nuruddin Farah, Sweet and Sour Milk (African Writers Series; London: Heinemann, 1980). 10 Okot p’Bitek, Song of Lawino: A Lament (African Writers Series; London: Heinemann, 1966); Song of Ocol (African Writers Series; London: Heinemann, 1970). 11 Okot p’Bitek, Song of Lawino, 120. 12 Chinua Achebe, Things Fall Apart (African Writers Series; London: Heinemann, 1958).

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appreciate. Thus, despite most African governments’ being formally republics, their application of Western democratic principles often does not tally with the West’s demands and expectations. I argue that this tendency is understandable because African democracies modelled after the West are still young and African leaders find it easier to draw on their indigenous patterns, which they appreciate more fully. The fact that Western yardsticks are used to evaluate contemporary African leadership leads to inevitable conflict that tends to frustrate the development of an African leadership cadre. Yet, in this era of globalization and greater connectivity among peoples and cultures, Africa cannot afford to be treated as a world apart that requires different orders of democracy. The questions I raise in this essay are about the essential qualities of leadership – whether these are fundamentally the same across all nations and cultures. If the principles are universal, what are they? If there are specific methods of implementation, what are they? And how, to take a specific instance, are both reflected in the traditional chieftaincy model of the Madi of Uganda? The search for models is crucial in contemporary context, and I contend that dialogue between traditional (African) and modern (Western) leadership styles could offer some alternatives. I take the position that there is convergence in the leadership qualities of past and present, because leadership qualities are essentially the same and universally shared. Only in consequence of this is it possible to recognize a good or a bad leader in any setting. What differ are the specific contexts in which governance is exercised.13 I also acknowledge some areas of incompatibility between traditional leadership and Western democracy, and suggest a way forward in Africa’s struggle towards constitutional democracy. I use the ‘return to source approach’ not in the idealistic sense of celebrating the past as an end in itself, but as the ‘Sankofa’14 metaphor of gazing into the past to find oneself in order to take the decisive step into the future. In this perspective, past, present, and future 13

James M. Kouzes & Barry Z. Posner, The Leadership Challenge (San Francisco: Jossey–Bass, 2003): xxv. 14 Sankofa is a symbolic bird that stands for the Akan concept of looking back in order to move forward. In the context of this essay is it used to express the idea of hindsight to African traditional values in the search for development models. See http://www .heartlandsynod.org/NewsItems/What%20is%20SANKOFA.html (accessed 4 August 2010).

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are connected in the search for solutions. To support my discussion, I use the Madi traditional chieftaincy leadership style as an example in the belief that documenting information about significant legendary leaders and their methods of administration is in itself a worthwhile asset for both archival and educational purposes, as well as powerfully assisting the search for models.

Conceptual and Theoretical Frame The conceptual frame for my discussion derives from the thoughts of leadership and management scholars such as Burt Nanus, Kouzes and Posner, Roger Fisher and Allan Sharp, and Charles Manz,15 all of which converge in identifying the enduring qualities of good leadership. For Nanus, the critical principle is the shared vision between the leader and the constituency he leads. This is crucial, because all should be able to own and identify with the vision, so that when the leader veers away from it, the rest can recognize the departure and challenge the leader about it. Vision is the guiding force without which there can be no sense of direction. Because vision always deals with the future, there is something selfless about a visionary leader who sees and lives beyond himself. This is the inherently communitarian aspect of vision, for although it may emanate from an individual, its purpose is to call out the best from the constituent members so that the organization can move forward.16 Even when the individual leader appears to be prominent, as I shall discuss in the case of the Madi, what he does is accepted as being in the interest of the larger good of the community. This dynamic balance between the individual and the community is crucial even in societies that define themselves as communitarian.17 Among the Madi, as in several traditional African societies, individual merits and charisma are considered besides heredity in the move towards leadership. Warren Bennis identifies a great leader through several essential qualities. He is innovative and original in thought; he is people-focused and inspires trust; he has a long-term perspective and sees far; 15

Burt Nanus, Visionary Leadership (San Francisco: Jossey–Bass, 1992); Kouzes & Posner, The Leadership Challenge; Roger Fisher & Allan Sharp, Lateral Leadership: Getting It Done When You Are Not the Boss (London: Profile, 2004); Charles Manz, The Leadership Wisdom of Jesus: Practical Lessons for Today (San Francisco: Berrett–Koehler, 2005). 16 Nanus, Visionary Leadership, 8. 17 See Kwame Gyekye, Tradition and Modernity: Philosophical Reflections on the African Experience (New York: Oxford U P , 1997): 67.

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he looks at limitless possibilities and challenges the status quo; he is flexible and does the right thing on the basis of context; and he is his own person, with genuine independence of mind. 18 These attributes should be well blended in a leader. Nanus adds to these qualities three essential capabilities: to form working relationships with people within the organization as well as those outside it; to shape and influence issues in the organization and beyond; and to anticipate the future and prepare for it.19 He also identifies a number of everyday tasks for a leader: setting the direction for the members; being an agent of change and taking necessary risks; being a spokesperson for the organization, which involves being an embodiment of the values of that organization; and coaching and mentoring to empower the members of the organization. From Nanus’ perspective, it is clear that the leader exists way beyond himself, for the people and the community, and the community in turn advances because of his abilities. The communitarian and the individual are thus inextricably linked. Kouzes and Posner underline similar features of good leadership. They argue that, although each leader is a unique individual, good leadership is a universal process.20 Leadership is not a cult, but a practice of governance which these authors condense into five principles. The first is for a leader to direct the way. This involves being a model by behaviour; one’s actions speak louder than words. In consequence, the leader earns the respect of others by his relentlessness, steadfastness, and competence at all times, but more particularly at challenging times. The second is the ability to inspire a shared vision, which Nanus mentions as the number-one standard. The leader must be able to gaze across the horizon to see the possibilities of opportunities even from a challenging distance, and this should inspire the rest of the team to dream of possibilities and to move towards that dream. The third value is that of challenging existing processes. Leaders venture out: they do not wait for luck to strike. They are ground-breakers who learn from their failures and successes. To some degree, being adventurous in exploring unknown territory is an attribute in a leader; although, if not well moderated, this may create ambitious empire-builders who breed conflict and trample on the rights of others. 18

Nanus, Visionary Leadership, 11. Visionary Leadership, 11–12. 20 Kouzes & Posner, The Leadership Challenge, xxv. 19

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The fourth principle is enabling others to act. This calls forth the collaborative, trust-building capacity of the leader, and underscores leadership as a relationship. The trust and confidence the leader has in his constituents energizes them to do their best and to turn them into leaders, ready to take risks for the good of the organization. The fifth principle is what might best be described as the leadership of the heart. This is the quality in a leader that acknowledges and cares for the individual members as valuable constituents. Genuine encouragement and gestures of care are what keep members enthusiastic about the vision regardless of the challenges they face along the way. Although a vision may come from an individual, it is the entire team that keeps it alive. A strong sense of community is cemented by acknowledging and celebrating the individuals as gifts.21 The recurrent attributes of the leader that emerge in Kouzes and Posner’s research, in order of their importance, are: honesty (integrity) as the highest moral principle of the leader; being forward-looking, which is the ability to have a clear sense of direction if others are to follow; competence, which entails having the relevant experience and the track record of performance; and being inspiring, which involves keeping the oil of enthusiasm burning.22 Essentially, the leader people want to follow is the one who combines all these qualities in the one word: credibility. These are leaders whose actions are consistent with what they say. In other words, “they walk the talk.”23 Manz’s four principles of effective leadership builds on the model of Jesus, using slightly different words to underline the same qualities. He calls his first principle self-leadership, or leading by example. When one is a role-model, one’s authority becomes a reflection of what one does. This is the principle he calls the “clean mirror image,” which commits the leader to ethical conduct so that he becomes a light for himself and for others.24 Compassionate leadership is the second principle, and it evokes what has already been identified above: a leader cannot afford to be disrespectful and inconsiderate in the exercise of power, especially to the weak and the fallen. Compassion is the principle that makes the leader realize that he, too, is a flawed being, who leads equally flawed humans. This is the golden rule of not doing to others what you would 21

Kouzes & Posner, The Leadership Challenge, 14–20. The Leadership Challenge, 24–31. 23 The Leadership Challenge, 33. 24 Manz, The Leadership Wisdom of Jesus, 9–52.

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not like done unto you; taking care of all under your charge without discrimination; and, in fact, going after the lost sheep.25 The third principle is turning those under your care into leaders and into becoming their best selves. The leader can do this by impartially preparing the soil for their growth and nurturing all according to their own talents and giftedness. The leader should allow room for mistakes in the process of growth, and give no room for vendetta, not even towards those who may have offended. Leadership is, above all, service, whose cost must not be counted if it is to inspire positive change in the organization. Paradoxically, it is the leader’s humility rather than show of power that ultimately inspires and attracts followers.26 This paradox continues in the metaphor of blindness and sight that Manz uses. He cautions that the visionary leader is the one who “leads without blindness.” He realizes that he is not impeccable but has blind spots and must therefore be humble, and at times gratefully rely on the guidance of his followers. This acknowledgement of his reliance on his followers will inspire commitment and teamwork in them.27 The fourth concept is the mustard-seed principle that metaphorically calls for planting good seeds, in good places at the right time, and letting growth happen at its own rate. The consistent daily actions, however small, that a leader engages in eventually lead to great things. The mustard-seed principle requires patience. At times, a leap of faith may be called for in challenging times. The cynic has no place in this sort of leadership, for a leader must love and believe in what he does, and in those he does it with. The mustard-seed principle is about centering and focusing one’s energy in the direction of the organization’s vision in such a way that “you cannot serve two masters.”28 All the above principles indicate that the leader makes no sense in isolation: he exists for and in relation to the community. The emphasis placed by Roger Fisher and Allan Sharp on the horizontal rather than the vertical aspect of leadership portrays the leader as a member of a team. His team achieves a great deal when he works with them on collegiate and relational rather than 25

Manz, The Leadership Wisdom of Jesus, 55–92. Some of those often regarded as the most attractive and inspiring world leaders, such as Nelson Mandela, John Paul II, and Mother Teresa of Calcutta, are ultimately humble people on top of their other attributes. 27 Manz, The Leadership Wisdom of Jesus, 97–142. 28 The Leadership Wisdom of Jesus, 147–69. 26

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on authoritarian levels, for “part of being a good leader is knowing when to be a good follower.”29 The line between the leader and the led is therefore permeable and the two produce great result in synergy. In the following section, I will discuss the key principles of the Madi model of chieftaincy leadership, using some legendary leaders as examples and analysing how their practices compare with those of modern democracy in general. I will outline the recurrent challenges in applying the principles of modern democracy in the context of Africa in general. I am aware that Africa, and even Uganda, is not a homogeneous entity, and that the particular example I use may not be representative of the wide range of socio-political organizational structures in the continent. Nonetheless, the value of this case study lies in addressing the challenge of the scarcity of literature on models of African traditional leadership.30 It is here that traditional oral forms assume central importance. Most of the information about past leaders and their style of governance still resides in the folklore and memory of the communities. This presentation is the result of an effort to tap into the memory of the Madi people to highlight the features of traditional leadership and governance. Are there inspiring qualities of their leadership that can be relevant for the continent in its effort to construct its ‘democratic’ nations? This is what the essay now goes on to explore.

Leadership Structure and the Leader among the Madi The Madi are a Sudanic people belonging to the Moru-Madi language group, who claim to have originated in Nigeria.31 Their movements in different parts of Sudan, as part of the Nilotic movement from north to south, is said to have 29

Manz, The Leadership Wisdom of Jesus, 26. Nkomo draws attention to this challenge. In the context of South Africa, she argues, the oft-cited examples are Nelson Mandela for the good type, Mbeki for the rigid type, and Shaka Zulu for despotic leadership. In other parts, not much has been written on African leadership style. 31 Scholars have different views about the origin of the Madi people, and when exactly they left Nigeria to come to Sudan. In their migration history, the Madi people moved in smaller groups (chieftaincies) and settled in the different parts of present-day Uganda in that order. Often, the prefix ‘pa’ (‘belonging to’) defined the smaller groups and settlements, such as Pagirinya, Patali, or Palemo. This trend characterizes the Madi settlements even when a smaller group migrates and settles away from the rest of the ethnic group members. 30

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occurred between 1400 and 1700 A D , and they are thought to have entered present-day Uganda in the 1800s.32 Their socio-political system was decentralized governance, under the leadership of hereditary paramount chiefs (opi).33 Spiritual and political powers were vested in opi, who had special responsibilities over his people and also enjoyed special privileges. By virtue of the office he held, there were peculiar ways in which opi was treated in life and in death. He lived among his people – a gesture that appears to put him on a level with his people – yet he was different from them because he was associated with rare powers, including the occult and the spiritual. This made him at once familiar and remote. An air of mystery and inscrutability often hung around him. The manner in which an opi was identified as suitable for leadership also accentuated his being the chosen one among many. Although women could enjoy the privilege of being wife, sister, or daughter to the chief, and wore types of beads to identify their status, the chieftaincy was exclusive to men. Regardless of the existence of strong women among the Madi, none was ever a chief.34 The data I have compiled here are the narratives from the Madi communities in Moyo and Adjumani Districts on the memory of their chiefs such as Opi Aliku of Moyo, Opi Kutulungu of Metu, and Opi Okello Kibira of Oyuwi. The principles of leadership they used are the same; the differences are in the unique characteristics of each leader. a

32

Among the Madi, there were categories of chiefs who were appointed during colonial rule to assist in administration. These did not have the traditional instruments of power and are not included in this essay. Today when the people talk of the return of traditional leadership, they refer to the ones I refer to in this essay: those invested with material and spiritual authority over the people. 33 ‘Opi’ is the single word used to refer to a chief, king, lord, and even God, as ‘Opi Rubanga’, ‘Opi Yezu Kristo’, or ‘Opi Aliku’. The Madi, however, distinguish the supremacy of God, the Creator of the universe, by referring to God as ‘Tabidi rii’ (‘the one who has fashioned everything’) or by simply referring to God as ‘Vu’ (‘Earth’). 34 This indicated the loophole in the ‘egalitarianism’ of the Madi people, which appears to be open and inclusive but systematically excludes women from such positions of leadership. This, however, was invisible, because the exclusion of women was taken for granted and not considered as an abuse of their rights.

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Identifying the Right Leader Among the Madi Because ascendancy conflicts were immanent in selecting a chief among the eligible sons, the eldest son of the first wife would usually, but not always, become a chief after his father. However, in case of doubt about the suitability of such a son, all the eligible boys in the home, which might include the sons from the chieftaincy clan, would be put to a ‘porridge-eating’ test to determine who in the eyes of the gods and the ancestors would be the right leader for the community. This test was carried out when the boys were still in childhood. It involved a ritual elder dropping a bead-like seed called gburuje into a pot of hot porridge that a group of boys were called upon to eat with their hands. The ritual elder would have instructed the children that anyone who found something of his that had accidentally dropped into the porridge should bring it to him.35 The boys, who were still young, would not know the import of this ritual. The one who found the gburuje would be confirmed and accepted as heir and would gradually enter the process of initiation into the art of leadership and other exclusive secrets of power through apprenticeship.36 From then on, the identified child would ordinarily accompany the chief and carry his chair wherever he went for community meetings and important discussions. Through such exposure, he gradually learned the process of governance. One of the most important powers of Madi chieftaincies was the mystical ability of rain-making besides that of blessing and cursing. This was the kind of power one could neither feign nor forcefully take from someone. One either had eyi kwe (‘rain-seeds’) or did not; the unqualified person could not perform the rituals efficaciously. Ordinarily, the hereditary chiefs stayed in power until their deaths or disappearance. Although the opi had a council of elders around him, he was still the paramount authority on matters of final decision, and did not have to follow the popular council. In the event of problems that affected the community 35

Maurina Boroti and Mr Akuta Arapa informed me that the selection of the opi for rain-making (opi eyi drii) had to go through this ritual that is associated with supernatural powers. They also stressed that the way of selecting the candidate was also be aided by the gods. They were interviewed on 3 January 2010, in Adjumani, and 24 March 2010 in Moyo respectively. 36 When, for whatever reason, there is doubt about this process of identification, the porridge-eating ritual may be repeated for affirmation. The fear of offending the ancestors was so strong that the elders would ensure there was no foul play, because the consequences of such would be visited on the community.

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or conflicts among community members, the entire community (men and women) gathered for the settlement in vura, either as passive or as active participants.37 Community members were, and still are, allowed to express their views openly on the issues in question even if they may not be directly involved in the matter. This was done in the interest of being part of the community that is ultimately affected by incidents between its individual members. It is on the basis of the assessment of the varied voices that the opi decided on the right course of action. The penalties were and remain often of the restorative kind that returns harmony to the community and in some degree returns to the earlier state of affairs.38 The opi was interested in all his people and had to find solutions for them to live together. The circular seating arrangement at the vura problem-settling meetings affirms the Madi sociopolitical structure as largely egalitarian. Although, then as now, the chief presided, and was respected and held in high esteem, he was regarded as a father figure. His love for all his people would be shown in his impartiality. The leader who embedded the values of the community and focused on the common good of his people was in turn loved and supported by them. Obeying his orders and paying tributes or taxes became matters of responsibility and identification because the people would see how the tributes they gave benefited the community. In turn, it was the opi’s duty to protect his people and to ensure that they prospered in health, wealth, and numbers. His well-being was inextricable from theirs. He prospered so that they, too, might prosper. The narratives of the Madi showed how the tributes the people paid to the opi in foodstuff and animals were used to provide for the needy members of the community. The people of Moyo and Oyuwi commended Opi Aliku and Opi Okello respectively for their emphasis on food-security for their people. They had large granaries of food to meet the needs of the community in times of crisis.39 This was a kind of social-welfare fund available to the community 37

This word is both the name for the royal clan in Moyo and the open judicial system among all the Madi. 38 See Dominica Dipio, “Symbolic Actions and Performances in the Conflict Resolution Rituals of the Madi of Uganda,” in Performing Community: Essays on Ugandan Oral Culture, ed. Dominica Dipio, Lene Johannessen & Stuart Sillars (Oslo: Novus, 2008): 87–110. 39 These traditional leaders planned and prepared for crises and disasters. They were visionary in this regard. One of the things the Madi people remember about Opi Aliku

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members to fulfil their social obligations. It is consistent with the African value of communitarianism – ubuntu – that refers to the sense of connectedness and solidarity that makes an individual or group of people realize that their existence is inexorably connected to others. “I am because you are”!40 There were often two categories of granary in the chief’s homestead that had to be stocked by the community so that the food supply would not fail. One was specifically for the chief’s family, and the other, larger, one was for the common pool meant to address disasters and to provide for those with special needs such as widows, orphans, and the poor. As the need arose, the chief would provide for his members who were in need. The expressions miri ero (building food security) and opi pa koka (touching the feet of the chief) are metaphors that express the role of the chief as a resource for the needy and asylum-seekers. The person who sought refuge in the chief had the right of protection and security even when he had offended the community. This, to a certain extent, presents the chief as immune, and the one who associates with him as consequently protected. The traditional wisdom for granting the chief immunity is the belief that he is a wise and honest father, and one who seeks refuge in him is ready to submit to his advice, including disciplinary action, before being re-integrated into the community. An offender who seeks the chief’s protection on account of crime committed must first confess. In this way, errant members were encouraged to stay in the community and to be forgiven and re-integrated. This minimized the chance of people turning into criminals or rebels. It is likely that one who is forgiven and restored will become more committed to the values of the community.41 This privilege, however, could be misused by a chief who abuses his power. Balance and restraint are important virtues in a good leader, even where he appears to be free to wield his authority. The ultimate question for the chief should be, ‘Is it in the interest of the common good?’

and Opi Okello Kibira was their foresight in ensuring a steady food supply for their communities. 40 See Fred Lee Hord & Jonathan Scott Lee, I am Because We Are: Readings in Black Philosophy (Amherst: U of Massachusetts P , 1995). 41 This is the leadership that “encourages the heart” and turns its members into people who are committed to serving the community rather than turning against it. That care and love restore is well illustrated in the Bible teaching where Jesus gently reprimands his scandalized disciples when they were disappointment by the way Jesus treated both the tax-collector and the prostitute with utmost care and love.

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Characteristics of Respectable Chieftaincy A number of power symbols were associated with a chief who inspired respect and fear. Love of, fear of, and respect for the chief all formed one indistinguishable emotion as the people recalled the narratives of their chiefs. Among the symbols of power were a strong army, wealth, and functional tumi and the mystical powers associated with it.

The Centrality of Warriors Although one who becomes an opi may not necessarily be a valiant warrior, a chief who possessed the qualities of a great warrior wielded greater authority and earned greater respect. Whoever held the position of chief of staff had to be a warrior of repute who inspired by his very example and exploits in battle. The army was central to every chieftaincy because the security of the community from enemy tribes and clans was the opi’s major concern. In Madi, the word for leader is ajugo, ‘owner of the spear’. This means that leadership could not be shown without the spear, symbol of protection and war. The person responsible for the army had to be one renowned in the art of war and conquest, though the option of war was taken only when the elders and the oracles confirmed it as just.42 The physical appearance of the chief, his sons, and army officers was very important. Because conquest and empire-building were the character of the time, ability to inspire fear in an enemy tribe was the norm. The common adjective the informants used to describe the sons of chiefs and the fearsome army officers was tondolo, which refers to the physical bearing that commands respect and inspires fear. A powerful army was required because capturing physically fit-looking and beautiful (in the case of women) persons in war to increase the chief’s bonyi (membership of the chieftain’s personal establishment) was important. Young men captured from rival tribes or clans might be integrated into the chief’s army and be given the opportunity to build themselves respectable careers in it. During battles, the

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The Madi are known for being unrelenting warriors. This was seen during the Turkish raid for slaves in the Sudan and the northern part of Uganda. They resisted the Turkish slave dealers for long, until they were overwhelmed by the Turks and their collaborators. Despite the Madi’s blowing their trumpets as resilient warriors, they like to describe themselves as peace-loving people, who resorted to war only in selfdefence and when provoked.

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captives were often placed on the front line.43 One who proved a good fighter might subsequently be more strategically positioned, as the loss of such a fighter would disadvantage the entire group. A great chief took pride in the quality of the fighting people at his disposal and defended them from enemies. He would actually lay down his life to protect a man. The people of Moyo spoke glowingly of the memory of Opi Aliku, whom they compared to Jesus Christ, who laid down his life for the people he loved. They told the story of how a group headed by white colonialists invaded Moyo in 1914 and demanded that the community surrender their harvest of grain, but the people refused. This irritated the white men, who proceeded to set their granaries ablaze. The chief’s warriors responded to this provocation by defending themselves with their bows and arrows. In the process of pushing the aggressors away from the chief’s homestead, one of the white men whom the Madi people named Woroko (descriptive of the white man’s skin colour) was killed at a place now called Urukumba – a corruption of worokomba, ‘where Woroko stopped or ended’. The death of their colleague enraged the white men, who re-organized and came back to the opi’s homestead. They demanded that the chief hand himself over to them, but the warriors would not let him. They defended their chief with their lives, and swore to do so to the last man. However, when Opi Aliku heard of the deaths of the valiant men killed in his defence, he came out of hiding and announced a cease-fire. He could not bear to see one more man die for him. He gave himself up to be taken away by the white men so that his people might be spared. Opi Aliku was taken away, never to be seen again by the people of Moyo. The soldiers followed their chief up to the Nile, where they saw him and the white men board a ship that took them away. What is left of Opi Aliku is the memory of the sacrifice he made for his people. It is for this sacrificial quality of his leadership that not just the people of Moyo, but the Madi as a whole, consider him a great leader. In the recent context of interest in traditional leaders in Uganda, the Madi talk about the painful circumstances of Opi Aliku’s disappearance. They see this event as a community tragedy because a great leader of his calibre does not even have a tomb to his name. The need to find out what happened to him still prompts disquiet among the Madi people.

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This sounds quite familiar even in modern times. It is not the princes or members of the royal family whose lives are risked in battle.

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His memory, though, is alive in the oral poetry and narratives of the community.44

Wealth as Indicator of Power Another significant indicator of the power of a chieftaincy is wealth, but not in the traditional Western sense: human beings were the most important components of wealth. A large homestead with many children and people to defend the honour of the chieftaincy brought recognition. Second to people came food security in terms of agricultural produce, and the number of granaries in the homestead as well as domestic animals such as cows and goats were indicators of status and respect. The chief’s wealth was not for his own sake, but to benefit the entire community. For instance, the chief might pay the dowry for a member of his community who could not afford to, or to cement social relationships with a friendly clan. However, the ability of individuals and families themselves to meet the requirements of bride-price for their son’s wife was the recommended norm; for the tendency was that the one who paid the dowry for a woman felt he had a say in matters related to her.45 It was unimaginable and ridiculous to have a rich chief whose people lived in poverty; the chief’s prosperity translated into the well-being of the community.

Active and Efficacious Tumi46 The chief was responsible for the spiritual, moral, and material well-being of his community. A home in every respectable chieftaincy had a tumi at its entrance. The tumi was constructed out of two symbolic stones planted at the official entrance to a homestead. It acted as the ‘monitoring spirit’ that examined those who entered the homestead guilty of various vices and anti-community behaviour – witchcraft, theft, adultery, malevolence – and violent people who had fought in sacred places (leki). The tumi was ritualistically 44

The story of Aliku’s leadership and resistance to white invasion is remembered through heroic poetry and deserves an essay of its own. 45 Every man wants to feel a sovereign in his own home: as the Madi say, ‘Each cock crows in its homestead’. In such a case, one would have no right to be disgruntled when the chief begins to desire the woman whose dowry he has paid. 46 See Dominica Dipio, “Symbolic Actions and Performance in the Conflict Resolution Rituals of the Madi,” 87–110. This symbol still exists in some traditional Madi homesteads.

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installed by powerful diviners who spelt out the role it should play and how it should manifest itself once it detected misconduct. Anyone entering the homestead who was aware of having done something wrong was meant to declare it at the entrance of the homestead before entering and mixing with the rest of the family. This confession, together with a cleansing ritual performed by an elder, served to restore the individual’s relationship with the community. Whoever failed to confess would be revealed anyway. This manifestation often took the form of a strange illness that would not heal until public confession, accompanied by rituals, was performed at the family altar (kidori) to appease the spirit of the ancestors (ba buga) who would have been displeased by the anti-community behaviour of their descendant. Such confessional and restorative rituals often involved the blood and meat of a sheep. The choicest pieces of meat were set aside for the ancestral spirits, represented by selected elders who ate the ritual meat. The tumi was a laudable symbol that reminded the community members of the duty to be disciplined and to obey the moral code. The Madi considered prosperity without morality as fraught with problems. Thus, a respectable chieftaincy was one that ensured its members were men and women of integrity. To have an efficacious and operative tumi was the responsibility of the family leader. The chief desired the constituent health of the families that added up to the material and moral prosperity of the community.47 The good behaviour of the individual members in turn brought honour and respect to the community.

Word Power ( T i waka) The word that emanates from the mouth of the chief was believed to have power to bless and to curse. The community members sought his word of blessing and feared provoking his curses. Ti waka was a feature the chief shared with all the elders of the community. It was their form of prayer, used ritualistically to produce effect. This was often done at a moment of special need for the community or its members. The people believed in the power of the word, so much so that, once the ritual words were uttered, they waited for the outcome. Ti waka for any reason took place early in the morning before 47

Keeping a functional tumi requires commitment, for the rituals associated with its functioning require wealth. Today, the Madi elders lament the decay of morality in the community and attribute it to the neglect of the tumi as the punitive guardian of community morality. The role of the tumi has been overtaken by mass conversion to Christianity. The God who forgives sinners in spite of their weaknesses, at no cost, is far more attractive than a punitive spirit.

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the elders had had time to ‘even swallow their own saliva’ (ti imwa tro). It was a kind of visceral prayer characterized by centrality of intention. Usually the time limit for the outcome was ‘before the sun sets’ (kode itu tro). If it was an illness that failed to respond to forms of medication because it was caused by some supernatural forces, or as a result of someone’s failure to observe the moral code of the community, the outcome would be the instantaneous recovery of that person before the sunset of that very day.48 The truth-telling ritual that was part of ti waka included putting suspected persons to the test of eating a piece of raw liver from a cow, sheep, or goat, or passing over a spear. The guilty person who ate the raw liver would instantaneously suffer from the swelling of the stomach (a’ enzika), and the guilty one who crossed over the spear would suffer from a pneumonic attack. Both might cause death by sunset if confession were not made. Those who confessed only after noticing signs of ailment would be forgiven and redeemed from death, but only after a ritual and a penalty. The ritual of eyi koka (catching of the water), which involved an elder dipping melemele leaves in water and touching the hurting part of the body with them while uttering words to revoke the curse, was all that was needed to restore the person to health. The above were some of the power symbols associated with a reputable chieftaincy.

The Chief’s Marriage As well as symbols of power, the chief’s status and leadership were evidenced in other ways. Important among these was the ceremony of marriage. The chief acquired his wife or wives in various ways, though generally he married the daughter of another chief. A girl might be identified and reserved for the chief early in life because good qualities had been identified in her. This identification was made publicly during traditional dance performances and ceremonies. Beads that were associated with royalty (ingwe) were placed around the neck of the identified girl.49 This was done in full view of everyone as a statement that all those interested in her should henceforth withdraw. The girl and her family would then wait for the appropriate courtship rituals to follow. These included discreet investigations into the girl’s background and char-

48 49

The informants claim they have been witnessed to these happenings in their homes. ‘Dancing well’, among the Madi, is a metaphor for an all-round performer.

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acter and official visits to her family by the chief’s emissaries. For as long as the girl wore the chief’s beads, she remained out of bounds for other men. The chief might also enter into formal courtship with another family of similar status to find a potential wife. Often these were relationships that cemented already existing friendships. The parents in the two families were instrumental in reinforcing such a relationship. Other clans might, in a show of friendship, offer their most beautiful daughter in marriage in order to gain the chief’s favour. This was a strategic move, for in times of crisis or scarcity the chief would be obliged to treat such clans favourably in the allocation of resources. Among the chief’s many connections, in-laws were and remain expected to be treated very well. This often made the chief’s connections large and geographically extensive.50 The chief might also order the capture of the woman he desired.51 Among the Madi, wife-inheritance in the event of a husband’s death was a normal practice. However, this did not in any way apply to the wives of chiefs; they were not to be inherited. This was purely out of respect for the chief. The people of Oyuwi recounted how one of the deceased chief’s brothers wanted to inherit his youngest widow. The man did not live to fulfil his intention, as he suddenly died “before even cracking jokes with the woman.” This was interpreted as the wrath of the late chief for the disrespect that was about to be committed. Because the chief was associated with mystic powers, the people were afraid of doing anything that would offend him even when he was dead. The command not to touch the chief’s widows is expressed by the saying ‘okwi opi ni uku ku’ (no one enters the house of the chief’s widow). Nevertheless, in a situation where the chief died young, leaving a young widow, the brother who succeeded him in office might inherit his wife or wives, who by virtue of the dowries paid belonged to the royal family. In such a situation, the children of the marriage would be considered the sons and daughters of the deceased chief even if they were physically those of his brother. This was the case with Opi Aliku, who left young wives at the time of his capture; Opi Bandhasi, who succeeded him, also inherited some of the wives. 50

This diplomatic relationship is a kind of subtle bribe to gain influence in the chief’s court. It is the seed of nepotism that is often identified among the challenges of contemporary democracy in Africa. 51 It was a privilege to be desired by the opi, and the family concerned say it as an honour, not as an abuse of human rights.

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The Chief’s Death The chief was distinguished in both life and death. His death was not treated like that of an ordinary person. When a chief died, his death was not announced immediately, but kept secret until certain rituals had been performed. These included bathing him and cutting his nails. Since one of the most important attributes of the chief was being a warrior, the water used for bathing him had to be fetched from an enemy territory. This explains why the news of his death had to be kept secret; the enemy would guard their water source and prevent their enemies from fetching any. Secrecy in this case would minimize the possibility of a fight. The logic of bathing the chief with water from an enemy clan was to metaphorically cleanse him of the blood of the enemies he might have killed, including those who might have died in battles ordered by the chief. The people believed that using the water from an enemy territory cleansed their chief of the consequences of shedding human blood, which could be visited on his children or the community at large. If he was cleansed with water from the enemy, then the consequences would be transferred to the enemy clan or tribe. Only when the body had been washed, and the dirty water poured in the direction of the enemy clan, would the chief’s death be announced with a drum rhythm that sent the message that the opi had died.52 This was followed by the disposal of all left-over cooked foods and all water from pots, to commence the mourning period. The funeral dance for the chief might last for months, depending on his wealth and fame. The ritual of nail-cutting took place after the chief’s death. The position of the ‘chief of nails’ (opi chukwa) was specifically assigned to an elder, and his responsibility was hereditary. The chief was not buried with his nails: they remained in his community, kept safely by the assigned elder in a sheep’s horn. Nails are a kind of personal weapon for protection. The chief’s nails were the symbol of his continued presence among his people, symbolically working for his people as their protector. That the nails, as symbolic weapons, are put in a sheep’s horn is a metaphor both of the opi’s wish for peace in his community and of his readiness to defend them when necessary. The chief, then, was to a certain extent immortalized by the custody of his relics in the community.

52

The deaths of ordinary people are announced by ululations. A respectable elder’s death would be announced by a man’s cira, while women announced ordinary deaths and cries for help by their ululations (kuku or wilili).

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Categories of chiefs were buried in designated places in the forest (rudu) that were considered well-deserved and cool resting-places for them.

Madi Leadership Parallels – Traditional and Contemporary The above features and rituals associated with the chief present him as a formidable centre of power, a patriarch whose authority had to be respected because it was perceived to be in the interest of the community. Paternalism thus emerges as a feature of African traditional leadership. The leader was seen as a father figure who meant well and cared for his children. His word and counsel were often accepted as right, and as worthy of respect. This disposition hardly leaves room for dissenting views. Opposition, in this case, would be perceived as disrespect or offence, and the one who opposed seen as an enemy. Since the leader was a unifying force in a fairly homogeneous ethnic group, oppositional stances were not part of the political structure of traditional leadership. In the African pattern, the chief or king was highly respected as the centre of authority. These facts have a strong bearing on the performance of most contemporary African leaders of ostensibly democratic governments. The African understanding of democracy is thus different from the Western perception. Communalism that encourages consensus, and not dissenting voices, is a significant feature of African culture.53 Inevitably, contemporary African leaders coming from traditional leadership backgrounds bring something of their heritage to the way they exercise power in public office. There are strong points of the traditional leadership style that cohere with contemporary leadership tendencies, which should make it easy to construct viable democracies around. These points of resemblance are outlined below. 1. Although the chief was chief, there were checks and balances through the established council of leaders and in some cases the intervention of divination through oracles. These roughly functioned as the equivalents to the modern institutions of the judiciary and the parliament. Autocratic leaders in both traditional and modern democracies have, however, abused such institutional checks and balances that are meant to restrain their leadership in the interest of the common good.

53

Joseph Oladejo Faniran, The Foundation of African Communication (Ibadan: Spectrum, 2008): 58.

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2. The traditional chief was accountable to their people: he lived for them. He was selected because he was thought to be an embodiment of the community’s values and would therefore protect the best interest of the community. This, too, is the professed manifesto of those who run for political office in contemporary politics. They are supposed to be the representatives of the people and to be accountable to them. 3. In traditional leadership, respect for the community’s moral code was cardinal. The leader was exemplary; scandals and moral contradictions in his life were not evident. When the punitive measure of the tumi was invoked, it affected indiscriminately: anyone who was guilty would be punished. This curbed crime. In contemporary democracy, the independence and fairness of the law-enforcement institutions in some avowed democracies are questioned, as the law seems to favour the powerful and the rich. 4. Intolerance of oppositional views is a recurrent feature of contemporary African democracy; openness to multiple voices, a distinct feature of Western democracy, is something that contemporary African forms of governance do not accept. This is often seen during elections and transition periods that are rarely peaceful. Consensus, not opposition, was the character of traditional African leadership. Often African dictators reactivate the ‘chieftaincy mentality’ – the invincibility of their office – whenever their leadership turns repressive.54 This however, is a selfish interpretation of the ethics of traditional leadership, for a good leader always serves the interest of the common good. 5. The above trend makes the idea of term-limits – a principle of Western democracy – unpalatable to some contemporary African leaders. Their image of themselves as chosen by God, hence, as having a unique gift for leadership, is a recurrent ttendency in the African political arena. This rhetoric of being the elect that some politicians still use to mobilize the support of the community is a hangover from traditional leadership styles.

54

This view of Africans being Bantu and being governed by their own principle of democracy is expressed by the late Mobutu Seseseko, who argues that among the Bantu a chief is always a chief, and his word is final. See Thierry Michel’s documentary film Mobutu: Roi du Zaïre (Belgium 1999; 135 mins.).

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The strength of the traditional leaders lay in their resolute commitment to the common good. The politics of contemporary African leaders is often referred to as a ‘politics of the belly’, emphasizing the selfish approach of leaders who feed on the people they are supposed to defend. This is metaphorically expressed in Ng×g´ wa Thiong’o’s Devil on the Cross and Soyinka’s Kongi’s Harvest.

Conclusion It is evident the leadership question is a significant one requiring a deliberate and concerted effort to construct a workable democracy in Africa’s cultural contexts. African traditional leaders ruled more homogeneous communities, of the same language group or ethnicities, and thus found consensus easier to achieve. Today there are greater challenges in constructing a nation made up of diverse ethnicities, making cohesion far more difficult. Nevertheless, communalism is identified by African scholars as one of its central principles.55 The tendency of Africans to define their existence in relation to others should be a source of hope in constructing democracies that care for the ordinary people, whose leaders do not see their interests as in any way separable from the well-being of their community. This is the ubuntu philosophy, in which “The individual can only say ‘I am, because we are; and since we are, therefore I am’.”56 What must be noted, however, is that in this era of global connectedness Africa can no longer live in the past, where its morality remains different from the rest of the world. The principles of good leadership as discussed above are basically the same for African and the rest of the world, and values, Western and African, do not exist in an antagonistic relationship. Human nature is basically the same.57 Among arguments articulated in early discourses of postcolonialism is the concept that the colonizer see the colony as the Other. I do not think Africa would like to be isolated as an Other in 55

See Kwame Gyekye, African Cultural Values: An Introduction (Accra: Sankofa,

1996), and Joseph Oladejo Faniran, Foundations of African Communication (Abuja: Spectrum, 2008). 56

John S. Mbiti, African Religions and Philosophy (London: Heinemann, 1969):

108. 57

H.J. Pietersen, “Western Humanism, African Humanism and Work Organisations,” South African Journal of Industrial Psychology / SA Tydskrif vir Bedryfsielkunde 31.3 (2005): 54–61.

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matters of good leadership. It is the responsibility of the continent and its constituent countries to make the effort to apply principles of good governance, drawing on both traditional and Western models. Just as any person learning a new skill begins gradually and cautiously, African leaders must move carefully to learn the good practices of Western democracy and traditional governance, and reject those that are inappropriate or destructive, seeing both in their own contemporary contexts. This process might involve the following practical developments. If in Western democracy a leader can have two five-year terms in office, African leaders who are still learning the process should only have one five-year term before ceding office to another. This would be a deliberate effort to discontinue the traditional practice in which a leader ruled for life. Secondly, it would help to build a broad leadership-base to dispel the perception that the leader is specially ordained for the job.58 This suggestion is given so that Africans can develop their own identity as leaders on the basis of their values and contexts. While the search for leadership models should draw on the past, as pointed out by Nkomo, it must be inevitably rooted in the present.59 The overview of the Madi model is a step towards building literature of debate on the characteristics of African traditional leadership, and their place in the modern world.

W O R K S C I TE D Achebe, Chinua. A Man of the People (African Writers Series; London: Heinemann, 1966). ——. Things Fall Apart (African Writers Series; London: Heinemann, 1958). Armah, Ayi Kwei. The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born (African Writers Series; London: Heinemann, 1968). Dipio, Dominica. “Symbolic Actions and Performances in the Conflict Resolution Rituals of the Madi of Uganda,” in Performing Community: Essays on Ugandan 58

A contemporary trend among the Madi is to leave political leadership to a single category of people and families. This has led to a small base of people who present themselves for office, making the people’s choice rather limited. This, in my view, comes from the traditional mind-set that chiefs should come from specific families. 59 Stella Nkomo, “Images of ‘African Leadership and Management’ in Organization Studies: Tensions, Contradictions and Re-Visions,” paper delivered at the University of South Africa, 7 March 2006.

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Oral Culture, ed. Dominica Dipio, Lene Johannessen & Stuart Sillars (Oslo: Novus, 2008): 87–110. Faniran, Oladejo Joseph. The Foundation of African Communication (Ibadan: Spectrum, 2008). Farah, Nuruddin. Sweet and Sour Milk (African Writers Series; London: Heinemann, 1980). Fisher, Roger. Lateral Leadership (London: Profile, 2004). Gyekye, Kwame. African Cultural Values: An Introduction (Accra: Sankofa, 1996). ——. Tradition and Modernity: Philosophical Reflections on the African Experience (New York: Oxford U P , 1997). Hord, Fred Lee, & Jonathan Scott Lee. I Am Because We Are: Readings in Black Philosophy (Amherst: U of Massachusetts P , 1995). Kehinde, Ayo. “Rulers Against Writers, Writers Against Rulers: The Failed Promise of the Public Sphere in Postcolonial Nigerian Fiction,” in Spheres Public and Private: Western Genres in African Literature, ed. Gordon Collier (Matatu 39; Amsterdam & New York: Rodopi, 2011): 221–51. Kouzes, M. James, & Z. Barry Posner. The Leadership Challenge (San Francisco C A : Jossey–Bass, 2003). Makgoba, M. William, ed. African Renaissance (Sandton: Mafube, 1999). Manz, Charles. The Leadership Wisdom of Jesus: Practical Lessons for Today (San Francisco C A : Berrett–Koehler, 2005). Mbiti, S. John. African Religions and Philosophy (London: Heinemann, 1969). Michel, Thierry, dir. Mobutu: Roi du Zaïre (Belgium 1999; 135 mins.). Mudimbe, Valentine Y. The Intervention of Africa: Gnosis, Philosophy and the Order of Knowledge (Bloomington & Indianapolis: Indiana U P , 1988). Nanus. Burt. Visionary Leadership (San Francisco: Jossey–Bass, 1992). Ngugi wa Thiong’o. Devil on the Cross (African Writers Series; London: Heinemann, 1982). ——. I Will Marry When I Want (African Writers Series; London: Heinemann, 1982). ——. Petals of Blood (African Writers Series; London: Heinemann, 1977). Nkomo, Stella. “Images of ‘African Leadership and Management’ in Organization Studies: Tensions, Contradictions and Re-Visions,” paper delivered at the University of South Africa, 7 March 2006. Nzelibe, C.O. “The Evolution of African Management Thought,” International Studies of Management and Organization 16.2 (Summer 1986): 6–16. Olowonmi, Adekunle. “The Writer and the Quest for Democratic Governance in Nigeria: Transcending Post-Independence Disillusionment,” Journal of Pan African Studies 2.3 (March 2008): 55–67, http://www.jpanafrican.com/docs/vol2no3 /TheWriterAndTheQuestforDemocraticGovernanceinNigeria.pdf (accessed 6 July 2010). p’Bitek, Okot. Song of Lawino (African Writers Series; London: Heinemann, 1966).

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——. Song of Ocol (African Writers Series; London: Heinemann, 1970). Pietersen, H.J. “Western Humanism, African Humanism and Work Organization,” South African Journal of Industrial Psychology / SA Tydskrif vir Bedryfsielkunde 31.3 (2005): 54–61. Sembène, Ousmane. Xala (Paris: Présence Africaine, 1973). Soyinka, Wole. Kongi’s Harvest (London: Oxford U P , 1967).

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———— º Audience Perspectives on the Music Festivals Phenomenon in Buganda ABSTRACT This essay discusses audience perspectives of the Central Broadcasting Service (C B S F M ) music festivals Ekitoobero and Enkuuka, both of which were annual events until the government closure of the radio station in September 2009. This work is a continuation of previous research on music festivals in Buganda as major commemorative events that promote and celebrate cultural identity among the Baganda. It explores the festivals as public narratives that interact intimately with participant experiences and the socio-political conflicts which characterize Buganda as one of the larger ethnic communities in Uganda. From the assessment of the audience’s views, it is apparent that they perceived the festivals as a space where they felt free to express themselves, to imagine and re-imagine their lives in connection with the king, the kingdom, the musicians, and the idea of Buganda within Uganda. Music was seen as central to the festivals’ programme because, according to the audience’s responses, the songs were an element that actively negotiated the layers of history, memory, and the diverse opinions that people hold within and beyond the festival space. Thus, the music festivals were seen as an avenue that permitted detailed knowledge and experience of celebrating the idea of Buganda while simultaneously opening to experiences beyond. The analysis of the audience’s views shows the music festivals to be a medium for cultural, social, and, to a certain extent, political relationships.

Introduction

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organized by the Central Broadcasting Service radio station were major celebrations of cultural identity among the Baganda people and, according to official records, were attended by about 40,000 people. In September 2009, however, the Government stopped the F M broadcasts of the C B S on the grounds that they had incited race hatred leading to the outbreak of riots in some parts of Buganda. The riots occurred after the King of Buganda was refused permission to visit Kayunga, part of Buganda controlled by the Sabanyala, a hereditary ruler who did not accept the king’s authority. The appearance of the king was an important HE MUSIC FESTIVALS

”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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aspect of the music festivals, and the closure of the radio station by the government is an indication of the socio-political significance of the occasions, revealing their status as public narratives which interact intimately with participant experiences and the socio-political conflicts that characterize Buganda as part of the larger ethnic communities in Uganda. In 2010, the festivals were leased to the Baalam Enterprises and Events warehouse by C B S , and its Ekitobero festival, under the thematic title ‘Ekitoobero Digida’ (Digida meaning ‘celebration’ or ‘merry-making’) was held on 13 June. Through collecting and analysing audience views, the present study attempts to summarize the ‘total’ experience of the music events that are such an important part of the festivals, particularly at a time when C B S is off air and the celebrations are now taking a different shape. The work is a continuation of previous research on music festivals in Buganda as major commemorative events that promote and celebrate cultural identity among the Baganda. Overall, the study is concerned with the idea of the ‘people factor’ and how this has influenced and shaped the image and tone of these events. A striking result of the study is that the process of making meaning and a sense of collective identity in music performances, always a complex matter, is intensified and dramatized at these festivals. Being part of the action myself, I was not quite sure what made these music events popular – whether it was the radio station, the musicians, or the songs performed at these festivals. Some audience members who responded to my questions have commented on the music performed as a special language, wider in range and more expressive of thoughts not easily communicated in everyday conversation. In my assessment, there is a definite dialogue going on between the different aspects of these festivals, which together are read by the participants as a way of keeping faith with what it is to be human, to have a specific cultural heritage and history.

The Meaning of Ekitoobero and Enkuuka I have, in two previous articles on Ekitoobero and Enkuuka, discussed at length their history, meaning, and significance from my own and the festival organizers’s perceptions.1 In this study, I draw on the audiences’ views and 1

The articles on previous research appear in Performing Community: Essays on Ugandan Oral Culture, ed. Dominica Dipio, Lene Johannessen & Stuart Sillars (Oslo: Novus, 2008), and Performing Change: Identity, Ownership and Tradition in Ugandan Oral Culture, ed. Dominica Dipio, Lene Johannessen & Stuart Sillars (Oslo:

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interpretations. I am acutely aware of the complexity of claiming to assess audience’s views, particularly since I analysed only ten in-depth interviews and a hundred questionnaires. This is truly the legendary drop in the ocean, in view of the fact that, together, Ekitoobero and Enkuuka draw an estimated one hundred thousand-strong crowd annually. Despite this, audiences’ views are extremely important here, first, given the populist tendencies revealed in my previous research. Secondly, during the time spent at these festivals, I witnessed the incredibly strong interaction between the audience, performers, and organizers. I keenly felt that the audiences influenced the nature and tone of the festivals. In conversation with a colleague, I wondered aloud whether the audience would say anything different from what I had already written in the previous articles on the topic of music festivals. She was very surprised that I could think that I had exhausted all my ideas in just two articles. The views of people, she asserted, depend on their assessment, on one level, of the mood of the festivals, in which case people will have different impressions of the atmosphere. She explained that people were bound to have diverse points of view and varying interpretations of different codes and symbols.2 This view did not assume full significance until I started assessing the questionnaires and interviews. In an interview about the meaning of these festivals, Prof. Livingstone Walusimbihe made the following observations: The idea of festival is not a new phenomenon, it comes from a long tradition of harvest, wedding, and other village and community festivities where celebrations would last a designated period and involve the whole village. Now it seems like an alternative space; then it was mainstream culture. There has been a reversal of situations with the impact of so-called modernization. That is why some people feel they are returning to their culture and others claim that music festivals are borrowed from elsewhere.3

I am interested in Walusimbi’s suggestion of alternative space because it proposes a deliberate ideological transaction between the main actors, and an Novus, 2009). 2 Dominica Dipio, Head of the Literature Department, Makerere University, 6 August, 2010. 3 Interview with Prof. Livingstone Walusimbi, Institute of Languages, Makerere University, 29 June 2010.

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effort by the occupiers of this space to make sense of a set of ideas, gestures, and sounds articulated in that space. From the descriptions of the events of both Ekitoobero and Enkuuka, this is an emotionally charged space where organizers, performers, and audience influence what goes on, particularly as almost all respondents took it for granted that they derived their significance from being associated with Bugandan culture. It is this suggestion of a symbolic interrelatedness between various components of the festival that was fascinating. Michel Foucault discusses the idea of heterogeneous space as being in a set of relations with other sites, and names one of the types ‘heterotopias’: There are also probably in every culture, in every civilization, real places – places that do exist and that are formed in the very founding of society – which are something like counter-sites, a kind of effectively enacted utopia in which the real sites that can be found within the culture are simultaneously represented, contested, and inverted places.4

The festivals based on the audiences’ responses functioned like heterotopias, imagined yet real spaces related to many aspects of people’s lives in Buganda and beyond. In these spaces, people felt free to express themselves, to imagine and re-imagine their lives particularly in connection to celebration, the king, the kingdom, the musicians, and the idea of Buganda within Uganda. In these sites originally instituted by C B S F M (Radio Buganda), people’s responses show that they entered these spaces as if being let into another place where they viewed themselves as in a mirror occupying two places, as Foucault describes it: the here which is the reality and the there which is the reflection and imagination of the reality. It was as if they underwent a cosmetic touch-up and were themselves yet not quite themselves. Respondents explained that the two festivals, Ekitoobero and Enkuuka, had commonalities and differences. Apart from being organized by C B S F M radio, all respondents thought the festivals signified celebration, unity, and love for Buganda. They explained that the main point of the festivals was to go merry-making and to have a good time while supporting Buganda. Threequarters of the respondents expected that the gate fees went to Buganda Cultural Development Foundation (B U C A D E F ). They also held the notion that the overall mission for both festivals was to show people’s allegiance to 4

Michel Foucault, “Of Other Spaces” (“Des espaces autres,” March 1967), tr. Jay Miskowiec, Heterotopias, http://www.foucault.info/documents/heteroTopia/ (accessed 17 June 2009).

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Buganda. The most common answers were ‘when I attend these festivals, I feel like I have shown allegiance to Buganda’ or simply ‘Omwoyo gwa Buganda’ – the spirit of Bugandaness – and ‘Kintu kya Buganda’ – Buganda’s heritage. In explaining the meaning of Ekitoobero, most respondents said that it stood for diversity in unity and was open to all people. Ekitoobero drew various people, especially the urban dwellers, and most particularly workers from around and within Kampala. They saw it as purposely unifying people with the aim of celebrating C B S F M ’s ‘birthday’ or anniversary. The main point of Ekitoobero, as a number of respondents explained, was to make merry. Mirembe expounds this idea at length: In my view Ekitoobero is getting together to celebrate, to rejoice (okusanyuka n’okujaganya). Ekitoobero kusanyuka busanyusi (To revel without inhibitions). People spend six months waiting for the event so you hear so many people saying “Owaye kanngende nsanyukeko” (Let me go and get a chance to rejoice).5

Many people understood Ekitoobero as licensing them to celebrate almost on the same level as the performers. Even though the musicians lead the show, the people are very active, singing and dancing along with the performances. The active participation by singing along, dancing, ululation, and using gestures of support make the event socially and culturally relevant. One youthful respondent described Ekitoobero as a gig whose purpose was to bring different people together to celebrate the benefits of C B S radio and to ensure identification with the common people and ultimately with the pride of Buganda. On the whole, people considered Ekitoobero as a festival that promoted the spirit of community cohesiveness and togetherness even beyond ethnic ties. The festival was also regarded as a motivational event for people to aspire to work hard. The main argument here was that the event provided an opportunity for different people to use the space for economic advantage. In Ekitoobero, the contests were open to all participants and did not require particular skills, so people felt that any of them could win cash or other prizes. People commented that there was a strong attitude of tolerance exhibited in the organization and the actual event of Ekitoobero. What people were saying about Ekitoobero pointed to the festival as a space that moved beyond the 5

This response was in one of the questionnaires and the respondent gave only one name.

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idea of celebration to the opening-up of social, cultural, and even political contexts. In people’s answers there was the composite suggestion that Ekitoobero opened up to all ethnic communities, yet the same audience saw the festivals as celebrating Buganda. I read in the responses a sense of boundedness and openness competing in one space. In defining both Ekitoobero and Enkuuka, the choice of venue was significant. The majority of respondents pointed out the difference in venue as one of the characterisitics that distinguished Ekitoobero from Enkuuka. For instance, Florence Nakirya in her description of Ekitoobero stated: From my own point of view, Ekitoobero is always staged at Nakivubo Stadium, a national football venue. While I see the similarities between the festivals, still Enkuuka is at the palace. It shows definite loyalty to the kingdom. It is about the deep love for the king. The whole idea of going to the palace literally means being in the king’s presence. This festival is a platform to praise the king. Going to the palace means a direct invitation from the king. It is a grand opportunity. When they sing songs praising the king, I feel so good being a Muganda. I feel special.6

In the description of how space made the festivals different and the elaborate descriptions of Enkuuka’s privileged space, Foucault’s analysis of space as taking the form of relations among sites seemed appropriate to the explanations. The notion of interrelatedness that connects with his explanation of heterotopias as sites of a sort of mixed joint experience was relevant to people’s views. In the respondents’ explanations, there was a clear demonstration of their knowing who they were but also of their feeling transported out of their reality and being transformed into ‘special’ people, as Nakirya asserts in the above quotation. Foucault refers to this sort of experience as the sense of the ‘absolutely real’ and ‘absolutely unreal’. The palace, in the audience’s perception, was a segregated place which was nevertheless opened to ordinary people on 31 December each year since Enkuuka began. It was the chance to 6

Florence Nakirya, Masajja Zone B, 3 July 2010. During the entire interview, she was very passionate about matters of the kingdom. As a way of starting her interview, she responded to my asking for her name with the words “I am a descendant of Kayita without a doubt. I hail from the Hippopotamus clan.” This is significant in the Buganda context because Kayita is said to be one of the earliest clan heads who settled into Buganda with the first king Kintu. Throughout the interview she talked about her special connection to the kingdom, although she made it clear that she was not of royal lineage.

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celebrate with the royal institution that the people revered. All respondents saw the palace as a place of honour whose cultural significance was strong. Brenda Nakidde echoes this sentiment: For Enkuuka provides us with the very important chance to learn more about the Luganda Language and to be where the king is. Being where the king is is like being in heaven while still alive here on earth. In fact that is why I go. I go to see the king, to be with him in the palace. I want to be able to name and count the times I see the king in a year. It makes me a heroine. I can be able to tell my friends that I were in the king’s presence. ‘Mbeera muwanguzi’ – I pass off as a victor. It feels like the rest of the people have not seen him quite as well as me.7

The excitement of associating with the unfamiliar and rare fosters the notion of what Foucault refers to as a placeless place. A number of respondents explained that Enkuuka is connected to the idea of traditional feasts such as weddings, funeral rites, twin ceremonies, and the like. There was an understanding that when people are together in huge numbers in a celebratory mood, that would be termed ‘Enkuuka’ – a grand celebration. In an informal conversation, a colleague in the Department of Literature, James Taabu Busimba, explained the idea of Enkuuka as opening up spaces to unrestrained celebration as a means of forgetting the trials of the previous year. He said that people regarded Enkuuka as almost occupying a transitional place where you are transported while celebrating from one year to another. The idea of creating continuity was echoed by various respondents. They explained that this was why there were often reports of sexual permissiveness not common in everyday life. There was a strong impression that the festival let people express themselves in ways that would ordinarily not be possible. There were two other frequently mentioned aspects in explaining Enkuuka. Enkuuka was important because it showed that ‘abantu bagala ebyabwe’ – people love and unequivocally support their culture. People also viewed Enkuuka as a learning platform because of Entanda y’a Buganda, the language quiz. They appreciated the questions on Luganda language and culture. In people’s attempts to explain the meaning of the festivals, the desire to acknowledge and celebrate their traditions and the spirit of Bugandaness was very strong.

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Brenda Nakidde, Masajja Zone B, 3 July 2010.

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On the other hand, I admit one major shortcoming in this study: all the respondents for the questionnaires spoke and wrote Luganda, even those who were not Baganda; thus, the point of view may be somewhat limited by this. All the same, the symbolically strong relationship between the people, their king, C B S radio, and the festivals creates a vivid impression.

Attendance at and Popularity of the Festivals Most respondents were of the view that about 100,000 people attended both festivals each year. The most common response was that both festivals had a variety of people attending, mainly those who wished Buganda and the king well. Most people thought that the festivals shared the same type of audience, except that forty-five respondents thought that Ekitoobero attracted a more youthful and urban-based audience. Twenty-five people thought Ekitoobero was patronized by opposition politicians. About fifteen people thought that a fair number of government officials attended Ekitoobero. All of the respondents said that Enkuuka was a cultural event and that it was largely attended by people who came to show support and love for the Kabaka. Eighteen respondents said that some people came to hear what the Baganda were saying and what their opinions were. Eighty-five respondents thought that most audience members went to the festivals to see musicians and dramatists, and to see the C B S workers who run their favourite radio programmes. The respondents unanimously emphasized that the festivals drew crowds of varying ethnicity and views. Pauline Nampala explained: Many people attend, sometimes I would think that the whole nation had gathered in one place. By the way both events attract both Baganda and non Baganda because celebration means drawing a diversity of people. Remember too that it is the Baganda’s cultural training to welcome other people if they come in goodwill.8

The principle of taking in everybody seemed important, but some respondents observed that people from other ethnic groups who attended the festivals occasionally showed resentment at the dominance of the Baganda. All in all, the main attraction singled out was the King. People pointed out that if people knew that the King was to attend, they would turn up in very large numbers. They explained that loyalty to the King was associated with deep cultural ties, which were binding. There was also the view that some 8

This was a questionnaire response.

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people attended in defiance of what they regarded as the central government’s bad will toward Buganda.9 People also said that the festivals drew wellmeaning people as well as detractors. In my analysis, some festival-goers find themselves in conflict with the law and police.10 The audience’s views on people’s attendance at the music festivals are diverse and complex. The strong idea of support for a monolithic entity called Buganda competes simultaneously with the recognition that the audience could have various interests, attitudes, views, and even purposes with regard to the kingdom and even with respect to mere attendance. The majority of respondents explained that they attended Enkuuka because they wanted to capture and retain the feeling of being part of Buganda as an ancient kingdom with a rich and proud history. But in my assessment of the questionnaires, I noticed a move towards a notion of ethnicity that is fragmented despite the desire for a unified Buganda. This was just hinted at by about ten respondents, who indicated in passing the different categories of social, ethnic, and political affiliations within Buganda. The concept of pieces of a puzzle struggling to fit together and retain one face was present in the respondents’ answers. The questions of identity, diversity, and even conflict from within and beyond Buganda came up in the context of describing the different people who attended the festivals. One more interesting observation the respondents made was that the festival space was open to men and women, although women were at a greater risk of abuse during the festivals, especially at night. Patriarchal assumptions reared their head quite prominently in people’s answers, but I will not discuss them in this essay. In general, many people thought that the main aim of the festivals was to mobilize and keep people as one, in the sense of belonging to Buganda. As David Lubega remarks, The festivals are popular because of the way they are organized and the cause attached to them. Remember, when C B S was operational, they would announce these festivals in connection to Buganda Kingdom. That, I believe, is a 9

Buganda and the central government have for a long time now conducted a running battle over the issue of Buganda seeking a federal system of governance, which the government does not support. They have wrangles over land as well. 10 A Bukedde newspaper (8 June 2010) reported on, and provided the names of, thirty people who had been arrested by police.

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selling-point. To understand the festivals, you have to first understand the loyalty and love for the king, because this is a driving force for people’s actions.11

The respondents held strong views about the festival as a space for informal socializing and connecting up with people they had not seen for a long time or people they admired and longed to see. There was a definite sense of celebrating the norm of solidarity and communality. Brenda Nakidde’s comment demonstrates this clearly: You may have spent a long time without seeing some friends and it is probable that you meet at these festivals. So, one thing is that these festivals act as a unifying factor, a meeting-point. You may find people inevitably reconnecting and perhaps reconciling because of the atmosphere at these festivals. It is very much in the spirit of showing unity in order to keep the King and Kingdom strong.12

Through the music festivals, people are deeply connected to others in their communities in Buganda and beyond. People’s identities are bound to an intricate and complex system of relationships that seem to be played out in unexpected ways at the festivals.

Music: the Soul of the Festivals All of the respondents felt that the music programme was central to the events of both festivals. They argued that, since the essence of the festival was to celebrate, music was essential to the spirit of the festivals. In fact, one respondent said that it was impossible to enjoy the festivals without the music. People were vehement that if the music were removed from the event, numbers would dwindle. In the audience’s views, it was emphasized that the songs at the festivals primarily thrust the cultural, social, and even political questions to the centre of people’s experiences and perceptions. Even though the audience did not see the festivals as aiming to influence people’s attitudes, they argued that in 11

In-depth interview with David Lubega, Kikajjo Trading Centre, 20 June 2010. Mr Lubega engaged me in a critical assessment of the idea of festival and of the events that happen there. Because of the discussions I had with him, I changed the direction of the essay from focusing on the music programme alone to a general appraisal of audience views. 12 In-depth interview with Brenda Nakidde.

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the end that is what happened. In my assessment, the songs in the context of the festivals enter into powerful conversation with the different cultural, political, religious, and other prevailing discourses of the time. Some answers showed that people remembered vividly the songs they thought raised tough questions about what people should value as members of one kingdom as well as one nation. A song by the popular singer Joseph Mayanja (known by his stage-name of Jose Chameleone), ‘Basiima Ogenze’ (gratitude comes after a person’s demise), was frequently quoted as appealing both on a personal and on a social level. The song discusses the general condition where a person does a lot of good for others and for the nation but finds no appreciation. The song pointedly asks: LEAD SINGER: CHORUS: LEAD SINGER:

Bannange gwavawa omuze gw’obutasiima mulamu? Basiima Ogenze Ekyo kimalamu amaanyi Nemu byenkola byonna

LEAD SINGER:

My friends, where did the habit come from of not appreciating people who are alive? Gratitude comes after a person’s demise That discourages me in whatever I do

CHORUS: LEAD SINGER:

This is a strong social critique of people’s attitude towards each other and one respondent insisted that in festival context, it took on the meaning of the central Government not appreciating Buganda and C B S F M ’s role in building the nation. The audience’s responses show that the songs performed at the festivals actively negotiate the layers of history, memory, and other views that people hold within and beyond the festival spaces. Joyce Nakayenga’s spirited response can stand for the majority of opinions expressed about the songs: But these songs mean, they are politically and culturally charged. They also have personal messages. They host the memories of our culture in their sounds. These songs nourish us in more ways than people may recognize. They tell us about our past and present. They also help us to think about our future. The songs here help us create something that expresses us. Even though you laugh and say it is just music but it is really a meaningful part of the festival.13 13

This response was expressed in a questionnaire by Joyce Nakayenga. She did not provide further details about herself.

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Apart from the vehement passion for the songs, the respondents identified three categories of songs performed at the festivals. They talked about songs, particularly those performed by older singers, that used metaphors and proverbs and had various levels of meaning. The second category consisted of songs that they termed simple and straightforward, mainly talking about love. The third was what they identified as dance-hall songs, performed mainly by younger singers. The songs quoted in this respect included songs by singers from Buganda and beyond. I was struck by the respondents’ deep identification of the audience with the music, to the extent of offering extended analyses of particular songs, such as the following: Ronald Mayinja’s songs tackle long lasting themes, themes that embrace a range of experiences for example the song “Landlord” (released in June 2009) concerns hard times, grief and support for the king. The song fits within Buganda’s wrangles with the central government and more recently the burning of Kasubi tombs which is a world heritage site. Ronald Mayinja sung this song before the Kabaka at the Kasubi Tombs mourning ceremony…

In general, the answers reflected that the most popular songs were those that praised the Kabaka or were regarded as socially relevant.

Because of and in Spite of C B S FM Closure: Celebrating the Subversive?14 As mentioned above, the Central Broadcasting Service (C B S F M ) was the organizer and key promoter of Ekitoobero and Enkuuka festivals.15 Amidst riots and ethnic clashes in September 2009, the radio was closed down, with allegations of inciting ethnic violence and promoting ethnic hate speech. Both festivals have continued even after C B S F M closure. C B S F M has subleased these events to Balaam Enterprises. The radio station, even before its closure, had branded itself as a voice promoting the values and practices of the 14

I derived this subtitle from a conversation with James Taabu Busimba. See “The Symbolism of Music Festivals in Buganda: The Case of Ekitoobero and Enkuuka y’omwaka,” in Performing Community: Essays on Ugandan Oral Culture, ed. Dominica Dipio, Lene Johannessen & Stuart Sillars (Oslo: Novus, 2008): 170–88, and “Mapping the Dream of Cultural Continuity: Songs at Enkuuka y’omwaka,” in Performing Change: Identity, Ownership and Tradition in Ugandan Oral Culture, ed. Dominica Dipio, Lene Johannessen & Stuart Sillars (Oslo: Novus, 2009): 209–30. 15

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Buganda kingdom and was frequently referred to as ‘Radio y’obujjajja’ – the radio of Buganda’s heritage. According to Joseph Ssembatya, Radio C B S was based on the principle of interaction with the people. C B S was part of Kabaka’s institution. The institution of the Kabaka is powerful but its power is derived from the people and the festivals were a way of making people feel involved in the kingdom’s activities.16

The people’s answers concerning how they felt about the festivals after C B S ’s closure showed anger and frustration. Some even confessed that they no longer listened to any radio. But they emphasized that although they felt the festivals were no longer the same, they still had to go in order to show their support for Buganda and the King. Almost all respondents said that it was not least because C B S was closed that they had to go and continue to show that they would never give up identifying with Buganda. As one respondent remarked, That is obvious, I have to attend. I cannot think otherwise. I already know the dates when the festivals happen. No more mobilization is necessary and if the king attends, who am I not to?17

Despite these intense responses, many respondents had missed 31 Decenber 2009 Enkuuka and 6 June 2010 Ekitoobero Digida. There was a discrepancy between what they said and what they had done. Regardless, the festivals still attract thousands of people. C B S F M is still seen as a mouthpiece of Buganda and the King even after its closure. The festivals are seen as complementing C B S F M ’s dominant view that love and loyalty should be first to the King and to Buganda. In my analysis of both the questionnaires and the in-depth interviews, the festivals can be seen to have contributed greatly to the self-determination and drive for survival of the Baganda through building ‘an imaginary space’ of unity and cohesiveness, and additionally supporting the often echoed sentiment in one of Ronald Mayinja’s songs, “Landlord” (2009): ‘Abantu kale baagala ebyabwe’ (people are indeed devoted to their cultural heritage).

16 17

This response was in one of the questionnaires. The response is from a questionnaire and no name was given.

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W O R K S C I TE D Bukedde (Kampala: New Vision, 8 June 2010). Dipio, Dominic, Lene Johannessen & Stuart Sillars, ed. Performing Community: Essays on Ugandan Oral Culture (Oslo: Novus, 2008). ——. Performing Change: Identity, Ownership and Tradition in Ugandan Oral Culture (Oslo: Novus, 2009). Foucault, Michel. “Of Other Spaces” (“Des espaces autres,” March 1967), tr. Jay Miskowiec, Heterotopias, http://www.foucault.info/documents/heteroTopia/ (accessed 17 June 2009). Originally published in Architecture / Mouvement / Continuité (October 1984).

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———— º Proverbial Imagery in Contemporary Political Discourse in Uganda ABSTRACT This essay examines the use of proverbial expressions in the discussion of politically related subjects, by both ordinary people and politicians aiming to dominate social governance. The term ‘proverbial imagery’ is used to refer both to traditional proverbs and to proverb-like expressions which use stylistic devices such as metaphor, symbolism, hyperbole, paradox, and personification, and which permit alteration in accord with different contexts. Using primary data from field research and newspaper reports, the essay examines the ways in which politicians manipulate proverbial expressions to control public debate, commenting on political directions to show their superiority as leaders. The proverbial imagery cited reveals a rich cultural heritage in the discussion, over a range of periods, of issues including the legitimacy of existing leaders and the spread of corruption. The central focus is on the use of proverbial expressions appropriate to the experiences of specific groups of listeners. The conclusion is that linguistic beauty, cultural and anthropological details, and the vigorous debate of politicians go beyond fascinating their audiences to generate a new understanding of society, making proverbs valuable instruments of social analysis, catalysts of change, and agents of social harmony.

Introduction

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and proverbial imagery in contemporary political discourse in Uganda. It examines the regular integration of proverbial expressions into day-to-day political expression, and how this reflects the thinking of both ordinary people and prominent political actors about the way their society is governed. The term ‘proverbial imagery’ is used to refer to both the more fixed forms called ‘proverbs’ and the other proverb-like expressions whose principal distinguishing feature is the use of special stylistic devices such as metaphor, symbolism, hyperbole, paradox, and personification, and which permit modification in order to address particular communication needs. The use of proverbial imagery in political discourse in Uganda is a prominent national HIS ESSAY DEALS WITH THE USE OF PROVERBS

”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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characteristic, and this essay sets out to examine how speakers use it to put across their positions on serious questions of national destiny, and to make political submissions interesting and memorable even to those who may not agree with the broad political propositions they express. Scholars of proverb communication have described proverbs as “the voice of others,” and as a mechanism that enables skilled users to gain dominance in dialogue.1 Erik Arthur has specifically examined the effectiveness of the paradox of “the proverb initiator fading into the background of societal opinion while gaining the upper hand.”2 The proverb has been used as an effective tool in political discourse since time immemorial. Political actors making general analytical comment or vying for electoral prominence have used proverbs to make incisive comments on the political direction of their society or to project themselves as the right leaders or as the alternatives to the current ones. Winston Churchill (former British Prime Minister) and Harry S. Truman (former U S President) are famous for using proverbs to advance political goals of very divergent natures; even Adolf Hitler is known to have used proverbs to promote the goals of Nazism.3 In Uganda, speakers regularly and generally use proverbs and proverbial expressions as part of a desire to wield power over their audience in social, personal, political, and other contexts. The proverbs enable them to reach out to their audiences through appealing to an authority that is accepted as valid. Because proverbs are derived from observation of daily life, they tend to 1

Wolfgang Mieder, Tradition and Innovation in Folk Literature (Hanover N E & London: U P of New England, 1987), and Politics of Proverbs: From Traditional Wisdom to Proverbial Stereotypes (Madison: U of Wisconsin P, 1997); Richard P. Honeck, A Proverb in Mind: The Cognitive Science of Proverbial Wit and Wisdom (Mahwah N J & London: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 1997); and Daniel Ochieng Orwenjo, “Political grandstanding and the use of proverbs in African political discourse,” Discourse & Society 20.1 (January 2009): 123–46, have all examined the communicative power of proverbs. 2 Erik Arthur Aasland, “Now You See Me, Now You Don’t: Proverbial Empowerment in the Shadow of Deictic Projection” (Fuller Graduate School of Intercultural Studies, 15 December 2008; 107th American Anthropological Association Annual Meetings Paper). 3 Wolfgang Mieder, “Proverbs in Nazi Germany: The Promulgation of Anti-Semitism and Stereotypes Through Folklore,” Journal of American Folklore 95/378 (October–December 1982): 435–64. The subject is also extensively discussed in Wolfgang Mieder, The Politics of Proverbs.

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touch the emotions of the listener, whose recent or distant experience may be close to the observation made in the proverb. They thus enable the user to make powerful comments on a broad range of subjects by borrowing the force of an anonymous cultural authority that seems to have correct approaches to solving the problem at hand, and one which listeners recognize and identify with. Their use also gives the listener the chance to agree with the speaker without seeming to be influenced by him or her. At the same time, there is still room for the user to claim credit for successful use of a proverb. Political debate in Uganda has always been intense, but that intensity has probably reached its peak during the past twenty years. Running parallel to this intense debate is the use of proverbs and proverbial expressions by various speakers. On one level, politicians are competing for political power, but on another they are seen struggling to outdo one other in the use of proverbs, in a bizarre game in which the public is invited to be the umpire. The public themselves are participants in the political proverbs game, and they do this by drawing on a secure community memory of proverb use in a variety of spheres of life, of which politics is only a part. Our experience in this research shows that almost every situation in Ugandan politics can be commented upon by using a proverb. The proverbs used in political discussion are applicable to other areas of life as well. But they are used with a degree of fluency that almost makes them seem originally coined for political debate. They tackle as many subjects as there are political topics under discussion, and these include the consolidation of power, resistance to oppression, criticism of political excesses, the popularizing of political truths and wisdoms, and the highlighting of appropriate forms of moral behaviour.

Definitions, Methodology, and Scope Within the scope of this essay, the term ‘proverb’ refers to those simple and concrete sayings that are popularly known and repeated in particular cultural contexts, and which express truths based on common sense or make a practical appeal to popular experience. They are often metaphorical, describing basic rules of conduct, and are distinguished by particularly good phrasing. Proverbial expressions or phrases, on the other hand, are conventional sayings similar to proverbs, and are also transmitted by oral tradition; but unlike proverbs, which have fixed expression, they can be altered to fit into the context

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of expression. This makes them particularly useful in political discourse, whose needs and emphases vary regularly. The data analysed in this essay were collected as part of a broad research programme involving the collection of a variety of oral literary forms including myths, legends, folktales, proverbs, riddles, tongue-twisters, similes, and metaphors. This particular research phase focused on proverbs and proverbial forms as they are used in contemporary Ugandan political discourse. There were three broad sources of data for this research: 1 Data from local community settings, collected from two regions of

Uganda, using interview guides and Focus Group Discussions (F G D s). The aim was to collect ‘original’ proverbs from communities that use them in their everyday life, and to access community experience and opinion on the use of proverbs in political discourse. Rural and semiurban areas in Buganda4 and Ankole,5 in the Central and Western regions of Uganda respectively, were selected for this phase of data collection. In the F G D s, the researcher and/or his research assistants guided small groups of respondents to generate a broad range of proverbs, and identify those that could be related to political discourse. This was then followed by a general discussion of the meanings of the proverbs and the circumstances under which they would apply to the contemporary political debates in the country. In other cases, knowledgeable people were identified to the researchers, and they were interviewed individually.

4

The Baganda are a Bantu ethnic group that accounts for about twenty-five percent of the thirty million people of Uganda. Before the coming of Europeans, the king of Buganda was both the titular and social head, and he wielded absolute power. This power was greatly curbed by the colonial government and was later abolished by Milton Obote when he became Prime Minister after independence. The kingdom of Buganda was re-established in 1993 by President Yoweri Museveni under a new arrangement that does not give it executive power. 5 The Banyankore are the largest group among the ethnic groups of Western Uganda. President Yoweri Museveni comes from this community. They were the most prominent actors in the war that overthrew the regimes of Milton Obote and Tito Okello in the mid-1980s, and they have since then played a leading role in the governance of Uganda. They have been accused of monopolizing power and resources in the country.

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2 Data from a variety of media outlets such as radio, television, and

newspapers. Of particular interest were news reports, radio talk shows, and live political debates nicknamed ‘bimeeza’.6 3 Data from election campaign and general public rallies, and from public debates addressed by both politicians and political commentators from across the country’s wide political terrain. The speeches of the President, ministers, Members of Parliament in and outside the House, and press conferences, as well as the occasional and sometimes impromptu political functions addressed by national and local politicians, were all valuable sources. They were all examined with close attention to the use of proverbs, proverbial expressions, and other unique forms of language.7 The proverbs in the first group accord with Mieder’s definition of the proverb: a short, generally known sentence of the folk which contains wisdom, truth, morals, and traditional views in a metaphorical, fixed and memorisable form and which is handed down from generation to generation.8

They derive their power and appeal from particular cultural contexts, even though their meaning can be accessed by people with different cultural backgrounds. Some of the proverbs and proverbial expressions in the second and third categories were quite cosmopolitan, and many were actually used by the speakers in their English-language form; and even when they were used in the local languages, their eccentric character was prominent. As a result of the above processes, this essay has three types of data that continuously interact to spice the political debate in the country. First, there 6

The term ‘bimeeza’, or ‘ekimeeza’ in the singular, is derived from the root ‘meeza’, which means ‘table’. It is used in Uganda to refer to general ‘round-table discussions’ at which all are welcome. The ‘Bimeeza’, also known as ‘the common man’s parliament’, are political fora relayed live on radio. Citizens from different walks of life and political conviction speak their mind on a broad range of social and political issues. Some of the participants are supporters of the current political order, while others identify with the opposition and are very critical of the ruling party and its policies. 7 President Yoweri Museveni (the current President of Uganda) is known for his love of proverbs, and he uses them regularly in his speeches. The speeches of M P s in Parliament and beyond were also considered in this category of data. 8 Wolfgang Mieder, Proverbs: A Handbook (Westport C T & London: Greenwood, 2004): 3.

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are those proverbs which are concrete verbal constructions, known and repeatedly used in local cultural contexts, and which express truths based on common sense or make a practical appeal to popular experience within particular Ugandan communities. They allude to what is considered to be acceptable conduct in these societies, and are distinguished by their pointed use of local imagery and good phrasing. Secondly, there are proverbial expressions or phrases, which are conventional sayings similar to proverbs, and are also transmitted by oral tradition. But unlike the proverbs, whose forms tend to be fixed and less flexible, proverbial expressions can be, and often are, altered to fit into the context of expression. Some of the expressions in this category are made up as speakers move along the political path, but they are attended by good phrasing, wit, and humour. Good examples of expressions in this category is the comment by the Kampala Mayor Nasser Ntege Sebaggala about checking your hand to ensure that all your fingers are still there after you have shaken hands with Museveni, and Mayiko Makula’s analogy between Museveni and the devil, seen later in this essay. The third type of data consists of proverbs or sayings that originate outside Uganda, but which effectively appeal both to social and political common sense and to the inherent sense of linguistic beauty possessed by all people. These forms are relocated and applied in the discussion of contemporary Ugandan realities, in accordance with the objectives of individual users. The term ‘proverbial imagery’ is used here as a general expression to refer to all these verbal expressions, including those that are difficult to assign to fine sub-categories. The data obtained from the above processes were sorted and organized according to the category of the political discourse to which they relate, and it was out of these that we selected those that are cited in the essay.

Proverb Use in Earlier Periods of Ugandan Political Life The use of proverbial idiom in political discourse goes a long way back in Ugandan history, but the examination of its use in this essay is mainly restricted to the past twenty-five years (from 1986 to the present), during which time President Yoweri Museveni has been in power. The periods before 1986 also record intensive use of proverbs and proverbial idiom in political discourse. One particularly recalls, for example, the now almost legendary quip by a Protestant politician to the effect that ‘I would rather be ruled by a dog

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than by a Catholic’ (Okufugibwa omukatuliki nfugibwa embwa).9 Also memorable is the discussion between Milton Obote and Godfrey Lukongwa Binaisa on the fate of the Ugandan Constitution.10 Sir Edward Mutesa, then Kabaka of Buganda and President (and Head of State) of Uganda, had asked the British government for arms, which he did not have the constitutional right to do. Obote sought the advice of the Attorney General, Godfrey Lukongwa Binaisa, who advised him to suspend the Constitution. Their dialogue is couched in the idiomatic language below: Obote said: “That constitution was my very child. I cannot become its killer.” “You do not have to kill it,” Binaisa advised, “it is already dead, as dead as a door nail, killed by Muteesa when he asked for arms from the British government unconstitutionally. All you have to do right now is to bury your dead child as decently as possible.”11

One also recalls Idi Amin’s famous saying ‘you cannot run faster than the bullet’.12 And when Idi Amin was overthrown by a joint force of Ugandan exiles and the Tanzanian People’s Defence Forces (T P D F ), Yusuf Lule, the first post-Amin President, opened his maiden address to the nation with the two Luganda proverbs below, to congratulate Ugandans for their resilience in the fight against Idi Amin, and to urge them to maintain the spirit of unity: 9

In 1954, a group of Catholics (led by Joseph Kasolo and later Stanislas Mugwanya) formed the Democratic Party to fight for Catholics interests, and to make a bid for political power in the run-up to independence, in the face of the general domination of Ugandan politics by Protestants. It was at this point that one Protestant politician belonging to the Mengo establishment (the conservative Protestant-dominated leadership of the Buganda kingdom) made this remark. 10 Milton Obote was the Prime Minister who led Uganda into independence in October 1962, with Mutesa as a ceremonial President and Head of State. Obote is remembered in Ugandan politics for his confrontation with the Baganda people, following his suspension of the 1962 Constitution, which had given Buganda semi-federal status, and subsequently abolishing all kingdoms. He was overthrown by Idi Amin in a military coup in January 1971. He returned to power in December 1980, following the invasion of Uganda by Tanzanian forces that drove Amin out of power in 1979, and a widely disputed election. Obote was overthrown by the army again in July 1985. Ugandans cite the periods of his rule as Obote 1 (1962–71) and Obote 2 (1980–85). 11 The Daily Monitor (Kampala; 24 October 2005). 12 http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/i/idi_amin.html (accessed 28 April 2010).

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Kyewayagaliza embazzi, kibuyaga asudde You were looking for an axe (to fell a tree), but wind has brought it down. Agali awamu, gegaluma ennyama It is those teeth which are together that are effective when it comes to eating meat.

The examples of use of proverbs in earlier periods of Ugandan politics are numerous, but this discussion is restricted to the period stated above.

Use of Proverbs of Foreign Origin in Ugandan Politics Many of the proverbial expressions that originate from outside Uganda are easy to recognize as such when they are used in Ugandan political discourse. They are mainly cited in foreign languagessuch as English or Kiswahili, and the users often label them ‘Zulu’, ‘Kiswahili’, ‘Chaga’ or ‘Ethiopian’ proverbs, as the case may be. Their images are also sometimes foreign to the Ugandan cultural setting. However, they are used in such a way that it is possible for Ugandan listeners to appreciate their meaning and to relate them to their political experience. The idiom ‘The only good Indian is a dead one’ is a proverbial slur by white Americans on Native Americans.13 In Uganda, it has been domesticated to give expression to local ethnic tensions within the country. The local version of the expression, which many Ugandans assume to be the original work of Milton Obote, runs like this: ‘A good Muganda is a dead one’. This idiom, while politically embarrassing to those who are assumed to have coined it, is commonly used in Ugandan politics, often as a joke; but it is also sometimes used in earnest by those Ugandans who are irritated by what they see as the wish by the Baganda people to dominate Ugandan politics. Another expression, which nearly all users know to be from outside Uganda, is the ‘Stalinist’ slogan of George Orwell’s totalitarian pigs, “All animals are 13

This expression was first used by General Philip Sheridan in 1869. General Sheridan was a Union officer in the American Civil War in charge of the Department of the Missouri Territory. One of his duties was to ensure that Indians in the Territory remained on their reservations and did not harass the white settlers. He reportedly made the remark ‘The only good Indian is a dead Indian’ out of frustration at the difficulties he experienced in subduing the Indians. Source: http://www.trivia-library.com/b/origins-of-sayings-the-only-good-indian-isa-dead-indian.html (accessed 28 April 2010).

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equal, but some are more equal than others.” It is used in current political discourse to suggest that the ‘animals’ from Western Uganda are ‘more equal’ than those from elsewhere.14 Another case of direct political borrowing is that by former President Godfrey Lukongwa Binaisa (June 1979–May 1980). After noting the problems that President Museveni was having with managing the country, he used the words of former American President Dwight D. Eisenhower, who simply said: “Oh, that lovely title, ex-President.”15 This was his way of thanking the Lord that he had left the problems of that office behind him. In an internal power-contest within the ruling party, the Vice-President, Gilbert Bukenya, complained that there are “Mafia” in the N R M struggling to bring him down.16 This followed allegations in the press that the VicePresident was having an extramarital affair with a woman called Nakku, and one of the Kampala papers even ran a story to the effect that she had said he was “a tiger in bed.”17 His opponents started using this to discuss his continued suitability for the office of Vice-President. The allusions to the “Mafia” and “tiger” are made without preamble because they have been domesticated in both political and social discourse in Uganda. President Yoweri Museveni received his university education in Tanzania, and speaks the Kiswahili language well; he often uses Kiswahili proverbs in the speeches he delivers in other languages. As part of his election campaign in 2006, he visited many places and attended functions in the countryside. One of the functions he attended was a small one at which someone was 14

Many educated Ugandans are familiar with George Orwell’s Animal Farm because it has been a set book on literature syllabuses on various levels, and a class reader in English at very early stages of education. Over the years, there have been heated discussions about the dominance of people from western Uganda in the Army and in other key positions in government. Reports in the press have, for example, listed the number of generals in the Army as far greater than those from other parts of the country. See The Observer (30 December 2008), http//:Ugandansatheart.wordpress .com (accessed 22 January 2009). 15 Former President Godfrey Lukongwa Binais, speaking on C B S Radio in November 2004. 16 ‘Mafia’ here is an allusion to the organized-crime racket whose origins are in Italy. Educated Ugandans are quite comfortable with the image. N R M is the National Resistance Movement, the governing political party in Uganda. 17 See The Daily Monitor (4 April 2007).

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celebrating his eightieth birthday. The opposition accused him of demeaning the office of the President by attending such low-calibre functions. He responded by using the Kiswahili proverb below: Mtaka cha uvunguni sharti ainame Whoever wants something that is under the bed, must bend to get it.

Although the proverb has foreign origins, its message is quite clear. He wanted votes, and had to bend to get them. When it was alleged that Minister Kahinda Otafiire had appropriated for himself money from the proceeds of a copper sale to the tune of 8 billion Ugandan shillings, he appeared before a parliamentary committee and simply described the allegations as “Mavi ya kuku” (chicken shit).18 Journalists and members of public were excited by this language, and focus temporarily shifted from the substance of the case to the Minister’s language. The Monitor newspaper had earlier used idiomatic language to report on the same copper deal as follows: “Copper Saga: A Mafia Style Deal Gone Sour?”19 President Museveni has also used a proverb of Zulu origin to mobilize citizens for self-help initiatives in the following words: “No one drinks medicine on behalf of a sick person.”20 And when Norbert Mao was elected President of the Democratic Party at the end of February 2010, his acceptance speech was decorated with proverbial language, most of it foreign in nature but fully accessible to his audience. Below is an excerpt from the speech: I will deliver because I am standing on shoulders of giants, […] I remind other parties that have since taken over DP constituencies that we’re going to serve them with eviction notices. Tell them that the landlords are back. […] Here we are using rubber bullets but after the election we are going to remove the rubber magazine and put live ones and confront Museveni. This is a struggle and there’s no progress without a struggle. Those who want it without a struggle are like those who want rain without thunder.21

18

“To Eat or not to Eat Copper,” The Monitor (11 February 1998). Sunday Monitor (21 December 1997). 20 When President Museveni first used it, it sounded originally Ugandan, even though he had cited it English; but in the process of this research, we have found sources that trace it to the Zulu people of South Africa (http//en.wikipedia.org.wiki). 21 http://www.independent.co.ug/index.php/cover-story/cover-story/82-cover-story /2556-mao-targets-besigye-museveni-for-2011 (accessed 2 March 2010). 19

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The observations by commentators on his election victory were also dressed in proverbial imagery. One observer called Otim noted that Mao was a strong leader, and that is what the Democratic Party needed because an Army of sheep led by a lion, will always defeat battles over an Army of lions led by a sheep [. . . ] it is not the army who wins the battle, it is the Leadership.22

Major Adam Kafaliso used the sophisticated imagery below to cast doubt on Mao’s suitability as a leader, as he did not seem to be in touch with the political realities in contemporary Uganda: Mao just happens to be in the wrong place at a right time, he is almost drifting weightlessly in Uganda’s political atmosphere! His political balloon is filled with helium while he is needed on the ground for a political birthday party.23

Some proverbs of foreign origin have been embraced as truly Ugandan, and are even given local-language versions. For example, Mary Okurut, a Member of Parliament for the ruling N R M party, was unhappy with ‘the political noise’ that her colleague Salamu Musumba (M P for Bugabula South) was making, and described her talk as a “Kimansulo of the mouth.”24 She then gave her free advice by using the following Runyankore proverb: Eshihera tizitaaha mu kanwa kataashami Flies do not enter a mouth that is shut.

Mary Okurut genuinely believed this to be a Runyankore proverb because it has been so used for a long time, but the international proverb scholar James Pritchard has established that this proverb is used in many other parts of the world including Spain and Ethiopia, has gone through multiple languages and millennia, and can be traced back to ancient Babylonian.25 Whatever its origin, it has been effectively used, and is clearly understood in Uganda. 22

http://www.independent.co.ug/index.php/cover-story/cover-story/82-cover-story /2556-mao-targets-besigye-museveni-for-2011 (accessed 3 March 2010) 23 Major Adam Kifaliso, http://www.independent.co.ug/index.php/cover-story/cover -story/82-cover-story/2556-mao-targets-besigye-museveni-for-2011 (accessed 3 March 2010). 24 The term ‘Kimansulo’ is a Luganda word that refers to an indecent dance which emerged in Kampala about twelve years ago, at which people strip off their clothes and dance naked. M P Salaamu Musumba had said things that were regarded as demeaning of President Yoweri Museveni, and Mary Okurut advised her to “dress up her mouth.” 25 Pritchard, The Ancient Near East (Princeton N J : Princeton U P , 1958), vol. 2: 146.

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Political Legitimacy in the Speech Traditions of Selected Ugandan Communities Uganda has approximately fifty linguistic communities, and all of them have rich proverbial traditions. There are minor variations in the conventions governing proverb use among the different peoples of Uganda; but generally, all members of society revere and intimately relate to proverb use. Even young children use one form of unique linguistic expression or another to signify that they are aware of the special power of idiomatic language. The special social and cultural conventions that different communities observe in proverb use are seen as a way of regulating this powerful social force and protecting it from abuse.26 The general political and social characteristics of the mother communities tend to define the character of the proverbs in a particular society, and to dictate how they are used in contemporary debate. The illustrations for this section of the discussion, as indicated earlier, are drawn from among the Baganda and the Banyankore. The institution of the Kabaka (kingship), which is the backbone of the dominant political ideology of the Baganda, is cited in the proverbs of the Baganda in a manner that affirms the legitimacy of the Kabaka as the leader of the Baganda; and in order to get the allegiance of the Baganda people, national politicians are required to acknowledge this legitimacy. Differences of opinion on this matter have in the past resulted in serious political disturbances.27 This is one of the most prominent issues in the current political 26

For example, among the Baganda, at marriage introduction ceremonies, the people from the side of the bridegroom are not allowed to address their in-laws by using proverbs. Likewise, younger people are not allowed to speak to elders by using proverbs, and direct references to sex are not permitted in proverbial language. On the other hand, direct references to sex in the proverbs of the Banyankore are quite common. A proverb such as ‘Omusweezi omubi, oti ekitanda nikityerera’ (a man who is a bad performer in bed blames the bed for being slippery) would be considered scandalous among the Baganda, but it is acceptable among the Banyankore. There are many others among the Banyankore. The prominent women’s-rights activist Miria Matembe has cited some of them as being responsible for psychologically enslaving women. One proverb that she cited, much to the amusement of Ugandans from other linguistic communities, translates roughly as follows in English: ‘The woman who does not know what she came to do in marriage, holds her husband’s penis with one hand’. 27 The capital of Uganda (Kampala) is in Buganda, but the Baganda believe that nobody can be superior to the Kabaka of Buganda on Bugandan soil. This has often resulted in clashes that have degenerated into violence. In 1966, the Baganda told

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debates.28 Older Baganda politicians regularly use proverbs to stress the authority and legitimacy of the Kabaka, and to perpetuate associated political belief-positions among the younger generation. Significantly, the proverbs about the King communicate the sense of power and danger that he symbolizes, and they stress his right to be obeyed by everybody. The respondents interviewed in this research had no doubts about their direct applicability to the current political debates in the country, in which the position of the Kabaka is disputed by some and emphasized by others. They were also aware that the imagery in the proverbs, while initially referring to the Kabaka in a sovereign pre-colonial Buganda kingdom, could be used as part of the bid for increased power and authority for the Kabaka (and by extension for the Baganda) in contemporary Uganda. The proverbs below are a selection from the many collected in the process of this research: Kabaka seggwanga, bw’ekookolima ensenyi zibundaala The king is a cock; when it crows, all hens cower before it. Ajeemera Kabaka, azimba Bunyoro He who disobeys the king builds in Bunyoro. Atasemberera Kabaka, ye muwangaazi He who does not go near the king lives longest.

The King is a cock, with command over all hens (his subjects),29 and if you disobey him, you have no place in Buganda and should go to Bunyoro.

Milton Obote, then executive Prime Minister, to move ‘his’ capital from Buganda’s soil and take it somewhere else. This led to the Buganda crisis, following which Kabaka Mutesa I I fled into exile, where he later died. 28 The debate on the political system that the country should adopt, the choice being between the federal (locally referred to as ‘federo’) and the ‘unitary’ systems, is really about the role envisaged for the Kabaka of Buganda in the future Uganda. The Baganda favour a federal system in which they see the Kabaka exercising political authority over the part of Uganda called Buganda; but other key players see the future of Uganda as lying in a unitary system in which all parts of Uganda are administered from the central government without any preferential treatment. This is not acceptable to the Baganda, because they see the Kabaka as special. This position is greatly reinforced by their proverbs, which highlight the special status of the Kabaka, and they use them to argue their point politically and to move the young to adopt and defend the position.

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Similarly, it is not safe to come too close to him.30 In other proverbs, the King is described as a hammer, fire, or a lake – all images of danger. He is also idiomatically referred to as ‘Nyinimu’ (the owner /head of the home), ‘Magulunnyondo’ (the one with hammer-like legs), ‘Nantawewetwa’ (one who can not be bent), and several other names that glorify him. It was obvious during the research that some elders were making an effort to ensure that their young internalize the idioms, and continue to make the claims they suggest.31 The association of political legitimacy with the traditional institution of kingship is so deeply rooted among the Baganda that it is the firmest yardstick that they use to accept or reject political actors. Many politicians vying for electoral positions go out of their way to show that they are loyal servants to His Majesty the Kabaka of Buganda, in order to appease voter sentiment in Buganda. On 25 February 2009, Owino market, the largest in the country, burnt down. The entire country was shocked, and various politicians went (in turns) to the scene of the fire to express sympathy with the people who had lost their property. Among them were the President and the Kabaka of Buganda. The Kabaka used the occasion to re-state the demands of the Kingdom of Buganda for semi-autonomous political status.32 The President visited the site before the Kabaka; when he left, the people said: Omupangisa agenze, katwanirize nnyinimu The tenant has gone; let us now welcome the landlord.33

The use of the image of tenant for the President and landlord for the Kabaka was a snub to the President, and it gave expression to the ongoing conflict between the institution of Kabakaship and the presidency, which has refused to give in to the demands that the Kabakaship sees as central. The users 29

The king is called ‘Sabasajja’, which literally means ‘the most manly of all men’; in the cultural tradition of the Buganda, all women are regarded as the king’s wives. The king is also referred to as ‘baffe’ (our husband) by both men and women. 30 Bunyoro is the land of the Banyoro people, the western neighbours of the Baganda. They fought bitter inter-tribal wars with them before the coming of the British. 31 One old man, Abbas Mukasa (aged sixty-five) of Bukundugulu Gomba, lost his temper in the presence of the research group when a member of the team questioned the appropriateness of the continued reference by men to the Kabaka as ‘our husband’. 32 “Kabaka Visits Owino Fire Victims,” New Vision (1 March 2009). 33 The researcher and author was on the scene when this idiom was used on 27 February 2009.

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wanted to stress that the authority of the President was less legitimate than that of the Kabaka, since his tenure is temporary, while that of the Kabaka is both life-long and hereditary. In September 2009, the government denied the Kabaka permission to visit Kayunga district, one of the counties in Buganda. In the ensuing disagreement, the government closed down the C B S (Central Broadcasting Service) radio station, the official radio of the kingdom of Buganda, accusing it of inciting violence. The political debate that followed was as intensive as the language was remarkable for its proverbial imagery. The language used by members of the Buganda F G D s to refer to this incident manifested their anger, but it also revealed proverbial skill. One of the proverbs went as follows: Serwajjokwota, lukiza nannyinimu entannama The foreigner who came to the home to warm himself at the fire, eventually stretches his legs wider than the owner of the home.34

Its anger aside, the proverb directly juxtaposes the authority of President of Uganda with that of the Kabaka of Buganda, and declares the authority of the Kabaka as more legitimate, since he is ‘the owner of the home’. The debate still continues among members of the public on radio talk shows, in the press, on the ‘Bimeza’, and on group email networks on the Internet. One contributor to the debate on an email group network tried to highlight the authority of the President, and to urge other Baganda to recognize it, by using the proverb below: Ezenkanankana n’ebisiki tezaka The pieces of firewood that are the same size as the main log (in the fireplace), cannot make a good fire.

He then argued: “The President of Uganda for now is Yoweri Museveni ... why don’t we give in to the conditions and have the radio re-opened?”35 Other 34

The proverb in this context alludes to the fact that Museveni is from outside Buganda, and is therefore seen as a foreigner ‘dominating’ the Baganda, who are the original inhabitants of the land where the seat of government is located. 35 [email protected] on the [email protected] network (January 2010), on the subject: “C B S conditions is blackmail and intimidation of the highest standards.” C B S Radio is the official Radio station of the Kabaka of Buganda. The government closed down the radio station, accusing it of inciting violence. The conditions for its re-opening included an apology to the government and getting out of the ‘Bulange’ building, which is the seat of the Kabaka.

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Baganda contributors used counter-proverbial language to accuse him of Ayagala kuleka Sabasajja e Bunyoro adde e Buganda (wanting to desert His Majesty in Bunyoro and return to Buganda).36 The press also used proverbial language to report on the saga. One of the leading newspapers in the country carried a story with the following headline: “C B S Closure Breaks Mengo’s Back.”37 Tamale Mirundi, a Presidential press assistant who describes himself as “the President’s barking dog,”38 thinks that the Buganda leaders are not being realistic. His comment is remarkable not just for the controversy that his opinion generates, since he is a Muganda expressing dissenting views from those held by the general Ganda population, but also because of the idiomatic language he uses. He told the Observer newspaper in an interview: What they are looking for is unachievable. [. . . they] want good schools, good roads, they want to fight poverty, education like any other tribe [in Uganda. . . ], but they want to remain with a state of Buganda . . . they think that they can get married and remain virgins!39

This is the official line of the President and other supporters of the ruling N R M party; and because Tamale is a late entrant into the N R M party, critics have accused him of trying to be “more Catholic than the Pope.”40 The Banyankore also had kingship (Obugabe or Obukama) as a system of social and political governance at some point in their history, and their king was referred to as Omugabe or Omukama. Their kingdom was abolished by Obote in 1966, together with the others, but was not restored in 1993 when others were, due to internal disagreements about its continued relevance.41 36

In the context of the inter-tribal wars fought between the Baganda and the Banyoro before the coming of the British, the idiom was meant to chastise the cowardly Baganda, who would return home, abandoning the Kabaka on the battlefield. 37 Daily Monitor (20 February 2010). The headline was reminiscent of the English proverb ‘the straw that broke the camel’s back’. 38 Observer (Kampala; 23 November 2009). 39 Observer (Kampala; 23 November 2009). 40 Christopher Muwanga, “Tamale Mirundi the Master’s Voice,” Observer (1 December 2009), http:\\www.The Observe-Nambooze hits back at Mirundi.html (accessed 7 May 2010). 41 When the British established colonial rule in Uganda in the late-nineteenth century, they encountered kingdoms, some of which were more than three hundred years old. Using their policy of indirect rule, they ruled through these kingdoms until 1962,

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However, its influence on the proverbial culture of the people is still remarkable. Proverbs featuring it are regularly cited as a source of authority in public discourse, and their power is acknowledged even by those who are not committed to the system of monarchism. In the F G D s in Ankole, proverbs featuring the institution were used very naturally, especially by the older members of society. Below are some of them: Ah’orebera omukama, niho omuramiza Where you meet the king is where you worship him. Ow’abura eky’okugamba, ati omukama agomorwa ki? He who has nothing to say asks what has made the king grow fat. Ow’akanwa kabi tayashama ah’omukami ari When you have a bad mouth, remember to close it in the presence of the king. Omukama nawe naterera Even the king slips Omukama kw’akakutuma ekitabasika kuboneka, manya ngu ebiro byahwe bihweireho When the king sends you for something that cannot be found, you should know that your days are finished.

The use of the above proverbs and others like them does not amount to a direct political act in the contemporary political setting, as is the case with the proverbs of the Baganda. However, their continued use suggests that in their cultural psyche the Banyankore continue to acknowledge the political and social legitimacy of the institution of kingship. Indeed, whereas President Museveni is the one who stopped the coronation of the King of Ankore, he is known to have referred to himself as ‘Sabagabe’ (the king of kings).42 In addition to the general debate on the power of the institution of kingship, these proverbs constantly interrogate the political conscience by harping when Uganda gained its independence. In 1966, the government of Milton Obote abolished these kingdoms. The kingdoms of Buganda, Bunyoro, and Tooro were restored in 1993, after a break of twenty-seven years, as cultural institutions; but there were disagreements in Ankore between those who wanted the kingship and those who did not. President Museveni, himself from Ankore, decided to stop the coronation of the King in Ankore (Omugabe), to maintain peace in the area. The king-designate, Prince Barigye, is regarded by his supporters as ‘King in waiting’. 42 See Daily Monitor (25 February 2007).

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on general social and political truths. For example, the proverb about the king growing fat comments on the question of access to resources by those in authority, which in a way is related to the discussion of the politics of eating (later in this essay). The proverb about the king slipping may refer to physical slipping and falling, which would be news in itself, but it is also a profound comment on his fallibility as a human being. The last proverb alludes to the historical ruthlessness of absolute monarchs in the history of Ankole and other African settings. President Museveni insists that since kings and other traditional leaders are not elected by the people, they should concentrate on cultural activities and leave direct politics to the elected leaders. But Mayiko Makula, a prominent critic of the President, maintains that voting is not an appropriate gauge for legitimacy. He has used the images of God and the devil to dismiss the President’s views: if God and the devil should stand for elections, the devil will win [. . . ] the majority [of the people] in the world support the devil (because of) his temporary gifts/powers [which] he has lent to many like himself. And therefore Heaven will be taken over by the devil as Uganda is today.43

The proverbs of the Banyankore also make regular reference to cattle-keeping, which is an important social and occupational landmark that the Banyankore are generally identified with. This landmark partly accounts for the oratorical success of speakers on a wide range of subjects. In his dispute with the Kabaka of Buganda, President Museveni used the Runyankore proverbs below to assert his authority as President of Uganda: Ezinganisa amahembe, tizitaaha mu kibuga kimwe Cows whose horns are of equal length cannot live in the same courtyard. Engundu ibiri titeekwa mu nyungu emwe Two bulls cannot be cooked in the same pot.

This was his way of saying that the Kabaka of Buganda should recognize that executive authority was in his hands. The President also frequently uses proverbs with cattle imagery to mock his political opponents. For example, when some opposition politicians told him that he had his expenditure priorities wrong, and attempted to suggest what should be spent on what, he retorted as follows: 43

http//www.On the Issue of Kabaka not being Elected-Bothers m7-why«Ekitibwa Kya Buganda.mht (Internet blog, accessed 7 May 2010).

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Oteine mpaya, okunda kubaaga He who does not have a male stock likes butchering.

Among the Banyankore, it is the male cattle that are slaughtered, while the female ones are left to breed. Having cattle is generally a symbol of affluence, and having male animals enables one to display power by slaughtering regularly. It is therefore very unfortunate for one to want to slaughter when one does not have male animals. By using this proverb, President Museveni was telling the opposition politicians that it was absurd for them to suggest how power should be used when they did not have any. As a political point, it might have gone unnoticed by the general public, but the use of proverbs drew attention to it; and it is significant that he uses cattle images, which are drawn from the culture of his upbringing.

Images of Strength in Ugandan Political Discourse The idea that you need to be strong to survive in politics is expressed in contemporary political discourse by using proverbial imagery borrowed from the lore of the various Uganda communities. In the proverbs of both the Baganda and the Banyankore, strength is generally presented as a masculine attribute. In 2007, Major General Jim Muhwezi, former Minister of Health in the Museveni government, was accused of misusing money intended for H I V / A I D S victims. He was arrested and charged with this offence in the courts of law, and is now out on bail. In 2010, he was still a Member of Parliament, and was fighting on. Asked about his plans for the future, he simply said: “In politics, you have to fight like a man.” Other politicians have used more profound proverbial expressions to communicate the same idea, but still projecting the notion of maleness as a necessary quality in the political fight. Nyombi Tembo, one of Museveni’s Ministers, used the Luganda proverb below to tell the opposition that they could not shout the President out of office: Bikoongoolo, tibitta nnume Mere words cannot kill a bull.44

44

New Vision (15 May 2004). Nyombi Tembo described the opposition as a group of disgruntled elements who do not in any way constitute a threat to President Museveni’s tenure as President. He was at that time Chairman of the Movement Party in

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Museveni himself, although not a native Luganda speaker, has used another proverb with similar meaning to mock the opposition: Ebikolimo by’enkoko, tebitta kamunye The curses of chicken cannot harm a kite.

This kind of talk is seen by the opposition as belligerent and unrepentant, and has provoked the J E E M A 45 politician Hussein Kyanjo to throw back at Museveni the ‘jigger in the foot’ image that he has used in the past: Museveni always said if a jigger is in the foot the best solution is to remove it. Some people in my constituency keep suggesting that if the Government has failed to adhere to democracy, we should fight them and overthrow them.

Ironically, Museveni used the ‘jigger in the foot’ to justify his declaration of a guerrilla war against Milton Obote in 1981, accusing him of rigging elections. In order to rebut decisively the assumption that Museveni is the only Ugandan who can manage the country, Kyanjo has used another male image: Awakula ennume tewakula emu Where one bull grows, others also grow.

To survive in politics in Uganda, it is very important to be seen as strong. In the F G D s, many people in both Buganda and Ankole felt that this strength included oratory skills, strength of personality, and financial clout, and that whoever does not have them should keep out of politics. Two Luganda proverbs were employed to summarize this theme: Atamanyi kuyimba, tazimba ssabo If you do not know how to sing, you do not build a traditional shrine. (The ancestors are invoked as using songs). Atalina maanyi, tagwa ddalu If you do not have strength, you do not run mad.

Politics is seen as a form of madness, and to join in you have to be strong. If you are known to be strong, others who want to maximize their chances of

Kampala District. He later won a seat in parliament and was appointed Minister for Trade and Tourism. 45 J E E M A is an acronym for one of the parties in Uganda called ‘The Justice Forum’. It has one member in Parliament, Hussein Kyanjo. He made these remarks at the Buganda Conference of 17 December 2009, and they were quoted in New Vision (28 December 2009).

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political survival will align themselves with you, in the way females lean on the male for support, as suggested in the proverb below: Awagumba ennume, n’enduusi we zibeera Where the bull settles, is where the cows settle.

The bull in this case is the strong man who will attract others to settle around him. If the strong man should cease to be, confusion ensues for his followers, as suggested in another proverb used by members of an F G D in Buganda: Lukuba empanga, lulekera nsenyi kutaataagana When death kills the cock, it leaves the hens in disarray.

The above proverb ordinarily applies to homesteads in the event of the death of the husband.46 In the F G D s, respondents used it to make reference to prominent names in contemporary Ugandan politics such as the Democratic Party’s Ben Kiwanuka, Milton Obote of the Uganda People’s Congress, and former President Idi Amin, whose deaths left their supporters in political disarray. It was also suggested, as part of the interpretation of the above proverb, that some of those who support President Museveni do so blindly because they fear they may not survive politically if he leaves. In an F G D in Ankole, a proverb was used to caution those who engage in politics to prepare for the consequences, which include mud-slinging and going to prison on trumped-up charges. The proverb is conceived in the sexual imagery below: Ow’ajwiire tatiina mpango She who has undressed does not fear a big penis.

The notion of ‘Musajja munno’ (fellow man) in Luganda or ‘Mushija mwino’ in Runyankore was very prominent in the proverbs from both Buganda and Ankole. Proverbs in this category are used both as inspiration for strength, and to call for caution and moderation. At the end of voting during the presidential elections of 2006, President Museveni was seen nervously following the progress of vote-counting. A foreign journalist asked him why he was so anxious when he had all the advantages on his side, and it was obvious that he would win. He used the Runyankore proverb below in response: 46

Some women who are widowed are shared out by members of the family, others are expelled from the houses, others go off with other men, others go back to their families, while others become nuisances with men in the area where their late husbands lived.

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Ababingire sho, obagaya yaagaruka You can only despise the men who are chasing your father after he has [safely] returned

– meaning that in politics, it is unwise to underestimate any situation. Because strength is overwhelmingly conceived in male terms in Ugandan communities, strong female politicians such as Winnie Byangima, Miria Matembe, and Betty Nambooze have been praised for ‘putting up manly fights’ (balwaana kisajja).47 The proverb below was cited in almost all the discussion groups in Buganda, and is quite memorable in Ugandan politics. It was used by Sir Edward Mutesa (Kabaka of Buganda until May 1966) in 1961 to mock the Catholic Archbishop of Kampala, Joseph Kiwanuka, who had disagreed with him on the formation of the Kabaka Yekka as a political party, with the intention of fighting the Democratic Party in Buganda:48 Bw’ogoba musajja munno, olekamu ezinadda When you chase your fellow man, you leave enough strength to run back.

Others proverbs which were identified by respondents in the F G D s as being directly applicable to contemporary politics in Uganda include the following: Musajja munno lukolokolo, olusika lukusika Your fellow man is like a banana tree stump: as you pull it, it also pulls you. Musajja munno, omuwerera akuwerera As you threaten your fellow man, he also threatens you. 47

Winnie Byangima and Miria Matembe were initially supporters of the ruling

N R M government, but they fell out with the President and have since been fighting for

political survival. Betty Nambooze is a prominent politician in the Democratic Party. She is an outspoken critic of the Museveni government, and has been arrested several times on what the opposition describes as “trumped up charges.” She has also fought several court battles with the then N R M Member of Parliament in her constituency, Bakaluba Mukasa, who she alleged cheated her out of her victory in the parliamentary elections. She won the court battles, the bye-election, and the subsequent general election held in February 2011, and is now Member of Parliament for Mukono Municipality. 48 Observer (23 November 2009). The Democratic Party in Uganda was seen as a party for the Catholics, and the leadership of the Kingdom of Buganda at Mengo was Protestant-leaning. Archbishop Joseph Kiwanuka disagreed with the formation of Kabaka Yekka as a party because it directly involved the Kabaka in politics, whereas he was supposed to lead all Baganda, including the Catholics.

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Proverbial Imagery in Contemporary Ugandan Political Discourse 101 Atatya musajja munne, tawangaala The one who does not fear his fellow man does not live long. Musajja munno bw’aswakiira, omweesega When your fellow men get very angry, it is wise to retreat a bit. Nkolola nsajja, egoba engo The cough of a man can frighten away a leopard.

These proverbs and others like them stress the importance of moderating political manoeuvres, ‘fighting like men’ but taking care not to underestimate ‘fellow men’ on the opposite side. Because the N R M government, and President Museveni in particular, seems to have a strong hold on power, some observers have suggested to the opposition that their struggle is just a waste of time and resources. ‘You should just leave the man alone’, they have said: ‘he is not going anywhere’. In response, an opposition politician has used the Runyankore proverb Abashaija bafa bekangizeyo Men die trying.49 J E E M A ’s Omar Dauda Kalinge used a Luganda equivalent of this proverb

when he was asked why they kept contesting after losing the previous elections: Ennume, ekula bigwo The bull becomes strong through falling (and rising).50

Equally prominent in Ugandan political expression are the proverbs that relate to the notion of ‘Nyineka’ (head /owner of the home) in the Runyankore language or ‘Nyinimu’ in Luganda. Literally, it refers to the husband or father, the head of the home, but the metaphor is extended to apply to the political head. Among the Baganda, its primary political reference is to the Kabaka, and when used to refer to others in positions of leadership, it is exclusively male in its linguistic and social conception. Its use in broader political debate not only reinforces the overwhelmingly male nature of the Ugandan political

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Ronald Mugume, an F D C supporter, speaking on the C B S radio talk show (‘kimeza’), 5 March 2005. 50 Omar Dauda Kalinge was parliamentary candidate for Nakifuma County in Mukono District (Buganda) in 2006. He lost the parliamentary race to N R M ’s Joseph Mugambe.

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terrain but it also signals exclusive power for the person who occupies the position it describes. Opposition politicians have accused President Museveni of treating the country as his household. They have cited, as illustration, incidents such as taking the army into neighbouring countries without the approval of parliament, using the presidential jet to fly his daughter and daughter-in-law to Germany to give birth, and singlehandedly taking a number of other decisions that affect the destiny of the country. Betty Kamya, a Member of Parliament for the F D C party,51 has accused him of turning Parliament into a rubber stamp, and has complained that even people who might have told him the truth now simply cheer and ape him.52 During the research, members of the F G D s in Ankole employed several proverbs to explain why the President was able to do all this. One such was the following: Nyineeka ateera enanga ei arikwenda The head of the household plays the tune he likes.

The President has frequently been accused of keeping quiet when he should be speaking up, especially on matters of corruption by officers in his government. The Banyankore respondents used the proverb below to comment on this situation: Nyineka ku abyamira ekigambo, enyana zibyamira ebyondo When the head of the house fails to speak up, the calves sleep on a muddy floor.

In other words, if the head of the family does not speak up, things inevitably go wrong. In some cases, Museveni’s silence was seen as direct complicity. In 2008, Minister Amaama Mbabazi was at the centre of accusations of misusing monies from the National Social Security Fund (N S S F ), when he was alleged to have coerced the Managing Director of N S S F to use the workers’ pension fund to buy land from him at an inflated price. President Museveni kept what observers called ‘a loud silence’, and when Prime Minister Apolo Nsibambi (apparently instructed by the President) came to Parliament to defend him, it was clear that the findings of the parliamentary investigation committee, and all the talk by the press, opposition politicians, and members of the public about Amama Mbabazi had had no impact on the President. This strengthened the belief in some sections of the public that those who had protection from 51 52

The Forum for Democratic Change, Uganda’s principal opposition party. She said this during a C B S Radio talk show in August 2007.

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the top could get away with anything.53 In the F G D s in Buganda, the following proverb relating to this situation was invoked: Aloopedde muganzi mu nzikiza You are wasting your time, like one reporting a favourite wife in darkness.

The opposition argues that this situation where one person has absolute powers and treats the country like a household is very dangerous, and points to a society that has lost direction because the leadership is not thinking of its best interests. One politician summarized this sentiment by using a proverb that others, even in the opposition, thought was a little unkind: Nyineka ku abura amagyezi, omufumu aragurira busha When the family head refuses to think, the diviner is wasting his time.54

Proverbs in the Contest for Political Space Various political actors use proverbs to hold onto power, or to suggest that they are better alternatives to the current leaders. Some of the expressions cited here do not accurately answer to the orthodox definition of a proverb, but they are striking for their use of popular stylistic devices associated with proverbs, such as metaphor, symbolism, hyperbole, paradox, and personification. These expressions greatly enrich political debate by effectively organizing thought around day-to-day experiences, and deploying them with the appropriate humour and irony, as tools of political criticism. They thus enable users to handle difficult situations, clearly revealing their feelings, wishes, and intentions, but protecting themselves from direct responsibility by appealing to an invisible authority. The proverb or idiom may not be the most critical component of the presentation, but it is easily the most memorable part of its argument; and it helps the speaker to strengthen his preconceived opinions about community questions. President Museveni took power in January 1986 and, at the time of writing, has been in power for twenty-seven years. In the first ten years, he ruled the country under a political system in which political parties were banned. There was a fierce debate over this ban. One of the opposition politicians at 53

Independent (25 December 2008). A.B. Byaruhanga, an F D C mobilizer addressing party members in a discussion group at Makerere University in August 2007. 54

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the time, Aggrey Owori, scoffed at the “no party democracy” as nonsense. He said: “We are tired of political masturbation, we want real sex.”55 The substance of what Owori was saying had been said before by dozens of speakers, but he continues to be quoted today because of the idiom he used. When Museveni gave in to internal and external pressure and allowed political parties to operate, the opposition started accusing him of staying too long in power. They have used a number of proverbs to suggest that he should make room for others. The following proverb is quite sharp, and is used by those who believe that he has run out ideas, and is now just exposing his weaknesses: ‘The higher the monkey climbs, the more it exposes its ugly behind’. The two proverbs below, from the traditional cultural setting of the Baganda, are more moderate in tone and are used regularly in the discussion of Museveni’s long stay in power: N’azina obulungi, ava mu ddiiro Even good dancers leave the stage. Ekita ekitava mu ssengejjero, kye kifuuka wankindo The gourd that does not leave the brewing-place eventually breaks.

For those who are under thirty years of age, and who have known only one president, it might even seem that the proverbs were coined specifically to criticize Museveni’s prolonged hold on power, since they have heard them used in this connection since they were young. The 1995 Constitution, the writing of which was presided over by Museveni’s government, had set the presidential term-limits at two five-year terms. By the time it came into force, Museveni had already been in power for ten years. But when the constitution was promulgated, he said he was beginning the two terms provided for by the Constitution, effective from the time of its promulgation. His supporters argued that the first ten years were his “bonus for fighting the bush war.”56 On the eve of the expiry of the two five-year terms provided for by the Constitution in 2006, a motion was drafted to amend the Constitution to remove the term limits so that he could contest again. David Pulkol, a former Director of the External Security Organization 55

Aggrey Awori, formerly a member of the U P C (Uganda Peoples Congress), who even contested the 2001 presidential elections on its ticket, later joined the N R M government as a Minister in the Museveni government. He made this statement when he was speaking at a seminar organized by the Uganda Muslim Youth Assembly (U M Y A ) at Kibuli Teacher Training College in November 1997. 56 Herbert Mwesigye, speaking at an ‘ekimeeza’ on C B S Radio, 4 December 2005.

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(E S O ) who had fallen out with the President, described the amendment of a constitution that had not been tested as the “raping of a virgin”; and the veteran politician Jaberi Bidandi Ssali called it political cannibalism “which will have dire consequences.”57 One young N R M politician retorted that “if what we are doing is the raping of a virgin, it is not without precedent.”58 The use of proverbial imagery in Ugandan politics is so abundant that politicians of different persuasions seem to enjoy it. Even to charges that are as serious as those of manipulating the constitution to stay in power or corruption, politicians from the government side are able to find the appropriate proverbial imagery to respond. For example, when he was accused of shifting the goal posts in order to stay in power, he responded that in politics, you cannot be rooted in one spot like a tree stump, and even added that he was a chameleon.59 He explained that this was necessary for the survival of the country. He also described himself as “kota pinu,” which can only be dislodged by a “hammer,” in the expression “Nze ndi Kota Pini bantekamu nanyondo ne banzigyamu na nyondo.”60 Because he was a freedom fighter, he said, he could not be removed from power “by a mere piece of paper.”61 In response, his opponents nicknamed Dr Kiiza Besigye ‘Sennyondo’ (the big hammer) because he was seen as the most viable challenger to the President.62 At another point in his political life, the President also described himself as ‘a python’, using the Runyankore proverb below: 57

Monitor (26 May 2004). The Observer also ran an article (12 May 2004) on the term-limits debate, which was loaded with metaphoric language discussing the proposal to amend the Constitution to remove term limits. In that article, for example, one presidential aide describes David Pulkol as someone with “a huge appetite for money” who “had dipped his hand in the national till” and is now making his comments out of guilt and frustration – all very metaphorically decorated language. 58 Herbert Mwesigye, speaking at an ‘ekimeeza’ on C B S Radio, 4 December 2005. 59 http://www.mail-archive.com/[email protected]/msg16374.html (accessed 10 April 2010). 60 http://www.newvision.co.ug/B/D/497/1/241 (accessed 3 May 2010). ‘Kota Pinu’ is the local Luganda name for the central bar that joins many parts of the bicycle. It is firmly fixed because it holds the whole system together, and cannot be removed except with a hammer. 61 This was in reference to the ballot paper. 62 Dr Kiiza Besigye is the President of the Forum for Democratic Change (F D C ), the largest opposition party.

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Oruziramire rworobi rumira enyameishwa zigangaire The flexible python swallows the rigid animals.

For good measure, he added: And I have swallowed quite a number, that is how I have managed to survive for this long.63

When the veteran politician Jaberi Bidandi Ssali left the ruling party to form one of his own, President Museveni used the proverb below to say that the N R M (the ruling party) would not be shaken by his departure: Akanyatsi kamwe kukaruga ahanju tejwa When one blade of grass falls off the roof of a hut, the hut does not leak.

To his other critics, he said: Even Mayanja who has never led an LC 1 thinks he can be a better President that me.64

In further response to the charge of over-staying, and the call for the old ones to give room to the young, one of President Museveni’s supporters and a Member of Parliament, Dorothy Hyuha, said: We cannot have only young trees in the forest.65

The electoral law has been another source of contention between the government of President Museveni and the opposition. The opposition accuses the President of manipulating the electoral law and procedure for his personal benefit. For example, in the 1996 elections, there were three candidates: Mayanja, Museveni, and Semwogerere. President Museveni wanted his name to appear as number one on the ballot paper, but with the alphabetical ar63

The president was addressing Makerere University lecturers who had gone on strike over low pay in June 2004. He was trying to use this proverb to persuade them to be flexible and go back to work while their grievances were being looked at. The present author and researcher attended the meeting. 64 Muhammad Mayanja Kibirige was the President of the Justice Forum (J E E M A ), one of the opposition political parties in the country, between 1996 and 2010. The President said this when he was addressing a rally in Tororo township during the 2001 presidential elections. L C 1 (Local Council 1) is the smallest political unit at the village level. Other levels are L C 2, L C 3, L C 4, and L C 5 at the District level. 65 Dorothy Hyuha, Member of Parliament and Deputy Secretary General of the N R M party, quoted in a news broadcast on the Wavah Broadcasting Service on 18 November 2009.

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rangement of names, Mayanja would come first. So he quickly adopted his middle name (Kaguta), which is his father’s name, as the name for the voting exercise, and therefore came first on the ballot paper. The country reconciled itself to this situation by accepting his own image of the chameleon. It became normal to hear small groups of people sharing the joke ‘The chameleon is now Kaguta; after the elections, it will become Museveni again’. The electoral law initially provided for presidential and parliamentary elections to be held on the same day. But in the run-up to the 2001 elections, the government proposed that they should be held on separate days, starting with the presidential elections. The opposition opposed the proposal, because they saw it as a trick to strengthen the ruling-party Members of Parliament, who would go to the polls after the success of their presidential candidate, if such were the case. The government used its majority to push the amendment through Parliament. After the 2006 elections, the government suggested that the law should be amended once more to go back to the old arrangement of holding both elections on the same day. The opposition protested, arguing that there must be a trick behind the change of mind by the N R M . Joseph Luzige, a lawyer in the President’s office, told them that since they did not know what they wanted, they should leave matters of managing the country to the N R M , and should be content to follow where it leads. He used the following Luganda idiom: Ebisolo by’omu nsiko ebigezi bwe biraba entulege erengera ewala ng’edduka, nga nabyo bidduka When wise wild animals see the long-necked giraffe running, they also run [because they know the giraffe sees far].66

The opposition accuses the government of manipulating democracy by providing for the army to be represented in Parliament. They argue that the present army is not a professional national army because it owes its allegiance personally to President Yoweri Museveni, and the presence of army representatives in Parliament is a dishonest manoeuvre to increase the voting power of the ruling party. That is why, they argue, the army representatives always take the side of government when there is a dispute. The opposition therefore insist that the army should get out of Parliament. In response, President Museveni has argued that the democracy the country enjoys was made possible by the 66

Joseph Luzige, in a radio talk show discussion with Betty Nambooze, Ahmed Kateregga, Sarah Epelu, and Semujju Nganda on Wednesday, 26 November 2008.

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sacrifices of the army, and they are in Parliament to protect it. He sealed his argument with the Runyankore proverb below, posed in the form of a rhetorical question: Wakunda enku, waayanga omusheenyi? Can you like firewood and dislike the one who collects it?

When Museveni was fighting to overthrow the regime of Milton Obote in the early 1980s, he received financial and military support from Libya. More recently he became very nervous about opposition politicians who deal with Libya for fear that they might be supported to threaten his authority. When it was reported in July 2009 that some of the Baganda politicians opposed to him had visited Libya and even received some monetary assistance, he reacted very swiftly by getting the intelligence services to ransack their personal accounts.67 During the F G D s we conducted in both Buganda and Ankole, this situation was captured in the two proverbs below: Gwewabbanga naye, bw’asula emiryango tewebaka (Luganda) When the person you used to steal with sleeps in the sitting room, you do not sleep. (He might run off with your property while you are asleep, as you used to do together in the past) Akakoni kaateire muka baro ku okareeba okarerenzya orugo (Runyankore) When you come across a stick that was used to beat your co-wife you throw it over the hedge. (It might be used to beat you)

As part of the contest for political space, politicians also use proverbs to regenerate hope among supporters during election times, to reassure them that victory is in sight. The hunting idiom below is in common use in Ugandan election-campaign language: Ensolo kweri ku kizigo (Luganda) The animal is within reach.

Another proverb with similar meaning, but whose projection is more longterm than the previous one, is as follows: Bwekataligirya, eribiika (Luganda) If the hen is not eaten by a wild animal, it will lay eggs. 67

New Vision (20 September 2009) and http://www.afriquejet.com/news/africanews/dozens-feared-dead-in-kampala-riots,-museveni-seeks-dialogue-2009091134784 .html (accessed 15 December 2009).

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During the 2006 elections, the Presidential candidate Kiiza Besigye used more cosmopolitan language to say the same thing when he told his supporters: President Museveni is going to see a Tsunami in this country. . .

The suggestion here is that he could be swept from power by a tidal wave of opposition. Museveni responded to this in similar terms by cautioning Besigye to watch his step because his own “tsunami” might take him “if he does not follow the law.”68 When politicians want to call back their supporters to their original political constituencies, they use this saying: Buli Mbuzi ku nkondo yayo (Luganda) Every goat should tethered to its [correct] stump.

As suggested earlier, politicians do not always restrict themselves to proverbs from their own languages; they use good proverbs wherever they find them. Reference has already been made to the use of Luganda and foreign proverbs by President Museveni and other politicians, if they judge that they will serve their purpose. The J E E M A politician Omar Dauda Kalinge speaks Luganda as his mother tongue, but he used the Runyankore proverb below at a J E E M A delegates conference in May 2001: Muka baro ku akukiza oruzaro, okamukiza omwana w’oburyo If your co-wife defeats you by producing a large number of children, beat her by bringing up a responsible child.

He wanted to advise the party members that since power was currently in other hands, they should focus on the country’s best interests. People would understand that, although we do not have power yet, we have sound policies. In the contest for political space, politicians also often use proverbial humour to taunt each other over perceived inadequacies and failures. For example, President Museveni has mocked the Democratic Party for failing to get power, even though they have made several attempts. Instead, they are always crying ‘foul!’ over small matters. He used the proverb below to advise them to give up the political fight because they were no longer relevant to the Uganda of today: Oburwa omwana, tazaara mara She who fails to produce a child does not produce intestines.69 68 69

New Vision (12 July 2008). See “The D P Factor in Uganda’s Politics,” Daily Monitor (7 February 2010).

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When the opposition started publicly arguing over positions in the shadow cabinet, politicians on the government side mocked them by saying: Otakazaire tagura ngozi The one who has not produced does not buy a baby-sling.

Since they did not have power, it was meaningless for them to talk about positions.

The Politics of Eating in Proverbial Imagery Images of eating are quite abundant in Ugandan political discourse. The fact that politicians are using words authored by an invisible authority tends to embolden them to say things they would hesitate to say in ordinary language. The state is conceived as some kind of edible commodity, an animal; and proximity to political power entitles one to eat. This approach is taken by leaders at various levels of the political hierarchy. In February 2008, President Museveni told an audience at a rally in Mungonya village in KyeizoobaIgara (in his home area) in Runyankore that Niinye nahiigire enyamaishwa yangye nkagiita, mbwenu ngu ngyende, nzehi? I hunted and killed my animal, now they want me to go, where should I go?70

This is one of the most dramatic statements in Ugandan politics for a long time. It does not say anything really new, because on 26 January 1988, he said the same thing in different words. He told a rally marking the second anniversary of his accession to power at Kololo airstrip that “Those of you who think we are here temporarily are joking.”71 The statement of February 2008 is significant for two reasons: for one thing, it reiterates a message given twenty years earlier with amazing accuracy: “I am not going anywhere.” More importantly, the imagery in which the statement is dressed arrests everyone’s attention, and tends to immortalize the statement concerned. The state is an animal that was “hunted and killed,” and the hunter has the right to “eat” of it. It excites his supporters, upsets his opponents, and the press lap it up. Jim Muhwezi, a former Minister of Health, did not use the subtlety of his boss, but said the same thing when he asked Justice Ogola: “where were you when we were fighting?” Muhwezi was appearing before Justice Ogola, a Judge of the High Court, to answer charges of misusing 70 71

Independent (3 February 2009). The present writer attended this rally and personally heard the statement.

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money intended for victims of H I V / A I D S .72 His message was direct: “we fought, and we therefore have the right to eat.” The expression below also came into Ugandan public discourse at the end of the guerrilla war that brought Museveni to power, and it has stayed: Tukateera embundu, twatunga obugambiro Because we used the gun [in the guerrilla war], we now have some [political] breathing space.

This expression is regularly used in Runyankore, the mother tongue of the President, even by speakers of other languages. On the surface, it is a victory celebration; but in its true essence, it underlines the relationship between fighting and ‘the right to eat’. Today, the expression is more popular with the critics of the Museveni regime and is used with a tinge of sarcasm against those who are seen to be monopolizing state power and ‘eating’ the larger chunk of ‘the animal’ because they led the fighting. The very use of it in the Runyankore language by non-Runyankore speakers is a political act. There are other Ugandans who do not mince words about their objectives in joining the fighting, and politics in general; their language is similarly interesting. For them, the fighting was some kind of economic enterprise which they engaged in to escape poverty, as bluntly stated in the following Luganda expression: Okufa obwavu nfe essasi I would rather die of a bullet than die of poverty.

Critics of the President accuse him of exceeding tolerable levels of nepotism. This follows his appointment of his wife and his brother as ministers in his government, and his son as the commander of the Presidential Protection Brigade. They also list several other public positions to which the President’s relatives have been appointed.73 His supporters have defended the appointments by saying, in proverbial language, that in African culture, “the cook must taste the food before he serves it to the guests.”74 For his part, the Pre72

http://www.vigiloetveritas.com/2009_04_01_archive.html (accessed 15 December 2009). 73 http://www.freeuganda.org/index.php (report posted 20 December 2009; accessed 25 December 2009) has a list of many other public positions to which the President’s relatives have been appointed. 74 Statement made by a supporter of the President at a ‘kimeza’ radio talk show on C B S Radio in August 2007.

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sident has simply said that Ugandans should appreciate that his family is making a big sacrifice. Many members of the public responded that they, too, would like to make that kind of sacrifice; and when he did not respond to this, critics sarcastically reminded the complainants that “in Africa when we are eating we do not talk,”75 which is a contextual modification of the traditional Runyankore proverb below: Owaarya, tagamba When one is eating, he or she does not talk.

In the discussion of nepotism and corruption, one sometimes feels that Ugandans have resigned themselves to it, and are now content to crack jokes about it. Many even acknowledge nepotism as inevitable by using the Runyankore proverb below, which was very popular with respondents in the F D G s: Abaanyu niryo itungo ryawe Your clansmen are your most valuable possession.

In other words, it was understandable if one brought relatives closer, since they are a valuable possession. Likewise, it has been accepted that when a politician crosses from the opposition to the ruling party, the main objective is to ‘eat’ as opposed to ‘serving the nation’. When the F D C Member of Parliament Abdu Katuntu tried to persuade the J E E M A politician Asuman Basalirwa to cross to the F D C , he retorted: “Why should I cross to the F D C ? If I was to leave J E E M A , it would make more sense to go to the N R M where there is eating.”76 As if to endorse this point, the President advised the Acholi people to elect N R M members of parliament who will take home a slice of the national cake. Addressing a rally in Gulu town (northern Uganda), he said: The problem is that you (Acholi) have been voting unwisely in the previous elections. You must start to vote the party that wins and you will see your sons and daughters in government.77

Then he used this memorable image:

75

Related by a contributor to a discussion on the C B S ‘kimeza’ radio talk show in August 2007. 76 Asuman Basalirwa contested the Bugiri South parliamentary seat in a bye-election in 2007. He made this statement in a private personal encounter with the Bugweri MP Abdul Katuntu, a member of parliament for the F D C . 77 Daily Monitor (14 April 2010). The President was addressing a rally in Gulu township, believed to be the heart of the opposition to his regime.

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Proverbial Imagery in Contemporary Ugandan Political Discourse 113 You send the opposition to parliament, for what? The opposition are village dogs barking at an elephant.78

The levels of corruption are reputed to be very high, and government attempts to fight it are seen as feeble and unhelpful.79 There is a strong feeling that many of the corrupt officers have powerful political patrons who use their influence to free them if they are apprehended, and to get them reinstated at their jobs or give them other jobs. The case of Amama Mbabazi, cited earlier, is very prominent in public discussion. Those officers who are unable to get the necessary political support to survive cry ‘foul!’ and allege that they are victims of the corrupt politics of the country. Tamale Mirundi, press assistant to the President, has scoffed at these officers, arguing that since they enjoyed eating the bribe, they should face the consequences of their actions without complaint. He used the proverbial imagery below: They are behaving like the woman who cries during labour yet she laughed in the process of getting pregnant.80

Many proverbs were cited during the F G D s to comment on the relationship between politics and eating. Those below, in the Runyankore language, are a selection: Enju etarimu mbuzi, engwe tetahamu The leopard does not enter a homestead that has no goats. Obuzaare bw’ente, n’amabeere gaayo Man’s relationship with the cow is with its udders. (We are only interested in what we get from the politician) Akakaikuru kateekyire, niko kagyira abeijukuru An old woman who is cooking is the one that has grandchildren. (If you have power, you will attract supporters)

Kiddu Makubuya, a professor of law and Minister of Constitutional Affairs in the present government, regularly uses the Luganda proverb below to justify his participation in government affairs: 78

This image has since caused a lot of excitement in Ugandan political circles, and has been widely debated on radio talk shows in the country. 79 See the detailed World Bank report on corruption in Uganda reviewed in New Vision (21 January 2008). 80 Tamale Mirundi is a Press Assistant to the President. He was speaking on a radio talk show on Ddembe F M Radio in August 2007.

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Gwewalabyeko, ye mwana The child you have seen is the one that counts.

A similar Luganda proverb goes: Nyama ntono, okayana eri mu nkwawa Before you complain that the meat you have been given is not enough, first secure it.

This is the other way of saying ‘I will take what is available, as I look around for something else’. It is generally believed that when ministries are being allocated, the more significant ones such as Defence, Finance, Education, and Health are given to people who are close to the President, with factors such as religion and ethnicity playing a prominent role. Other political actors have complained that they are given ‘meaningless’ ministries. When General Moses Ali, a member of the Muslim community, was appointed Third Deputy Prime Minister and Minister for Disaster Preparedness in January 2005, the popular joke in the country was that he was unemployed because disasters were a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. Sheikh Abdu Obeid Kamulegeya, a prominent Muslim leader in the country, described the designation as an insult to the Muslim community. He wondered how a huge man like Moses Ali could be given disaster preparedness, “and then they claim that they have given us.”81 In the F G D s in Ankole, respondents were invited to comment on this situation, and they used the proverb below: Ebitateekirwe nyoko ku obona ebikogoto orya When the food is not cooked by your mother, accept even the scraps from the bottom of the pot.82

The general spirit of the above proverbs and others as they are used in Ugandan political discourse today is that eating has become a legitimate objective in politics, and it is acceptable to cross from one opposition party to the ruling party because that is where the eating is. Once power is lost, then

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Sheikh Kamulegeya was addressing a large Muslim gathering at Kibuli Mosque in June 2005. 82 Muslims in the country account for about twenty-five percent of the country’s population and, save for the eight years (1971–79) when Idi Amin was in power, they have always been on the political periphery. An offer of such a position is generally considered as a favour which they should take without complaining; hence the meaning of the proverb.

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allegiances shift to whoever has it, so that eating can continue, as is suggested in the Luganda proverb below, quoted from an F D G in Buganda: Guweddeko entotto, ennyonyi ziguyita ttale When a tree does not have any more fruits, the birds call it a wilderness.

In other words, those who have left power and no longer have anything to offer are no longer attractive. The other concern of members of the public is that many properties that used to be owned by the State have been sold under shady circumstances to dubious investors. It has also been suggested that some of the proceeds go into the pockets of individual politicians connected to the President, and some companies that used to belong to the State are now said to belong to the ‘First Family’.83 The general talk in many public and opposition circles is that Museveni is selling everything in the country, and that by the time he leaves power, if he ever does, the entire country will have been sold off. The proverb below was used in one of the F G D s to suggest that once one starts amassing wealth, nothing is sacred: Owarengyesereza kukunda ente, ajugisa nyina One’s excessive love of cows can make one marry off his mother.

In a direct comment about the President, the Mayor of Kampala, Haji Nasser Ntege Sebaggala, has described Museveni as a ruthless politician who wants everything, and can even swallow you alive if you are not careful. As an afterthought, he added the colourful comment below, already cited above in a different context: In fact, after Museveni has shaken your hand, you need to check it to see whether all the fingers are still there.84

Speaking on a C B S radio talk show, Betty Nambooze used the following Luganda proverb to accuse the President of tutoring his colleagues in corruption: Enyonyi enkulu, zeziyigiriza ento okubuuka It is the older birds that teach the young ones to fly.

83

http://www.freeuganda.org/index.php (report posted 20 December 2009; accessed 25 December 2009). 84 The Mayor was speaking informally to an impromptu gathering in Owino market (Kampala) in March 2007.

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One government supporter, however, told Nambooze that she did not have the moral authority to accuse anybody of corruption. He cited her arrest and imprisonment for soliciting a bribe from a traditional healer in 2003 when she was an enforcement officer in Mukono, and then quoted the following Kalenjin proverb to seal his point: “A hyena can’t smell its own stench.”85 However, opposition politicians have dismissed the charges against Nambooze as fabrications by the state to stop her from talking about ‘the eating’. The prominent clergyman Pastor Joseph Serwadda has observed: In Uganda, corruption prowls from bedrooms to offices, from subject to chief, from disciple to mentor, from church to military barracks. . . 86

This open talk about corruption and nepotism, and linking the President with it, is a matter of great concern to some in government circles. As a result, some politicians have attempted to argue that the President himself is clean, but the people around him are the problem. Waswa Lule, an opposition politician of the Democratic Party, dismissed this suggestion as irresponsible. He used the Luganda language idiom below to make his point: Enswera bwezikwetoloola, gwe totegeera nti owunya? When flies surround you, don’t you realise you smell?87

He was subsquently arrested and charged with “causing annoyance to the person of the President.” In all likelihood, it is the proverbial imagery rather than the general talk about corruption that sufficed to alarm the establishment to bring about Waswa Lule’s arrest. Mzei Boniface Byanyima, the National Chairman of the Democratic Party, commenting on the same claim of a clean Museveni and dirty colleagues, said in Runyankore: Okujumira omu bwengye, ajuma omwana waawe He who wants to insult you in a subtle way insults your child.

In other words, those who were saying that the people around the President were dirty were politely saying that he is also dirty.

85

http://www.The Observer-Nambooze hits back at Mirundi.mht (accessed 7 May 2010). Opposition politicians have argued that the charges against Nambooze were fabricated by the state as part of the attempt to silence her. 86 Pastor Kakande, end-of-year message to members of his congregation in December 2008. 87 Waswa Lule, addressing a seminar in Kibuli Teachers College organized by the Uganda Muslim Youth Assembly (U M Y A ) in September 2003.

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Museveni’s confrontation with the press has mainly been because of the corruption and nepotism with which his government is strongly associated; and the confrontation has been dressed in proverbial imagery. Charles Onyango Obbo, a prominent Ugandan journalist, used a memorable proverb to observe that corruption cannot continue unabated unless it has support from the top, since “When a fish is rotting, it starts with the head”88 (a commonenough idiom in European languages as well). Another journalist, Charles Odobo Bichachi, former editor of The Independent, used the image of the vulture to strengthen his suggestion that it is time for change of leadership in Uganda: A vulture that has established a base in the jungle will eat and leave nothing. But a new vulture will eat and leave something. Therefore, we should not sit back and watch Museveni and his group loot this country because we fear that the new fellows might be worse thieves.89

Museveni has himself used the same image of the vulture to refer to the press because they keep meddling in things they do not understand. Referring to the criticism of his policies by the Kampala journalist Andrew Mwenda, he said: I will no longer tolerate a newspaper, which is like a vulture . . . I will simply close it! Finish! End! Gasiya tu!

This prompted Andrew Mwenda to liken him to Idi Amin, which in Ugandan political circles is a gross insult today.90 As if to back up the Amin image, Mwenda also sent email messages to his friends and to media houses around the world with the title: “A new Mugabe emerging in Africa.”91 As a result, he was arrested and charged with sedition. 88

Onyango Obbo, formerly editor of the Monitor newspaper (now the Daily Monitor) and now managing editor of the Nation newspaper in Nairobi, made this comment on a popular Kampala radio talk show called “The Capital Gang” on Capital Radio in August 1998. 89 Radio talk show on K F M Radio, May 2007. 90 http://andrewmwendasblog.blogspot.com/2008_11_01_archive.html (accessed 13 July 2009). Idi Amin was President of Uganda between 1971 and 1979. Many political analysts preface his name with the title ‘dictator,’ and his name has become a self-contained image in Ugandan politics. The use of Kiswahili in this quotation is particularly significant because it was a trademark of Idi Amin’s Presidency. 91 Mugabe is the President of Zimbabwe, described in Western political and media circles as a ruthless dictator. Mwenda made this comparison on the eve of the closure

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Proverbs as a School of Political ‘Good Manners’ While proverbs facilitate lively debate between politicians, they also provide a mechanism that the public use to talk back to them, to school them in good manners. When a politician makes an obvious mistake or says something inappropriate, the public always find a suitable proverb to characterize his action or statement, as a way of guiding him back onto the right path. The proverb about flies not entering a mouth that is shut, seen earlier in the essay, was used between one M P and her colleague, but it is a good example of the use of proverbs to call an errant politician to order. There are many others in which the users are the local populace talking back to their leaders, either directly or covertly, so that the leaders will heed them. Excesses such as being untrustworthy, failing to listen to the people, or abusing colleagues are all condemned through the use of proverbs. The Runyankore proverbs below were cited during the F G D s as expressions that could be used to address various forms of breach of trust or ingratitude in politics, such as not visiting the electorate until the next election or betraying political godfathers: Omukazi nyankwarara abuuza nkanyoko The deceptive woman approaches you like a real mother. Ku otambira ow’emishoha ashwera omukazi waawe If you cure someone’s swelling testicle, he rewards you by sleeping with your wife.

The Luganda proverb below was cited in the F G D s in Buganda as one that could be used to offer advice to politicians who talk a lot, as this is a sign of failure: Yeererejja ng’atwaala omumbejja omubi; nti “muveewo mpiseewo omwana wa Kabaka” You talk too much, like a man taking an ugly princess; he keeps shouting ‘give way so that the king’s daughter may pass’.

The proverb suggests that if you have bad policies, you do a lot of talking to sell them, instead of using the time to improve them. On the other hand, the man taking a beautiful princess does not have to announce the fact, because it will be obvious from her beauty. Proverbs are also used to chastise lazy politicians who are in the habit of finding excuses when they have failed to deliver the services expected of of the K F M radio station at which Mwenda hosted a talk show entitled “Andrew Mwenda Live,” which was critical of Museveni’s policies.

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them. The Runyankore proverb below, and quoted above in a different context, uses sexual imagery to capture this situation, and was very popular among the F G D s. Its application rangesfrom politicians who oversleep or are miserly to those who spend more time blaming past leaders than in delivering services to the people: Omushwezi mubi ati, “Ekyahi kyaterera” The man who is bad at sex blames the bed, saying: “This bed is slippery.”

The President has described the past Ugandan leaders as “swine.”92 This was seen by many as a breach of decorum, since some of the people so insulted were physically present when he said it. The members of the F G D s in Mbarara town were asked to comment, and they employed the proverb below, as one that could be used to advise the President: Otakaziikire nyoko, tosheka mukaikuru agwiire aha muhanda Before you have buried you mother, do not laugh at an old woman who has fallen by the roadside.

In other words, the President needs to moderate his language because he does not know how he will himself end up. When former Ugandan President Idi Amin died, the current President said he would never touch his body, “even if it meant using a long stick.”93 This was seen as a breach of traditional African respect for the dead, and the members of the F D G s again suggested that the advice in the proverb below would benefit the President: Eihari ringi rikuhemesa ekituuro Too much jealousy makes you gnash your teeth even at a tomb [of your late co-wife].94

When Dr Kiiza Besigye announced that he was running for President, Museveni alleged that he was not fit to contest because he was suffering from H I V / A I D S . This was seen as unbecoming for a person who had won acclaim 92

The President said this on 26 January 1995, at a state occasion to mark the ninth anniversary of the N R M regime. Since then, Ugandans have humorously nicknamed past leaders ‘pork’. Past leaders such as former Vice-President General Mustafa Adirisi, Vice-President Brigadier Gad Wilson Toko (now deceased), and former Prime Minister Eric Otema Allimadi (now deceased), had been officially invited and were present. See The Independent (23 March 2010). 93 New Vision (19 August 2003). 94 Friday Prayers, Mbarara Town Mosque, 22 August 2003.

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for fighting A I D S . Besigye responded by suggesting that both he and the President should take an H I V test. Museveni, in what many still consider a significant silence, stopped talking about Besigye and H I V . Politicians then cynically remarked that since these people had fallen out after being companions for a long time, they knew things about each other that the public did not know. In the F G D s, the proverb below was used to capture the situation: Abatureine, tibasherekana bujwarabusha People living together cannot hide their nakedness from each other.

The suggestion here is that when you live with somebody closely, you learn secrets about him or her. Cecilia Ogwal, an opposition M P , concerned that the President and his team did not listen to any form of advice from the opposition, thus often missing out on useful ideas, expressed as much in these proverbial terms: The disease that will kill a dog starts by blocking its nose. . .

President Museveni responded using the same proverbial currency: I am not a dog; but even if I were one, my nose is still wide open and I can sniff very far.95

Even in situations where there is no pressure to outdo another politician, the proverbial image is very attractive; in addition to the advice it gives, audiences find it very entertaining. When the President was commissioning soldiers who had undergone re-training after the guerrilla war, this is how he addressed them: You have been fighting but you did not have the expertise. You are like the unprofessional cook who cooks malakwang [an Acholi delicacy], but now we said ‘come here and become better cooks’. If you have been quack doctors, we have trained you and made you professional doctors.96

The use of the Acholi-based image of ‘malakwang’ was a deliberate attempt by the president to build a political bridge with people considered to be his sworn opponents.97 95

Reported by Ofwono Opondo, a political-affairs assistant to the President, while appearing on the “Capital Gang” radio talk show in May 2005. 96 http://www.quotesdaddy.com/quote/225698/yoweri-museveni (accessed 28 April 2010). 97 The Lord’s Resistance Army, led by Joseph Kony, which has been fighting the government of President Museveni for more than twenty years, has its base among the Acholi people of Northern Uganda.

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Conclusion The bulk of proverb scholarship has concentrated on the analysis of the traditional wisdom they contain, on highlighting how well they guide the mother communities to settle disputes and to generate solutions to the problems of the day as they arose, and on the moral lessons they give to society. All of this is valuable, because it constitutes a reference point for all other uses of the proverb. However, the proverb is a very rich genre, both in style and content, and it offers many more possibilities of exploration. Their role in contemporary political debates, and the contribution they make to maintaining a sense of traditional morality in modern politics, as well as the linguistic beauty and the moral values that they bring to the political debate, are also rich areas that require further documentation and analysis, especially in Africa, where many cultures were until recently oral. This discussion has demonstrated that because culture is governed by rule and acts symbolically, even the proverbs that are borrowed from other cultures play a valuable role in the discussion of the politics of the host communities, once they adapt themselves to the rules of their new environment. The traditional imagery, the sense of linguistic beauty, and the cultural and folkloristic details that continuously spice the political debates are highly valuable. Politics is ordinarily a heavy business, and the use of proverbs introduces a light note to it. While the real contest is for political power, audiences are usually fascinated by the vigorous attempts by politicians to outdo each other verbally. The fact that the verbal contest between modern-day politicians who have had a Western schooling involves the use of traditional proverbs is evidence of a society that is still in touch with its roots. On the other hand, the new proverbial forms act as sensors of change. Their use alongside the older forms in the same political debate is proof that, while the society still cherishes its original values, it is also receptive to new ideas. The constant interplay between proverbial forms from different cultural and linguistic backgrounds is part of the test of the capacity of Ugandan communities to coexist, each bringing its best to the centre as part of its contribution to the construction of the new society that the children of tomorrow will inhabit.

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W O R K S C I TE D Aasland, Erik Arthur .“Now You See Me, Now You Don’t: Proverbial Empowerment in the Shadow of Deictic Projection,” American Anthropological Association Annual Meetings Paper 107 (15 December 2008). Gingyera–Pinycwa, A.G.G. Apolo Milton Obote and ´His Time (New York: N O K , 1978). Honeck, Richard P. A Proverb in Mind: The Cognitive Science of Proverbial Wit and Wisdom (Mahwah N J & London: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 1997). Karugire, S.R. A History of the Kingdom of Ankole (Oxford: Clarendon, 1971). Kiwanuka, M.S.M. From Colonialism to Independence (Kampala: East African Literature Bureau, 1973). ——. A History of Buganda (London: Longman, 1971). Mieder, Wolfgang. Politics of Proverbs: From Traditional Wisdom To Proverbial Stereotypes (Madison: U of Wisconsin P , 1997). ——. Proverbs: A Handbook (London: Greenwood, 2004). ——. “Proverbs in Nazi Germany: The Promulgation of Anti-Semitism and Stereotypes Through Folklore,” Journal of American Folklore 95/378 (October–December 1982): 435–64. ——. Tradition and Innovation in Folk Literature (Hanover N E & London: U P of New England, 1987). Orwell, George. Animal Farm (1945; Orlando F L : Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1982). Ochieng Orwenjo, Daniel. “Political grandstanding and the use of proverbs in African political discourse,” Discourse & Society 20.1 (January 2009): 123–46. Pritchard, James. The Ancient Near East, 2 vols. (Princeton N J : Princeton U P , 1958).

Newspapers The Daily Monitor. 14 April 2010. ——. 20 February 2010. ——. 7 February 2010. ——. 4 April 2007. ——. 25 February 2007. ——. 24 October 2005. The Independent. 23 March 2010. ——. 3 February 2009. ——. 25 December 2008. Monitor, The. 26 May 2004. ——. 11 February 1998. The New Vision. 1 March 2009. ——. 12 July 2008. ——. 21 January 2008. ——. 15 May 2004.

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——. 19 August 2003. The Observer. 23 November 2009. ——. 30 December 2008. Sunday Monitor. 21 December 1997.

Online Sources http://www.vigiloetveritas.com/2009_04_01_archive.html (accessed 20 January 2010). http://www.freeuganda.org/index.php (accessed 20 January 2010). http://andrewmwendasblog.blogspot.com/2008_11_01_archive.html (accessed 4 February 2010). http://www.quotesdaddy.com/quote/225698/yoweri-museveni (accessed 28 April 2010). http://www.amazon.com/Politics-Proverbs-Traditional-Proverbial-Stereotypes/dp /0299154548/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpi_2-# (accessed 4 February 2010). http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/i/idi_amin.html (accessed 28 April 2010). http://www.trivia-library.com/b/origins-of-sayings-the-only-good-indian-is-a-deadindian.html (accessed 28 April 2010). http//en.wikipedia.org.wiki (accessed 28 April 2010). http://www.independent.co.ug/index.php/cover-story/cover-story/82-cover-story/2556mao-targets-besigye-museveni-for-2011 (accessed 3 March 2010). [email protected], [email protected] (accessed 12 January 2010). http://www.mail-archive.com/[email protected]/msg16374.html (accessed 10 April 2010). http://www.newvision.co.ug/B/D/497/1/2 (accessed 3 May 2010). http://www.The Observer - Nambooze hits back at Mirundi.mht (accessed 7 May 2010). http//www.On the Issue of Kabaka not being Elected- Bothers m7-why « Ekitibwa Kya Buganda.mht (accessed 7 May 2010). http//: Ugandansatheart.wordpress.com Network (accessed 22 January 2009).

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A ARON M USHENGYEZI

———— º Riddling Among the Banyankore and Baganda in Uganda ABSTRACT This essay examines the typology and social function of the riddling culture among the Baganda and Banyankore of central and south-western Uganda. It draws on examples from various categories of riddle collected in these communities to analyse the kinds of coda, text structures, and metanarrative devices that are employed in riddling discourse. The essay discusses the extent to which riddles function as a crossover form in these societies, and it examines whether those posed by children among themselves, or by adults and children to a mixed audience, differ in terms of the complexity of themes and metaphors used by the performers. It argues that the use of established coda and metanarrative devices helps to index the ongoing social interaction between the performer and audience and to structure riddling in accordance with social reality. The essay further argues that although riddles posed to a crossover audience may differ greatly from those targeting an exclusively adult audience, our understanding of the functional value of riddles depends on the prevailing social issues in the community at the time of performance. Understanding riddling as a discourse in these Ugandan cultures thus depends as much on unravelling the way the established formulas function as on exploring the way the metanarrative and other language devices relate to the nature of a given audience and to the prevailing social realities in the community at the time of the performance.

Introduction

I

I examine the question of typology in the riddling culture of the Baganda and Banyankore communities in central and southwestern Uganda. Drawing examples from various categories of riddles in the above communities, I argue that while riddling follows an established N THIS ESSAY,

This essay has appeared as parts of Chapter 1, “Oral Texts for Children: Audience Dynamics, Form, and Social Value,” in Aaron Mushengyezi, Oral Literature for Children: Rethinking Orality, Literacy, Performance, and Documentation Practices (Cross / Cultures 154; Amsterdam & New York: Rodopi, 2013). Reprinted here by permission of Editions Rodopi B.V. ”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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coda, linear structure, and employs several metanarrative devices in the culture, understanding the functional value of riddles depends also on the audience and on the prevailing social issues in the community at the time of performance. Among the Baganda and Banyankore, riddles can be categorized as texts that are clearly a crossover form. While they may be posed by children to an exclusively juvenile audience, riddles are often enjoyed by adults and children as a prelude to another activity such as storytelling. The riddles I recorded with most of my respondents, for example, came as an intermission between stories or as a prelude to a storytelling session. I define a riddle as a word-puzzle that challenges a person to decipher the literal or figurative meaning behind a given statement. Isidore Okpewho defines a riddle thus: a verbal puzzle in which a statement is posed in challenge and another statement is offered in response to the hidden meaning or the form of the challenge.1

Okpewho’s definition sums up the formal structure of a riddle: namely, a simple structure consisting of a main statement (which I will call the ‘stem’) and a completion statement. These two parts of a riddle have sometimes been described as a precedent and a sequent, or in terms of a question and answer – although not all riddles are presented as questions – and in terms of the parties involved in the riddling process.2 The stem presents a problem or paradox for the audience to solve, while the completion statement provides a solution to the problem posed in the main statement. The stem of the riddle often provides a clue to help the audience figure out the kind of answer a poser expects. The Ankole riddle below illustrates the relationship between the main statement and completion statement: Stem or main statement: Completion statement:

Ngira enju yangye tegira muryango I have a house that does not have a door Eihuri An egg.

This riddle presents a puzzle for the audience to unravel: how is it possible for someone to live in a house without a door? What kind of house could it be? 1

Isidore Okpewho, African Oral Literature: Backgrounds, Character, and Continuity (Bloomington: Indiana U P , 1992): 239. 2 Okpewho, African Oral Literature, 239.

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The clue to solving the riddle lies in imagining a habited space without an entrance to it. That makes the ‘house’ strange or unique. The audience is expected to imagine all possible ‘closed’ objects that are (paradoxically) inhabited by living things – for example, a chick in an egg. Such conflicts in the stem of the riddle are common in African riddles. Ian Hamnett, for example, observed some Sotho riddles that are based on the conflict between desert Bushmen and the possession of water. For example: “Since you are a Bushman, where did you get that water from? – A watermelon.”3 The presence of water (life) in a desert is as contradictory as finding a living thing (a chick) in a house that has no door (an eggshell). However, there can only be one correct answer (or set of answers) to a riddle, and that answer is fixed by tradition. When I asked Katakuza, an expert in Ankole oral culture from Burimbi village in Kiruhura district, why an orange or a ball cannot be acceptable as an answer to the above example, he used the example of the riddle ‘Enkwanzi za muka Ishaza ku ishoba tishoboroka – Eshagama omu mate’ (The beads for Ishaza’s wife once they are entangled can never be disentangled – Blood mixed with milk) to argue his point: Ebintu ebikwatiraine n’emitwarize y’abantu biguma nk’oku byagambirwe. Tibihindurwa. Mbwenu shi, bakabaire batagizire ngu ‘Enkwanzi za muka Museveni ku ishoba tishoboroka’? Ngaha, torikukibaasa. Nikiguma kiri ‘muka Ishaza…’ Ku orikukihindura noba washisha ekintu kyona… Nari nk’ezi enfumu ezi twaba nitugamba: ku barabe bagicwire omu muringo ogwo [kare], girekyemu omu muringo ogwo. Aba bwanyuma ku muricwa ezanyu nazo ziryashanga ezi [eza kare], kwonka zigume omu muringo ogu zacwirwemu. Mbwenu, oriya ku arabe yagizire ngu ‘n’eihuri’ riryaguma riri ihuri.4 Things to do with people’s culture remain as they were stated. They cannot be changed. Now, wouldn’t people be saying ‘The beads of Museveni’s wife once they are entangled can never be disentangled’?5 No, you cannot. It remains as ‘Ishaza’s wife…’ When you change it you ruin the whole idea… Or like these proverbs we were talking about: if they posed it in a certain way [in the past], leave it that way. Those of you who will pose your proverbs in future, those proverbs will be added to those that already exist, but let those 3

Ian Hamnett, “Ambiguity, Classification and Change: The Function of Riddles,” Man, N S 2 (1967): 386. 4 Erika Katakuza, personal interview, 13 June 2010. 5 Katakuza is referring to Mrs Janet Museveni, Uganda’s First Lady.

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ones [of the past] remain in their original form. Now, if someone said ‘it is an egg’ it will remain an egg.

What Katakuza is emphasizing here is that the coding of riddles to specific answers is an issue which is culturally determined and which therefore cannot be challenged. In addition, he suggests that this coding process guarantees the stability of riddling as discourse and the cultural authority of the poser of the riddle. Köngäs Maranda6 and Lee Haring illustrate Katakuza’s point when they observe that the coding of several answers to the same riddle is not accidental; rather, it results from what Haring calls the “applicability and fertility of certain metaphors.”7 Through these metaphors, several compatible logical sets and truisms are coded, and all members of a culture are expected to be familiar with them. This changes the way riddles are solved, from the effort to find a new answer to the more rapid recognition of something familiar. Despite this shared knowledge, however, the riddle poser still reserves the right to reject an answer or sets of answers that on the surface might appear to be correct. In the above example, a pumpkin or a watermelon could both be possible solutions to the riddle, but the coding of the answer to a riddle is so fixed by tradition and reinforced by the riddle poser’s authority that it is not subject to debate. If a poser expects only a certain answer that relates to the local environment, it is because that answer shows that the audience knows something about their culture and their world. The mutuba tree may be a common motif in Baganda riddles because it is grown in many homesteads in the region and everyone observes it as it sheds leaves seasonally; it is a material signifier with which the audience is familiar. The ability to decipher the “right answer,” as Haring has observed, acts as “a password for admission to the group for those who know”8 or those considered knowledgeable in the tradition.

6

Elli Köngäs Maranda, “ ‘ A Tree Grows’: Transformations of a Riddle Metaphor,” in Structural Models in Folklore and Transformational Essays, ed. Elli Köngäs Maranda & Pierre Maranda (The Hague: Mouton, 1971): 116–39. 7 Lee Haring, “On Knowing the Answer,” Journal of American Folklore 87/345 (July–September 1974): 199. 8 Haring, “On Knowing the Answer,” 207.

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Riddling Formulae and Procedures Among the Banyankore and Baganda Riddling sessions of the Banyankore and Baganda typically begin with a fixed formula or coda, but the procedure differs from one region to another. A riddle poser in Ankole begins by uttering the stock phrase ‘Shaku shaku!’,9 to which the audience replies, ‘Shambagira!’ (‘waddle through the marshes!’). Among the Baganda, the chant ‘Koi koi!’ announces the beginning of a riddle, and is followed by the response ‘Lya’ (‘eat’). This opening coda is useful for inviting the audience, establishing rapport with them, and opening the channels of communication. After uttering this stock phrase calling for attention, the person then poses a riddle. When someone in the audience solves the riddle, the poser may pose another one or the person who has given the correct answer may pose the next riddle. Among the Banyankore, solving the riddle is called ‘okukyita’ (‘to kill it’). If the audience fails to ‘kill it’ they will say ‘enyana yawe’ (‘[have] your calf’); or the one who posed the riddle might say ‘mp’enyana yangye’ (‘give me my calf’). The poser then gives the correct answer and the audience may ask him or her to explicate the meaning or clarify the relationship between the answer given and the puzzle, if the answer is not obvious. Besides obvious similarities in the formula used, riddling in the Banyankore and Baganda culture differs in the sense that riddles of the Banyankore are dominated by pastoral motifs. The other difference is in the way a riddle is resolved. While the Banyankore say ‘enyana yawe’ when they fail to solve the riddle, a Muganda poser instead demands ‘a village’ (ekyalo) as a ‘levy’ for the audience’s failure to solve the riddle. An elaborate procedure then follows when the audience fails to solve the riddle. The poser must clearly put forward a condition by saying ‘mumpe ekyalo’ (‘you give me a village’): i.e. a village for him or her to preside over as ‘chief’. The poser might even reject a village the audience offers him or her, for various reasons. The audience might say ‘Tukuwadde Kasubi!’ (‘We have given you Kasubi!’), or whatever village they may choose. Once the village is offered, the poser may, as I will demonstrate later, use the opportunity to comment on certain social or moral issues for his audience to take note of before he or she gives the correct answer. 9

Shaku shaku is simply a stock phrase to attract attention; it does not seem to have any specific meaning in Runyankore.

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The use of cultural determinants such as ‘give me my calf’, ‘you give me a village’, or ‘kill it’ not only helps to index the ongoing social interaction but also structures the significance of the narrated event (in the riddle) to social reality, as I will illustrate later. These devices help to locate the riddling event in the context of other events in society that shape its meaning.10 In other words, the metanarrative devices (‘I have a wife’ or ‘kill it’) locate the riddling performance in its specific cultural setting. For example, the device ‘kill it’ seems to relate to hunting activities in Buganda and Ankole where one person chases an animal out of the bush while others wait with spears to kill it. The demand for a village, Kiguli explains, hails from the traditional Baganda reward culture where the Kabaka (king) rewards his subjects with land and chiefdom for their loyalty, bravery, and other heroic deeds.11 The riddle poser’s demand for a village thus stems from that kingly tradition of rewarding people for their hard work. The Munyankore’s demand for a cow before he or she solves a riddle can similarly be understood in the cultural sense in which cattle are cherished as a major source of wealth and prestige in the Ankole tradition. These procedures of turn-taking and performer–audience interaction, Bauman and Briggs have noted, are important for establishing social relations.12 This audience–performer interaction is based on certain conditions they must each fulfil before the final resolution of the puzzle. Once the riddle is posed, the audience must resolve it or the poser will demand that he or she be offered a village, or the audience may concede by making the offer themselves. In the case of the Baganda, once the village is offered, the poser has to state what he or she plans to accomplish for the community as ‘chief’ before finally unravelling the puzzle, which is usually personified as a ‘wife’. The coding of the puzzle and the answer are often based on physical attributes (an old woman’s rags and dry banana leaves are both old and tattered) or on onomatopoeic qualities. In the riddle ‘I have a wife: One-Who-Sits-On-TheEdge’, a cooking pot sitting precariously on hearth stones echoes the posture of a woman who squats on the edge of something. The ‘gobo-gobo’ sound in a riddle discussed a little later simulates the sound made by cattle hooves 10

Richard Bauman & Charles L. Briggs, “Poetics and Performance as Critical Perspectives on Language and Social Life,” Annual Review of Anthropology 19 (1990): 69. 11 Susan Kiguli, in an interview, 30 June 2010. 12 Bauman & Briggs, “Poetics and Performance as Critical Perspectives on Language and Social Life,” 63.

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treading on a rock surface. Meaning is achieved through an appeal to the audience’s familiarity with the social environment of herding cattle (in the latter example) and cultivating bananas, a typical life-style for people in Buganda.

On the Typology of the Riddle Typologizing the riddles of the Banyankore and Baganda also has a bearing on the way riddles draw meaning from the local environment. In one category of riddle, meaning is based on onomatopoeic sound patterning of the words in the main statement. The audience unravels the meaning of the riddle by associating a concept with a sound in their environment. In such onomatopoeic riddles, as Ruth Finnegan observed from her study of Limba oral literature, “the riddle poser often makes some analogy of sound, nature, or situation that the audience must correctly identify.”13 For this acoustic analogy to be possible, the sound must resonate as much as possible with the local and cultural milieu of the community in order for the listener to be able to unravel the meaning in the riddle. The Runyankore riddle below illustrates this point: Burugutu-burugutu! 14 – Embeba omu muguta Burugutu-burugutu!– A rat in a cowhide.

This riddle depicts the sound made by a rat crawling under a cowhide. Ankole is a predominantly farming area famous for its long-horned cattle, and the riddle captures that moment in history when the people used cowhides as clothing, for sitting, and even for sleeping on. At night it would be easy to hear a rat scuttling around or nibbling at the hide. It sounded something like “burugutu-burugutu.” This example is similar to the Luganda riddle below: Gobbo ne gobbo – Ebigere by’ente ku lwazi Gobbo and gobbo – Cattle hooves on a rock.

In this example, the audience is able to imagine the sound made by cattle hooves as they tread on rocky ground; they make the ‘gobbo-gobbo’ sound. The audience thus draws inferences from their cultural environment in order to figure out what concept relates to the sound.

13

Ruth Finnegan, Limba Stories and Storytelling (Oxford: Oxford U P , 1967): 41. Burugutu-burugutu imitates the scuttling sound made by a rat running on a cowhide. 14

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In some onomatopoeic riddles, the relationship between the precedent and the sequent is openly stated by using direct speech – that is, in terms of something that was allegedly ‘said’ by an animal or thing, as I illustrate in the example below. This use of direct speech, scholars have observed, is a stylistic device that enables oral performers to draw on “multiple speech events, voices, and points of view.”15 It is, in a sense, a way of negotiating meaning beyond the performance itself. In the examples below, an animal or object is personified and given speech attributes as a way to relate a familiar sound it makes to a social reality: Kati “po” kati “peregesho”! – Enkuuku aha rugusyo It says “po” and it says “peregesho”! – A grain on a roasting potsherd.

Here, the relationship is based on a synonym—a more direct attribute of what someone or something does. For instance, a grain being roasted on fire gives off a popping sound (“it says ‘po’” ) and a sizzling sound (“it says ‘peregesho’” ). By building mental images using sound, children are able to relate acoustic signifiers in their material world to linguistic concepts. This process of developing children’s imaginative abilities is one of the key instructional qualities of riddling. In previous field research in Luweero, Gertrude Musisi and Debora Kyeyune agreed in an interview that sharpening children’s imagination is one of the critical skills that are acquired through riddling. Musisi explains: Ebikokyo ebyo bibayamba [abaana] mu kulowooza…kwe kugamba, nga kijja ate nga omwana abeera akiraba n’aba nga akiyigira awo nakitegeera. Ate n’okugaziya obwongo.16 Riddles help them [children] to develop critical thinking skills…that is to say, something happens while a child is observing and so he or she learns it there and then. They also help broaden a child’s imagination.

There is thus a sense in which, as Musisi observes, these riddles invite children to start engaging with abstract ideas, a critical skill they need as they enter the world of formal education. Some riddles also test the audience’s power to observe nature. In this category of riddles, meaning is derived from close observation of nature and the 15

Bauman & Briggs, “Poetics and Performance as Critical Perspectives on Language and Social Life,” 70. 16 Gertrude Musisi, in an interview I conducted in Lukomera, Luweero, on 8 June 2005.

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way natural phenomena mirror human behaviour. The riddles usually capture the relationship of cause and effect between things, and the ironies and paradoxes of life. Riddles also capture the amusing situations that confront us daily. Others draw on the similarities and differences between concepts, or comment on the internal conflicts that influence human actions. Sometimes, inanimate objects and animals are personified in a riddle and used as allegories of humans and human actions. They portray human qualities such as laziness, aggression, dignity, or wit. This tendency towards personification has also been identified by other scholars such as Okpewho as a common anthropocentric element in some riddles of the Kikuyu and Kamba people of Kenya, particularly those depicting animal life.17 Nandwa and Bukenya also agree that the success of these oral forms “lies in the way they symbolize human qualities”; the animals, these scholars argue, “are made to behave as we would behave if we were situated as they are.”18 For example, the meaning in this Runyankore riddle is based on this sense in which natural phenomena are seen as a mirror of human conduct: Ogambire nyoko arekye kuguma naaraba omu kibuga kyangye natongana! – Ekijunjure Tell your mother to stop passing through my compound while quarrelling! – A beetle.

Here, a buzzing beetle is used as a stand-in for a recognizable form of human behaviour: quarrelling. That is, a beetle makes a buzzing noise as it flies around, much as human beings ‘buzz’ (make a lot of noise) when they quarrel. The dialogic tone (apparent in the phrase ‘Tell your mother…’) contributes to making the riddle interactive and funny. The comparison between two phenomena is sometimes directly expressed using an implied simile, as evident in these sets of Runyankore riddles: (a) Ekyatangire omujungu kujwara enkufiira, n’enki? – Ekituzi The thing that was first to wear a hat before the white man did, what is it? – A mushroom.

17

Okpewho, African Oral Literature, 249. Jane Nandwa & Austin Bukenya, African Oral Literature for Schools (Nairobi: Longman Kenya, 1983): 51. 18

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(b) Amashushane – Eiju n’esaano – Entanga n’ekyoozi – Ekibingo n’ekikwijo The Look-alikes – Ash and flour – A watermelon and pumpkin – A reed and sugar cane.

These riddles are based on physically recognizable attributes. The relationship between the two concepts is based on a simile. In (a) a mushroom cap resembles a hat, and since bowler hats are associated with European explorers who first came to Africa, the riddle plays on this piece of history to establish similitude. In (b) white ash looks much like flour, as does a watermelon a pumpkin, and sugar cane, a reed. A similar element is observable in these two Luganda riddles: Nina mukazi wange atambula azina – Ekisaanyi I have a wife who walks while dancing – A caterpillar. Nina mukazi wange agenda nkya adda lwaggulo – Oluggi I have a wife who goes in the morning and returns in the evening – A door.

The rhythmic way in which a caterpillar moves in the first riddle is compared to the gyrating movement of the Muganda woman’s body as she walks. The physical similarity here is quite clear, but one may wonder what relationship there is between a door in the second riddle and a woman who goes in the morning and returns in the evening. Unlike modern doors, traditional doors that were used by the Baganda were movable panels with no hinges. They were often made out of reeds or banana fibre, with a stick thrust through the middle to make the door shut firmly. In the morning, the door would be put to the side of the house, to be replaced to cover the doorway in the evening when the family were going to sleep. The similarity between this kind of door and the woman who goes in the morning and coming back in the evening, then, at once becomes clear. Once the traditional mobile door was dragged to one side in the morning, the house would remain open the whole day. People did not worry about thieves at that time. They would then pull the door back in the evening before retiring to bed. The poser, of course, assumes that the audience is familiar with the way these doors worked in the olden days. Even with our modern doors, the idea

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of it ‘going’ in one direction and ‘returning’ when you shut it follows the same principle in the riddle. A similar Baganda riddle captures the same idea: Nina mukazi wange gyava taddayo – Akakoola k’oku mutuba My wife wherever she comes from she does not go back – A leaf of a mutuba tree.

Unlike a door that goes to and fro, a leaf falls from a tree never to go back. The listener’s power of observation is put to the test here. Here are two other similar examples: Nina mukazi wange yazimba ennyumba tekuli mulyango – Eggi I have a wife who built a house that has no door – An egg. Nina mukazi wange yazimba ennyumba ya mpagi emu – Akatiko I have a wife who built a house and it has only one pole – A mushroom.

In these examples, the observed similarities between a house without a door and an egg, or a mushroom and a house with one pole, is striking. Obviously, several other cases of ‘look-alikes’ may be acceptable, but again the riddle poser may accept or reject alternative answers. In all these riddles the audience is able to observe, draw parallels, and understand the relationships between different concepts, an important skill in children’s learning. By critically observing the world around them, talking about it and reflecting on it, children are able to compare different phenomena, and learn from their history and the cultural experiences of other people.

The Social Function of the Riddle in Relation to the Performance Context The final aspect I want to comment on relates to the importance of understanding the riddling context, a point I alluded to earlier. Understanding how riddles function also depends on the specific setting of performance. Thus, riddles that are posed to an exclusively adult audience may differ in content and in the complexity of metaphors used compared to those posed for a child or a combined audience. The Banyankore riddle below demonstrates how this layering of meaning functions in riddling:

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Ahi enkyerere ihisize ziri, hariho encweera – Omugurusi oshweire omukazi muto Where ripe berries are, there is a cobra – An old man married to a young girl.

The riddle relates to the seasonal activity of picking berries in Ankole. Enkyerere grow wild in the woods, and when they ripen children like to go out and pick them; but as they do, they have to beware of snakes in the bushes, which might bite them. On the literal level, the riddle therefore sounds a warning to children to be careful as they scamper through the bush. The use of the metaphors ‘ripe berries’ and ‘cobra’, however, also points to a deeper meaning behind the riddle. In an interview with Katuka, a famous griot of Ankole oral culture, he explained the deeper meaning of this riddle in a very evasive way: “Omukazi muto n’enkyerere ihisize! N’obu orikuzirya encweera nekwiita!”19 (‘A young wife is ripe berries! You eat them but the cobra will kill you!’). Katuka’s point is that if an old man marries a young girl, he risks losing her because of failure to satisfy her sexually, or he might strain himself to satiate her high libido and put his health at risk. Riddle posers in Ankole do not usually explain the meaning behind layered images such as ‘ripe berries’ or ‘a cobra’ as in the above example, because the metaphors have an underlying theme that only adults are supposed to be privy to. If children were part of the audience, adults would not expect them to understand the meaning behind such extended metaphors. When we were growing up, we always posed such layered riddles to other children but we tended to take the imagery literally until we were old enough to decipher their deeper sexual innuendoes. Do children understand this double play on language? They may not be able to at a young age, but as they progress into puberty their sexual curiosity undoubtedly leads them into exploring this grey, transgressive zone. The opportunity to pry into the transgressive thus becomes another source of pleasure for children. For Okpewho, being able to “speak about things which are not considered decent in ordinary circumstances” is one way in which children may release emotional and social tension.20 Among the Baganda, riddling is also an opportunity for the riddle poser to comment on social reality. The Muganda poser, once offered the ‘village’ over which to preside as ‘chief’, often takes advantage of his or her authority as performer to offer a critique of social reality or propose a solution to the 19 20

Isirairi Katuka, in an earlier interview, 16 July 2005. Okpewho, African Oral Literature, 246.

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people’s predicament, through a kind of willing suspension of disbelief. For example, when she was offered Naluvule village as a condition for solving a riddle, Kyeyune assumed the position of ‘chief’ and promised to address the problem of petty thieves in the area.21 The perpetrators of such vices, it was hoped, might be in the audience, so that chastisement of this kind might make them check their behaviour. This aspect of riddling, where the larger community resonance is highlighted, is unique to the Baganda. Kallen and Eastman, however, found a related structure of riddling among the Swahili people of East Africa. A creative ‘town-story’ is woven around the town ‘offered’ to the poser, and is used to embed the riddle answer.22 The on-the-spot story, Okpewho argues, becomes a riddle poser’s way to further show off his or her “creative virtuosity” to the baffled audience.23 In the Baganda example, however, the ‘town-story’ is not so much a story as a critique of a prevailing social issue in the community that resonates with the general populace. In examining the question of typology in the riddling culture of the Baganda and Banyankore communities, one thing that becomes clear is that riddles are a crossover form. They may be posed by children among themselves, or by adults and children to a mixed audience. However, riddles that are posed to an exclusively adult audience, as we have noted, may differ in the complexity of the metaphors used. The figurative language may have an underlying theme that only adults are supposed to be privy to, while children are expected to take the imagery literally until they are old enough to decipher its sexual innuendoes. But one might argue that this assumption on the part of the adults may be misleading, as it presupposes that children are so naive that they cannot explore this transgressive zone of sexuality. What is clear, though, is that riddling among the Baganda and Banyankore is one avenue adults use to grade information to a level that they consider appropriate for children at different phases in their lives.

21

I established that the village of Naluvule had a problem with petty thieves at the time I conducted this interview, as mentioned by Kyeyune in the riddle. 22 J.L. Kallen & C.M. Eastman, “ ‘ I Went to Mombasa / There I Met an Old Man’: Structure and Meaning in Swahili Riddles,” Journal of American Folklore 92/366 (October–December 1979): 422. 23 Okpewho, African Oral Literature, 243.

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In both cultures, riddling follows a more or less similar structure, with coding of riddles to specific answers being at once an issue that is culturally determined and a matter of power. The riddle poser’s power to determine the correct answer within the provisions of the culture helps to guarantee the stability of riddling as discourse, hence to protect traditional knowledge. The use of metanarrative devices in riddling further helps to index the ongoing social interaction and to structure riddling to social reality. Understanding riddling as a discourse in these Ugandan cultures thus depends as much on unravelling the way the established formulae function as on the way the metanarrative devices and other language devices relate to the nature of audience and to the prevailing social realities in the community at the time of the performance.

W O R K S C I TE D Bauman, Richard, & Charles L. Briggs. “Poetics and Performance as Critical Perspectives on Language and Social Life,” Annual Review of Anthropology 19 (1990): 59–88. Finnegan, Ruth. Limba Stories and Storytelling (Oxford: Oxford U P , 1967). Hamnett, Ian. “Ambiguity, Classification and Change: The Function of Riddles” Man, N S 2 (1967): 379–92. Haring, Lee. “On Knowing the Answer.” Journal of American Folklore 87/345 (July– September 1974): 197–207. Kallen, J.L., & C.M. Eastman. “ ‘ I Went to Mombasa: There I Met an Old Man’: Structure and Meaning in Swahili Riddles,” Journal of American Folklore 92/366 (October–December 1979): 418–44. Köngäs Maranda, Elli. “ ‘ A Tree Grows’: Transformations of a Riddle Metaphor,” in Structural Models in Folklore and Transformational Essays, ed. Elli Köngäs Maranda & Pierre Maranda (The Hague: Mouton, 1971): 116–39. Nandwa, Jane, & Austin Bukenya. African Oral Literature for Schools (Nairobi: Longman Kenya, 1983). Okpewho, Isidore. African Oral Literature: Backgrounds, Character, and Continuity (Bloomington: Indiana U P , 1992).

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———— º The Popular Form and Structure of Riddle Discourse in Lusoga ABSTRACT This essay describes the structure of popular riddles in the Lusoga language and culture. It argues that they contain many key moves: antecedent; precedent; unravelling; crowning; declamation; affirmation; and agreement. The moves constitute an intense social engagement in which social order is reversed so that people without high social status instruct and delight their entire communities, including those in high social status. Many young riddlers challenge elderly and elite participants, who are normally expected to be the vanguard of wisdom, knowledge and power. The study was carried out in Nsinze sub-county in Eastern Uganda between January 2008 and December 2009 as part of my doctoral fieldwork research. It included a riddling event involving the author and volunteer participants, six youths studying at Nsinze seed secondary school, one pupil at Fairway primary school, a retired teacher, and a librarian. Applying ethnographic and performance-centred approaches, critical discourse analysis and analogy, the essay concludes that the Lusoga riddle is a free form used and enjoyed by people of all ages during everyday social interactions for communication, instruction and entertainment. The audience, context and event generally determine the riddle’s form. To ensure success, the riddle must be adapted to meet the needs of the audience and situation on every occasion it is performed.

Introduction

T

Popular riddles in Lusoga are notably the formulaic and the narrative forms. Riddles are usually performed as proximate, tactile, auditory, visible, and experiential riddles in everyday human interactions. The riddles in this study refer to articles like books, tables, people, bottles and bottle-tops, shells, foodstuffs, goats, and household materials that are physically present during the performance and are familiar to a given audience. The riddles that emerge in this context come alive as original performances deriving from real or timely experiences in the life spaces of the audience members present at the time of performance. The ideological thoughts running through the riddlers’ minds HE RIDDLE IS A PROCESS AND A DISCOURSE.

”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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are a metaphoric and allegorical representation of the contexts that make up the thoughts and events among which the riddlers live. In this essay,1 I discuss the form and structure of Lusoga riddle performance as obtained during my research. I differ from the positions taken by Lyndon Harries and Okumba Miruka. Harries names only two phases of the riddle: namely, the antecedent and precedent, and Miruka writes of three – the invitation, the response, and the prize stage.2 In my view, a typical riddle, at least in the Lusoga language, consists of seven distinctive parts, as discussed in the following sub-sections of my essay. The parts are: (1) antecedent; (2) precedent; (3) unravelling; (4) crowning; (5) declamation; (6) affirmation; and (7) the agreement.

Analysis of the Popular Structure of the Riddle in Lusoga THE ANTECEDENT

The antecedent is the forerunner or the opening structure that gives an audience the indication that a riddle is being performed in which they are being invited to participate. The riddler calls out ‘kikoiko’ (riddle) and the audience replies ‘kiidhe’ (let it come). This invitation normally comes as a challenge and proposal for riddling at the same time, which is why the punctuation I have used at the end of the word in transcriptions is both rhetorical and exclamatory [?!], meaning that it lies between a question and exclamation. The tone of the antecedent may be threatening, casual, ornamental, or rapid, as the riddler may best choose. The reply is usually an affirmative response and would normally be shown by a period [.], meaning that the audience is

1

This essay forms part of my findings in doctoral research I am carrying out in Uganda on the topic of “Riddling as everyday discourse: analysis of context, event and audience.” The study is fully sponsored by the Mak-N U F U Folklore linkage project (2007–2011) and a first draft of this paper was read at its third work-in-progress workshop, 23–24 January 2010 at Makerere University in Kampala. I am indebted to all the performers, academic supervisors, and faculty for their input into this work. I am also grateful to all the sponsors, including the African Humanities Programme (A H P ) of the American Council of Learned Societies (A C L S ) for facilitating my completion of this study. 2 Lyndon Harries, “The Riddle in Africa,” Journal of American Folklore 84/334 (October–December 1971): 379; Okumba Miruka, Encounter with Oral Literature (Nairobi: East African Educational Publishers, 1994): 11–13.

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resolved and prepared to face the challenge. The riddle precedent immediately follows this stage.3 THE PRECEDENT

What is commonly known as the riddle question is in fact the precedent of the riddle performance. It is the problem statement within the performance and is presented in various forms. Precedents can be in the form of single words, sounds, phrases, statements, paragraphs, epigraphs, logogryphs, shapes, stories, mazes, songs, actions, and gestures; and a combination of these is possible in a single riddle performance. Time and again, the audience echoes all or part of the precedent to perceive its embedded meaning. For example, in riddle 67 of my collection,4 the statement of the precedent has ‘bukutu’, which is meaningless as a word in Lusoga. However, its hidden meaning as onomatopoeia is revealed through repeated verbalization. This helps capture the sound ‘bukutu’ to reveal the answer as something to do with the Kisoga drum beat and traditional courtship dance rhythm known as otamenhaibuga, or ‘do not break the guard’, as shown below. 1791

Toola bukutu ote ku bukutu ofune bukutu [Na] Take bukutu, put on bukutu, you get bukutu [Na].

In some cases the precedent may be a compacted poetic line or a couple of lines, and in others it may be an elaborate narrative or drama. Word sounds – onomatopoeia – and word-play are commonly used. What the precedent does is to frame the stage upon which the riddle is to be performed. Sometimes it is built on a previous riddle, showing that riddles are produced in discourse, and sometimes it is a reflection of the context and audience during the event. When the audience as participants search for meaning, they have to bear in mind the various situations that could have inspired the riddler to perform the particular riddle in a particular way. The audience members who guess at the 3

In the transcriptions, the utterances of identifiable informant-participants are tagged in square brackets (e.g. [Ba]), = an abbreviated name (the spelling-out of full identity is of no consequence in the present context). Peripheral, non-verbal sounds, group responses, notes on such suprasegmentals as tone, and my editorial comments are all rendered in italics between guillemets « ». 4 The riddle was performed at the Nsinze seed school riddle event, 21 August 2008, and transcribed in October 2009 in the form used here.

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meaning of the precedent are here referred to as ‘unriddlers’ because they strive to unravel or unknot the mystery behind the precedent. THE UNRAVELLING

Unravelling is a spiralling process that takes the riddle precedent from the riddler to the unriddlers, who must think very quickly and broadly to determine the specific interpretation that the riddler desires. At this stage, the quick-witted usually take the first opportunity to break or ‘kill’ the riddle. Unravelling consists of unriddlers proposing answers to the precedent and the riddler rejecting the proposed answers as ‘false’, or the riddler conceding defeat if the answer is right. This part of the riddle performance is critical because the build-up of tensions in the audience characterizes the very notion of puzzlement that riddles foster. The act of unravelling reflects the capacities of an audience wittingly to undo a particular riddle in a particular way. A variety of answers may be proposed, which makes riddling look like guesswork. However, the answers given have backgrounds that are significant in the prevailing state of audience interaction. Although most of the answers are dismissed by the riddler as untrue, most are also usually synonymous and could be taken as riddle precedents in themselves. Some of the answers may be rejected for being overt or covert, or because they do not agree with the riddler’s preconceived choice of answer. When the riddler’s desired response is given, the riddler may concede defeat by saying the riddle has been ‘killed’, or the riddler may further complicate the riddle by rejecting the known answer in search of a different one that suits the context of performance. This is shown in riddle 9 lines 4–37 below. 9 1. Riddle!? [Na] 2. Let it come. [chorus] 3. God in a tin. [Na] 4. «All laugh» 5. God? [Gu] 6. Hmm. [Na] 7. Or Katonga? [Na] 8. Human excrement. [Ju] 9. No. [Na] 10. Cheeks. [Jo] 11. No. [Na] 12. A nose. [Hu] 13. No. [Na]

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14. Hmm hmm hmm. The eye. [Ja] 15. «With disgust» No. Eh eh! [Na] 16. «Laughter» God in a tin? [Gu] 17. In a tin! [Ba] 18. Meat, meat which is ground. [Gu] 19. No, eh! «Laughs» Is there meat which is pounded? [Na] 20. No. [Ja] 21. «Sighing» Eeeh. Okay! [Ja] 22. «Emphatic» God in a tin. [Na] 23. Kindness in a breast. [Ba] 24. No. [Na] 25. Snot in the nose. [Hu] 26. No. [Na] 27. Eh. God in a tin, brain in the skull. [Ja] 28. No. [Na] 29. «Soda bottles on the table» Soda in a bottle. [ Ba] 30. No. [Na] 31. «The girls exchange glances» [Na/Ja] 32. «Smiles» No. [Na] 33. «Laughs out loud». [Ja] 34. «Whisper and signal to each other». [Na and Ja] 35. Heat of a nurse. [Ja] 36. A chick in an egg. [Ba] 37. «In a high tone» We have given you a book. [Ja]

Conceding defeat could be verbal or implied, as in line 37 above, where Jacqueline says: “«In a high tone» We have given you a book [Ja].” Other ways include the use of words like ‘okiise’ and ‘okaise’ (you have killed it), ‘ontoilemu’ (you have removed me), ‘ofunie chance’ (you have got a chance), ‘ni kyo ekyo’ (that is it), and ‘okabise’ (you have passed it). On the other hand, when the unriddlers give ‘false’ answers the riddler would say ‘mpiriita’ (I’m snoring, I am bored, absolutely not), ‘mpirya’ (I disagree, I charge), nfuluuta (I snore, I sleep), mbe (I say no), or bee (no-o-o). Each of these responses is performed in a unique way to suit the mood of the riddle and the audience. Most importantly, it is meant to prepare the audience for the revelation of the riddler’s preferred answer. As in the previous stages, unravelling is a spiralling of the riddle from entanglement to clarity. In this process, the competing audience have to agree to a give-and-take sequence through dialogue and consensus-building. Whoever emerges as the victor,

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winner or ‘killer’ of the riddle usually performs the next riddle in the cycle. If that person has no riddles to deliver off the cuff, s/he may pass on his or her chance to someone of their own choice, or the group’s. Following a precedent’s null unravelling – i.e. when the riddler is also the victor – the performance enters the stage of exaltation, where the riddler asks or is asked to be bought out with a prize before giving the answer. I have called this the ‘crowning stage’, during which a ‘chief’ or omwami is given to or demanded by the riddler, and awarded by the audience or some of its members collectively on behalf of all participants, as shown in line 37 in riddle 9 above. Alternatively, when the unriddlers ‘kill’ the riddle, no prize is demanded or given, except that for this achievement the reward is for the unriddler to continue riddling, in this way remaining the main person during the next cycle of the riddle performance. THE CROWNING

When it comes to buying out, exalting or awarding the prize to the undefeated riddler for a riddle unriddled, the following statements are used: Mumpe omwami. You give me a chief. Oyenda omwami. Do you want a chief?

Depending on the composition of the audience, word-play on the term ‘mwami’ is made to refer to the prize of honour, the all-powerful enigma who is challenged and beaten down by the riddle performer, as suggestive of a weak husband or nurturer. There may also be instances when ‘mwami’ is used to mean ‘chief’, and other instances when it is used to refer to a husband as nurturer, appeaser, and a relished and honourable person. To my understanding, the ‘mwami’ is given as the reward for a riddle unriddled because every village needs a chief and every home needs a husband, and the riddlers represent either a village or a home and not their individual selves. If they had riddled as individual entities, they would not be genuinely capable of articulating matters pertinent to the whole community. Attempts are sometimes made to give rewards of omukyala or wives to the males, but that is not popular. Statements of crowning include: Tukuwaire. Nkwewaire.

We have given you . . . I give myself to you.

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The riddler is free to reject or accept the honoured prize, as is the case in riddle 67: 1770. Then tell us. [Ja] 1771. Perhaps give me a chief! [Na] 1772. We have given you a book [Chorus] 1773. Not at all [Na] 1774. Hm! We have given you Saile [Ba]

Nabirye is given a book, which she rejects, and she is given Saile, the Chairperson of Namutumba district, whom she accepts with pomp and relish. Saile is the only chief during the entire performance who was obtained from outside the room; otherwise, all rewards were generated from the close vicinity of the performance. This businesslike negotiation is characterized by haggling and sometimes setting high stakes to get the best deal. The epic experience renders the audience’s power of negotiation not only real in the performance but alive in the society where the performers are nurtured. The ‘mwami’ is not always a human being, but anything considered by the audience as valuable or even demeaning. Apart from the human beings, some of the ‘buy-out’ objects which the unriddlers gave during the performances included e nthupa (a bottle), e kitabo (a book), e meeza (a table), a kadankala (a bottle-top), and ‘ako’ (‘that thing’ – referring to the cassette recorder). In the case of Diikuula, one of the best-known riddlers, it is almost always money. Whereas in other riddling performances the prize is not actual, Diikuula gets his monetary prize before he continues performing. In one case, where he promises ten thousand shillings to whomever solves the puzzle about the three reasons for marriage, he dodges the unriddlers when he realizes that they could win the money. He changes the subject and promises to pay another time. Once the reward is accepted by the riddler, the riddle performance enters into the declamation stage. THE DECLAMATION

The riddler’s declamation varies in length, diction, and structure. The riddler engages in proclamations of self-praise to justify personal acceptance (or rejection) of the ‘mwami’. By reciting his or her personal abilities and inabilities, prowess and weakness, to challenge the given reward of honour, the riddler performs the ritual of unriddling the riddle – that is, untying the knot by restating the riddle and furnishing the answer in a manner as if the prize

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that has been given is being battered to pieces. This performance is similar to what used to happen in Roman educational history, which Michael Mendelson writes about in the following passage: Declamation stood at the apex of a very sophisticated language curriculum. Only after students had progressed through the highly systematized and remarkably thorough curricular sequence known as the progymnasmata were they ready to confront the challenge of declamatory exercises, exercises that required students to adopt all the components of a balanced rhetorical stance: i.e., student declaimers would analyze an historical or legal problem and develop a pragmatic argument in response to that problem, they would adapt this argument to a specific audience with a definite need to know, and they would invoke an identifiable character to impersonate during the delivery of their fictional oration. Declamation, therefore, was that point in the Roman language curriculum where the theory and technique practiced in years of training with the grammaticus and rhetor were translated into a functional knowledge of how to create original discourse appropriate to specific situations.5

The declamation in riddle 9 goes like this: 38. «There are books on the table» That book, the whole of it. It can’t man-

age me, yet I can manage it. I throw it in a male wrestling hold and I abuse it; that riddle, God in a tin, a jigger in the foot. [Na]

Similarly, in riddle 67, the declamation goes like this: 1775. Saile? Aha! Saile! The whole of him, he can’t manage me and I can’t

manage him. I order him to sit down and I thrust him into the hole of an ant and I give him some tea and it defeats him to finish and I tell him that riddle: take Bukutu, you put on Bukutu to get Bukutu; take a man, you put on a woman to get a child. [Na]

The statement “I thrust him into the hole of an ant and I give him some tea to drink and it defeats him to finish and I tell him that riddle” is a common declamation used in these performances. Individual riddlers have to vary their declamation in order to validate the identity and propriety of the given prize. After the declamation stage, the accepted answer undergoes a process of affirmation before agreement is reached.

5

Michael Mendelson, “Declamation, Context, and Controversiality,” Rhetoric Review 13.1 (Autumn 1994): 92

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THE AFFIRMATION

After an answer has been provided, requests for justification are usually made and a discussion – which is sometimes healthy and informative and other times heated, prolonged and inconclusive – is held. In riddle 9 it goes as follows: 38. «There are books on the table». That book, the whole of it. It can’t

manage me, yet I can manage it. I throw it in a male wrestle and I abuse it in that riddle. God in a tin, a jigger in the foot. 39. Hmm hmm hmm. [Gu] 40. Hu hu hu! [Ja] 41. It «loud sigh» A jigger! Jigger in the foot, how is it – God is the jigger? [Ja [Na] 42. Hmm? [Gu] 43. In the leg? Foot. [Na] 44. Hmm hmm. [Gu] 45. Hu hu hu. [Ja] 46. It (.) No «smiles». [Na] 47. «Laughs out loud». [Ja] 48. «Whispers»«Sigh!» Meat of the pocket, a chicken and egg. [Ba] 49. No. [Na] 50. God in a tin (.) A tortoise in a shell. [Jo] 51. No. [Na] 52. «Sighs» Jigger. Jigger in a foot, how does it become God? [Gu]

This interaction keeps the group actively involved in the performance, and their individual contributions and assessment of the performance are made. At the same time, individual temperaments, coping capacities, and wit are displayed. In the affirmation stage of riddle 67 the following interchange is performed. 1776. A a a Cissy, you are deceiving yourself. [Ja] 1777. E e e Babirye, is that not there? [Na] 1778. You go and do what, and do what, and do what? [Ba] 1779. May I get this one, and I put it on you, then we see? [Jo] 1780. «Firm and bold» Take! [Na] 1781. «Quick interjection» No, they take it at night – what does it do? [Ja] 1782. Take a man, put on a woman [Jo] 1783. «Writing down the riddle» You put on a woman [Gu] 1784. This one «Jo pointing at Na» 1785. To get a child [all]

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1786. To get a child [Gu] 1787. Yaah [Ja] 1788. Hm! So, now, of the man and the woman, who is Bukutu? [Gu] 1789. Who is Bukutu? [Ja] 1790. «She explains the riddle, using bold gestures» You get the other Bukutu,

you put on the other Bukutu, you get out the other Bukutu [Na] 1791. Ha ha ha! [all laugh] 1792. You get Bukusu or you get Bukutu? [Ba] 1793. Bukutu [Ch] 1794. «Concludes» All of them are the Bukutu [Na]

Once the affirmation is done with, the performance goes on to the next stage, which is almost integral to the affirmation. I have called it the agreement stage. THE AGREEMENT

The agreement stage is not always reached, as many riddle answers are the prerogative of the riddler regardless of whether or not the audience thinks otherwise. In other cases some answers are known from past generations, and a less creative performer who accepts them without modification has no need for agreement. As part of group dynamics a riddling event entails giving and taking, whereby the affirmation is reciprocated by an agreement from some or the majority of the participants. Riddle 9 has the following as the agreement stage: 39. God is the jigger. [Na] 40. Hmm. [Gu] 41. In a foot and a tin. [Na] 42. A foot a tin. [Jo] 43. A jigger leads the foot. [Gu] 44. «Meeee». 45. Eh eh! okay, go ahead. [Gu]

In riddle 67 the agreement is by acclamation, as shown in the following lines: 1770. «Collectively» e e ee species [Gu] 1771. «Signs acceptance while shaking his head sideways» a haa! [Ba]

The audience uses sounds and signs to indicate their agreement and, once this is done, the performance is set to move ahead. This stage determines whether the entire group continues to the next riddling phase or breaks up and does something else. Enormous energy is usually expended in moving from unravelling to agreement. Denouement at the agreement stage helps to cool

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down tempers that may have flared up during the agreement stage. Debate arising from the declamation sometimes gets heated, with individual unriddlers defending their own answers against that preferred by the riddler. When some audience members find the answer unsatisfactory, they yield, but may still express their dissatisfaction, as in the following, riddle 34: .

34 1. Riddle!? [Ju] 2. Let it come. [chorus] 3. Thing small, it has no lives (.). 4. Haa haa haa ahaha! 5. A hoe. [Jo] 6. How? [Ja] 7. It digs (.). [Ju] 8. This one was the fish. [Ja] 9. It eats grass. [Ju] 10. Hi hi hi «all laugh» 11. Repeat? [Gu] 12. Thing small, has no lives, it swallows swallows, it eats grass. [chorus] 13. «Louder». [Ja] 14. Thing small. [Gu] 15. «Spell checking» It has no vagina lives. [chorus] 16. It has no lives. [Gu] 17. It shaves shaves. [Ja] 18. It swallows swallows. [Gu] 19. It eats grass. [Ja] 20. A hoe, a small hoe? Feast. [Ja] 21. It swallows swallows grass «soft voice» The hoe. [Jo] 22. The small hoes. [Gu] 23. Mzee, that you didn’t know? [Ja] 24. Is it not a black ant, though? [Gu] 25. Aha hee hee, does a black ant eat grass? [Ja] 26. «Others chorus» 27. But does a hoe eat grass? [Ba] 28. Eeee maama. [Ja] 29. What do you use to dig? [Jo] 30. Mother! [Ja] 31. You, you don’t know the word ‘to eat’? [Ba] 32. Hii! Haa haa haaha! «All laugh» 33. What have they said? [Ja]

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34. Now you think, Mzee, when I dig while overturning, it does not come

out. [Jo] 35. Would I not be eating? [Ja] 36. Say that in English and we hear. [Ba] 37. In English? [Ja] 38. In English – say it first! [Ba] 39. Tell us to riddle in English – to measure riddles in English. [Ba] 40. Sing small. [Na] 41. Aha ha! [Ja] 42. Ha ha ha. [others] 43. ‘Swallow swallow’. [Na] 44. ‘Swallow swallow’. [Ja] 45. «More laughter» 46. Eats grass. [Ja] 47. Has no liver. [Na] 48. It has no liver. [Ja] 49. «Laughter» It eats grass. [Ja] 50. Cissy says. [Ja] 51. Heee! «Sighs». [Ba] 52. Laah! [Jo] 53. A word, ha ha ha; eat and cut – do they resemble each other? [Ba] 54. ‘Thing small swallow swallow’. [Ja] 55. Eat and cut «emphatic». [Ba] 56. ‘Thing small swallow swallow has no liver’. [Gu] 57. There, you use there. [Ja] 58. ‘Thing small swallow swallow cuts grasses’. [Ja] 59. ‘Thing small swallow swallow has no liver (.)’. [Na] 60. You are going to be given chiefs for free. [Ba]

Line 60 shows that the participant is dissatisfied with the answer, but can do nothing but go with the decision of the majority. Here we experience powerrelations in which adulthood, age, and wisdom are not necessarily the deciding factors. In riddling, each riddler has power over the audience to decide the direction of the performance while he or she is in control. In this particular example, the call for translation into English shows how, in the elder’s mentality, the English language is a source of answers. Fortunately, the younger participants are quick-witted and in translating the statement from Lusoga they use direct translation, thereby retaining the beauty of the original statement. In riddles 17, 18, and 19, the disagreement is so serious that it affects the continuation of the performance. The disagreement is so tense that lines 465–

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69 show real dissatisfaction with Baamugha, the old man, on one hand, and the young people, on the other. Riddles 18 and 19 suffer from this tension, as revealed in lines 580, 607, 615, and 628. This is where the notion of inter-

textuality between riddles becomes even more evident in influencing riddle performance. Arranging the riddles alphabetically or according to themes robs the texts of this essential connectedness. 17 460. Riddle!? [Na] 461. Let it come. [chorus] 462. It’s in a corner. [Na] 463. The what? [Jo] 464. Haa ha ha ahaha! «Said in English»“Whom are you asking” oli buuza

ani? [Ja] 465. It is a corner. A banana stool. [Jo] 466. Hmm. It’s in a corner, this, that stays in a mound. [Ja] 467. No. [Na] 468. Eeh, you child, doesn’t ever be in a corner? [Na] 469. Leaves in a mound. [Jo] 470. It’s in a corner? [ ] 471. It’s in a corner «whispers(.) unclear voices» 472. A chameleon. [Gu] 473. (.) It’s in a corner (.). 474. «Giggles» Haa ha ha ahaha! 475. It’s in a corner, eye crust. [Ja] 476. No. [Na] 477. I give you a chief (.) It’s in a corner, a corpse. [Na] 478. A corpse? Yes, mother! [Ja] 479. It’s in a corner «almost simultaneously». [Ja] 480. It’s in a corner. [Ja] 481. Haa ha ha ahaha! 482. Come, we go and I show you. [Na] 483. What? [Ja] 484. A corpse. [Na] 485. It’s there you put it – there, for viewing? [ ] 486. A hole with corners. [Ja] 487. Has. [Ba] 488. «Sounds» 489. He is. [Ba]

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490. Even me, I am in a corner, because a house has corners; a grave – okay, a

grave – has how many corners? [Ba] 491. One corner. [Jo] 492. Hihihihi? Haa ha ha ahaha! 493. But it’s in a corner, for you, when you are in four corners, you are in a

corner. [Jo] 494. When you are alone? [Na] 495. You have things, but for it, it’s in a corner (.), let us go slowly slowly.

[Ba] 496. Even if it’s one corner, they call it a ‘corner’. [Jo] 497. When they are many, even if ten. [Jo] 498. They are still corners. [chorus] 499. They don’t say nsoodaazi «corners». [Na] 500. Haa ha ha ahaha! It’s in a corner, whether it’s ten corners or whether one

hundred, it’s ‘corner’. [Ja] 501. Yes, let me support you, you see where it is. [ ] 502. Friends, please, let us go with things as they are. Hmm (.) [Ba] 503. In saying the word ‘corner’ and the word ‘grave’, there is a difference. [] 504. A difference. [Ba] 505. But to take the whole grave, that it is a corner. [Ba] 506. Corner. [Na] 507. No, it’s not one corner. [Na] 508. We say like this: Mzee. [Jo] 509. Now the grave. [Jo] 510. Aaa now. [Jo] 511. What is it? It is with corners. [Jo] 512. [chorus] 513. Now, when they put a person, would he be in a corner surrounding him?

[Jo] 514. «Sigh» I doubt you can convince me, because «laughs» corners are like

515. 516. 517. 518. 519. 520. 521. 522. 523.

this – we know a corner, a corner, this, okay, that thing – it’s in a corner, there. [Ba] Hmm. [Jo] (.) There, there, in a corner – there where that thing is. [Ba] And when you measure down. [Jo] Now. [Na] Now a table. [Ba] Ah ah. [Na] Now a ta (.) ble. [Ba] But friends. [Na] But it’s you. [Na]

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524. This table, you say, is in a corner? [Ba] 525. In (.) a tree. [Na] 526. But it’s you. [Na] 527. Because it’s in a house, eh? a house has how many corners? (.). [Ba] 528. But it doesn’t have to be in two corners, because there, those that I see,

529. 530. 531. 532. 533. 534. 535. 536. 537. 538. 539. 540. 541. 542. 543. 544. 545. 546. 547. 548. 549. 550. 551. 552. 553. 554. 555. 556. 557.

they are buried in a coffin and the head end enters the front corners, both corners (.). [Na] Eh – haa ha ha ahaha! [Ba] This child is just playing with the people – in saying the word ‘corner’. [Ba] Hmm. [Na] Say it in English – the word ‘corner’, what is it? [Ba] ‘Corner’ is one word, a ‘square’, ah ah. [Ja] ‘Corner’. [ ] Now see where that one is going. [Ba] That corner corner corner. [Na, Jo] Eeh. [ ] It can be ‘corner’ or ‘corners’ «said in English». [Gu] Yes, but. [Na] Because in Lusoga, as the situation has been given first, plural and singular are the same. [Gu] It is the same in Lusoga, we went wrong. [Na] Corner [corner [Gu [Na] For me, that I do not take. [Ba] Hmm. [Gu] But. [Ba] Hmm. [Gu] Corners are on a thing. [Ba] And a person in a corner. [Na, Ja] A corner has no corner, a table has a cover, what what – and a grave has a corner. [Ba] Yes. [Na] But now we do not put a corpse – we do not put ... in one corner. [Ba] One. [Na] Hmm. [Ba] But. [Na] Yes? [Jo] But we have not said that – one corner, it’s in one corner. Just in a corner only. We’ve not said it’s in one corner. [Gu] Whether how many or how many. [Na]

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558. Hmm «laughs» because in Lusoga if it had a plural, then I would have

put what? Plural. [Na] 559. So it is in a corner. [ ] 560. Hmm. [Gu] 561. Aah ha. There is ... does not come. [Na] 562. It is in corners, many. [Gu] 563. Aha ha! «tone» [Ba] 564. «Goat continues to meee» (.) 565. Let us say, let it end there, is one who sleeps in another’s but for me, that

one, I am not convinced. A corner is a different thing and a grave is another thing. [Ba] 566. But that is how riddles are, because you have to have some doubt. [Ja] 567. You can’t say something which is like (.). [Jo] 568. «Impatient tone» Give us – give us something; we go. [Ba] 18 569. Riddle!? «Proudly and quickly». [Na] 570. Let it come. [chorus] 571. I have finished. [Na] 572. When you swallow saliva, do you tell a friend? [Ja] 573. Ah, it’s this one. [Na] 574. Ah, it’s the other one. [Ba] 575. It’s me. [Jo] 576. Hmm. [Na] 577. Okay, you say. [Gu] 578. «In English» “Yes.” [Jo] 579. My friends, you wanted to catch ah ah. [Jo] 580. You also tell us quickly, we go. [Ba]

19 581. Riddle!? [Jo] 582. Bring it. [chorus] 583. One who will see for me Dina’s corner, I will give a cow. [Jo] 584. Your sister, however beautiful, you will not marry them. [Na[Ja] 585. No. [Jo] 586. (.) 587. Is this corner different from that of the grave? [Gu] 588. Haa ha ha ahaha! 589. Repeat a bit! (.) That is that corner, different from the grave? [Na] 590. Ah! Haa ha ha ahaha! 591. One who will see Dina’s corner, you will give them a cow. [ ] 592. (.) No. [Jo]

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Riddle Discourse in Lusoga 593. Will see God. [ ] 594. No. [Jo] 595. One who will see, for me, Dina’s corner, I will give them a cow. [ ] 596. A corner, the heaven. [Gu] 597. Heaven how? No. [Jo] 598. It has no corner. [Gu] 599. Who will see the corner of heaven?? The skies. [Na] 600. No. [Jo] 601. How was the wording of the riddle? The one who will see for me Nina’s

«laughs» I will give a cow «laugh». [Ba] 602. Hmm! [Jo] 603. And he has refused an egg? [Ba] 604. Hmm. [Na] 605. But does it have a corner? [Ba] 606. Hmm. [Na] 607. Whether it doesn’t have, I will have refused it. [Jo] 608. Hmm hmm. [Gu] 609. The sun. [Ba] 610. What ah. [Ja] 611. Hmm, one who will see for me Dina’s corner, one who will see for me

Dina’s corner «recites softly». [Ba] 612. We give you a chief? [Ja] 613. Give me. [Jo] 614. We’ve given you Nabirye. [Na] 615. «In English» I give you that cow. [Ja] 616. «A bottle falls on the floor, making a sharp noise» 617. This bottle, the whole of it, I get it and I drink it and I finish it, after

618. 619. 620. 621. 622. 623. 624. 625. 626. 627.

which I put it in the hole of an ant and I tell that riddle, bring it, one who will see for me Dina’s corner, I will give them a cow, it’s the cloud. [Jo] What? [Ba] What has this one said? [Hu] Heaven?? The sky is a cloud? [Jo] Hmm, yes. [chorus] It’s the same. [chorus] The skies and the cloud? [ ] Put there, a difference. [Jo] A cloud is a cloud and (.). [Ba] Oh! [ ] A cloud is in heaven? Skies, but there is something called a cloud in the skies, there is a cloud. [Ba]

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628. «This explanation is run-on with other explanations by [Ja] and others in

support of [Ba]» «Views on the matter not easily perceptible» 629. Okay, he is still there, he is still there. [Gu]

Conclusions Riddle performances are essentially conducted as discourses, with each performative unit having at least seven interconnected parts or stages. Each riddle spirals from one stage in the riddling context to the next riddle and is textually implicated in the subsequent or proceeding riddles in a manner known as intertextuality. I therefore conclude that riddles should be recorded chronologically as they appear in performance rather than being organized alphabetically or thematically, as this compromises their overall form, structure, and meaning. As mediated and embodied forms, the riddles are presented as ambivalent human activities with messages or meanings that transform the discourse of everyday language from an ordinary to an elevated level. This makes riddling a practice of clever people and not just ordinary mortals. The pattern discussed above is the most prevalent in the riddles I encountered. Growing up among a community of riddlers enables children to assimilate to the riddling culture without necessarily being tutored formally in riddling performance. The popular form and structure of riddle discourse should be studied on the same level as drama and poetry. Each riddling act within a riddling event can stand on its own and the different riddles together form a single riddle performance. Yet isolated lines and phrases from the performances can be misleading and shallow in the intended ethos of the performing community. It is practically impossible to reach the same conclusions or achieve effects similar to what one would obtain when the place of the performance is contextualized. The form and structure of the riddle are crafted in a specific context with a specific audience. A performance of similar texts of the riddle precedent would normally take a different turn with a different set of participants in a different context. When peers come together, the performances are likely to be terse and quick, because they would have so much in common that there is little to search for or guess at when performing. Similarly, when a heterogeneous group performs, there are many considerations to be assessed before proposing a riddle precedent, on the one hand, and giving or accepting any answer, on the other. It takes some time for the audience participants to get

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used to one another’s tastes and to find common ground of interest upon which the performances may proceed. Once the ice has been broken and a common trend identified, the performance consolidates into a discourse. To reach this level of familiarity, the participants identify with those whose riddles they can twist towards their intended theme, inadvertently isolating those whose themes are of least interest. As a result, the performance usually ends up with riddles tackling certain themes and not others, depending on the composition of the audience, the context, and event of the performances. This is shown well in the following example. 78 39. Riddle!? [Na] 40. Bring it. [Jo] 41. «Interrupted». [Ba] 42. As you have suffered?? It is a pity! [Na] 43. Hee. [Ba] 44. Sarah, it’s a pity. [Jo] 45. [. . . ] As Sarah is beautiful??? Good? [Ba] 46. Haa ha ha ahaha! [chorus] 47. It’s a pity. [chorus] 48. Ha haa, it’s a pity, it’s a pity. [chorus] 49. Sarah, it’s a pity. [Gu] 50. To cry. [Gu] 51. Absolutely not. [Jo] 52. I also desire those riddling in English. [Na] 53. Eee, let us riddle. [Jo] 54. May I answer? [ ] 55. Sarah, it’s a pity, Sarah, it’s a pity. [ ] 56. Yes, I am also going to abuse you in English. [Na] 57. Hmm hmm. [Gu] 58. Ee, let us riddle, but (.). [Jo] 59. Sarah, isn’t it a pity? Because you suffered a lot. [Na] 60. Aaaa, absolutely not. [Jo] 61. Sarah, it’s a pity «deep soft voice», ehe aaa, what is that «soft voices» aa

give a chief like me aa! [Jo] 62. And I tell the answer. [Jo] 63. Which of you will riddle tomorrow? [Ba] 64. I have given myself to you. [Na] 65. We have given you that one. [ ] 66. At our friend. [Ba]

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67. I have, I have given myself to you. [Na] 68. «Looks down» I have given you that one. [voice] 69. They have given him to me, this one. [Jo] 70. You are near – bring bring bring. [Ba] 71. That one, I beat him, I push him into the hole of an ant and I tell him that

riddle. [Jo] 72. You are going to beat me? [Na] 73. Bring it, Sarah, it is a pity, a stick along the road or a mango along the

road. When it is fruiting, everyone who comes around?? wants to beat the – Sarah. [Jo] 74. Haa ha ha ahaha! 75. The one who is hungry beats and eats, then another comes, also hungry, beats and eats, then another comes also, who, hungry, beats and eats, it suffers so much, the leaves are beaten and they fall (.). [Jo]

W O R K S C I TE D Harries, Lyndon. “The Riddle in Africa,” Journal of American Folklore 84/334 (October–December 1971): 377–93. Mendelson, Michael. “Declamation, Context, and Controversiality,” Rhetoric Review 13.1 (Autumn 1994): 92–107. Miruka, Okumba. Encounter with Oral Literature (Nairobi: East African Educational Publishers, 1994).

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———— º The Potential Role of Orature in Fighting the Spread of HIV/AIDS ABSTRACT This essay attempts an experimental reading of a folktale in order to demonstrate how Orature can be deployed to fight the spread of H I V / A I D S . The essay also highlights the contribution other literary genres like songs and fiction have made to the same cause, placing them alongside oral forms of many kinds within the larger social frame of the community and its knowledge and assumptions. The work of Livingstone Kasozi, Susan Kiguli, Philly Bongole Lutaya, the Nebbi Cultural Troupe, Mary Karooro Okurut, and Mathias Walukagga is considered, as is the function of academic critics such as Austin Bukenya and the work of cultural and aid organizations. The essay concludes with a detailed discussion of the folktale “The Four Girls and the Ogre” to show how it may demonstrate the dangers of H I V / A I D S .

Introduction

I

N A P O E M T I T L E D “ T H E O G R E ,” Susan Nalugwa Kiguli describes the Human Immuno-Defiency Virus (H I V ) as a “blood-eyed Monster” that “Stalks mother earth,” “The glutton with a pit-stomach” that “slays without warning” and “Devours without mercy,” taking all people “Regardless of age and status.” The poem goes on to describe it as a

man-eater Sucking one’s blood Until he is empty and shrivelled A useless bag of bones A talking skeleton With bulging eyeballs.1

This description brings to mind the fearsome monsters many Ugandan children (and children from other African countries) encountered around fireplaces 1

“The Ogre,” in The African Saga (Kampala: F E M R I T E , 1998): 46–47.

”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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in the narratives performed by their parents and grandparents. In these narratives, an ogre usually disguised itself as a pleasant-looking person (a handsome young man or a beautiful young woman) to win company. Sooner or later, it abandoned the disguise and revealed the monster it was: blood-eyed, pit-mouthed, and stone-hearted. In this essay, I reflect on the potential role of orature in fighting the spread of H I V / A I D S . I argue that some oral genres like the Ogre tale can and should be re-interpreted and deployed to respond to new challenges like the H I V pandemic that is ravaging sub-Saharan Africa. I analyse, in considerable detail, a tale performed by the Gikuyu people of Kenya2 to demonstrate the genre’s capacity to impart knowledge, skills, and values geared at protecting the young from contracting the virus. I conclude with a brief note on the role played by other sub-genres such as songs and drama in fighting the spread of H I V in Uganda.

Orature and Contemporary Realities There is a direct link between the experiences of a community and the orature and literature produced in that community: the experiences are raw materials with which an oral artist and writer work to come up with a tale or poem or drama. At the same time, orature and literature provide room for imagination, meaning that the experiences the community goes through will not necessarily be told the way they happened. Many a time, the oral artist or writer embellishes what happened by using techniques such as hyperbole, elaborate diction, and vivid imagery to create a world that is quite different from the one we are familiar with: a world that is quite new, with new challenges, fears, and possibilities. In this world, human beings find themselves in situations that challenge their ‘I’: wars, pestilences, and natural disasters like floods and earthquakes, to mention just two. By recording how different characters respond to these situations and challenges, oral artists and writers invite listeners or readers to enter this world and participate in what is happening through, for instance, identifying with some characters and shunning others. It is for this reason that many artists have dedicated much time to producing works on H I V to educate young readers about the cause of H I V / A I D S , how the virus is spread from one person to another, the symptoms 2

The tale is published in A.S. Bukenya & M. Gachanja, Oral Literature: A Junior Course (Nairobi: Longhorn, 1996): 11–14.

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associated with it, how it can be prevented and managed, and how the people infected with and affected by it should be cared for. Many publishing houses, including Uganda’s most important one, Fountain Publishers, have done very well in this area, producing many titles on H I V -related topics.3 This is as it should be, for, as Austin Bukenya has observed, literature “should be seen as processes of enlightening, liberating, and empowering individuals and societies” to come to terms with present-day realities. In fact, he specifically calls upon scholars of oracy and orature “to be constantly examining and reexamining [oral genres] for new insights in the light of emerging realities and experiences.”4 This call is most timely in a world that has been ravaged by the H I V pandemic.5 In the section that follows, I attempt a new reading of a folktale, “The Four Girls and the Ogre,”6 performed by the Gikuyu people of Kenya. I argue that although it is a typical ogre story, it is possible to establish a link between the monster in the story and H I V by comparing the character and conduct of the monster and that of the virus. This is an experimental reading that I hope will provoke debate in scholarly and civil society circles so that more re-readings of other folktales may be carried out. a 3

For the titles of these books, visit the website: http://www.fountainpublishers.co .ug/index.php/cPath/21_34?osCsid=808o5qcf2sv45vkhqjkurrue97 (accessed 28 June 2010). Some of the titles listed there are: Anena’s Story by Beatrice Lamwaka, Biira’s Success by Danson S. Kahyana, Brave Kemi by L. Chihandae, and Don’t Play with Fire by Anne Ayeta Wangusa. 4 “Afterword,” in Performing Community: Essays on Ugandan Oral Culture, ed. Dominica Dipio, Lene Johannessen & Stuart Sillars (Oslo: Novus, 2008): 271–72. 5 According to 2009 estimates from the Joint United Nations Programme on H I V / A I D S (U N A I D S ), around 31.1 million adults and 2.1 million children were living with H I V at the end of 2008. During 2008, some 2.7 million people became infected with the virus. The year also saw two million deaths from A I D S . Although the region has just over 10% of the world’s population, sub-Saharan Africa is home to 67% of all people living with H I V . An estimated 1.9 million adults and children in this region became infected with H I V during 2008. 6 This tale is published in Bukenya & Gachanja, Oral Literature: A Junior Course, 11–14. The full text of this tale is presented as an appendix to the present essay.

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Analysis of the Tale The story of the folktale is simple. Four girls go out to a dance (gichobi) on a beautiful day, where they meet and admire an extremely handsome man who dances so well and sings so sweetly that they fall in love with him. After the dance, they follow him, thinking that he is an honest person; but on the way to his home, one of them is observant enough to discover that he is an ogre, for he has a mouth at the back of his neck and he feeds on flies. She warns the girls and runs away to safety with two of them. The fourth girl persists in following the ogre to its home. She only understands the trouble she is in on being warned by one of the ogre’s victims who has been reduced to a skeleton. She flees, hotly pursued by the ogre. Luckily, her father and brothers come to her rescue as she approaches her home. They attack and kill the ogre. Unfortunately, it keeps reappearing in the girl’s home in different forms, sometimes as a gourd and at other times as a broken piece of gourd. Bukenya and Gachanja7 observe that the four girls’ action in following a man whose home and background they do not know amounts to bad behaviour, as African social customs require that if a girl befriends a man, his home, parents, and their background must be known to her parents before she is engaged. But the girls in the story simply meet a man at a social gathering, fall in love with him, and follow him without finding out anything about his background and without bothering about the way things are done culturally. I am suggesting that this tale can, with or without modification, be helpful in teaching the people listening to it about key issues concerning the H I V / A I D S pandemic. As Isidore Okpewho observes, it is through such tales and other oral genres that the younger members of African society “absorb the ideas that will guide them through life and the older ones are constantly reminded of the rules and ideals that must be kept alive for the benefit of those coming behind them.”8 First of all, the ogre in the story could symbolically represent the Human Immuno-Deficiency Virus. I have already mentioned that the Ugandan poet and scholar Susan Nalugwa Kiguli has described the virus in ‘ogre-istic’ terms – it is the blood-eyed and pit-mouthed monster that slays without warning, and a man-eater “Sucking one’s blood / Until he is empty and shrivelled / A useless bag of bones / A talking skeleton / With bulging eyeballs.” The 7

Bukenya & Gachanja, Oral Literature, 14. In African Oral Literature: Backgrounds, Character, and Continuity (Bloomington: Indiana U P , 1992): 115. 8

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girls’ behaviour in going out with a stranger they hardly know is comparable, to a certain degree, to marrying a handsome man or beautiful woman whom you do not know well. The girls only look at the man’s external beauty (his handsome body and graceful dancing) and they fall for him without asking themselves basic questions like: Who is this man? Where does he come from? Who are his relatives? Does he have H I V ? The storyteller is therefore cautioning the listeners to be careful about making rash decisions that could lead them into trouble. In the context of H I V / A I D S , the girls’ mistake could have led to terrible consequences like contracting H I V . Good enough, three of them discover their mistakes early enough and return to their homes; the fourth girl is helped by the skeleton to see her mistake and she acts quickly and survives death. If we take the H I V -centred reading of the tale a little further, the moral of the tale seems to be this: before moving out with a lover, establish his or her sero status to avoid the possibility of getting infected with H I V . In my reading of the tale, the H I V -positive status is represented by the fact that the young handsome man – the ogre – has a mouth at the back of his neck. This deformity reminds me of the various symptoms associated with the disease, such as dry coughs, severe weight loss, herpes zoster, and enlarged lymph glands in the neck. The lesson here is that people should be careful before they enter relationships. Had the first girl not seen the mouth at the back of the ogre’s head, she and the other two girls who listened to her advice would have ended up with the ogre, in the way the unfortunate girl did. But thanks to her observation, she noticed that there was something unusual with the handsome man and eventually unmasked him. Besides, the lies the handsome man tells about his goats being in his neighbour’s shamba (garden) should remind the listeners of the lies people who are H I V -positive are capable of telling to explain and justify their symptoms. ‘I got this rash when I went into the bushes to look for herbs’, a person might say, or ‘I tested H I V negative just a few days ago, so you don’t have to doubt me’. Such people also lie about their marital status. If widowed as a result of H I V / A I D S -related illnesses, they will not tell you about their dead spouse; if already married and attempting to make you a mistress or sugar boy, they will tell you they are single. In other words, we should avoid gullibility as much as possible, otherwise we shall end up going out with wrong people who might infect us with the disease. The sure way is to insist on H I V testing before we

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involve ourselves in any sexual affair. This is important because Voluntary Counselling and Testing (V C T ) for H I V is now acknowledged internationally as an efficacious and pivotal strategy for H I V prevention and care. It is an effective and cost-effective tool for facilitating behaviour change, since people who find themselves H I V -negative strive to keep their sero status that way, and those who find themselves positive are counselled on how to live positively with the disease. Indeed, not only does V C T promote behavioural change: it increases people’s perception of their vulnerability to the virus, alleviates anxiety among the sick, and facilitates early referral for their care and support including access to anti-retroviral therapy. The reappearance of the ogre in different forms (as a gourd and as a piece of gourd) means, on a symbolic level, that it is not easy to get rid of evil once it occurs in a society. This is what has happened in Uganda. Since 1982, when H I V was reported in the Ugandan district of Rakai, the Government and other stakeholders have fought it time and again to no avail. True, the prevalence rate has stayed at 6.5%; but the battle is still on to bring it down to a lower figure. While it is true that the H I V ogre has not defeated us, there is evidence that we have not defeated it, either. Like the girl’s father and brothers who had to build home after home for fear of the ogre’s attacks, Ugandans and other sub-Saharan Africans are always looking for new ways of bringing the ogre’s attacks – new H I V infections – to an end. Another lesson we learn is that there could be some people whose aim is to infect others with the virus on purpose. The handsome man knows his identity as an ogre but goes ahead with luring the girls into his life. Similarly, there are people who know that they are H I V -positive but go ahead to entice people into sexual intercourse, often without condoms. In Uganda such people ask a quite sadistic question: ‘Did I buy this disease? I got it through sex and I am not about to stop playing sex because I have it’. Others ask: ‘Where is the law that stops me from having sex because I am H I V -positive? The decision to use or not to use a condom is my business’. There are suggestions from some sections of the public that people who hold such views should be prosecuted; but in a country like Uganda where the malicious spread of H I V has not yet been criminalized, prosecution is impossible. The story also suggests that it is never too late to survive H I V either completely (as the girls do) or partly (even if you are infected already, you can avoid multiple infections). The advice from the skeleton makes the girl escape for dear life. Likewise, we are called on to be our brother’s keepers. The Bantu proverb ‘omundu nibandi bandu’ (Lhukonzo for ‘a person is other

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people’) is a forceful reminder that the hope of survival lies in other people’s help. In the story it is clear that we cannot fight H I V / A I D S (or any other ogre, for that matter) single-handedly. We need the help of other people to raise the alarm that something is wrong with our choices and actions (the way the skeleton warns the girl) and to fight the actual monster (the girl’s father and her brothers attack and kill the ogre). Rather than blame the errant girl, her relatives help her – an action that we need to emulate as we fight the H I V / A I D S pandemic. The temptation is usually to blame the people who have contracted this virus or who are behaving irresponsibly instead of helping them to change their risky behaviour. The skeleton’s warning to the girl should remind us of those H I V -positive people who have sounded war drums against the virus. The words “Dear child, what are you doing here? I was once as beautiful as you are, but I have been reduced to a skeleton by the ogre you want to marry. He is not a man but a roaming ogre” remind Ugandans of people like the late rock musician Philly Bongole Lutaya, who went public about his H I V status and sang several songs advising people to fight hard and avoid catching the virus. It also reminds them of Major Rubaramira Ruranga, a veteran of the war against the dictatorial regime of Idi Amin Dada. Since he revealed his H I V status at a rally on World A I D S Day in 1993, Ruranga has campaigned tirelessly to raise awareness about H I V / A I D S in Uganda and the rest of Africa. He is the founder and coordinator of the National Guidance and Empowerment Network of People Living with H I V / A I D S in Uganda—an organization that builds networks of support for those living with H I V / A I D S and counsels those who face discrimination. He is also a counsellor to the Joint Clinical Research Centre in Uganda and has worked on projects aimed at using the military to stop the spread of H I V infection. He has addressed numerous international meetings, including the X I V International Aids Conference in Barcelona, where he spoke on a panel titled “H I V and the World’s Armed Forces.” Additionally, the reference to the skeleton is important because in most cases H I V / A I D S in Africa manifests itself through severe body-weight loss, which is why most words describing it relate to the noun ‘thinness’. In Uganda the disease is in fact usually refered to as ‘silimu’, a corruption of the English word ‘slim’. The fact that the dead ogre keeps reappearing in different forms, sometimes as a gourd and at other times as a broken piece of gourd,

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shows that it is not easy to get rid of H I V / A I D S in a society, which is why there needs to be a concerted effort at combatting it. In brief, this folktale shows that African tradition and culture are formidable tools that we can use to fight against the spread of H I V . This is an important observation, given the fact that African traditional and cultural practices have been depicted by many people as a hindrance to combatting the spread of H I V / A I D S , the usual examples of these practices being trial marriages, polygamy, wife inheritance, and group circumcision. Suffice it to note, in conclusion to this section, that the tale can be adapted for the stage. In the north-western Ugandan district of Nebbi, something like this has been done. The Nebbi Cultural Troupe (N C T ) has performed a play in which H I V / A I D S is likened to ‘jalabok Munikulu’, a terrifying legendary monster believed to eat human beings indiscriminately, causing numerous deaths and overwhelming grief.9 N C T plays like this one have generated reflection on attitudes and perceptions of H I V / A I D S , which have resulted in increased voluntary counselling and testing, reduced stigma, and increased demand for H I V / A I D support services.

Conclusion In fighting H I V / A I D S , orature can play, and indeed is playing, a key role. This is especially evident in disseminating important information on modes of transmission, methods of prevention, and the importance of voluntary counselling and testing, to mention just a few areas. In doing this, orature needs to be supported by other genres such as skits and songs. Skits are a common tool many community workers use to pass on development and health information. In Uganda, songs have played a large role in sensitizing people about the H I V / A I D S pandemic. These songs are performed to audiences in different districts and are aired on the more than a hundred F M radio stations in the country. The messages in these songs range from H I V ’s modes of transmission (unprotected sex, contact with infected blood, and mother-to-child transmission), the effects of H I V / A I D S on society, and responses to the pandemic such as the necessity of voluntary counselling and testing. 9

The performance of this play is briefly documented in a community handbook, Drawing on Culture to the Fight H I V / A I D S : Six Ugandan Stories (Kampala: The Cross-Cultural Foundation of Uganda, nd): 13.

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The songs are many, but a few examples will suffice here. In “W’oliira W’ofiira” (you die instantly after eating), Mathias Walukagga compares the act of making love to eating mangoes that might be weevil-infested, and asks people to be careful about the mangoes they pick. The song cautions people against promiscuity, as they might end up eating a rotten mango that could lead to death. In “Ndikibuulira Ani”10 (whom will I tell about my troubles?), Livingstone Kasozi, who later died of H I V / A I D S , appeals to adults to be extremely careful about the pandemic lest all Ugandan children be orphaned in the near future. The title of the song suggests that the orphans will be left without someone to help them in life, making them ask sorrowfully: “With whom will I, an orphaned child, share my problems and troubles? Who will soothe my pain?” Perhaps the most popular of the songs is “Alone and Frightened” by the late Philly Lutaya, the first Ugandan celebrity to declare his H I V condition and to use his musical talent to fight the disease in schools and public gatherings. The song clearly depicts the stigma associated with H I V / A I D S . The patient is worried and afraid, hiding in darkness. He asks all people to come together and fight H I V / A I D S and the stigma related to it for the sake of the young generation. Writers, too, have a role to play in this fight. The Ugandan novelist Mary Karooro Okurut has demonstrated that the novel as a genre can do excellent work in sensitizing people about the H I V / A I D S pandemic. In The Invisible Weevil,11 she portrays H I V as a weevil eating up Ugandan society and asks people to be careful about it. One of her main characters, Genesis, catches the virus the moment he engages in an extramarital relationship, implying that faithfulness in marriage is the key to keeping safe. Nkwanzi, his wife, survives the virus because she insists on protected sex the moment she learns that her husband is keeping a mistress, implying that condoms save lives. She also warns people against mistaking H I V / A I D S for witchcraft and against running to native doctors for help. In the novel there is a family that perishes after a native doctor infects it with the virus when he uses a single razor blade to administer his medicines. 10

This song and the other two mentioned thereafter are available on cassette and compact disc in all leading recording studios in Kampala. 11 Published by F E M R I T E Publications, Kampala (1998).

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W O R K S C I TE D Bukenya, Austin. “Afterword,” in Performing Community: Essays on Ugandan Oral Culture, ed. Dominica Dipio, Lene Johannessen & Stuart Sillars (Oslo: Novus, 2008): 271–72. ——, & M. Gachanja. Oral Literature: A Junior Course (Nairobi: Longhorn, 1996). Drawing on Culture to the Fight H I V / A I D S : Six Ugandan Stories (Kampala: The Cross-Cultural Foundation of Uganda, n.d). Kiguli, Susan Nalugwa. “The Ogre,” in The African Saga (Kampala: F E M R I T E , 1998): 46–47. Okpewho, Isidore. African Oral Literature: Backgrounds, Character and Continuity (Bloomington: Indiana U P , 1992). Okurut, Mary Karooro. The Invisible Weevil (Kampala: F E M R I T E , 1998).

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Appendix The Four Girls and the Ogre Four girls from a village once went out to a dance [gichobi]. It was a beautiful day, and the dance attracted many people from the neighbouring villages. The dances began as the afternoon cooled, and grew lively. The dancers were lost in the frenzy of their movements when a young man won the admiration of many girls. He was extremely handsome. A good dancer, he swung his body grandly, and sang so eloquently that his voice caused a flutter among the girls. As the sun went down, the dancers began to go back to their homes. The handsome man invited the four girls to go with him. “My home is not far from here,” he said as he cajoled them. The four had fallen in love with him, and they accepted the invitation. On the way to his home they came to a stream where they had to jump so as to get to the other side. As the handsome man jumped, the girl behind him noticed that he had a mouth at the back of his neck. She could not believe her eyes, but she began to watch him more closely. Soon afterwards she saw the mouth open and close at once as the man swallowed a fly. The girl whispered to the one next to her, and word spread among them that the man was an ogre. However, one of the girls would not believe it. The man was too handsome: “You are slandering him because you don’t want me to come with you,” she snapped at the others.

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“Dear sisters,” said the girl who had made the discovery, “my mother had asked me to gather firewood, and I must return before it is dark.” So saying, she returned home. The second one said the same thing and also went on her way. The third girl said that she fetched water for her mother every evening, and she, too, left. The three ran as fast as they could to their homes. The ogre, together with the girl who had refused to go back home, went on deep into the forest. When they neared his home, he stopped short and gazed across the trees. “I think my goats are in my neighbour’s shamba,” he said as he craned his neck forward. “Wait for me, while I drive them out.” He ran home. There, inside the hut and around the homestead, he hurriedly swept away the bones of the men and women he had eaten. However, he did not see one bone, which lay on top of the pile of firewood in the hut. After he had swept he went back for the girl, and led her home. He took her into the hut and gave her maize, beans, and peas, and asked her to prepare the evening meal while he went to water the cows and pen the goats. The girl loved the ogre’s home. She wished that her friends were there to witness the wealth of the man she was about to marry. However, he had neither cows nor goats. He had only gone to collect other ogres so that they might feast on her. The girl set the fire and began to cook. It was then that a voice spoke to her. “Dear child, what are you doing here? I was once as beautiful as you are, but I have been reduced to a skeleton by the ogre you want to marry. He is not a man but a roaming ogre.” When she saw the bone that was talking to her, she left immediately. Once out of the hut, she began to run homeward as fast as she could. When the ogre returned with his friends, the girl was missing. He looked for her everywhere, but his friends threatened to feast on him if he failed to find her. “You promised us human flesh, and we will have it,” they insisted. When the ogre could not find her anywhere in the hut he knew she had escaped, and he resolved to follow her. As he ran into the forest he began to sing: Gacahi gakwa, riu uri ha? Gacahi gakwa, riu uri ha? My little bean, where are you? My little bean, where are you?

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It happened that a bean from the food the girl was cooking had stuck to her dress without her knowledge. When the bean heard the ogre’s voice from a distance, it replied: I am here stuck on the girl’s dress. I am here stuck on the girl’s dress.

The girl heard the bean’s voice and nearly fainted. She crushed it, but it still stuck to her dress. The ogre sang again: My little bean, where are you? My little bean, where are you?

The remains of the bean answered. Here I am on the girl’s dress, near her home. Here I am on the girl’s dress, near her home.

The ogre ran faster. The girl could now see him behind her. She ran as fast as she could, and stumbled into her father’s hut. She quickly told him that an ogre was behind her. He and his sons took their spears at once and rushed out. As the ogre leaped over the gate, they attacked: their spears went through his stomach, and he fell down moaning. With their machetes they slashed his body to pieces. They made a big fire, and burned every bit of the ogre. Fearing another encounter with the ogre, the family built new houses and burnt the old homestead. After they had moved, the father planted pumpkins [miungu] around the old homestead. The vines blossomed and produced gigantic pumpkins. From one of them the father made a beer gourd. One day he decided to test his new gourd. He filled it with water, mixed all the ingredients for making beer, and set it near the fire. He then asked his young son to keep the fire burning and watch the fermenting beer. “Call me when it starts to bubble,” he told him as he went out. As the boy kept the fire burning he noticed that the gourd was moving. At first he thought it was the bubbling of the beer. On looking closer he was certain that the gourd itself was moving. “Dear father,” he rushed out and called, “the gourd is moving!” The father could not believe it. “How can a gourd move?” he asked as he rushed into the hut. To his shock, it moved towards him as he gazed at it. At once he remembered that the pumpkin from which he had cut the gourd had grown at the place where the ogre had died. He took his machete and attacked: he slashed it to pieces, gathered them, made a fire outside, and burnt

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them all. However, a small piece fell behind the stool where his youngest son sat every evening. The man did not see it. It happened then that every evening when the boy was eating, a voice from behind his stool spoke to him: Hee kana ngurie. Nduhe kana ngurie. Share your food with me, or else I will eat you Share it with me, or else I will eat you.

The piece of gourd ate nearly everything that the boy was given by his mother. Every time he was about to put food into his mouth the voice whispered, “Share it with me or else – I will eat you.” He grew extremely skinny, and his health began to worry his parents, who thought he ate more than his rightful share. “Why do you look starved in spite of all the food you eat?” the mother kept on asking, but the poor child would not say anything. One evening, the boy’s father sat next to him. Just as the two began to eat, the piece of gourd threatened as usual: “Share your food with me or else I will eat you.” What a shock! The man overturned his stool as he jumped out. He knelt and began to look around. And there, behind his son’s stool, he saw the small piece of gourd, which had began to grow. He grabbed it and threw it into the fire. Soon after that he built new houses, and moved his family for fear that the ogre might attack again. And that is the end of my story.

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———— º “Mudo”: The Soga ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ ABSTRACT This essay analyses the social underpinnings of the oral tale of “Mudo,” which belongs to the Aarne–Thompson tale type 333, along with a group of similar tales that resemble the action and movement of “Little Red Riding Hood.” Basic to the exposition is Adolf Bastian’s assertion of the fundamental similarity of ideas between all social groups. In the “Mudo” story and its Ugandan variants, the victim is a solitary little girl and the villain a male ogre who devises ways of eating her; the ogre is mostly successful, although in some variants the girl manages to escape. Although these tales come from a great range of cultures and different geographical locations, and the counterpart of the ogre in the European tales is a wolf in disguise, they share elements of plot, characterization, and motif, and address similar concerns.

Introduction

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U S O G A I S P A R T O F E A S T E R N U G A N D A , surrounded by water. The Rev. Fredrick Kisuule Kaliisa1 notes:

To the west is river Kiira (Nile) marking the boundary between Buganda and Busoga. To the East is river Mpologoma separating Busoga from Bukedi. To the North are river Mpologoma and Lake Kyoga, forming the boundary between Busoga and Lango. To the south, is Lake Victoria (Nalubaale).

It might be the result of the geographical location of Busoga that ogre stories were composed to warn the people against impending harm if they went out alone and stayed in secluded places. Nnalongo Lukude emphasizes this: Historically, Busoga was surrounded by bodies of water and forests, it was very bushy and as a result harboured many wild animals, some of which were man-eaters. The ogres indeed existed, and devoured women and children. They never devoured men, because men were always armed with spears and 1

Fredrick Kisuule Kaliisa, “Traditional Conjugal Morality of the Basoga: A Basis for Christian Marriage” (Master of Theology thesis, University of Nairobi, 1989): 6. ”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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were strong but the women and children were very vulnerable and were always at risk of being devoured. The men up to today in some parts of Busoga carry ammunition with them whenever they leave their homes.2

From Lukudde’s assertion, it can be argued that ogres existed, and for this reason tales were composed to sensitize people about the risks and dangers of being left alone in a secluded place that was not within society’s protection. This is also echoed by Jack Zipes: Little children were attacked and killed by animals and grown-ups in the woods and fields. Hunger often drove people to commit atrocious acts. In the 15th and 16th centuries, violence was difficult to explain on rational grounds. There was a strong superstitious belief in werewolves and witches; uncontrollable magical forces of nature, which threatened the lives of the peasant population […] consequently, the warning tale became part of a stock oral repertoire of story tellers.3

As Zipes outlines the circumstances surrounding the creation of the warning tales, the Basoga used wailike tales as warnings, and their performers were expected to make them part of their daily performances. The traditional family set-up in Busoga is predominantly extended and patriarchal and it is from this that cultural values are passed on and security provided. The extended structure of Soga families enables members of society to guard and guide moral norms and maintain social control in close collaboration with their lineage, the clan, and society as a whole. In a traditional Soga family, the husband is the head, disciplinarian, master, and leader. The wife takes care of the family and nurtures the children into disciplined individuals. Children spend their formative years with their mothers, staying close to them. Traditionally, the daytime is for work and the evening for entertainment and amusement, and storytelling often takes place as the evening meal is prepared. During the day, members of a household engage in various activities, most of which are income-generating. Storytelling therefore becomes a nocturnal activity, as a way of relaxation from a hard day’s work. 2

Nnalongo Lukude, leader of the Busoga cultural group, acknowledges that ogres existed before Busoga was colonized because, to her, the colonialists took the ogres away from society and put them in game reserves and later took them to their countries. Interview, 25 August 2010, at her home in Buwenge, Kagoma subcounty, Jinja District. 3 Jack Zipes, The Trials and Tribulations of Little Red Riding Hood (South Hadley M A : Bergin & Garvey, 1983): 6–7.

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In Soga verbal art, there is usually a performer who cooperates closely with the audience. The performer depends on his or her audience to act as a chorus in the story and enter into dialogue with him or her where and when necessary. There is always an opening formula that a narrator must state to prepare the audience for the performance and gain their response. When he or she says, ‘awo olwatuka’, the audience cooperates by chorusing ‘nga owoluganda otubonera’ for the performance to begin. When the opening formula is stated and responded to by the audience, it is a signal to the performer that the tale may begin. The Basoga have a rich tradition of oral literature. They enjoy using proverbs and wise sayings in everyday conversation. The young enjoy tonguetwisters and play songs, riddling, and solving puzzles. Oral narratives predominant in Soga culture include folktales and fables, although it is hard to draw a firm distinction between these, as some animal stories have human characters and some human stories have animal characters who behave like people. The Basoga refer to oral narratives as ‘engero’ (stories). There is no distinct classification of oral narratives in Soga language; all stories are referred to as engero. There are trickster stories (wakayima) and monster stories (wailike) among stories with animal characters. Stories of wailike (ogres) conform to a pattern set by society in terms of story, plot, characterization, and theme. There are usually three main characters: the ogre, the victim, and the rescuer. The ogre is usually a male character and the victim female.The ogre is usually a stock character whose delight lies mainly in devouring young girls, although sometimes he consumes lonely women as well. The victim is in most cases unaware of the ogre’s schemes and in some cases is devoured when helpless. Usually, there is a hero, in most cases male, who rescues the victim from the stomach of the ogre. Although storytelling in Busoga is a popular form of entertainment, stories are also used for didactic purposes. The composers have a specific audience in mind and tailor the stories according to what kind of message they want to pass on. The story of “Mudo” from Soga society chronicles the plight of a girl born with an abnormality. She has one breast and must be secluded from society, to be absorbed again only when she has grown a second breast. It is from this seclusion that she meets her fate with the ogre. This is the basis of the story as presented in the version narrated to me by Kyakuwaire Lydia on 10 February 2010.

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Olufomo lw’Omughala Mudo Ataamera Mabeere ni Wairike Awo olwatuuka, wabaagho omusaadha ni mukazi we baazaala omwana waibwe omughala, baamutuuma eriina Mudo. Ekiseera bwe kyabitagho, Mudo yaaja takula, aye ise ni inhina baaja okulingirira nga Mudo tali kumera mabeere, beewunhia inho kuba yali aswise emyaka abaghala gye bainhamiraku okumera amabeere. Olumaliira, omusaadha yaateesa ni mukazi we baje ku muyigha okufunira mughala waibwe obulezi obw okumera amabeere. Omuyigha yaabagha obulezi era yaabakoba ati: “omughala ono, muje mumuzimbire endhu yenka eyo mu mutala; inhina amutwallirenga emere okutusa lw’alimera amabeere, male n’avaayo.” Omusaadha bwe yaira, yaazimba endhu mu mutala oti n’omuyigha bwe yamukoba era baatwala mughala waibwe, baamwigaliza omwo. Baamukoba bati nga towulire maama wo nga ayeemba, toigulawo. Inhina bweyajaanga okumutwalira emera, nga ayemba ati: Mudo, nantamera ibeere, mudo, wolimera oliira Mudo, nantamera ibeere, mudo, wolimera ollira Akamere kakaano, mudo, wolimera oliira Obwido bubuno, mudo wolimera oliira Obukose buubuno, mudo wolimera ollira Amaadhi gaagano, mudo, wolimera oliira.

Maama we yakolanga atyo buli lunaku lwe yamutwaliranga emere. Lwali lulala, wailike yali atambulatambula ku mutala yayagaana endhu, yeebuza ati omutala guno gwange ninze agufuga?’ olumalira, yaakoba ati: ‘ka neekweke. Tighaabita kiseera kinene, mama wa Mudo yaidha okumuleteera emere, Wairike yaawulirisa engeri maama wa Mudo ye yayembamu, yaaja okubona nga Mudo aigulawo, nga atoola emere, kabiri nga aigalagho. Inhina olwagolola, Wairike yaaja yaagezaku okwemba, aye nga tasobola olw’ agamiro okuba agabbi. Mudo tiyaigulawa. Wairike bwe yava agho, yaaja ku mulaguzi okufuna amagezi ag’okumuyamba okulya Mudo. Omulaguzi yaagha Wairike obulezi, yaamukoba ati: ‘Nkughaire obulezi buno aye ni gh’oyagaana amaabuli, togagemaku okutusa lw’ onaatuka ku ndhu omuli omughala.’ Wairike yaikiriza. Aye yali yakatambula entangama ntono, yaayagaana amaabuli amangi, yaasoberwa okutuusa bwe yasalagho okuleka amaabuli yaasimba mu mutala eri omughala.

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“Mudo”: The Soga ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ Wairike nga atuuse ku ndhu erimu Mudo, yaatoolera okwemba oti ni maama wa Mudo bw’ayemba ati. Mudo, nantamera ibeere, mudo, wolimera oliira Mudo, nantamera ibeere, mudo, wolimera ollira Akamere kakaano, mudo, wolimera oliira Obwido bubuno, mudo wolimera oliira Obukose buubuno, mudo wolimera ollira Amaadhi gaagano, mudo, wolimera oliira.

Mudo yaighulawo nga taidhi ati Wailike n’ali kumweta, era olwaigulawo, Wairike yaamulya, yaatoola omutwe ogwamulema olw’amagumba, yaasandikira ku nsuwa eyali mu ndhu ya Mudo. Inhina yaaja okutuuka nga endhu ndhigule era nga n’omutwe ogw’omwana we guli ku nsuwa. Ensisi yaamugema, yaagwa ghansi. Olumaliira yaakuba enduulu, iba yaidha, n’abantu abandi ab’ekyalo beesoloza okwidha okwerolela ekikangabwa ekigwire kukyalo. Omusadha mwene mwana yaasalawo okwirayo ku muyigha, aghange okumanha ekyaliire omwana we. Omuyigha yaamukobera ati Wairike n’eyaliire omwana wo, aye ja n’obulezi buno weesiige male otambule mu mutala, oidha kwagaana ba Wairike bangi, aye gw’onaabuuza n’atasobola kwiramu bukalamu, nga n’oyo eyaliire omwana wi ng’ obwo ni omutema ng’ omwita, aye olumala omutemaku akaala a kansubi, omwana wo aidha kuvaamu nga mulamu. Bweyatuka eka, yaaghagala ekipanga, yeesiga n’obulezi omuyigha bwe yamugha, yaasimba mu mutala. Yatambulaku mpola mu mutala nga ayagaana ba Wairike basiimye olunhiriri, baja kunoonia kyakulya. Yainhama okubabuuza mulala mulala n’ani eyalya omwana we nga ayemba ati, Musadha: ni we olile mudo? Ekirike eki soka: ah ah baaba, nkali kulya ku mudo, nibwenfukumula endha enho muzila Mudo, fukufuku fuku Omusadha yajja ku kyokubiri Musadha: ni we olile Mudo Ekirike ekyo kubiri: ah ah baaba, nkali kulya ku mudo, nibwenfukumula endha enho muzila Mudo, fukufuku fuku Omusadha yajja ku kyokusatu Musadha: ni we olile Mudo

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LILLIAN BUKAAYI TIBASIIMA Ekirike ekyo kusatu: ah ah baaba, nkali kulya ku mudo, fukumula endha enho muzila Mudo, fukufuku fuku Omusadha yajja kukyokuna Musadha: ni we olile Mudo Ekirike ekyo kuna: ah ah baaba, nkali kulya ku mudo, fukumula endha enho muzila Mudo, fukufuku fuku Omusadha yajja ku kyokutanu Musadha: ni we olile Mudo Ekirike ekyo kutanu: ah ah baaba, nkali kulya ku mudo, fukumula endha enho muzila Mudo, fukufuku fuku Omusadha yajja ku kyomukaga Musadha: ni we olile Mudo Ekirike ekyo mukaga: ah ah baba, nkali kulya ku mudo, fukumula endha enho muzila Mudo, fukufuku fuku Omusadha yajja ku kyomusanvu Musadha: ni we olile Mudo Ekirike ekyo musanvu: ah ah baaba, nkali kulya ku mudo, fukumula endha enho muzila Mudo, fukufuku fuku Omusadha yajja ku kyomunana Musadha: ni we olile Mudo Ekirike ekyo munana: ah ah baaba, nkali kulya ku mudo, fukumula endha enho muzila Mudo, fukufuku fuku Omusadha yajja ku kyomwendha Musadha: ni we olile Mudo Ekirike ekyo mwenda: ah ah baba, nkali kulya ku mudo, fukumula endha enho muzila Mudo, fukufuku fuku

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nibwen-

nibwen-

nibwen-

nibwen-

nibwen-

nibwen-

nibwen-

Yaja okutuuka ku kirike ekye ikumi, nga tikisobola kwiramu bukalamu, yaamutema ekipanga, yaagwa ere, yaakoba ati: ‘omusaadha taja mulundi mulala, ntemaaku akaala akansubi male nfe bukalamu.’ Yaamutemaku akaala akansubi, Mudo yaavamu n’abantu abandi kamala Wairike be yali yaakalya. Boonaboona bairayo eka baasanhuka, baayemba, baalya, baanhwa, baakina.

The Story of Mudo, Who Does Not Grow Breasts, and the Ogre Once upon a time, there were a man and woman who gave birth to a girl and named her Mudo. As time passed by, Mudo grew up, but did not grow breasts. The parents were shocked because she was maturing but without breasts.

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Later, the man and woman decided to visit a witch doctor to get medicine for their breastless daughter. The medicine man gave them medicine and told them, “go and build a house for this girl in a secluded place where she can stay alone on an island. The mother will take her food until the time she grows breasts, when she will return to society.” When the man came back, he built a house on an island as the medicine man had told them and they took their daughter Mudo to the island as the medicine man had told them. They told her “if you don’t hear your mother sing, don’t open.” The mother took the food and sang: Mudo, who doesn’t grow breasts, Mudo, when you grow, you will come back Mudo who does not grow breasts, Mudo, when you grow, you will come back Here are groundnuts, Mudo, come back when you grow Here is sim sim, when you grow, you will come back Here is water, Mudo, when you grow, you will come back

Mudo’s mother used to do this every day, when she took her food. One day, when the ogre was touring the island, he found a house and asked, “who built this house that, does not know that this is my kingdom?” Later he said, “let me hide and find out who will get out of that house.” It wasn’t long before Mudo’s mother came to bring her food. The ogre listened to the way Mudo’s mother sang, and saw that Mudo opened the door, took the food and then locked the door. When her mother left, the ogre went and tried to sing but he could not because of his ugly voice. Mudo didn’t open the door so the ogre left the place. He went to the medicine man to get wisdom to help him eat Mudo. The witch doctor gave him medicine and told him, “I have given you this medicine but even if you find white ants, don’t eat them until you get to the girl’s house.” The ogre accepted. He found many white ants but became so confused that he decided to leave the white ants and headed for the girl’s house. When the ogre got to the house where Mudo was, he started to sing like Mudo’s mother sings, like this:

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LILLIAN BUKAAYI TIBASIIMA Mudo, who does not grow breasts, Mudo, when you grow, you will come back Mudo, who does not grow breasts, Mudo, when you grow, you will come back Here are groundnuts, Mudo, come back when you grow Here is sim sim, when you grow, you will come back Here is water, Mudo, when you grow, you will come back

Mudo opened the house not knowing that it was the ogre calling her and not her mother. The ogre gobbled her up. He could not eat her head because of the bones, so he put it in a pot and covered it. When Mudo’s mother arrived, the house was open and Mudo’s head was in the water pot. She was so terrified that she fainted. When she recovered and raised the alarm, her husband came, with other people from the village, and they gathered round to witness the horror that had befallen them. The father of the girl decided to go back to the medicine man to find out who had eaten his daughter. The medicine man told him that the ogre had eaten his son but told him to smear his body with a special medicine before hunting down the ogre. He told him that he would find many ogres, but the one that he would ask who would be unable to answer him would be the ogre who had devoured Mudo. He went on: “You will cut off his little finger and Mudo will come out alive.” When he got home, he sharpened his panga, smeared himself with the medicine which the medicine man had given him and headed for the island. He walked for a little while and found the place where the ogres had lined up as they were on their way to look for food. He went along them, asking them one by one who had eaten his daughter, like this: Man: are you the one who ate Mudo? Ogre: ah ah, brother, I have not eaten Mudo; even if I empty my stomach, there is no Mudo, fukufukufuku The man asked the second ogre: Man: are you the one who ate Mudo? Ogre: ah ah, brother, I have not eaten Mudo; even if I empty my stomach, there is no Mudo, fukufukufuku The man asked the third ogre: Man: are you the one who ate Mudo? Ogre: ah ah, brother, I have not eaten Mudo; even if I empty my stomach, there is no Mudo, fukufukufuku

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“Mudo”: The Soga ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ The man asked the fourth ogre: Man: are you the one who ate Mudo? Ogre: ah ah, brother, I have not eaten Mudo; stomach, there is no Mudo, fukufukufuku The man asked the fifth ogre: Man: are you the one who ate Mudo? Ogre: ah ah, brother, I have not eaten Mudo; stomach, there is no Mudo, fukufukufuku The man asked the sixth ogre: Man: are you the one who ate Mudo? Ogre: ah ah, brother, I have not eaten Mudo; stomach, there is no Mudo, fukufukufuku The man asked the seventh ogre: Man: are you the one who ate Mudo? Ogre: ah ah, brother, I have not eaten Mudo; stomach, there is no Mudo, fukufukufuku The man asked the eighth ogre: Man: are you the one who ate Mudo? Ogre: ah ah, brother, I have not eaten Mudo; stomach, there is no Mudo, fukufukufuku The man asked the ninth ogre: Man: are you the one who ate Mudo? Ogre: ah ah, brother, I have not eaten Mudo; stomach, there is no Mudo, fukufukufuku

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even if I empty my

even if I empty my

even if I empty my

even if I empty my

even if I empty my

even if I empty my

This went on until he reached the tenth ogre, who was too heavy to answer. He cut him with a panga, and the ogre fell down, saying, “a man does not die at once, cut off my little finger then I will die properly.” Mudo’s father cut off his little finger and out came Mudo, with other people whom the ogre had eaten. They all went back to their homes; there was dancing, singing, feasting, drinking, dancing, and celebration in each of their homes. a In the opening paragraph, the problem is presented. A couple gives birth to a girl but, unlike other girls, she does not grow both breasts when she matures, but instead grows only one. Because of this abnormality she must be secluded from society. Children who were born abnormal in Soga society were secluded from the rest of the children, and it was embarrassing for a family to have

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abnormal children because such children were associated with spirits. It was believed that such children were selected by the spirits and were therefore set apart for them. When visitors came to a home where there were children with abnormalities, they were hidden at the back of the house – if a man wanted to marry a woman from a family that had such cases, they would damage their marriage prospects. Recently, abnormal children have begun to be absorbed into society like the rest of the children, but society still marginalizes them. Instead of leaving Mudo to grow up with the rest of the normal children, her parents cast her out. She is secluded and put on an island alone where she cannot play with her age-mates, fetch water, collect firewood, or be prepared for marriage as all girls of her age are. She must be locked up in a house alone all day and all night. The “Mudo” story, although composed in times past, contains lessons for contemporary society. Children with abnormalities need to be protected because they are as important as the rest of the children without abnormalities. More important is the plea for a girl child. Girls are very vulnerable because of their sexuality, which, as Lukude notes, attracted even animals – monkeys, dogs – and ogres. All male animals were interested in having sexual intercourse with women and girls, which was not the case for their male counterparts. Ogre stories are used to address the subject of sexuality, for even though there are no more ogres in society, there are ogres in human skins that these stories are still targeted at. It is not uncommon to read in the newspapers, hear on the radio, or see on television that a thirty-year-old man defiled a three months old baby, or a twenty-year-old man defiled a four-year-old girl left alone at home. The story of Mudo from Soga society has a motif similar to those of the ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ tales.4

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These belong to the Aarne–Thompson–Uther tale type A T U 333, ‘The Glutton’. Among these tales (in chronological and ‘genetic’ order) are: Isabelle C. Chang, “The Chinese Red Riding Hoods,” in Chinese Fairy Tales (New York: Barre, 1965): 73; Charles Perrault, “Little Red Riding Hood,” in Mother Goose Tales, tr. A.E. Johnson (“Le petit chaperon rouge,” in Contes de ma mère l’Oye, 1697; New York: Dodd, Mead, 1921): 66–69; Jakob & Wilhelm Grimm, “Little Red-Cap,” in Household Stories, tr. Lucy Crane, ill. Walter Crane (“Rotkäppchen,” in Kinder- und Hausmärchen, 1812; New York: Macmillan, 1886): 132–35; and Italo Calvino, “The Wolf and the Three Girls,” in Calvino, Italian Folktales, Selected and Retold by Italo Calvino, tr. George Martin (“Il lupo e le tre ragazze,” in Fiabe italiani, 1956; New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1980): 75–76.

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Although the plot might be different, the motif is the same: a little girl is left alone at one point, and an ogre notices she is alone and devises ways of eating her. The ogre finally manages to eat her in some of the stories, and, in some, she finds an escape route. In the stories where the girl is eaten, it is discovered that she has been eaten by the ogre, and the community, in a concerted effort, retrieve the girl from the stomach of the ogre. The only exception is the version by Charles Perrault, where the girl is not saved. All the stories address an aspect of sexuality. Mudo is a girl expected to grow breasts but she has no breasts. A girl without breasts in this society is considered to be a young girl, innocent and assumed to be sexually pure. Mudo is put in a lonely place to grow breasts so that she can be absorbed back into society as a mature girl, ready for adult duties like marriage, for no man would marry a girl without breasts. In Soga society, sex is not addressed directly. Even the sexual organs are referred to as ‘kasolo’ (small animal). Society had to come up with a creative way of addressing subjects that would otherwise be taboo, banned from being discussed in plain language – hence the ogre stories. The concept of the ogre might be mythical and an ogre story fictitious; but this is society’s creation. The tale of “Mudo” is an artful construction, as listeners recognize by reflecting on the tale. They are able to search for meaning in the concepts beneath the expressions in the tale. The Mudo story mirrors the listeners’ confusion when faced with difficult taks such as educating their children in sexual matters. In “Mudo,” the vulnerable position of a girl is depicted. A young girl has been left on her own, with no one to care for her or take care of her, and she becomes vulnerable to a greedy ogre. In this society, women have to go to work in the garden and at times work till late, leaving grown-up girls alone at home to prepare food for the rest of the family. In this story, society is warned that it is not good to leave girls alone at home, or send them to fetch water or collect firewood when they are not in the company of others. The story presents the assumption that there is always an ogre waiting for an opportunity to pounce when one is least prepared. Mudo manages to shoo off the ogre when he sings in a croaky voice; but when the voice is refined and sounds like that of her mother, she cannot resist opening the door, believing that it is her mother who has brought her food. She does not imagine herself opening the door only to find an ogre ready to pounce on her and eat her up. Storytelling endows narrators with opportunities to confront topics that society would not permit them to address directly in ordinary language. The

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ogre is a male and the victim a female (or group of females). Through ‘wailike’ stories, Soga women express their views about men who prey on girls, their perplexity as to why men would sleep with young girls when there are adult women available, and their frustrations especially if the man in question is a husband of one of them or if the girl in question is a daughter. However, the audience is not gender-specific; these stories are told in the presence of men, women, and children, although men in most cases are not interested in them. In “Mudo,” listeners are told of a difficult situation at the very beginning. Mudo has been born with one breast; a girl must be born with two breasts. It is breasts that attract potential suitors, and breasts will be used to feed her babies when she gives birth. Compared to other girls, Mudo is disadvantaged; the parents must find a solution to her problem. Medicine men are much respected in Soga society. Failing other remedies, a medicine man will be consulted for a solution to a problem, and his advice in the case of a girl is that she must be secluded from society. Girls often find themselves alone. At times they are left alone to do household chores; when it is discovered that there is no water at home, they are sent to the well and to collect firewood for cooking. Leaving a girl alone is a problem in itself. She is helpless and defenceless, and it is not surprising that she gets devoured by the ogre. This story dramatizes a problem that can cause anguish among Soga women. How would a mother react if she found out that her husband had had sex with their daughter or some other young girl – if her husband was the ogre? The ogre must first disguise itself as Mudo’s mother. In most cases, the men who prey on young girls are the very men near to them; they might be their uncles, cousins, grandfathers, or even brothers and fathers. The man first befriends the girl, buying her little gifts, helping her with household chores, taking her side when her mother reprimands her or even giving her delicacies. This man monitors every step this girl takes. He knows when she is free and when she is not, and schemes for an opportunity. It might be on a morning when the whole family has gone to the garden, or it might be the girl’s turn to stay at home to do chores, and he feigns sickness and returns home only to pounce on her. The story emphasizes that it is not the girl’s fault that she is left alone. This is not an immoral girl who deserves to be punished, but a girl who becomes a victim of circumstances beyond her control. The ogre story reflects the life of the society that produced it. Although all the stories of ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ differ, as some are written and “Mudo” is oral, and all are from different localities, they are rela-

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ted in addressing similar concerns and having similar characteristic patterns and motifs.5 There is an ogre or other creature waiting for a chance to pounce on the little girl and devour her and, although in some of the stories the girl is not gobbled up, the ogre still has the same intentions. It depends on a character’s ability to manoeuvre around threats and blandishments whether some of the girls manage to escape and others are too weak to defend themselves. The story of “Mudo” may legitimately be grouped with the rest of the ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ stories and termed ‘the Soga version’.

W O R K S C I TE D Calvino, Italo. “The Wolf and the Three Girls,” in Calvino, Italian Folktales, Selected and Retold by Italo Calvino, tr. George Martin (“Il lupo e le tre ragazze,” in Fiabe italiani, 1956; New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1980): 75–76. Chang, Isabelle C. “The Chinese Red Riding Hoods,” in Chang, Chinese Fairy Tales (New York: Barre, 1965): 73. Grimm, Jakob & Wilhelm. “Little Red-Cap,” in Wilhelm & Jakob Grimm, Household Stories, tr. Lucy Crane, ill. Walter Crane (“Rotkäppchen,” in Kinder- und Hausmärchen, 1812; New York: Macmillan, 1886): 132–35. Kisuule Kaliisa, Fredrick. “Traditional Conjugal Morality of the Basoga: A Basis for Christian Marriage” (Master of Theology thesis, University of Nairobi, 1989). Okpewho, Isidore. African Oral Literature (Bloomington & Indianapolis: Indiana U P , 1992). Perrault, Charles. “Little Red Riding Hood,” in Perrault, Mother Goose Tales, tr. A.E. Johnson (“Le petit chaperon rouge,” in Contes de ma mère l’Oye, 1697; New York: Dodd, Mead, 1921): 66–69. Zipes, Jack. The Trials and Tribulations of Little Red Riding Hood (South Hadley M A : Bergin & Garvey, 1983).

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Although it can be assumed that the very old Chinese tales were originally oral before transcription, Perrault’s seventeenth-century tale is, in its execution, entirely ‘literary’, albeit presumably derived (in bowdlerized form) from French oral sources. The Brothers Grimm recorded their version from a woman’s oral account, but she had previously absorbed Perrault’s written version. The version from Lake Garda published by Calvino is a crafted ‘literary’ tale based on a Northern Italian oral version of written ‘Red Riding Hood’ motifs from north of the Alps, and is somewhat of an anomaly in the Italian folk tradition (apart from the ‘three girls’ feature – aligning it with “Mudo” – coincidentally found in other literary folktales in Renaissance Italy).

E DGAR N ABUTANYI

———— º Transplanting the Pumpkin — Folktales in New Media Formats for Children’s Instruction ABSTRACT Folktales told to children remain instructionally relevant in modern Ugandan society. Yet, despite this, their performance is under threat from modernization, cross-cultural integration, and newer forms of education. The extinction of these folktales and the consequent loss of instructional folk wisdom is thus a genuine danger. However, technological innovations also contain the possibility of preserving and extending folktales’ realm of performance. The fact that folktales are constructed on archetypal motifs that appeal to all people allows them to be reconfigured in a range of new media formats. This essay explores the possibility of developing archetypal motifs of task and quest to create new media versions of folktales that maintain their instructional value. The essay also explores a range of difficulties inherent in this process, in particular the retention of the original texts’ instructional value and their accessibility to children in their new forms. It concludes by addressing the challenges of multi-textual translation and discussing the extent to which the new versions can claim societal ownership.

Introduction

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“Do not uproot the pumpkin in the old homestead” is used by Okot p’Bitek in Song of Lawino1 to underscore the importance of the postcolonial African to embrace his or her cultural heritage as a measure of having a fruitful life. Inasmuch as I am in total agreement with Okot’s call for cultural patriotism, I am aware that the dynamics have changed and that we need to reconfigure a new arena for the performance of folktales. The State of Uganda Population Report 20082 reveals 1

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Okot p’Bitek, Song of Lawino (African Writers Series, London: Heinemann,

1984): 23. 2

Government of Uganda, The State of Uganda Population Report 2008 (Kampala: Government Press, 2008). ”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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worrying trends that confirm fears that the venue and context of folktale performance are disappearing. The report states that at an annual growth rate of 3.2%, the population is expected to rise to 103 million by 2050. One of the highlights of the report is that the urban population growth-rate is almost double the annual population growth-rate, at 5.7% compared to 3.2%. This means that soon most of Uganda’s population will be urbanized. The immediate consequence of a predominantly urban Ugandan society is the disappearance of the traditional rural setting which is conducive to oral literature performance. Such a population tends to be consumer-orientated, which consequently means the loss of the natural habitat of folktale performance. The other worrying trend in the report is the literacy-rate. Because, or in spite, of universal primary and secondary education, the literacy-rate has improved from a national average of 55% in 2000 to 69% at the present. This means that more and more Ugandans are abandoning the traditional ways of life because education and literacy not only change the dynamics of people’s expectations and outlook to life but also make them mobile, thus taking them out of the locales of folktale performance. Related to the above is the fact that poverty-levels have been consistently falling. They have fallen from 56% in 1992 to 35% in 2000 and currently stand at 31%. Besides, with a G D P per capita at $370 and a real G D P growth-rate at 8.9%, more Ugandans will in the near future lead affluent lives that will further alienate them from the traditional folktale performance context. The State of Uganda Population Report 2008 clearly shows that the fireside in the evening is untenable as an arena of performance of folktales. Yet the disappearing arena of performance does not mean either the extinction of folktales as an instructional art form or a reduction in its relevance to society. It is possible that the folktales can re-invent a new arena of performance.

Relevance of Folktales in Modern Ugandan Society In this essay, I argue that folktales are still instructionally relevant in the nurturing of children in Ugandan society, and that they can be easily adapted to new media. While I acknowledge the challenges and difficulties that the conversion of folktales to new formats entail, I conclude that it is a worthwhile venture. The justification of the conversion to new media formats arises from their relevance, as articulated by Rose Mbowa when she says that indigenous performance “permeated the daily cycles of the people who were at the same

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time the performers and spectators.”3 The fact that folktales permeated peoples’ lives makes them relevant in their didactic and entertainment value. Folktales are people-centred media. As Aaron Mushengyezi observes, they are “an integral part of people’s culture,” which reveals the case for their harnessing “as viable tools for development.”4 The same case is made by Isidore Okpewho when he says that oral literature is a basis on which society can make meaning of itself and its social experiences,5 in confirmation of J.J. Leedy, who observes that “poetry ends in a clarification of life – not necessarily a great clarification, but a momentary stay against confusion.”6 Many scholars of African oral literature agree with Leedy that folktales have the power to give meaning to life, explaining human existence and social anomalies. In this case, folktales should be defined as a public sphere: a forum where key issues in society are discussed and “the realm of social life where exchange of information and views on questions of common concern can take place so that public opinion can be formed.”7 Folktales are a metaphorical meeting of minds, a realm of social life, and a forum for exchanging information and views about questions of common concern in society through an oral text. However, for literature as a public sphere to thrive it requires not only the availability of the literary text to the public but also a framework of analysis and an appropriate medium of transmission. This makes the case for adapting folktales into digital formats, given the disappearance of their other arenas of performance, lest a society lose the opportunity of using them as public spheres to access and discuss important questions. The suitability of folktales as a public sphere is underscored by W.J.T. Mitchell when he argues that “only in the light of a public sphere did that 3

Rose Mbowa, “Luganda Theatre and its Audience,” in Uganda: The Cultural Landscape, ed. Eckhard Breitinger (Kampala: Fountain, 1999): 228. 4 Aaron Mushengyezi, “Rethinking Indigenous Media: Rituals, ‘Talking’ Drums and Orality as Forms of Public Communication in Uganda,” Journal of African Cultural Studies 16.1 (June 2003): 108. 5 Isidore Okpewho, African Oral Literature (Indianapolis: Indiana U P , 1992). 6 Jack J. Leedy, “Principles of Poetry Therapy,” in Poetry Therapy: The Use of Poetry in the Treatment of Emotional Disorders, ed. Leedy (Philadelphia P A : J.B. Lippincott, 1969): 70. 7 Denis McQuail, Mass Communication Theory (Thousand Oaks C A & London: Sage, 2004): 195.

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which existed become revealed, did everything become visible to all.”8 That folktales are a public sphere is, then, beyond dispute; but what is worrying is that as their context of performance disappears, so will their value to society. Folktales have done more than transmit history, morals, religion, and ideology in the different Ugandan societies. They are informal classrooms where wisdom and life skills are imparted to children. If a child is defined according to the African Charter on the Rights and Welfare of the Child9 as any person below the age of eighteen, what Peter Hunt10 calls a stage that we grow away from makes a child ignorant and vulnerable in negotiating the problems they face such as conflict, poverty, trauma, violence and H I V / A I D S . That folktales can help children deal with these problems is shown in the precedent of Bakayimbira, a Ugandan drama group who constructed their stage and video drama Ndiwulira on a common Ganda folktale. Ndiwulira is based on the folktale about a weevil that failed to heed advice and ended up being boiled inside the maize cob. The archetypal motif of failure to listen to advice is constructed as a message in the stage and video version of the production as a call on the people – especially youth – to abstain from sex or engage in safe sex lest they are doomed like the unfortunate Ndiwulira (the weevil), which is a strong message of behavioural change in the fight against H I V / A I D S . Increasingly over the years, many Ugandan artists have adapted folktales for new media, albeit mainly in audio and textual formats. Mary Karroro Okurut’s The Curse of the Sacred Cow, Steve Jean’s Kaggwa Yalayira, Halima Namakula’s Ekimbewo, and Racheal Magola’s Obangaina demonstrate the feasibility of such transformation. The question that this essay seeks to answer not not whether folktales can be reconfigured and still remain relevant to contemporary society. It is, rather, how they can be integrated into all new media platforms. In this respect, I agree with Russell Kaschula when he argues that globalization does not assume the death of culture and society as we have to come to understand it.11 If folktales are never static but ever-changing and dynamic, then it is plausible to argue that as an art form that, according to 8

W.J.T. Mitchell, Picture Theory (Chicago: U of Chicago P , 1994): 7. A U , African Charter on the Rights and Welfare of the Child (Addis Ababa: A U , 1990): 2. 10 Peter Hunt, Understanding Children’s Literature (London: Routledge, 1999). 11 Russell H. Kaschula, “Oral Literature in Contemporary Contexts,” in African Oral Literature: Functions in Contemporary Context (Cape Town: New African Books, 2001): xi. 9

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Kaschula, permeates our lives on every level in the modern context, they have the ability to re-align themselves to the dynamics of globalization and information-technology communication. The information superhighway is defined by Mitchell as “a system of pathways that will provide unlimited information – news, entertainment, data, and personal communication – to the people who want it,” whose “core impact is easy availability of information in a mixture of text, audio and video.”12 This reality means that it is possible to create a new arena of folktale performance by harnessing information communication technologies as avenues of folktale transmission. That this is possible is underscored by Kaschula when he asserts that the Internet itself is fast becoming a part of modern oral literature: the interaction of this national literature with global literature is apparent not only in the international flavour which poetry presents thematically, but also in the fact that Microsoft websites now make use of this oral poetry, hence allowing for its absorption into the modern technological era.13

Kaschula may refer specifically to oral poetry, but it is plausible to argue that what is true of oral poetry is true of other genres of oral literature. The integration of oral literature into new media is good not only because it enables folktales to survive in the new paradigms, but also because it makes them accessible to a wider audience. According to Albert Mehrabian, a specialist in interpersonal communication at the University of California, people recall 20% of what they see, 40% of what they see and hear, and 70% of what they see, hear, and do.14 By allowing more people to see, hear, and do in response to folktales, the new media constitute a multi-sensory system which clearly extends the effectiveness of folktales as forms of instruction, socialization, and the storage of a society’s experiences. Although it is clear that folktales can survive in the new era of globalization through the utilization of new media, with the availability of skills, software, and hardware, what is missing is an appropriate theoretical framework. What is needed is an archetypal motif to act as a code to decode the secret language of the folktales, which, in the words of Maud Bodkin, creates a response in which the beholder “leaps in response to the effective presentation 12

Mitchell, Picture Theory, 2. Kaschula, “Oral Literature in Contemporary Contexts,” xi. 14 Albert Mehrabian, Silent Messages: Implicit Communication of Emotions and Attitudes (Belmont C A : Wadsworth, 1981): 2. 13

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in poetry of an ancient theme.”15 The archetypal motifs that are explored in the remainder of this essay are situational motifs. The quest motif describes the search for someone or something which, when found and brought back, changes the fortunes of the character or society; the task motif refers to a possibly superhuman feat that must be accomplished in order to fulfil the ultimate goal of the character.

Situational Archetypes in Selected Folktales The quest and the task motifs are explored in five selected folktales: “Njabala”;16 “The Broken Pot”; “Acom”; “A Brother and A Friend”; and “Nakandha.” The archetypal pattern of the quest can be traced in all five. In fact, it is plausible to argue that the folktales are built around a search schema described by Northrop Frye as “a world of total metaphor, in which everything is potentially identical with everything else, as though it were all inside a single infinite body.”17 All the heroes and heroines in the folktales are in search of something or someone to give meaning to their lives and societies. In “Njabala,” Njabala is searching for what it takes to be a proper Ganda wife, having missed the opportunity to be taught by her mother, who sheltered her from the harsh realities of life, and her father, who had no idea what to do with his daughter. To this extent, Njabala’s quest is a search for understanding of what it takes to be a woman and a wife in the Ganda society. 15

Maud Bodkin, Archetypal Patterns in Poetry: Psychological Studies of Imagination (London: Oxford U P , 1934): 4, quoted in M.H. Abrams, “What’s the Use of Theorizing About the Arts?” (1972), in Abrams, Doing Things with Texts: Essays in Criticism and Critical Theory, ed. & foreword by Michael Fischer (New York & London: W.W. Norton, 1989): 37. 16 “Njabala” is a Ganda folktale that narrates a story of a girl who was loved so very much by her mother that the latter refrained from teaching her the duties of a woman in the Ganda society. After the death of the mother, the matters are made worse by the father, who is not conversant with teaching a girl her marital and wifely responsibilities. Upon marriage, she is incapable of performing the basic duties of a wife. On the night of her wedding, when she is told what is expected of her, she breaks down in tears. She is abused by her husband for not being able to cope with her marital duties. She keeps crying, and the spirit of her dead mother must return from the world of the dead to do her work for her. 17 Northrop Frye, Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays (Princeton N J : Princeton U P , 1957): 136.

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Like Northrop Frye’s “total metaphor,”18 the quest is replicated in “The Broken Pot.”19 The third daughter, who breaks her pot and climbs the tallest tree in the forest, does not want to come back to the world of the living. From this point on, her family are on a quest to find someone or something that can convince her to return home. The family’s quest is successful, albeit with a twist: the leper who brings their daughter home must marry her. Although it is not the ideal marriage arrangement, the family must accept it because, of the two devils – their daughter being lost for ever, and her marriage to a leper – the latter is the lesser evil. In “Nakandha,”20 the quest is revealed from two perspectives. On the one hand, during a famine, she must search for food, on which her family must feed to survive. In this respect, she is successful when she finds the Ogre’s garden of pumpkins. On the other hand, when she is eaten by the Ogre, the village successfully hunts for and rescues her. In the fourth folktale, when Acom21 breaks the taboo and is kept on the rock, her family searches for a way to feed her and keep her alive and safe. The solution they find is to build a hut for her in the forest that can be reached after singing a particular song. 18

Frye, Anatomy of Criticism, 136–37. “The Broken Pot” is a Nsoga folktale that narrates a story of how a leper marries a beautiful girl. In a family of seven girls, the parents have given them pots, with instructions that whoever broke her pot would never return home. Unfortunately, one day during a dare from her sisters, one girl breaks her pot and despite the pleading of the sisters climbs a tall tree and refuses to come down until the father agrees to the leper / medicine man’s condition of getting her down only if he marries her. 20 “Nakandha” is another Nsoga folktale, about a girl who was swallowed by the ogre. It happens that there is a famine in the village; one day, while collecting firewood, Nakandha comes across a garden of pumpkins that she harvests and takes home. Her mother is so happy that she sends her out the next day, unaware that the ogres are waiting. One the first day, she tricks the watchman ogre and is able to escape, but she is not fortunate the following day, when she is swallowed by the ogre. The village hunts the ogre down and rescues her from his belly. 21 “Acom” is a Luo folktale that narrates a story of three daughters who have been warned never to pass gas while sitting on a rock. One day, one of the girls is distracted by the monitor lizard nodding its head there, and accidently breaks wind, upon which she gets stuck on a rock. After failing to get free of the rock, she is left in the forest and a hut is built for her. To feed herself, she has to open the door to the hut after hearing a special song – the wizard learns this, and eats her. 19

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Although, in this version of the folktale, the wizard finally eats her, the family has nevertheless managed to keep her alive. In “A Brother and a Friend,”22 Ouma’s quest is to find out which of the two – a brother and a friend – is true to him. His quest is answered when he devises a trick of putting rotting blood in the bedroom. In this way, he finds out that a brother is better than a friend because the brother puts up with the repugnant smell to find out exactly what is wrong with him, while the friend runs away at the first opportunity. The task is another situational archetypal motif that is reflected in the selected folktales. The existence of the task motif in the folktales, despite the fact that they are derived from different societies, means that they are relevant to all Ugandans, hence the urgency to preserve them. This is because they conform to Northrop Frye’s concept of the universality of art implicit in his claim that “when what is written is like what is known, we have an art of extended or implied simile.”23 In “Njabala,” the task that Njabala is driven to complete is indeed of monstrous proportions. In essence, she is expected to learn and perform the duties of a wife on the night of her wedding. That it is a monstrous task is reflected in the fact that she breaks down and cries. Later on in her marriage, she cannot perform the duties expected of her and her mother’s spirit must come from the world of the dead to do her work. When the husband finds that the in-law’s spirit was doing the work, he is furious; but from a pragmatic point of view one can argue that supernatural intervention provides a solution to Njabala’s task. In “The Broken Pot,” the task of the family is to get their daughter out of the tallest tree in the forest and back home. When the misfortune is told to her family by the sisters, who have tried to persuade her to come down from the tree, the parents, starting with the mother, sing to her to come down, but in vain. Their failure takes them to the leper, whose charms finally get her out of the tree. Although the parents had not reckoned on their daughter’s marrying a leper, the task is solved when the girl gets out of the tree. In “Nakandha,” there are two tasks. The first is to get food for the family during the famine. 22

“Brother and Friend” is a Luo folktale about a man who tests a friend and a brother to find out who has been true to him. Ouma has a brother and a best friend, but is not sure who is true to him. One day he asks his wife to put a pot of rotting blood in the bedroom and calls to his friend, saying he is ill. When the friend comes he is overwhelmed by the smell and rushes off. His brother, by contrast, is not put off by the smell. Ouma concludes that a brother is more loyal than a friend. 23 Frye, Anatomy of Criticism, 137.

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Nakandha succeeds in solving this puzzle when she chances on the ogre’s pumpkin garden. That her mother sends her out on the following days means that she has saved the family from starvation. The second task is for the village to retrieve Nakandha from the ogre’s stomach after he has eaten her. Again, they are successful; she is rescued. In “Acom,” the girl who was marooned on the rock after breaking a taboo, the task is to protect her and keep her alive. Having failed to release her from the rock, her brothers build her a hut and regularly bring her food. But to ensure that she is safe, the magic song must be sung for Acom to open the door of the hut, lest she be eaten. Although she is eventually eaten by the wizard, her family had tried all they could to protect her. Ouma’s task in “A Brother and a Friend” is to find out which of the two, his brother or his friend, is true to him and is therefore trustworthy. His trick of pretending to be ill and placing rotting blooding in the bedroom enables him to find out who is true to him. The discovery that a brother is likely to be true leads to the saying that blood is thicker than water. Archetypal criticism as a converting theoretical framework can reduce the folktales to a quest undertaken by the heroes and heroines to solve particular hardships in their own lives or those of their societies and, at the critical point in the folktale, the heroes and heroines must perform a task. If we consider the problems that Ugandan society faces today, such as poverty, H I V / A I D S , and conflict, the struggle to find solutions become quests, and what must be done to solve them, tasks. This makes folktales valuable in tackling these problems and consequently the quest–task framework is ideal for integrating folktales into new media formats.

Folktales in New Media Formats The term ‘new media’ in this essay is used as a collective and in reference not to the institutions and organizations which people work for, such as computergame designing companies or radio, television, or Internet providers. As used in this essay, the term refers to the cultural and material products of such organizations. The case that can be made for converting the folktales into new media formats is the ease of distribution, reception, and consumption of folktales through these platforms by a diverse audience, as well as the fast, flexible, and interactive nature of new media in which data is compressed into small spaces.

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Linking the modern communication media to African problems and heritage can only be achieved by adaptating folktales to new media formats. There are many such formats that can be utilized, but this essay suggest three — textual, audio, and video – because of their suitability and widespread use. Of the three, the textual is the easiest and cheapest. This essay suggests that the folktales be transcribed and, if need be, translated into major Ugandan languages, to produce hard and soft copies. The hard copies can be transmitted by the normal library methods, while the text versions in soft copy can be uploaded on the Internet as websites or blogs, or by utilizing social network forums such as Facebook and Twitter. Alternatively, the folktales can be converted into audio or video formats. This is possible when a good storyteller’s folktale performance is recorded on any of the various new media platforms available. The video format can either be a video record of the storytelling session or a dramatization of the story. These versions can be transmitted through the normal audio /video channels or can be uploaded onto the Internet to platforms such as YouTube. I believe that the Internet should be the core platform on which folktales converted into new media may be launched to child audiences. This is because the Internet is one of the fastest-growing media of communication, and the faster it grows the cheaper it becomes. The technological determinism theory argues that a society communicates according to the technology available to it, and this technology not only gets adopted over time but also becomes cheaper, as it is mass-produced. In this medium, the folktales can be converted from oral to text, audio, pictorial or video forms. The challenges, though, with this medium are the expense, reach, and speed. However, these challenges with time will be overcome, making the Internet a viable medium into which folktales can be converted. The other digital platform into which folktales can be converted is audio. At the moment, audio technology is widespread and cheap, appearing in formats such as tapes, C D s, and M P 3 downloads. What must be done is to record folktales as they are narrated by good storytellers. The recordings can then be converted to any of the forms listed above. The advantages with the audio formats is that the orality of the stories will be maintained. The fact that they are cheap means that they will be available to children, and the M P 3 and portable audio devices are popular particularly with youth, and can store lots of files. The same process can be applied to the video medium, a slight variation of the audio formats. These include the M P 4s, D V D s and C D s on which performances using the archetypal motifs can be recorded and played on the

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appropriate devices. The advantages with this format are that folktales will be expressed in both the audio and visual form and will hence not only be easy to understand but also attractive to their audiences.

New Media, Children, and Folktales It should be noted that, according to Plowman and Stephen, many parents, teachers, and children’s advocates are apprehensive of the “increasing pervasiveness of I C T ” and its relationship to the cognitive, emotional, social, and developmental needs of children.24 However, new media constitute a useful resource for learning and more, especially because, according to Reed W. Larson, currently youth “do little homework, spend little time with their parents and spend too much time watching television and, now, playing computer games or surfing the Internet.”25 I therefore argue that since folktales are constructed along archetypal motifs, as shown in the previous sections of this essay, they can be used by children to make them aware of and deal productively with problems that Uganda faces, such as poverty, H I V / A I D S , and conflict, in a medium that is attractive and with which they spend most of their time. This is a pragmatic project, because the impact of watching television depends on “whom a child is with, what the child watches.” 26 Therefore, I argue that folktales converted to new media formats when delivered to children to constitute what they watch, surf, or listen to will have a positive developmental and nurturing effect, as the children can use new media to obtain information and develop an understanding of their culture and national problems. I further argue that exploiting new media formats and communicative spaces where children are likely to be found is one way of saving Ugandan folktales from extinction and harnessing their values in the social, political, and economic development of the country, given the fact that when one old person dies, it is equivalent to a whole library dying with him or her. I agree 24

Lydia Plowman & Christine Stephen, “A ‘Benign Addition’? Research on I C T and Pre-School Children,” Journal of Computer Assisted Learning 19.2 (June 2003): 151. 25 Reed W. Larson, “How U.S. Children and Adolescents Spend Time: What It Does (and Doesn’t) Tell Us About Their Development,” Current Directions in Psychological Sciences 10.5 (October 2001): 160. 26 Larson, “How U.S. Children and Adolescents Spend Time,” 160.

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with Osayimwense Osa that it is through folktales that “traditional historians, storytellers, and griots share their knowledge” with the young generation.27 Therefore, the conversion of folktales into new media formats would, according to Osayimwense, become that repository of cultural life for “the young [.. . ] who have lost touch with their roots.”28

Conclusion The disappearing arena of performance of Ugandan folktales does not mean that folktales as an art form will become extinct. As suggested above, they can be preserved and their value exploited by adapting them to the new digital formats. The suggestion that folktales must be adapted is not so novel as it may seem. Ugandan literature already has a precedent. Okot p’Bitek’s Song of Lawino and Bakayimbira’s Ndiwulira demonstrate the ability not only to adapt the traditional content of folktales, but also the ability to stay close to their tone and imagery. In this way an adapted folktale, according to Judith Woodsworth, will serve the following functions: the promotion of the adapted literature and its culture, and the enrichment of the literature of the receptor culture.29 On the other hand, according to Herbert Shire, adaptation may serve as a means to improve the status of a minority language and culture in the context of globalization and, at the same time, contribute to its enrichment and increased status.30 However, I am aware of the challenges that such a project entails. In the first place, given the fact that everyone participates in the performance of folktales and that there is not, according to Rose Mbowa, a distinction between “real life and stage action.31 However, I agree that adaptation to new 27

Osayimwense Osa, “African Children’s and Youth Literature: Then and Now,” Journal of African Children’s and Youth Literature 17–18 (2007–2009): 2. 28 Osa, “African Children’s and Youth Literature,” 3. 29 Judith Woodsworth, “Language, Translation and the Promotion of National Identity: Two Test Cases,” Target: International Journal of Translation Studies 8.2 (1996): 235. 30 Herbert Shire, “The Functions of Translated Literature within a National Literature: The Example of Renaissance England and Scotland,” in Literature and Translation, ed. James S. Holmes, José lambert & Raymond van den Broeck (Leuven: A C C O , 1978): 179. 31 Rose Mbowa, “Luganda Theatre and its Audience,” Uganda the Cultural Landscape, 228.

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media formats privileges oral texts over their context of performance. Context of performance is as important as the text and therefore, any attempt that disregards its importance, inevitably dilutes the meaning of the texts. This is likely to be the case when the folktales are converted into new media formats. As Aaron Mushengyezi points out, most of Uganda’s population is rural and poor and, although the situation may change in the future, at the moment the majority of Ugandans are not linked to the information superhighway. At the moment, the small group of Ugandans with access to the Internet use it for social purposes such as emailing or chatting, not for seeking information. The cost of access to the new media is expensive; hence, if and when the folktales are converted into new media formats, there is no guarantee that children will access them. Nevertheless, I agree with Mushengyezi when he argues that “computers and the world wide web” and other media of modern communication are “becoming available.”32 The possibility that these technologies will be available in the future makes a strong case for the adaptation of folktales in new media formats. The action will have the effect, to paraphrase Okot p’Bitek, of transplanting the pumpkin to the new homestead – the information-mediated global home.

W O R K S C I TE D Abrams, M.H. “What’s the Use of Theorizing About the Arts?” in Abrams, Doing Things with Texts: Essays in Criticism and Critical Theory, ed. & foreword by Michael Fischer (New York & London: W.W. Norton, 1989): 31–72. Originally published in the Bulletin of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences 25.8 (May 1972): 11–25. A U African Charter on the Rights and welfare of the Child (Addis Ababa: A U , 1990). Bakayimbira Dramactors, dir. Charles Senkubuuge. Ndiwulira (first perf. 1991). Bodkin, Maud. Archetypal Patterns in Poetry: Psychological Studies of Imagination (London: Oxford U P , 1934). Frye, Northrop. Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays (Princeton N J : Princeton U P , 1957). Government of Uganda, The State of Uganda Population Report 2008 (Kampala: Government Press, 2008). Hunt, Peter. Understanding Children’s Literature (London: Routledge, 1999).

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Mushengyezi, “Rethinking Indigenous Media,” 115.

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Kaschula, Russell H. “Oral Literature in Contemporary Contexts,” in African Oral Literature: Functions in Contemporary Context (Cape Town: New Africa Books, 2001). Larson, Reed W. “How U.S. Children and Adolescents Spend Time: What It Does (and Doesn’t) Tell Us About Their Development,” Current Directions in Psychological Sciences 10.5 (October 2001): 160–64. Leedy, Jack J. “Principles of Poetry Therapy,” in Poetry Therapy: The Use of Poetry in the Treatment of Emotional Disorders, ed. Leedy (Philadelphia P A : Lippincott, 1969): 67–74. Mbowa, Rose. “Luganda Theatre and its Audience,” in Uganda: The Cultural Landscape, ed. Eckhard Breitinger (Kampala: Fountain, 1999): 227–46. McQuail, Denis. Mass Communication Theory (Thousand Oaks C A & London: Sage, 2004). Mehrabian, Albert. Silent Messages: Implicit Communication of Emotions and Attitudes (Belmont C A : Wadsworth, 1981). Mitchell, W.J.T. Picture Theory (Chicago: U of Chicago P , 1994). Mushengyezi, Aaron. “Rethinking Indigenous Media: Rituals, ‘Talking’ Drums and Orality as Forms of Public Communication in Uganda,” Journal of African Cultural Studies 16.1 (June 2003): 107–17. Okpewho, Isidore. African Oral Literature (Indianapolis: Indiana U P , 1992). Osa, Osayimwense. “African Children’s and Youth Literature: Then and Now,” Journal of African Children’s and Youth Literature (2007–2009): 1–19. p’Bitek, Okot. Song of Lawino (African Writers Series, London: Heinemann, 1984). Plowman, Lydia, & Christine Stephen. “A ‘Benign Addition’? Research on I C T and Pre-School Children,” Journal of Computer Assisted Learning 19.2 (June 2003): 149–64. Shire, Herbert. “The Functions of Translated Literature within a National Literature: The Example of Renaissance England and Scotland,” in Literature and Translation, ed. James S. Holmes, José Lambert and Raymond van den Broeck (Leuven: A C C O , 1978): 177–80. Woodsworth, Judith. “Language, Translation and the Promotion of National Identity: Two Test Cases,” Target: International Journal of Translation Studies 8.2 (1996): 211–38.

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———— º ‘Heed My Voice’ — Children’s Song in the Wake of Child Sacrifice ABSTRACT Resting on the premise that songs originate in the shared experiences of social groups, this essay examines the role of song in explaining present occurrences and in achieving social transformation. Recent press stories of child sacrifice have forced the police, other organizations, and the wider community to find ways of curbing the practice in presentday Uganda. The essay argues that, despite their value, their solutions are not necessarily the most effective. A more appropriate approach to the problem would be its discussion through songs, which would address it from the children’s own point of view, and perhaps also reflect the views of parents and teachers. Their voice as children becomes important in attempting to understand what affects them and in the long run becomes a voice of both protest and hope. The essay contends that there is a need for the child’s voice to be heard in the discussion of child sacrifice, so that those vulnerable to the practice may aid in policy formation and become a strong force in the social transformation of their communities.

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to the nature of oral tradition as a messagegenerating process, Jan Vansina argues that oral tradition is both informative and interpretative of the situations that a society experiences. He adds that it represents a stage in the elaboration of historical consciousness and is among the main wellsprings of what we often call ‘culture’. Oral sources therefore testify to events and situations prevailing at a given time.1 Any kind of oral transmission thus becomes part of an accepted culture, one with the ability to give us insight into the existing situations and experiences of a group of people. One of these cultural forms is song, an established form of oral tradition in Africa. Ruth Finnegan argues that songs can be used to report and comment on current affairs, for political pressure, for propaganda, and to reflect and

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N HIS INTRODUCTION

Jan Vansina, Oral Tradition as History (Madison: U of Wisconsin P , 1985): 3–8.

”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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mould public opinion.2 In the same vein, Kwabena Nketia observes that the performance of music in social contexts assumes multiples role in relation to the community. It provides at once an opportunity for sharing in creative experience, for participating in music as a form of community experience, and for using music as an avenue for the expression of group sentiments.3 In each of these arguments is seen the relationship between experience and creativity. Music can be seen as more than just a recreational and leisure activity, and its performance occupies a more analytical position in society, acting as a powerful force for the people to explain themselves and to have a voice out in the community. This essay considers music performed by high-school children in Uganda. It examines two songs performed at a music competition held at Nabisunsa Girls’ School in Kampala. The nature of the songs dealt with places them in the category of ‘original composition’.4 The original composition, in the definition used here, is a type of song that blends both traditional and contemporary forms of both musical practice and performance. In these songs, students are given a topic on which their song should be constructed. Topics in the original composition depend on the environment in which they are composed – social, political, or economic. The topics explore problems within the community and what is required is finding solutions to these problems. They could include sexual and domestic violence, cross-generational relationships, the refugee crisis and civil war, privatization and decentralization, among others. The songs therefore become a means by which society’s experiences are borne out in the arts and performance of that community. The original composition is one attempt to bring together song performance, competition and social relevance because it deals with the very problems that affect society in a bid to transform it, and provide solutions to existing problems. Since the creation of texts does not come from a vacuum, the songs under analysis come from the very fabric of the society in which they are composed. The song is considered original because it has an author/ composer, unlike the communally owned known traditional oral forms. However, within this song are remnants of the traditional forms of song, something that makes them a hybrid.

2

Ruth Finnegan, Oral Literature in Africa (Oxford: Clarendon, 1970): 272. J.H. Kwabena Nketia, The Music of Africa (London: Victor Gollancz, 1975): 22. 4 Because this term is at the centre of this discussion, it shall not be used with ideational quotation marks later on in the essay. 3

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‘Traditional folk song’ is the term used in Ugandan school music competitions to show the difference between the traditional and the contemporary song types. Traditional song takes on all the forms required in folk song. Its importance in the community lies in the fact that it has a strong relationship to all creative and aesthetic aspects of the culture in which it is developed. In fact, Alan Merriam argues that, in Africa, music and song play a part in all aspects of a given culture.5 Folk song is seen as a means of developing aspects of culture and showing how these aspects are traditionally interpreted by the people. The norms of the community are fundamental to folk song, and this is a requirement even in the music competitions. Students can present a song on traditional marriage, hunting, the breeding of children, rites of passage such as circumcision, and gardening and farming seasons. Students are strictly expected to come on stage with nothing that depicts anything in modern society. The judging of the songs in this category of the competition is based on the aspects expected of a specific tradition and culture. Music competition in Uganda’s secondary schools is part of the co-curricular activities encouraged by the Ministry of Education and Sports. Other cocurricular activities include sports and games, clubs and societies, and any other form of entertainment found beyond the classroom. Music competition plays different roles in the school setting. Various scholars have considered music competitions as playing an educational and entertainment role. For example, C.S. Belfour, in an early analysis of the roles of music contests in the American system, something that also works for the Ugandan environment, argues that music festivals help to fit the young in their leisure for duties and skills in adult life, toward a mastery of the environment in the community in which the individual happens to live. Schools are supposed to train for life, and since life itself is a contest, what better agency exists to create life-like situations and stimulate learning than the interschool contest?6

This argument suggests that music competitions live beyond their initial experience: they are a means of teaching students about life. Competition is shown to be a life experience which students should be able to adapt to, and 5

Alan P. Merriam, African Music in Perspective (New York & London: Garland,

1982): 68–75. 6

C. Stanton Belfour, ‘The Values of Music Contests,” Music Educators’ Journal

21.5 (March–April 1935): 22.

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singing competitions create that environment. In the same vein, the emphasis on music-making from competition is stressed by I-Ling Chou, in a study of the national music competition in Taiwan.7 Music-making seems to be a lifetime achievement in the bands and individuals involved in the competitions in Taiwan. The fact that students can make music, Chou suggests, means that in the long run they can confront problems and solve them without anyone’s assistance. Music competition becomes a process of generating life-skills and looks to the future, not the present. Competition is thus seen in many cultures as an essential process in the education of the child; in the field of music arts, the child’s attitude is shaped during the process of training for the final competition.

Child Sacrifice in Uganda One of the most serious topics dealt with in children’s song is the issue of child sacrifice, including possible solutions that the children themselves suggest in the face of this evil. In Uganda, the most recent child-sacrifice incidents running in the media and serving as hot topics for debate are the Kham Kakama incident in Bugolobi, a Kampala suburb, where a one-and-ahalf-year-old boy was found dead after suffocation by his kidnappers, even though a ransom had been paid. The other is the Kato Kajubi incident in Masaka, where a boy was killed in ritual sacrifice, allegedly by a renowned Kampala businessman. Recently, Kato Kajubi was acquitted by the court for lack of evidence. Interestingly, to the anger of the community, the couple involved directly in the murder was also acquitted.8 Child sacrifice always takes the place of both ritual sacrifice and murder. Many children are killed in the desire for money and wealth. Witchcraft is one of the main reasons why child sacrifice is on the rise in Uganda and there have been attempts to deal with this evil by the police. Children are the main sufferers in this case because they are vulnerable to the monsters in society that kill them in ritual practices.

7

I-Ling Chou, “The National Music Competition in Taiwan: A Study of Attitudinal Values of Band Participation” (M A thesis, University of Southern California at Los Angeles, 2001). 8 For details on these reports, the following website links are of importance: http: //www.observer.ug/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=9021&Itemid=59 (accessed 24 June 2010); http://www.newvision.co.ug/D/8/12/661174/kato%20kajubi (accessed 24 June 2010).

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Child sacrifice in this essay refers to both these ritual murders and any other type of murder of children that takes place within the Ugandan community. Most Ugandans agree that both the police and the community take a relaxed approach to the issue of child sacrifice. There is a continuous search for answers about who commits the murder of innocent children, but little headway is being made towards finding a solution. Besides, attempts to wipe out the practice seem always to fall on deaf ears because of weak laws in Uganda and many questions regarding the judicial system. For example, Kajubi’s acquittal led to much protest in the media in view of the mass of of incriminating evidence against him.

Music Competition in Uganda Competition in African tradition is not a new phenomenon. In praise poetry, there is an established tradition of whoever is able to win the favour of a girl, or even the king, being rewarded with the girl’s hand in marriage or with land and cows from the king. Merriam argues that in some traditions, cattle-keepers had to obtain the affection of cows through songs praising their beauty.9 This was a contest to achieve the highest degree of attention from the cows. All these examples show that the tradition is one that is longstanding in Africa. On the Ugandan scene, competition takes place on very many different levels. Different organizations and societies stage music competitions. One recently studied music contest is the Senator National Cultural Extravaganza analysed by David Pier,10 who has investigated how different groups of people perceive the competition in the light of the praise lavished on the Senator Extra Lager brand of beer produced by East African Breweries Ltd. The study offers a national perspective on both music and song and opens up debate on how song can be used not only to show different classes’ interpretation of economic climates but also to foster a sense of national tradition and interest in the folk culture of song and music. The Senator Festival is just one of the celebrations of music experience in Uganda. Competitions take place on local levels – for example, as Peter Cooke and Opio Okaka Dokotum note, 9

Merriam, African Music, 69. David G. Pier, “The Senator National Cultural Extravaganza of Uganda: A Branded African Traditional Music Competition” (doctoral dissertation, City University of New York, 2009). 10

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Ngoma performances in Northern Uganda are an extension of the competitive music traditions in the Western world.11 Their study of the performances taking place in the community shows the importance of competition in building a whole community spirit and performing not just identity but experiences within that community. To them, competition is part of a rich tradition that cannot be looked at as an alien factor in the competitive performance. Tradition is central to the performance of oral poetry and song, and competition takes it to an even higher level. Prominent school-music competitions in Uganda include the National Schools Music Festival at both primary and secondary schools; the inter-house music competitions in different primary and secondary schools; and the National Youth Alive Festival. At the national festivals, there are regional competitions which determine who will move on to the final level, where winners and runners-up from the regional festivals contend for the national prize. The spirit of competition is fostered not just in music but in poetry, fine art, dance, and drama as well. The festivals become an enriching experience not just for the judges but for the students and the community as a whole, and help prepare an allround student at the end of the educational cycle. The school-music competition therefore becomes a performance of lives, identity, and voice. It presents an opportunity for students to interpret the events around them performatively and help express national identities and experiences. It becomes a platform for the rejuvenation of their position in society and also gives them a chance to be heard – hence the title of this essay, “ ‘ Heed My Voice’.” Their engagement with social challenges and the solutions they give show their level of awareness of the issues that affect them. They also show that the students are willing to give voice to their concerns and have a chance to be heard. This comes with its complexities. For example, it is a known phenomenon that the students in high schools are not the ones who normally compose these songs. However, some teachers argue that the songs still become a means by which children can express their interpretation of social experiences. The songs under discussion are thus multivocal, in the sense that they transcend the child and move into a more adult view of events. Despite this, the performances depend on how the children interpret the topic given to them and the narrative of the different songs in the 11

Peter Cooke & Opio Okaka Dokotum, “Ngoma Performances in Northern Uganda,” in Mashindano! Competitive Music Performance in East Africa, ed. Frank D. Gunderson & Gregory F. Barz (Dar es Salaam: Mkuki na Nyota, 2000): 271–78.

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competition. In any case, the performer and composer are most times differentiated by the performance context.

The Structure of the Songs The songs in the category of original composition are a mixture of both the traditional and contemporary aspects of the culture in which the songs are sung. African oral performances do not exist in isolation from other oral subgenres. There is a great deal of drama in the performances, and many a time conflict-riven issues are dealt with in the original composition performances. The songs are an all-round performance, often climaxing in dance, that brings to life the rich traditions of the people and yet still have a part to play in developing the different themes they deal with. Each song in this category is divided into three main parts: the introduction; the exposition and development of conflict; and the resolution and climax. The introduction calls on the people to come together to solve an issue, in this case child sacrifice. The community is in unanimity at this point and any refusal to listen is seen as failure on the part of those that have called on the community. It is at this point that there is likely to be failure or success and the leader must see to it that all people heed their voice. The introduction is an important part of the song, therefore, in its attempt to involve everyone. It becomes a session in calling for the attention and solidarity of the community. This part is always dramatic: a kind of community gathering is invoked, and each hearer comes prepared to find out why the call has been made. The listeners (the community) sit around the addresser and listen carefully to what is going to be said. The second part of the song, or exposition, states the issue at hand. This part may take two different approaches. It may be framed as questions regarding the issue at hand, or it may expose the evils that are existent in society. The exposition becomes an instrument to explain to the community that not all is well. In the present case, child sacrifice becomes the subject in this part of the song. The leader presents it as an issue of urgent concern, which if not dealt with will lead to the destruction of the next generation and the whole community. It is also at this point that the leader urges the community to deal with the problems at hand. There is a rising conflict at this point of the song, as the different issues going on in the mind of the leader begin to come to light, for development throughout the song. In this way, the leader makes it

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clear that the community must deal with the issue at hand and come up with solutions, or else it is doomed, since the future generation shall no longer be there. The third and last part is a discussion of the solutions and the way forward. It is at this point that the leader stresses what should take place, offering one form of resolution regarding the issues that have been set out in the previous part. Solutions range from what the child should do to the community’s responsibility toward the child. A familiar proverb in Uganda and Africa is that the child belongs to the community and must be bred by the community. It becomes pertinent for the community to play its part in ensuring the security of the child as well as its upbringing. The child seems to be a more intelligent person in the song because he provides ideas; he is also aware that if society were able to listen to him from the very start, it is possible the solutions he gives might be achieved. It is in this part that the community makes resolutions regarding the problem. After the resolution, there is a climax where dancing and partying are dramatized on stage, and the song ends. One song that shows this development very well is shown below: L E A D E R : Sibalimba ntuuse baaba, mbalabye muwulire byembagamba C H O R U S : Eee, yogera munaffe tuwuliriza L E A D E R : Eee banaffe ebigambo byanaku, nze binsobedde Sibalimba banange ebigambo bimbuze C H O R U S : Eee, yogera munaffe tuwuliriza L E A D E R : Abakulu mbagambye musembere eno mbaletere C H O R U S : Eee yogera munaffe tuwuliriza L E A D E R : Ngambye musembere eno C H O R U S : Eee yogera munaffe tuwuliriza L E A D E R : Obugoma kuba banange mbaletere ebiingi Abaana n’abo abaana musembere kubanga bino bikwata ku mmwe Sibalimba muwulire mmwe, ngambye mufukamire abaana mugume kubanga bino bikwata ku mmwe, sibalimba muwulire mmwe Part 2 L E A D E R : Sibalimba kino kituufu C H O R U S : Amazima ddala bambi abaana ba Uganda amazima ddala L E A D E R : Eggwanga eryaffe lisaanawo eryo? Abaana baffe baggwamu abo Abasajja ggwano tebamanyi ssebo Abasajja ggwano batumalawo ssebo Omutima ogujjawa ssebo?

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Ggwe n’osaddaaka nga asala essubi Kubamu akafananyi nga ye ggwe ssebo! Oyo gw’oyuzayuza emitala ssebo! Part 3 LEADER: CHORUS: LEADER: CHORUS: LEADER: CHORUS: LEADER:

Naye mbuuza mmwe abatumalawo ssebo, mwagalaki? Ffe tubuuza! Abange mutugambe ssebo! Ffe tubuuza! Walala mutugambe ssebo! Ffe tubuuza mutugambe ssebo ffe tubuuza! Abaana abo mubasadaaka olw’ebitume, abaffe mufunamuki? Munoonyaki, mutugambe, munoonyaki kyemutalina? Tuggwawo eno! Abaana bavawa abo mubasadaaka abange, mwagalaki ekyo? Olw’ebujje, osadaaka bujje C H O R U S : Ffe tubuuza mutugambe ssebo, ffe tubuuza Part 4 L E A D E R : Naye ebintu bino bikaaye banange C H O R U S : Woowe L E A D E R : Abaaye bikaaye banange Abaana tetulina ssanyu Musajja mukulu nga bakutwala N’obonabona nga tewali akuyamba Walalala tulajjana n’abaana Eyandiyambye nga naye agenze Part 5 L E A D E R : Naye abazadde tufunemu emitima C H O R U S : Yee, bambi abaana ba Uganda L E A D E R : Abaana temubasadaaka Nammwe abazadde Eby’esente mubijjewo Omusajja mugambeko naawe! CLIMAX LEADER: Chorus: 12

Bwemunakola ebyo byengambye Tunaaba mu ssanyu ge mazima12

Song presented at the Inter-House Music Competition at Nabisunsa Girls’ Secondary School in Kampala.

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Part 1 L E A D E R : I have come my dear friends, sit still and listen to my message C H O R U S : Speak on, our friend, we are listening L E A D E R : These are words of sadness, the words are hard to convey C H O R U S : Speak on, our friend, we are listening L E A D E R : Elders, come closer, I want to tell you C H O R U S : Speak on, our friend, we are listening L E A D E R : I said, come closer C H O R U S : Speak on, our friend, we are listening. L E A D E R : May the drums sound so I can let out my words Children, come closer, because this is about you Listen carefully, kneel down and sit still This is about you, so listen carefully Part 2 L E A D E R : I am not lying, I am telling the truth C H O R U S : It is the truth for real, children of Uganda, it is the real truth. L E A D E R : Our country is giving way Our children are being finished off These heartless men know nothing These heartless men are finishing us off Where do they get the temerity to do this? One starts sacrificing [a child] as if cutting grass Imagine that it is you, sir Imagine that it is you being torn across the river! Part 3 LEADER:

But I ask, you who are finishing us off, what exactly do you want? [In both anger and confusion] C H O R U S : We insist L E A D E R : We insist, tell us C H O R U S : We insist L E A D E R : Walala [an alarm] we insist, tell us C H O R U S : We insist, tell us, we insist L E A D E R : Those children you sacrifice as if sent for, what do you gain from it? What are you looking for, what is it you do not have? Where do you get those child sacrifices, what is it you want? It is just a child. You are sacrificing a child! Part 4 LEADER:

It has now come to the climax of things [Angry tone noted here]

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C H O R U S : Wooowe [A lament and sobbing expression] L E A D E R : My dear, it has now come to the climax of things We children have no happiness You, a child, are taken You suffer with no one to help you out We are suffering with our children Even the one who would help is not there any more Part 5 L E A D E R : Parents, we need to get a heart [for the children] C H O R U S : Yes, the children of Uganda L E A D E R : Do not sacrifice the children Please, parents, do not! Leave the money and richness seeking alone Speak out against it, tell all concerned CLIMAX L E A D E R : When you do what I have told you C H O R U S : We shall be happy and live happily. That is for sure!13

In this song, the theme of child sacrifice and murder is prevalent throughout. The child who leads the song is aware that, without the community’s support, there will be no way in which the evil can be stopped. Hers is a call for order within society, for concerted effort and zeal in dealing with the evil of sacrifice. At the beginning of the song, the child calls on the community. She implores them to come closer so that her words do not go to waste. To her this is a do-or-die situation and she is not willing to lose the chance given to her. We note a term of endearment from the audience, who keep calling her ‘friend’, a sign that she has been accepted and that her message will not fall on barren ground but shall be taken into full consideration. We also note her zeal in telling the facts. To her, the truth matters because that is the only thing that will convince the elders and the community. It is no wonder that, when she states her case at the beginning of the second part, they all listen attentively and decide by the end of the song to offer solutions and hear her own solutions out. It should be noted, however, that this song does not strictly fit the confines of the structure I have mentioned, as there is an overlap between the different parts. But the structure remains the formal three parts that I have already discussed above. 13

All translations are mine.

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Voice, Space, and Protest: ‘I Am Here to Be Heard’ In each of the songs, the child takes centre stage. The child shows herself as the victim of society’s ruthlessness and insatiability. One of the most complex issues in the songs, however, is the fact that they take on a multivocal quality. It is well known, as already mentioned, that the songs are sometimes composed by adults, especially if there is a prize to be won at the end of the competition. However, we still see an attempt on the part of the children to interpret these songs in their own light. In my view, despite the multivocal qualities of the song, the child is at its centre. The child’s interpretation of the events that are taking place becomes paramount even in deciding who the winner of the competition shall be. The issue of voice and space perhaps becomes a complex one and, as Gayatri Spivak argues in her seminal essay “Can the Subaltern Speak?,”14 there are questions about who constructs the identity of the speaker or persona in the song. In Spivak’s view, colonized subjects seem to suffer because they are kept silent. The people in power determine how these colonized subjects will speak and what they will speak about. In the long run, the subaltern fails to have any view of his or her own put forward. Representation becomes of the essence at this point in both the composition and the performance of the songs. Children emerge as agents, yet there are many questions, sometimes unanswered, that arise regarding these compositions. This is probably what makes the competition a complex arena where different views are performed and we are supposed to hear the child speak, giving the songs a kind of ambivalent space. The songs therefore, in a way, become a type of discourse, creating a relationship between the speaker in the song and the listener. The speakers who are children show that they are not simply ignorant people who should be left in the dark. They are knowledgeable and, because of this knowledge, they have been placed in a position of power. They grasp wholeheartedly the opportunity to wield this power to voice their concerns and relate experiences close to them to the societies to which they belong. The children become a new breed, aware of what affects them and coming out into the light to protest their unheard situation or their position as ‘Other’. They decide to speak for themselves.

14

Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Can the Subaltern Speak?” (1988), in Colonial Discourse and Post-Colonial Theory: A Reader, ed. Patrick Williams & Laura Chrisman (Edinburgh: Pearson Education, 1994): 66–111.

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In the song above, this desire to protest is seen in the way in which the child-performers are able successfully to pull crowds to listen to them. Besides, theirs is a voice of protest that airs their grievances, as shown in the following passage from the song: LEADER: CHORUS: LEADER: CHORUS: LEADER: CHORUS: LEADER:

But I ask you, who are finishing us off, what exactly do you want? We insist We insist, tell us We insist Walala, we insist, tell us We insist, tell us, we insist Those children you sacrifice as if sent for, what do you gain? What are you looking for, what is it you do not have? Where do you get those child sacrifices, what is it you want? It is just a child. You are sacrificing a child!

This part of the song comes with many questions that have been on the minds of the children for a long time. Theirs is not simply conversation, it is direct confrontation. It is a rejection of a position that they have been in and now the statement of a desire to have their voice heard. The leader in the song insists on being heard, because society has for long been silent regarding the issue of child sacrifice. Note the use of apostrophe in the insistence on answers. This insistence gives the child a better chance to be heard because then the adult members of society realize that they have ignored the evil for too long. The repetition makes it an even more heightened experience for the children, showing their agony at society’s refusal to hear them out. This issue of protest is shown in part of another song: LEADER: CHORUS: LEADER: CHORUS:

Tukooye! Tukooye Ye Tukooye! Tukooye! Ye, ettemu lisusse! Lissuse ye!15

LEADER: CHORUS: LEADER: CHORUS:

We are tired! We are tired! Yes! We are tired! We are tired! Yes, murder is on the increase, it’s on the increase!

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Song presented at the music festival at Nabisunsa Girls’ Secondary School, 18 July 2009.

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In this passage the protest is even more direct. The disgust at the murder of children comes easily, because the child has been given a chance to be listened to. The use of the first-person-plural ‘we’ makes the case of the child even more significant because the voice of not just one child but the whole children’s community is invoked to express the desire for change. Protest becomes the only means to initiate a shaping of the future. The songs in the original composition become a means of transcending the present and painting a picture of what the future will be. The children offer solutions to the issue of child sacrifice. The silence of the adult world can no longer be tolerated, because those suffering the brunt of the evil can now speak. Because society heeds them, they vent their anger, yet in a very strong way still offer working solutions to the issue at hand. For example, they suggest that parents be satisfied with what they have. They plead for the respect for human life and call for a concerted effort, encouraging everyone to be involved in the fight against child sacrifice. In one song, the children say: LEADER:

Abaffe banaUganda, twegattire wamu tulwanise ekikwakuliro ky’obutemu mu Uganda Okwetematema tubireke kubanga bileetamu endwadde Mazima abaana leero tuleke wakiri tubuulire amazima n’ekituufu Okulwanisa obwaavu tuddemu enkola y’okulimanga eggwanga linakulakulana16

LEADER:

Fellow Ugandans, we must unite and fight this murder in our country We must desist from it, because it leads to disease We should start telling only the truth To fight poverty, we should get back to agriculture and this country will develop

The plea to return to truthfulness and agriculture is seen in these lines. Agriculture is the backbone of Uganda’s economy, and a return to it would mean development, in the children’s perspective. The passage also attacks evils like laziness and disunity that have weakened the moral fibre of society. It is this permissiveness that leads to disrespect for human life. The children can see nothing worthwhile in sacrifice; there is only the need to fight it and win the battle against it without retreating. Note also the way in which the whole 16

Song presented at a music competition at Nabisunsa Girls’ Secondary School, 18 July 2009.

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society is drawn into the song experience. ‘Fellow Ugandans’ calls on everyone who has the ability to be part of this fight. The children realize that they cannot do it on their own, and thus support for their cause becomes paramount in the songs. This is what makes the performance even richer.

Conclusion The songs that have been discussed in this essay show the relevance of song to the needs of society in an attempt to get answers for the positive transformation of the community. They also show that because a group of people feels marginalized into the position of the ‘Other’, they will resist what happens to them in the attempt to make life count. The songs under discussion show not just a venting of feelings of disgust and anger; they are a voice of strong concern and protest. They are a means of looking into the future and seeing what may come if nothing is done to avert the situation at hand. Child sacrifice is a threat to their existence and to them individually and collectively: if it is not dealt with, the new generation shall be wiped off the face of the earth. Their happiness and sadness are voiced within the performance, and the performers speak for different children in the same situation. The children become a voice of hope, resistance, and balance with the adult world. They start seeing themselves as representatives of the future time and future world. They create a picture in which all shall be well once they are listened to. The original composition thus becomes not simply a song with an ambiguous place in society but a performance of identity and experience. It becomes a voice for the weak, giving them wings and an arena and platform on which to articulate openly what affects them. The children in this case become ambassadors and interpreters of the events and problems they are daily confronted with. The competition shows that there is a need to have more voices speak and, once given this platform, there is more that can be solved. It becomes an arena in which to question the social status quo and positions of power. The song performances invoke the listeners’ own feelings and in the long run, because they are drawn into the experience, they see sense in the answers the children give. No wonder that, at the end of the song performance, the community agrees with the children, something which makes the children happy. The original composition thus ceases to be a mere competition and becomes a problem-solving arena, giving voice to the ‘Other’ and prompting the

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privileged to rethink what they have always thought of children on the lowest level of society in Africa. The songs help adults to gain access to the worldview of the children, giving them maximum liberty to think through the children’s song message and ideas. The children become a symbol of tomorrow’s generation, possessed of the zeal to determine their own future if the adults have failed to help them have a secure one. This makes the performances as relevant as they possibly can be, and gives hope for the future generation that all is not lost so long as the child’s voice is heeded. The answer lies therein.

W O R K S C I TE D Belfour, C. Stanton. “The Values of Music Contests,” Music Educators’ Journal 21.5 (March–April 1935): 22–23. Chou, I-Ling. “The National Music Competition in Taiwan: A Study of Attitudinal Values of Band Participation” (M A thesis, University of Southern California, 2001). Cooke, Peter, & Okaka Opio Dokotum. “Ngoma Performances in Northern Uganda,” in Mashindano! Competitive Music Performance in East Africa, ed. Frank D. Gunderson & Gregory F. Barz (Dar es Salaam: Mkukina Nyota, 2000): 271–78. Finnegan, Ruth. Oral Literature in Africa (Oxford: Clarendon, 1970). Kwabena Nketia, J.H. The Music of Africa (London: Victor Gollancz, 1975). Merriam, Alan P. African Music in Perspective (New York & London: Garland, 1982). Pier, David G. “The Senator National Cultural Extravaganza of Uganda: A Branded African Traditional Music Competition” (doctoral dissertation, City University of New York, 2009). Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. “Can the Subaltern Speak?” (1988), in Colonial Discourse and Post-Colonial Theory: A Reader, ed. Patrick Williams & Laura Chrisman (1993; Edinburgh: Pearson Education, 1994): 66–111. Vansina, Jan. Oral Tradition as History (Madison: U of Wisconsin P , 1985).

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— Ancestral Voices Prophesying ABSTRACT After considering some of the themes and concerns of the collection, this essay moves on to consider how they might be developed. It begins by stressing the value of the collection’s origin in departments of literature, rather than anthropology, a feature that gives more freedom to the writers, in allowing them to avoid the formal codes of distance imposed by the latter discipline. In coming from the communities that they discuss, the writers have both a greater knowledgeof the material, and perhaps a greater right to suggest changes. In this they are well placed to discuss and influence the development of traditional forms in relation to current and future social change. Some of these are the threat of H I V / A I D S , new patterns of leadership, and changing roles and relations between genders. The essay concludes by discussing the methods of research employed, and by suggesting the need to develop new kinds of writing in which Western theories of literature and culture are absorbed by contention into the life of the academic community that produced the work in this volume.

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of this collection, discussing them with their authors, and working on editing them for publication, I have been struck by many things: the energy of both writers and essays, the meticulous detail of the scholarship, and the sheer diversity of positions they adopt. If there is anything that stands out from this, it is the ways in which they seek, directly, through structure, or through implication, to adopt a new stance towards the material that they analyse. This collection is the third such volume produced as part of a collaboration between the Universities of Bergen and Makerere. At such a moment of conclusion, it is fitting to pause and consider this stance, the ways forward it directs, and the views that it offers on the past. One aspect that I find particularly striking, and particularly insistent, is the nature of the studies in relation to a series of disciplines. That the essays in this volume, and the two earlier collections growing from the research project, are written by members of two Departments of Literature makes them espeEADING THROUGH THE ESSAYS

”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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cially exciting for a number of reasons, while at the same time raising issues of their approach and their place within larger arenas occupied by the discipline of literary studies and the issues with which it is in many ways concerned. A particular strength of this disciplinary identity is that it places the researchers, and their work, outside the formalities of distance and method that are often associated with formal studies from other disciplines. Anthropology of various orders has its own lines of demarcation between observation, comment, and involvement, and rightly so. The same is true of the social sciences, as a discipline declaring itself in its very title as more rigidly structured in concept, methodology, and method than any of the subjects loosely, and, to many rather uncomfortably, grouped under the heading of ‘the humanities’. I say uncomfortably because the theoretical revolution, in so many ways liberating, has become in many ways a restriction, in privileging the application of specific stances above what are so often dismissed as the pragmatic approaches of earlier critics. And within these complexities may be found some of the issues which the writers of this volume have addressed. Take anthropology. In an early seminar, held soon after the project started, one of the researchers coined the expression ‘anthropology from the inside’ as a way of describing its endeavours. I took this loosely to mean that the examination of the oral forms was being conducted by academics who were part of the community in which the forms were being presented – the audience at the music festivals, the subjects of the wedding songs, the participants in the riddle performances. That gives the researchers a special insight into what is going on, something that the outsider might not have, through the simple, and now innate, sense of being a part of a given society. Of course, there are things that an outsider might see, with the gift of distance. But there are many things he or she will lack – not least the trust of the community and its performers. There’s a very fine cartoon by the great Gary Larson, which shows a group of people in a remote jungle sitting around watching a soap opera on television. In the next frame, one of the group is shown leaping up, shouting ‘Watch out! Anthropologists!’, while the other members quickly hide the television and take up mysterious instruments of their ancient crafts. A small part of me does rather hope that this kind of control is practised by the subjects of external enquiry, and finds great pleasure in the fact that it was not during the research carried out by the writers in this collection, all of whom reported that

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they were welcomed immediately into the villages, schools, and other communities that they visited. This, then, is one value – and one that rests firmly on the belief, shared by the researchers and the communities, in the vital importance of recording and perpetuating the oral forms that have existed for ages beyond memory but were under grave threat of extinction during the Amin years and, earlier and in different ways, in the years of British rule. The former is demonstrated by the few remaining elders who can recall some of the oral forms; the latter, by the holdings in Makerere University Library, magnificently extensive in the classics of English literature but until recently sadly deficient in indigenous, oral material. The recovery of traditional forms is an achievement of great importance, and that the material gathered by this volume’s researchers is now shared, through websites, through audio recordings, through publication, is a major, and lasting, contribution to the continuation of the ‘traditional wisdom’ of the project’s title. The other side of this – in some ways straightforward, in others troublesome, but always dynamic – is the notion of continuation and continuity. As many of the essays here show, traditional forms are in a constant state of change, both through their adoption and adaptation by individual performers, and through the changes brought about by social, economic, and behavioural movements. How do wedding songs, which traditionally celebrate the bride’s role as something traditionally seen as supportive but today easily regarded as subservient, move to an acceptance of the different, shared roles of marriage as partnership? To retain them as historical documents is one possibility, but one that will lead to their becoming ossified, their performers as unreal as those who in the West re-enact the battle of Marston Moor, or speak in fake Puritan dialects to visitors to Plymouth Rock. That these will change is essential for their survival – and that some of the most vehement discussions of this change are voiced by the younger contributors to this volume is a powerful indication not only that this is happening, but that it is happening in full awareness of the issues that the forms, and their communities, must face and absorb with careful reflection and thought. Such changes, of course, are in no small part the result of the very rapid changes in the structures – economic, societal, personal – of the last few decades, changes that range from those regarded as developmental by internal and international agencies to those imposed by the forces of global business eager always to find new markets. Not that these are always negative. The

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formal limitations of Twitter, in allowing only a small number of characters for each message, paradoxically offer a range of opportunities for the riddler’s art, the mechanism of exchange allowing a much larger range of audience response, both geographically and, given the freedom of the form, in concept. But the challenge will be to ensure that the patterns of call and response, the genuine engagement of the electronic diaspora-made-community, and the underlying educative purpose of the riddles in some form remain. Some of the articles here have touched on this with regard to H I V / A I D S , discussing how the ogre stories of earlier generations, themselves developed at least in part to warn against dangers to personal safety, are becoming extended to embrace messages of present-day sexual health. As members of the communities whose oral forms they are studying, the researchers are uniquely placed to promote and participate in such changes, suggesting new ways in which traditional wisdom may confront the problems of contemporary life. Gender relationships underpin many of the traditional forms, in terms of their content, their purpose, and their means of performance. In an immediate way, traditional forms can be harnessed as models of leadership for women, bringing together much earlier patterns with contemporary demands, and so absorbing outside stances into something more innate to the local setting and its demands. But gender issues go much further than this: if women’s roles are the basis of redefinition, so too are those of men and, as the last paragraph has suggested, relationships between the genders are also central. Giant billboards around Entebbe warn against intergenerational relationships, older men seducing young women; the place of traditional wisdom, perhaps through adaptation of ogre stories, or the advice of the elder wise women, surely has a similar function to perform, and perhaps one that leads to greater interaction within communities and families. Here as so often, the performance is essential to the message. Another term of great significance coined during the seminars leading to this collection, and the title of a paper in one of the earlier volumes, was ‘circumcision of the mind’. The lengthy rituals surrounding circumcision, concerned with teaching the novitiate the meaning of manhood, its duties and responsibilities, are increasingly under threat from its performance merely as a surgical, not a behavioural, operation. In this, the adaptation of traditional forms can have a central function. These, then, are some ways forward, all of them fundamental to the research and writing that this collection exemplifies. But what of the research itself? Where is this going, in terms of subject and method? There is no lack of material to be examined, as a glance at the titles of the essays will quickly

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show, and the movements of traditional forms into new areas will ensure that it will continue. So, too, with approaches. That many of the writers here are also seasoned filmmakers, who use the medium to document, explore, and question issues of social change and its relation to tradition is further evidence of the ability of scholarly enquiry to absorb, modify, and develop in response to its subject. Within and around such changes and their examination hovers another issue, another dimension of the equations that dominate the discussion. How does the critical process evolve into a form that allows the material to be presented and analysed, makes it accessible to an international readership, and in the process advances the academic careers and prominence of the writers, without succumbing to critical stances and methodologies that are imposed from Western models? Many of the articles here make use of critical concepts borrowed from theorists fashionable in the West, in a laudable and inevitable process of establishing academic credentials in an international debate. The next stage, perhaps, is to contest some of these grand theories, to go beyond and behind the global intellectuals and develop models of analysis that match the forms they analyse in terms of their innate propriety to the communities from which they emerge. This will not, of course, happen overnight, and it won’t be easy. The growth of Subaltern Studies in India perhaps offers a model, but it is one fraught with paradoxes. The term ‘subaltern’, however ironically it is applied, is misleading. Its origin, in the British army, describes a young man not yet become an officer but clearly destined for leadership. In its implications of social class, then, it pulls against the notions of incompleteness and liminality that, in its newer usage, are clearly essential. A close parallel would be ‘Warrant Officer Studies’ or ‘N C O Studies’, terms applied to those who have enlisted in the ranks, lacking the social origin to become, after passing through the subaltern stage, an officer and a gentleman. And the most often quoted article about this subject, “Can the Subaltern Speak?” by Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, demonstrates the central area of difficulty. The essays in this collection let us hear, not the speech of an underclass, but the voices of figures essential to the community they serve, lead, or in most cases lead by serving: there is no suggestion of subordinate status in this. Similarly, the place of these figures, and their wise words, songs, riddles, and complex performances of word, movement, and dialogue, is in so many cases quite different from that constructed in twentieth-century European lite-

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rary theory. For one thing, it has much deeper roots. This isn’t to suggest that theoretical frameworks that involve Western conceptual approaches to literature and orature should be discarded. Rather, it is to argue that a new phase of engagement with them should be entered, in which they are absorbed by debate and contestation. The material of this collection, and the two that preceded it, offers itself as the basis of analysis from which principles will spring. The process is highly complex, and not easily achieved. But if – no, when – that is attempted, as doubtless it will by writers in this volume and others that will follow, the traditional forms recovered, celebrated, and explored will have been given an appropriate conceptual voice, an echo that takes them beyond the confines of Western scholarship and gives them full prominence. Subaltern studies insists in its title on a place of limitation, regardless of its implications of advancement: the term ‘postcolonial’ itself privileges the very period that it seeks to reject. In going further than both, the work in this collection points an exciting and vital way forward. It has been a privilege beyond measure to have been involved, albeit in very small measure, in this process: to the contributors I offer my sincere, and humble, thanks.

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U ZOECHI N WAGBARA

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Achebe’s Fiction and the Changing Generation of Nigerian Women — Towards a Paradigm Shift in Leadership ABSTRACT The universe of Chinua Achebe’s fiction is awash with representation of women as ‘second-class citizens’ (Buchi Emecheta) or ‘the second sex’ (Simone de Beauvoir). This mode of female representation as well as what womanhood means in Achebe’s world is sustained by the logic of patriarchy that owes its existence and pathogenesis to the stereotyped provenance of the traditional African world-view (prima facie phallocentric and hegemonic). This system has spawned a leadership pattern that relegates women to the background. However, Achebe’s novels calibrate the rise and fall of patriarchy – the changed colour of his representation of (African) women. From Things Fall Apart (1958) to Anthills of the Savannah (1987), his aesthetic sensibility refracts the cartography of change, a re-shaping of male-dominated leadership structures for democratic leadership. This essay teases out how Achebe represents the empowerment of women through selfdiscovery (Aristotelian anagnorisis) producing a paradigm shift – the latter a marker of change in radicalizing established canonical practices. This shift is central in re-mapping Africa’s male–female dichotomy as well as a potent force in changing African politics.

Introduction: Achebe’s Women and Nigeria, “A Mere Geographical Expression” or a Failure of Leadership? and these are the forces they had ranged against us, and these are the forces we had ranged within us, within us and against us, against us and within us.1

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H E “L U R G A R D I S T S T A T E ,” Nigeria, created by the colonialists for administrative convenience and as a compliant system, is tottering on the precipice of a leadership crisis. It has been argued that this is

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Adrienne Rich, “Poem X V I I ,” in Rich, Twenty-One Love Poems (California: Effie’s Press, 1976), repr. in Rich, The Dream of a Common Language: Poems 1974– 1977 (New York: W.W. Norton, 1978): 84. ”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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largely because Nigeria was from the beginning (and remains) a nation enmeshed in ambivalent constructions and leadership malaise. This ambivalence finds resonance in Obafemi Awolowo’s notorious statement that “Nigeria is a mere geographical expression”;2 Ogundiya sees this patchwork of nationalities as a “motley of nationalities and ethnic groups.”3 Hassan Kukah elaborates on this geopolitical incongruence as follows: As most of us will know, the amalgamation of the three regions into one Nigeria in 1914 has been variously described as a ‘geographical accident’, a ‘mistake’ and a ‘disaster’ […]. While the British colonial administration remained as a referee, these various groups appealed for the provision of some mechanisms for the protection of their interests.4

As literature on Nigeria’s colonial experience orchestrates, the present geopolitical configuration can be traced to a proposal made by Lord Lugard’s consort, Flora Shaw. Instantiating the misprision behind the creation of Nigeria, a letter Shaw wrote depicting the Royal Niger Company’s West African territories5 recited a litany of “cultural, demographic and ethnographic misconceptions and inaccuracies.”6 Analysis of this litany would exceed the remit of the present essay, but the points Shaw makes do have a bearing on my arguments. What Shaw’s exercise does is to point up the idea that Nigeria was called forth to designate an amorphous and inherently incompatible entity, cobbled together for administrative ease. Proto-feminist issues are inextricably linked to this and other such mismatched colonial assemblages, as shall be argued later in this essay, and as Ania Loomba confirms: race, gender and sexuality are not just additives to one another in the colonial arena; they do not just provide metaphors and images for each other, but work together and develop in each other’s crucible.7 2

Obafemi Awolowo, The Path to Nigerian Freedom (London: Faber & Faber,

1947). 3

Ilufoye S. Ogundiya, “The Cycle of Legitimacy Crisis in Nigeria: A Theoretical Explanation,” Journal of Social Science 20.2 (August 2009): 129–42. 4 Hassan Kukah, Democracy and Civil Society in Nigeria (Ibadan: Spectrum, 1999): 29. 5 Flora Shaw, Letter, The Times (8 January 1897): 6. 6 Jago Morrison, “Imagined Biafras: Fabricating Nation in Nigerian Civil War Writing,” A R I E L : A Review of International English Literature 36.1–2 (July–October 2005): 5. 7 Ania Loomba, Colonialism / Postcolonialism (London: Routledge, 1988): 172.

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Given these multiple spectres that besiege the country’s brand of political leadership, Nigeria as a nation has been described by Karl Maier as a “fallen house,”8 an enclosure where might is not only right but the norm; it is a rudderless ship of state. Not long before his death, Chinua Achebe expressed his discontent about the coloration of Nigeria’s leadership by saying that being a Nigerian is awfully frustrating as well as grotesquely interesting, and by making a case for Nigerian leaders to consider governance as a “sacred trust,”9 crucial to a necessary renaissance of responsibility, the way in which priesthood is respected in ‘civilized’ societies. The antinomies stemming from building Nigeria from the ashes of incongruent amalgamation as well as grotesquely deformed patterns of leadership have, thanks to patriarchal hegemony, relegated women to the background; this in itself is essentially responsible for the country’s leadership woes, its unholy amalgam of multiple conflicting entities, groups, and interests. It calls for a different agenda. To repeat: part of the main issue with postcolonial Nigeria is the drowning-out of the voices of men’s better half – the voices of women, which should have been part of the leadership and development process.10 It is in consonance with this line of thinking that Nigeria has been described as prima facie a creation anchored in leadership malaise. The conflict-prone, gendered leadership experiences in Nigeria have made salient the need to re-invent its leadership culture for national rebirth. Instead, since Nigeria’s political independence in 1960, there has been a profound failure of political leadership stemming from forms of bungling fed by unequal social relations and sexist practices glaringly exemplified by the marginalization of women in the political process, a practice sustained by the rhetoric of patriarchy with its provenance in traditional African experience. It is in view of uncovering as well as incarnating what Chantal Mouffe calls “the ethics of the political”11 that this essay seeks to argue that although Nigeria was doomed from the outset to leadership failure by its geographical 8

Karl Maier, This House Has Fallen: Midnight in Nigeria (London: Penguin, 2000). Chinua Achebe, The Education of a British-Protected Child: Essays (2009; London: Allen Lane The Penguin Press, 2009): 143. 10 Chikwenye Okonjo Ogunyemi, “Women and Nigerian Literature,” in Perspectives on Nigerian Literature: 1700 to the Present, ed. Yemi Ogunbiyi (Lagos: Guardian Books, 1988), vol. 1: 60. 11 Chantal Mouffe, The Return of the Political (London: Verso, 1993): 56. 9

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constitution, as indicated above, her problem is encapsulated in Achebe’s now-familiar declaration: “the trouble with Nigeria is simply and squarely a failure of leadership.”12 Again, a major facet of Nigeria’s inept, disempowering leadership architecture finds resonance in patriarchal culture, which relegates Simone de Beauvoir’s ‘second sex’ to the margins of society, where it is difficult for them to fight for a better and inclusive society free from the trammels of male-centred leadership. Therefore, this essay recommends democratic leadership – a departure from what leadership entails in the nation that Achebe’s novels reflect. This process of political metamorphosis inheres in a paradigm shift or change from exclusive political culture to participatory, distributive, and shared governance for the betterment of the masses – particularly the womenfolk. Contemporary Nigeria lies under a shadow of patriarchal practice midwived by pre-colonial as well as colonial heritage. Pre-colonial Nigeria was chauvinistic and patriarchal in scope and reach. This is also true of the leadership structure that postcolonial Nigeria endorses. However, across Africa and the globe, at a time when the pressures of postmodernity are crowding out traditionalist, patriarchal tendencies, there is an urgent need to rethink the leadership question in order to re-invent Africa (Nigeria). This consciousness resonates with postmodernist criticism about feminist practices and literature that aim to correct the imbalance in power-relations between the sexes. Literary expression can play a role in this process. Although it goes without saying that it is women writers who are taking the lead and holding aloft the banner of change, male writers, too – hitherto in the near-exclusive ascendancy over the course of the founding years of Nigerian fiction – have needed to expand their horizons. In regard to male writers, the progression from reflexive masculinism to a broader acknowledgement of female autonomy can take surprising turns. As shall be argued, Achebe’s novels follow a path of gradual liberation from patriarchy towards the representation of women’s recognition of self-worth. This reverberates most conspicuously in the creation of of the character of Beatrice (Nwanyibuife) – “A Woman is also Something”) in Achebe’s novel Anthills of the Savannah.13 Beatrice’s characterization conveys the corporeality of Achebe’s progress from depicting women as weak, passive, and powerless objects to portraying them as smart, powerful, educated, and intelligent individual subjects. This self-discovery amounts to 12 13

Achebe, The Trouble with Nigeria (1983; London: Heinemann, 1984): 1. Achebe, Anthills of the Savannah (London: Heinemann, 1987): 87.

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anagnorisis, which Aristotle considers, in his Poetics, as “a change from ignorance to knowledge.”14 If this originally has relevance to the nature of mimesis and tragedy, it can also be extrapolated into the realm of public life and regarded as having an impact on modes of social relations as well as leadership for societal change. No matter the nomenclature – womanism, motherism, masculinism, feminism – the dialectic of feminist aesthetics or the act of transcending the patriarchal domination of womenfolk inheres in deconstructing the edifice of the male-made world. Thus, the thrust of feminist argument has […] for the most part rested on the belief that since (apart from reproduction) there are no important differences between sexes, nothing can justify a segregation of their roles. Any differences which may exist are said to be fostered culturally by forcing women to concentrate their activities exclusively in the domestic sphere.15

Given the above landscape, the question of leadership in society should be viewed as communicating on a de-gendered wavelength that is inclusive, collegial, and participatory. This mode of leadership is conducive to bringing about a rethinking of sexist politics and leadership in Nigeria, marking a radical departure from traditional conceptions of womanhood as not part of the leadership equation. The above is what Achebe addresses in his novels. Beginning with his debut novel, Things Fall Apart, and proceeding to Anthills of the Savannah, Achebe deftly reconstructed the image of women in relation to leadership roles in Nigeria vis-à-vis men. This artistic sensibility translated into a quasifeminist aesthetic redefining notions of democratic leadership, recasting power loci, and overturning ideological hegemony. As a consequence, “feminism as a method and a discourse is animated by a desire to reconstruct history in order to reconstitute the woman subject.”16 Hence, “politics and history are no doubt the twin items the African novelist employs as literary or 14

Aristotle, paraphrased in Alexander Etkind, “A Parable of Misrecognition: Anagnorisis and the Return of the Repressed from the Gulag,” Russian Review 68 (2009): 625. 15 Carol McMillan, Women, Reason and Nature: Some Philosophical Problem with Feminism (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1982): ix. 16 Onyemaechi Udumukwu, Signature of Women: The Dialectics of Action (Owerri: Onii Publishing House, 2007): 7.

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artistic intensifiers”17 for Achebe’s representation of the socio-political environment.

Theoretical Framework The theoretical scaffold of this essay is democratic leadership, the right kind to bring much-needed change to postcolonial Nigeria in terms of devolving power structures and the leadership base for women’s empowerment. The change envisioned finds expression in distributed, shared leadership with input from all who are stakeholders in society. Thus, the dichotomy between men and women with regard to leadership roles that the chemistry of traditional leadership sustained is of little consequence in this regard. Avoiding the phallocentric trap and hegemony in order to realize democratic leadership, Achebe suggested, in his narrative-aesthetic frame, that this is achievable along the axis of feminist rhetoric. Thus, “from [the] patriarchal worlds of Okonkwo in Things Fall Apart and Ezeulu in Arrow of God, Achebe has journeyed on a progressive gender course in Anthills of the Savannah”18 to turn traditional notions of womanhood on their head. His artistic craft pervades the characterization of Mrs Nanga, Elsie, Eunice, and Edna in A Man of the People (1966) as well as Clara in No Longer at Ease (1960). The creation of Beatrice in Anthills of the Savannah was the culmination of Achebe’s aesthetic shift from representing women in a lame manner to depicting them as powerful individuals as well as the equal of men.

Reframing Power and Womanhood: Self-Discovery and the Changing Generation of Achebe’s Women For the classical Greek philosopher Aristotle, the term anagnorisis in his Poetics meant ‘recognition’ – more specifically, the interface between recognition (knowledge) and reversal of fortune as a consequence. The reversal of events following recognition amounts to peripeteia. In the Aristotelian tradition, what Achebe’s women do as they gradually recognize their real worth in society is conveyed by the power of fiction to go beyond the realm of mimesis; 17

Ogaga Okuyade, “Geography of Anxiety: Narrating Childhood and Resisting Familial Order in Recent Nigerian Women’s Writing,” Language Society and Culture 31 (2010): 73. 18 Fonchingong, “Unbending Gender Narrative in African Literature” 2006: 150.

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the accounting of reality or social facts should incorporate the anticipation of human futures by exploiting the artistic compass to envisage achievable goals. This can be equated with the “prospective construal” that detonates with people emerging from the margins of society.19 Also, the metamorphosis from innocence or ignorance to knowledge comes with the acquisition of power as this process reshapes existing conceptions of reality. This is where feminist dialectic is lodged: it is the process of power-acquisition, in the sense of knowledge of Lacan’s ‘The Real’, that helps reshape people’s view about crucial issues. The application of these ideas to Nigerian literature with respect to Achebe’s fiction resides in the fact that the repertoire of that fiction suggests a generationally conditioned and disturbing inferiorization of womanhood. Thus, if Achebe’s first novel harboured deprecation and misrecognition of women, his latest fiction marked a watershed, a recognition of women’s full worth as well as indicating the resolution of an underlying conflict by restoring order in terms of primordial ideas of womanhood. The ultimate notion behind anagnorisis when applied to gender issues is that it invests in the legal, moral, social, and political security of women. It constitutes a new mode of perceiving women’s role in society. Isidore Diala considers this to be Achebe’s stated motive for re-writing female narrative;20 Kofi Owusu sees this as Achebe’s “radical new thinking” about womanhood.21 This is the reason for the advancement of women’s interests and condition in the novels. It is to this end that Ayo Kehinde has claimed that the Nigerian novelist may therefore envisage at least, a near-perfect world, that is not wholly engulfed in crisis, a world where man experiences, at least, a substantial amount of concord and tranquillity. Indeed, a new millennium, a new century and a new decade needs a new fictional representation.22

19

John MacFarlane, “Aristotle’s Definition of Anagnorisis,” American Journal of Philology 121 (2000): 367. 20 Isidore Diala, “Mythic Mediation and Feminism: Achebe’s Anthills of the Savannah,” A R I E L : A Review of International English Literature 36.3–4 (July 2005): 185. 21 Kofi Owusu, “The Politics of Interpretation: The Novels of Chinua Achebe,” M F S : Modern Fiction Studies 37.3 (Fall 1991): 468. 22 Ayo Kehinde, “Rethinking African Fiction in the Era of Globalization: A Conflict of Text and Context,” Journal of the Nigerian English Studies Association 11.1 (2005): 97.

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This confirms Abiola Irele’s contention about the writer’s role in using the instrument of art to engage with history;23 this will bring about change in the right direction. Taking a cursory look at the place of women in Achebe’s novels shows a diachronic (historical) development; it also highlights struggle for recognition and redistribution of power that is aimed at reconciling differences sanctioned by cultural practices as well as achieving respect and equality for women. As Mary Kolawole has noted, early African writers consciously or unconsciously permitted the marginalization of women in their writing as a consequences of carried over cultural practices that find expression in their works.24 Achebe’s early writing is cast in this mould. In Things Fall Apart, we are presented with the crystallization of the machismo, masculinity, and heroism that are directed wrongfully at women. Achebe’s account of Okonkwo’s beating of Ojiugo, his youngest and third wife, offers an image of women as weak and passive, as upheld by traditional African society: Okonkwo was proved to justifiable anger by his youngest wife who went to plait her hair at her friend’s house and did not return early enough to cook his afternoon meal […]. And when she returned he beat her very heavily. In his anger he had forgotten that it was the Week of Peace…25

The above passage offers a panoply of clear demonstrations of men’s assumed superiority to women as well as the suggestion that women in the traditional African sense were weak and defenceless. This myth about women is sustained by the practice of patriarchy. Similarly, the characterization of Ekwefi, Okonkwo’s second wife, almost seems insignificant when read from a patriarchal point of view. The stigma as well as distress she endures underpin this assessment. The account of the killing of Ekwefi’s banana tree by Okonkwo as well as the beating she receives from her husband when she asks “who killed this banana tree?”26 is a case in point. This leaves Ekwefi and her only child, Ezinma, weeping as Okonkwo threatens her with a gun when he discovers she has been murmuring under her breath. On top of this, Ekwefi’s condition is worsened by the fact that she cannot bear a male child for 23

Abiola Irele, “Parables of the African Condition: A Comparative Study of Three Post-Colonial Novels,” Journal of African and Comparative Literature 1 (1981): 69. 24 Mary E. Modupe Kolawole, Womanism and African Consciousness (Trenton N J : Africa World Press, 1997). 25 Achebe, Things Fall Apart (London: Heinemann, 1958): 21. 26 Achebe, Things Fall Apart, 39.

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Okonkwo – an underwriting of the importance of manhood in the traditional African setting. This system pervades the canvas of Arrow of God, which follows up from Things Fall Apart in the sense that it shares in great detail the latter’s paraphernalia of a rural, pastoral setting and atmosphere. Besides, both novels are historical in scope; they reconstruct Achebe’s meditations on the nature of the Igbo nation before the advent of the colonialists. Although No Longer at East was written in 1960, two years after Things Fall Apart, it is Arrow of God (1964) that shares more deeply the locale of Achebe’s first novel. Thus, given the male-dominated, patriarchal practice as well as gendered literary tradition of Africa, many of the representations of African women are reductive perpetuations of popular myths of the repression of women in traditional African settings, in which they had to endure untold grim experiences to be seen by the society of that period as ‘good women’. Accordingly, in Buchi Emecheta’s view, the good woman, in Achebe’s portrayal, drinks the dregs after her husband. In Arrow of God, when the husband is beating his wife, the other women stand around saying it’s enough, it’s enough. In his view, that kind of subordinate woman is a good woman.27

The above idea of womanhood translates into acquiescence of “silence and passivity”28 by women in order to conform to the male’s bidding and the patriarchal standard of the ‘good woman’. In instantiating man’s heroism and machismo, we see Ezeulu’s action when women stride into his compound to pay a visit of sympathy after hearing of the “abomination” Oduche commits by putting a python inside a box as well as Edogo’s (Ezeulu’s first son’s) mask carving in public.29 When Ezeulu asks the women to leave the compound because as a man he does not like “words of sympathy,” the women hesitate; following their hesitation, Ezeulu blurts out: “If I see any one of you here when I go and come back she will know that I am an evil man.”30 On hearing this, all the women hurriedly leave the compound, saying: “Forgive

27

Buchi Emecheta, in James Adeola, In Their Own Voices: African Women Writers Talk (Nairobi: Heinemann, 1990): 42. 28 Onyemaechi Udumukwu, Signature of Women, 1. 29 Achebe, Arrow of God (1964; London: Heinemann, 1986): 52, 51. 30 Achebe, Arrow of God, 52.

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us; we have erred.”31 This again brings to the fore the issue of “women as victims of society regulated by cultural norms and traditional values.”32 Arguably, as opposed to Achebe’s historical novels (Things Fall Apart and Arrow of God), his political fictions, No Longer at Ease (1960), A Man of the People (1966), and Anthills of the Savannah (1987), are a reconstruction of the rise of women. According to Charles Fonchingong, it should be noted that Achebe moves from the peripheral role women assume in the earlier novels to playing a central role in shaping and mediating the reals of power […]. From the patriarchal worlds of Okonkwo in Things Fall Apart and Ezeulu in Arrow of God, Achebe has journeyed on a progressive gender course in Anthills of the Savannah.33

Thus, Achebe’s political novels serve as a salvo against generational rape on women and their marginalization in the leadership process. As a consequence, Achebe saw literature as “a role-reversing narrative, essentially contrived to deflect stereotypes, misrepresentation and skewed knowledge about the true worth of women, particularly in politics.”34 For Rose Acholonu, this shift in Achebe’s contemplation of womanhood morphs into “a definite artistic bias [by Achebe] in favour of women.”35 An observation by Jonathan Culler accords with Achebe’s stated intention and craft in his political fiction: “to read as a woman is to avoid reading as a man, to identify the specific defences and distortions of male readings and provide correctives.”36 In No Longer at Ease, Achebe’s progressive portrait of women finds materiality in the characterization of Clara, who is presented as a professional nurse with an overseas education. Beyond this, the pressure on Obi Okonkwo 31

Achebe, Arrow of God, 52. Charles C. Fonchingong, “Unbending Gender Narratives in African Literature,” Journal of International Women’s Studies 8.1 (November 2006): 142. 33 Fonchingong, “Unbending Gender Narratives in African Literature,” 150. 34 Uzoechi Nwagbara, “Changing the Canon: Chinua Achebe’s Women, Public Sphere and the Politics of Inclusion in Nigeria,” Journal of Pan African Studies 3.3 (2009): 5. 35 Rose Acholonu, “Outside or Inside? Women in Anthills of the Savannah,” in Eagle on Iroko: Selected Papers from the Chinua Achebe International Symposium, 1990, ed. Edith Ihekweazu & Chukwuma Azuonye (Ibadan: Heinemann Educational, 1996): 318. 36 Jonathan Culler, On Deconstruction: Theory and Criticism After Structuralism (Ithaca N Y : Cornell U P , 1982): 54. 32

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to marry Clara, an Osu (an outcast), given that she is financially independent, educated. and smart, is a foil to our knowledge of traditional Achebe’s women, the ‘good women’. Given our presumed knowledge of Achebe’s world, Obi Okonkwo, the protagonist of the novel, could not have had an affair with Clara, let alone making her pregnant, on account of her social caste. But Obi Okonkwo had to have an affair with Clara, knowing the financial support he might get from her if they had got married. Also, in A Man of the People, we are presented with stunning images of women who signal that the idea of womanhood in Achebe’s world changed over time. These women include Chief Nanga’s wife, who is educated and self-assertive as well as a businesswoman who does not give a hoot about her husband’s philandering with Edna. In addition, Eunice is portrayed in the novel as a lawyer and fiancée to Odili’s schoolmate, Max, and founder of the Common People’s Convention, which was in opposition to Chief Nanga and his coterie. Eunice even breaks the mould when she produces a pistol and pumps two bullets into Chief Koko’s chest following the shooting of her fiancé, Max, by the thugs working for Koko. This event is considered to be “strange.”37 The changing portraiture of Achebe’s women culminates in Beatrice’s characterization in Achebe’s last novel, Anthills of the Savannah. Beatrice is a creation of generational change, a kind of paradigm shift in Achebe’s presentation of women as well as a departure from the patriarchal nature of politics in Kangan, a simulacrum of Nigeria. In one of Beatrice’s discussions with Ikem Osodi, her boyfriend and editor of The Gazette, she gives him a feminist perspective on gender question for a better-led Kangan: “it is not enough that women should be the court of last resort. Because the last resort is a damn sight too far and too late!”38 This statement calibrates a radical view about gender question that should be moderated for inclusive and shared leadership, a prerequisite for changing the mode of governance in Kangan. Beatrice’s insights and knowledge about events in her milieu are sustained by the high level of her education, her awareness and professional background, and the fact that she lives in the city. These qualities are not associated with Achebe’s early women, who were docile, timorous, and rural. Thus, Beatrice is made to address gender questions as these relate to the devolution of power and the distribution of leadership roles. 37 38

Achebe, A Man of the People (1960; London: Heinemann, 1988): 160. A Man of the People, 91–92.

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Feminist consciousness acknowledges processes of devolution that serve to distribute power across diverse foci and resist notions of power that concentrate it in patriarchal practice. This is what Achebe demonstrated in his later fiction; he masterfully articulated the gradual rise of women’s determination to take what belongs to them politically in society. As Umelo Ojimah observes, this view of power is consonant with true democracy: Achebe’s fiction has consistently upheld the view that power, whether political or religious, derives from the people and that its possessors should be accountable to the people. Many of the excesses of such characters as Okonkwo in Things Fall Apart, Ezeulu in Arrow of God, and Chief Nanga in A Man of the People derive in part from their ignoring this fact.39

Therefore, in negating patriarchy, there is a need to reconsider power arrangements by regionalizing power across diverse social networks; this is the fulcrum of the Foucauldian idea of power: Power is dispersed across complicated and heterogeneous social networks marked by ongoing struggle. Power is not something present at specific locations within those networks, but is instead always at issue in ongoing attempts to (re)produce effective social alignments, and conversely to avoid or erode their effects, often by producing various counteralignments.40

Devolution of power that brings about counter-hegemony or “counter-alignment,” to borrow Foucault’s term, is capable of countering the locus of power in favour of an inclusive, relational dynamic of power and leadership. This manifests itself in feminist discourse that reframes equations of power.bases and re-articulates gender roles for inclusive politics and leadership. In delineating Achebe’s notion of women’s acquisition of power, it should be measured as “the ability to take one’s place in whatever discourse is essential to action.”41 Therefore, in Achebe’s vision, theorizing power for women’s emancipation and political freedom in postcolonial Nigeria has to do with recanting essentialist logic of any kind; there should be approaches and strategies designed to relay the sinews of knowledge and experience as well as deconstructing ‘primal’ masculinist views of women in order to showcase 39

Umelo Ojimah, in his Chinua Achebe: New Perspectives (Ibadan: Spectrum,

1991): 94. 40

Joseph Rouse, “Power / Knowledge,” in The Cambridge Companion to Foucault, ed. Gary Gutting (1994; Cambridge: Cambridge U P , 2003): 112–13. 41 Carolyn G. Heilbrun, Writing a Woman’s Life (London: Women’s Press, 1989): 18.

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their strengths. Another layer of the devolution of power precipitated by feminist consciousness involves self-recognition and thus identity, which is a correlative of any paradigm shift.42 Also, such a movement of liberation and re-creation of Nigerian (African) women yoked to traditional institutions should entail a transition from the margin to the epicentre of affairs, rather than being “in the peripheral, tangential role of a passive victim of a masculine-based cultural universe.”43 Beatrice sees this new reality of women’s transition from margin to epicentre in the following terms: But the way I see it is that giving women today the same role which traditional society gave them of intervening only when everything else has failed is not enough, you know, like the women in the Sembene film who picked up the spears abandoned by their defeated mensfolk. It is not enough that women should be the court of last resort because the last resort is a damn sight too far and too late!44

In such feminist discourse, as outlined above, “the focus is not on uncovering the material and ideological specificities that constitute a group of women as ‘powerless’ in a particular context,”45 but to demonstrate Achebe’s attentiveness to the burdens of traditional concepts of power as they affect women as well as his satirizing of this grotesque system that needs to be transcended for better governance and leadership. Thus, In the beginning power rampaged through the world, naked. So the Almighty, looking at his creation through the round undying eye of the sun, saw and pondered and finally decided to send his daughter, Idemili, to bear witness to the moral nature of authority by wrapping around power’s rude waist loincloth of peace and modesty.46

42

Shohreh Chavoshian, “Demystifying the Myth of White Authenticity in Contemporary Afro-American Literature: The Anagnorisis of the ‘Other’,” Journal of Teaching English as a Foreign Language and Literature 1.3 (2009): 119. 43 Ure Mezu, Women in Chains: Abandonment in Love Relationships in the Fiction of Selected African Writers (Pikesville M D : Black Academy Press, 1994): 27–28. 44 Achebe, A Man of the People, 91–92. 45 Chandra Talpade Mohanty, “Under Western Eyes: Feminist Scholarship and Colonial Discourse,” Feminist Review 30 (Autumn 1988): 200. 46 Achebe, Anthills of the Savannah, 102.

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Moreover, the raison d’être for challenging the patriarchal paradigm that consigns power to one locus, that of the men’s world, is a form of “narrative[s] of resistance”47 that are amply demonstrated in the craft of Anthills of the Savannah.

Achebe’s Women and Paradigm Shift: Towards Democratic Leadership The concept of the paradigm shift was coined by Thomas Kuhn in his Structure of Scientific Revolutions (1962), which created a groundswell of theoretical ripple effects in re-articulating notions of political leadership that could have an impact on power-equations, social change, and transformational, democratic, and inclusive leadership.48 A paradigm shift involves radicalizing pre-existing notions about things, processes, ideas, and situations. A paradigm shift entails a movement from the norm to the ideal and, conversely, a revolutionary dismantling of methods and ways of doing things.49 According to Kurt Lewin (1939), there are three leadership styles: democratic, autocratic, and laissez-faire. Autocratic leadership is the opposite of democratic leadership, while laissez-faire leadership is an approach that offers free rein, a metonym of delegated leadership.50 Our interest here is in democratic leadership. Thus, Achebe’s vision of democratic leadership sings from the songbook as a paradigm shift, a correlative of transformational leadership and feminist 47

Simon Gikandi, Reading Chinua Achebe: Language and Ideology in Fiction (London: James Currey, 1991): 26. 48 Bernard Burns, Leadership (New York: Harper & Row, 1978); Bernard Bass, Leadership and Performance beyond Expectation (New York: Free Press, 1985); Uzoechi Nwagbara, “Towards a Paradigm Shift in the Niger Delta: Transformational Leadership Change in the Era of Post Amnesty Deal,” Journal of Sustainable Development in Africa 12.3 (January 2010): 387–400. 49 Michael Sosteric, “The Death of Newton: Consciousness, Spirituality, and the Second Scientific Revolution,” Electronic Journal of Sociology (2005), http://www .docstoc.com/…/The-Death-of-Newton-Consciousness Spirituality-and-the-SecondScientific-Revolution (accessed 11 November 2011): 37; Nwagbara, “Towards a Paradigm Shift in the Niger Delta,” 390; Joerg Everman, “Organizational Paradigms and Organizational Modelling,” in Business/ I T Alignment and Interoperability (Luxembourg: Caise, 2006): 132. 50 Kurt Lewin, “An Experimental Approach to the Study of Autocracy and Democracy: A Preliminary Note,” Sociometry 1.3–4 (January–April 1938): 292–300.

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principles that resists the paradigmatically male-dominated world. Transformational leadership involves marked change, a new dawn; this is at the heart of the dialectic of the paradigm shift. In this train of thought, literature is dynamic and “blends the new with the old”51 for societal change. Thus, in transformation as well as democratic leadership, the emphasis is on a group-based view of leadership rather than a single person clearly highlighting the path forward. Understanding and being responsive to multiple stakeholders in their context is now the leader’s prime concern. Effectively addressing multiple stakeholders means recognising and responding to multiple agendas. Negotiating paths through a multiplicity of issues and circumstances is near impossible for a single individual.52

Democratic leadership is thus about “behaviour that influences people in a manner consistent with and /or conducive to basic democratic principles and processes, such as self-determination, inclusiveness, equal participation, and deliberation.”53 The gradual rise of Achebe’s women from ignorance of who they really are to awareness of their real worth can be analogized as a non-tragic version of Aristotelian anagnorisis; it addresses the question of power redistribution stemming from new knowledge that they are not so different from their male counterparts. This is the logic behind the creation of Beatrice, who ultimately marks a turning point in Achebe’s re-conceptualization of the place and role of women in Kangan, a fictive space that prefigures similar inanities in the postcolonial Nigerian condition. Accordingly, “in Anthills of the Savannah there is a synthesis and assertive projection of the views contained in the earlier works.”54 Beatrice was created by Achebe as an incarnation of women’s contribution to leadership. The fictive space, Kangan, which reflects the realities of postcolonial Nigeria (Africa), makes Beatrice (Nwanyibuife) – “A Woman is also Something”55 – sick; and the political landscape evokes politi51

Charles Nnolim, “Trends in the Nigerian Novel,” in Literature and National Consciousness, ed. Ernest Emenyonu (Calabar: Heinemann, 1989): 53. 52 Nada Kakabadse & Andrew Kakabadse, “Leadership and the art of discretion,” Business Strategy Review 16.3 (Autumn 2005): 59. 53 John Gastil, “A Definition and Illustration of Democratic Leadership,” Human Relations 47.8 (August 1994): 956. 54 Umelo Ojimah, Chinua Achebe: New Perspectives, 84–85. 55 Achebe, Anthills of the Savannah, 87.

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cal consciousness in her as well as expanding her horizon about generational mistreatment of women and the masses by the powers that be in Kangan: For weeks and months after I had definitely taken on the challenge of bringing together as many broken pieces of this tragic history as I could lay my hands on still I could not find a way to begin. (82)

Beatrice figures out that the re-assembling of these “broken pieces of this tragic history” entails questioning the very foundation of women’s endemic marginalization in political leadership as well as undermining the militarized political regimen of Kangan in order to address change. Beatrice’s contemplation in this regard is tantamount to advancing the cause of change that will bring a marked break from business-as-usual in the political architecture of Kangan, the epitome of Achebe’s Nigeria. Beatrice’s interaction with her boyfriend, the journalist and editor of The Gazette, Ikem Osodi, dramatizes her penchant for advancing change, which is characteristically unlike that of Achebe’s women in his early novels. She tells Ikem: ‘The original oppression of Woman was based on crude denigration. she caused Man to fall. So she became a scapegoat. No, not a scapegoat which might be blameless but a culprit richly deserving of whatever suffering Man chose thereafter to heap on her.’56

From the above, Beatrice is being created by Achebe to moderate the political imbalance as well as leadership dissonance in traditional African setting mediated by the ethos of patriarchy. Beatrice is in this light depicted as being imbued with a presence that resonates with a politically Machiavellian personality “between men and power.”57 “The actual exclusion of women from the art of governance, as well as their inability to wield power”58 is thus being moderated by Beatrice’s role in the novel: power-broker for the women for more inclusive and better leadership prospects and governance. In advancing Achebe’s mission to re-create women in his novels, which is a march through feminist aesthetic corridors, Beatrice is the consummation of this artistic sensibility. Thus, Beatrice’s “feminism is within the perimeter of the new women” dialectic59 – “The New Testament” that replaces the old 56

Achebe, Anthills of the Savannah, 97. Isidore Diala, “Mythic Mediation and Feminism,” 187. 58 Rose Acholonu, “Outside or Inside?” 321. 59 Nwagbara, “Towards a Paradigm Shift in the Niger Delta,” 355.

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order of women – “The Old Testament,”60 which witnessed the inglorious treatment of women as supine creatures. Beatrice embodies the “real woman,” who puts women’s issues at the centre of history for better leadership. In his Signature of Women, Onyemaechi Udumukwu takes this debate further: The real woman [. . . ] is that woman who even in the face of tyranny will not remain silent. In the history of Nigerian nationalism, for instance, the real woman is epitomised by the activities of a group of women who are today known by the Aba Women’s Riot of 1929.61

From the above snippet, the ‘real woman’ contention is amplified by the rise of the Spivakian subaltern, a movement from ignorance to knowledge; a transition from powerlessness to power acquisition and redistribution of political leadership. Practical-minded in her political and leadership aspirations, Beatrice starts taking roles that were traditionally men’s business. One of these instances is the naming ceremony in which she takes the lead by naming Elewa’s daughter Amaechina, which means ‘may the path /compound never close’. Her action foreshadows a kind of denouement in the novel; it is in essence a paradigm shift in Kangan leadership. Beatrice had decided on a sudden inspiration to hold a naming ceremony in her flat for Elewa’s baby-girl. She did not intend a traditional ceremony. Indeed except in name only she did not intend ceremony of any kind.62

On top of this, the name that Beatrice gives Elewa’s daughter resounds with a bid to change the order of things in Kangan. The name, as seen above, heralds a new beginning. This is because, as Achebe’s early novels show, women were considered insignificant; so the birth of a female child made women feel that they had no inheritance in a man’s house until they were able to have male children. But with Amaechina, it means that women are no longer “mere objects of history.”63 Symbolically, Amaechina synthesizes Beatrice’s feminist agitation by advancing the need to see women as men’s equals. This notion is out of sync with the traditional notion of female births, which signified that

60

Achebe, Anthills of the Savannah, 98, 97. Onyemaechi Udumukwu, Signature of Women, 1. 62 Achebe, Anthills of the Savannah, 217. 63 Onyemaechi Udumukwu, Signature of Women, 7. 61

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they have no inheritance in their fathers’ compound or that they cannot lay claim to their fathers’ estate or chattel. Further to transcending the trammels of androcentric, phallic tyranny, Beatrice envisions a new era: But the way I see it is that giving women today the same role which traditional society gave them of intervening only when everything else has failed is not enough, you know, like the women in the Sembene film who pick up the spears abandoned by their defeated menfolk.64 It is not enough that women should be the court of last resort because the last resort is a damn sight too far and too late!65

Since Kangan is an allegory of Nigeria, the vision Beatrice has for this social space is applicable to Nigeria, which shares similar experiences with the issues articulated in the novel; hence, according to Kunle Ajayi, “Nigerian women have, since independence, been denied opportunities of assuming political leadership at all levels of governance in the nation’s federal set-up.”66

Conclusion Across the globe, there is a call to re-examine the myth of women’s powerlessness as well as their passive leadership role in relation to men’s place in society. This new and radical way of comprehending womanhood in Africa (Nigeria) finds expression in feminist discourse and literature that chimes with a new way of apprehending reality for distributed, shared leadership that resonates with a paradigm shift, a marker for radical change in the apprehension of reality. In the wake of postmodernist (feminist) rhetoric, this movement in Nigeria, increasingly strident and urgent, demands a more equal society, as well as fairness in political leadership crucial for re-forging the question of gendered governance. From Achebe’s first novel, Things Fall Apart, to his last, Anthills of the Savannah, the main emphasis is on articulating, in a kind of Bildungsroman, the changing generations of Achebe’s women from the margins of society in terms of leadership roles to power brokers on a journey from ignorance of who they really are to self-recog64

Beatrice is here referring to Ousmane Sembène, Mandabi, or The Money Order (France / Senegal, 1968; 90 (French) / 105 (Wolof) min.). 65 Achebe, Anthills of the Savannah, 91–92. 66 Kunle Ajayi, “Gender Self-Engendering: The Sexist Issue in Nigerian Politics,” Journal of Social Science 14.2 (2007): 137.

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nition. This process amounts to an Aristotelian anagnorisis inflected with modernity, a discovery or paradigm shift that leads to marked change in practice. Although Achebe’s novels explored in this essay are fictive works, insights gained from assessing how his female characters move from the margin to the centre in terms of leadership consciousness and politics can be a signpost to rethinking mode of governance in Nigeria for a fairer and more inclusive society. Also, given that Nigerian (African) society remains prima facie patriarchal, issues explored in this essay can facilitate changes in political leadership that de-emphasize gender difference.

W O R K S C I TE D Achebe, Chinua. Anthills of the Savannah (London: Heinemann, 1987). ——. Arrow of God (1964; London: Heinemann, 1986). ——. The Education of a British-Protected Child: Essays (2009; London: Allen Lane The Penguin Press, 2009). ——. A Man of the People (1960; London: Heinemann, 1988). ——. Things Fall Apart (London: Heinemann, 1958). ——. The Trouble with Nigeria (1983; London: Heinemann, 1984). Acholonu, Rose. “Outside or Inside? Women in Anthills of the Savannah,” in Eagle on Iroko: Selected Papers from the Chinua Achebe International Symposium, 1990, ed. Edith Ihekweazu & Chukwuma Azuonye (Ibadan: Heinemann Educational, 1996): 311–21. Adeola, James. In Their Own Voices: African Women Writers Talk (Nairobi: Heinemann, 1990). Ajayi, Kunle. “Gender Self-Engendering: The Sexist Issue in Nigerian Politics,” Journal of Social Science 14.2 (2007): 137–47. Awolowo, Obafemi. The Path to Nigerian Freedom (London: Faber & Faber, 1947). Bass, Bernard. Leadership and Performance beyond Expectation (New York: Free Press, 1985). Burns, Bernard. Leadership (New York: Harper & Row, 1978). Chavoshian, Shohreh. “Demystifying the Myth of White Authenticity in Contemporary Afro-American Literature: The Anagnorisis of the ‘Other’,” Journal of Teaching English as a Foreign Language and Literature 1.3 (2009): 119–31. Culler, Jonathan. On Deconstruction: Theory and Criticism After Structuralism (Ithaca N Y : Cornell U P , 1982). Diala, Isidore. “Mythic Mediation and Feminism: Achebe’s Anthills of the Savannah,” A R I E L : A Review of International English Literature 36.3–4 (July 2005): 185– 202.

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Etkind, Alexander. “A Parable of Misrecognition: Anagnorisis and the Return of the Repressed from the Gulag,” Russian Review 68 (2009): 623–40. Evermann, Joerg. “Organizational Paradigms and Organizational Modelling,” in Business/ I T Alignment and Interoperability (Luxembourg: Caise, 2006): 230–39. Fonchinchong, Charles C. “Unbending Gender Narratives in African Literature,” Journal of International Women’s Studies 8.1 (November 2006): 135–47. Gastil, John. “A Definition and Illustration of Democratic Leadership,” Human Relations 47.8 (August 1994): 953–73. Gikandi, Simon. Reading Chinua Achebe: Language and Ideology in Fiction (London: James Currey, 1991). Heilbrun, Carolyn G. Writing a Woman’s Life (London: Women’s Press, 1989). Irele, Abiola. “Parables of the African Condition: A Comparative Study of Three PostColonial Novels,” Journal of African and Comparative Literature 1 (1981): 69–91. Kakabadse, Nada, & Andrew Kakabadse, “Leadership and the art of discretion,” Business Strategy Review 16.3 (Autumn 2005): 59–64. Kehinde, Ayo. “Rethinking African Fiction in the Era of Globalization: A Conflict of Text and Context,” Journal of the Nigerian English Studies Association 11.1 (2005): 87–100. Kolawole, Mary E. Modupe. Womanism and African Consciousness (Trenton N J : Africa World Press, 1997). Kuhn, Thomas. The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (Chicago: U of Chicago P , 1962). Kukah, Hassan. Democracy and Civil Society in Nigeria (Ibadan: Spectrum, 1999). Lewin, Kurt. “An Experimental Approach to the Study of Autocracy and Democracy: A Preliminary Note,” Sociometry 1.3–4 (January–April 1938): 292–300. Loomba, Ania. Colonialism / Postcolonialism (London: Routledge, 1988). MacFarlane, John. “Aristotle’s Definition of Anagnorisis,” American Journal of Philology 121 (2000): 367–83. McMillan, Carol. Women, Reason and Nature: Some Philosophical Problem with Feminism (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1982). Maier, Karl. This House Has Fallen: Midnight in Nigeria (London: Penguin, 2000). Mezu, Ure. Women in Chains: Abandonment in Love Relationships in the Fiction of Selected African Writers (Pikesville M D : Black Academy Press, 1994). Mohanty, Chandra Talpade. “Under Western Eyes: Feminist Scholarship and Colonial Discourse,” Feminist Review 30 (Autumn 1988): 61–88. Morrison, Jago. “Imagined Biafras: Fabricating Nation in Nigerian Civil War Writing,” A R I E L : A Review of International English Literature 36.1–2 (July–October 2005): 5–25. Mouffe, Chantal. The Return of the Political (London, Verso, 1993). Nnolim, Charles. “African Literature in the 21st Century: Challenges for Writer and Critics,” African Literature Today 25 (2006): 1–9.

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——. “Trends in the Nigerian Novel,” in Literature and National Consciousness, ed. Ernest Emenyonu (Calabar: Heinemann, 1989): 53–65. Nwagbara, Uzoechi. “Changing the Canon: Chinua Achebe’s Women, Public Sphere and the Politics of Inclusion in Nigeria,” Journal of Pan African Studies 3.3 (2009): 3–22. ——. “Towards a Paradigm Shift in the Niger Delta: Transformational Leadership Change in the Era of Post Amnesty Deal,” Journal of Sustainable Development in Africa 12.3 (January 2010): 387–400. Ogundiya, Ilufoye S. “The Cycle of Legitimacy Crisis in Nigeria: A Theoretical Explanation,” Journal of Social Science 20.2 (August 2009): 129–42. Ogunyemi, Chikwenye Okonjo. “Women and Nigerian Literature,” in Perspectives on Nigerian Literature: 1700 to the Present, ed. Yemi Ogunbiyi (Lagos: Guardian Books, 1988), vol. 1: 60–67. Okuyade, Ogaga. “Geography of Anxiety: Narrating Childhood and Resisting Familial Order in Recent Nigerian Women’s Writing,” Language Society and Culture 31 (2010): 72–80. Ojimah, Umelo. Chinua Achebe: New Perspectives (Ibadan: Spectrum, 1991). Owusu, Kofi. “The Politics of Interpretation: The Novels of Chinua Achebe,” Modern Fiction Studies 37.3 (Fall 1991): 459–70. Rich, Adrienne. “Poem X V I I ,” in Rich, Twenty-One Love Poems (California: Effie’s Press, 1976), repr. in Rich, The Dream of a Common Language: Poems 1974–1977 (New York: W.W. Norton, 1978): 84. Rouse, Joseph. “Power/Knowledge,” in The Cambridge Companion to Foucault, ed. Gary Gutting (1994; Cambridge: Cambridge U P , 2003): 95–122. Shaw, Flora. Letter, The Times (8 January 1897): 6. Sosteric, Michael. “The Death of Newton: Consciousness, Spirituality, and the Second Scientific Revolution,” Electronic Journal of Sociology (2005), http://www .docstoc.com/…/The-Death-of-Newton-Consciousness Spirituality-and-the-SecondScientific-Revolution (accessed 11 November 2011). Udumukwu, Onyemaechi. Signature of Women: The Dialectics of Action (Owerri: Onii Publishing House, 2007).

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Lazarus, Noah, and the Enunciation of the Resurrection Mythos in Soyinka’s The Interpreters ABSTRACT Political, cultural, and mythological readings have been recovered from Wole Soyinka’s The Interpreters, leading one to conclude that these critical readings hardly exceed the bounds of the thematically obvious, avoiding as they do purely textual analysis of the same work. This article, therefore, applying Northrop Frye’s concept of mythos – the structure of imagery significantly allied with the central character(s) of this work – offers a textual interpretation of the mythos of resurrection as anchored mainly in Lazarus and Noah, along with other minor characters who bear some slight relation to this mythos. It also shows how said mythos, concealed but later unearthed, ultimately announces the possibility and practicability of pure textual analysis that has been skipped with respect to The Interpreters and, by extension, the entire Nigerian literary tradition.

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I N T E R P R E T E R S I S O N E T E X T in the Nigerian literary tradition that has been greatly misunderstood. Kolawole Ogungbesan, like Olawole Awosika, reports one foremost misunderstanding: HE

Virtually all the participants at a symposium on ‘The novel and reality in Africa and America’, in Lagos in 1973, seemed to have agreed with Michael Echeruo that it was because Soyinka did not respond to the climate of opinion around him. ‘Nobody is bothered, I am afraid, by The Interpreters’ [. . . ] ‘It has not disturbed anybody as far as I know. It does not address itself to a general emotion.’1

1

Olawole Awosika, Form and Technique in the African Novel (Ibadan: Sam Bookman, 1997): 37; Kolawole Ogungbesan, “Wole Soyinka and the Novelist’s Responsibility in Africa,” in New West African Literature, ed. Kolawole Ogungbesan (London: Heinemann, 1979): 1. ”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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From a renowned international forum, represented by Lars Gyllensten, a member of the Swedish Academy and the Nobel Prize organization in his citation of Soyinka in his “Award Ceremony Speech,” came an acknowledgement that The Interpreters was “from intellectual circles in Nigeria.” What seems hidden in this claim and which is taken for granted is that literature reflects a positivistic correspondence to truth, an issue about which the above scholars hold opposite views. It is a claim Ogungbesan articulates as “general emotion.” Like Ogungbesan, but somewhat differing from him, Dellal argues that The Interpreters is an odd work in its tradition because of its structural deviances,2 while Hodges, holding a contrary perspective, posits, comparatively, that the trope of return is a recurrent motif in the prose works of Soyinka, including The Interpreters, whether this has to do with educated émigrés who are itinerant and therefore not at home, or with the home from where the émigrés set off at first.3 In reaching the above conclusion, Hodges complements his sociological criticism by resorting to autobiographical sources of historical events of the period. Somewhere out of the woods of contention over and sweeping assignibility of meanings to The Interpreters comes the question: what does it offer to us as its meaning when, as a text, it is placed on a plane devoid of strings? By ‘devoid of strings’ I mean the absence, in Northrop Frye’s terms, of authorial navel-strings and feeding-tubes.4 This textual initiative leads us to identify two major characters: Lazarus and Noah, and how, in articulating their career, they also end up articulating the mythos of resurrection. Frye asserted: “Of all images in literature, the most important are characters, the personalities that do most to mediate between the author and his public.”5 The most crucial way by which the characters perfect this mediation in the text is by initiating the mythos: i.e. the structure of imagery, a prompting force of progression that dialectically linking the personalities and events through their actions.6 2

Mohamed Dellal, “The Interpreters’ Cultural Politics, or Soyinka’s Postcolonial Otherness,” African Postcolonial Literature in English in The Postcolonial Web (6 December 2003), Postcolonialweb (accessed 13 June 2010). 3 Hugh Hodges, “Return to Sender: The Small Town in Wole Soyinka’s The Interpreters, Season of Anomy, Aké and Ìsarà,” Journal of Commonwealth Literature 42.5 (March 2007): 5–20. 4 Northrop Frye, Fables of Identity (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1963): 11. 5 Northrop Frye, Words with Power (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1990): 71. 6 Northrop Frye, Fables of Identity, 127.

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Therefore, the resurrection mythos, consisting of two segments – death and revival; death and rebirth – both of which qualify as separate mythoi, and how the characters posit the former, in a format displaced in The Interpreters, would be given ample textual analysis. In an apparent dimension, Lazarus, a major figure enunciating this mythos in The Interpreters, relates in his sermon: In front of me was a huge gate and I could see the top for it, but the end? It was nowhere. Neither to the left nor to the right, it was nowhere at all.7

A wrinkled old man, who has resumed flogging him on perceiving the impossibility of escape for him, flogs him again and again, shifting to blows on the mouth when Lazarus begs for mercy: My mouth swelled from the blow until it became nearly bigger than my head. And in great fear of death I began to cry – ‘Help me, someone, in God’s name help me!’ (169)

The open gate through which he makes an attempt to escape is the highest point of his death-revival story. Before proceeding, we need only note the significance of the name ‘Lazarus’, which becomes a reality with his eventual return to life, quite unlike the persona in Eliot’s “Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” where, in the midst of a tired life, he wishes he were able “To say: ‘I am Lazarus, come from the dead, / Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all’.”8 In mentioning his name, he calls to remembrance, almost to a point of celebration, the events that it echoes both in the Judaeo-Christian tradition and the event which happened a week earlier – he had died and at the moment of narration he is alive. He says to Egbo: I fall dead in the streets, of a strange village. The kind people bury me the following day, only as they are lowering the coffin into the grave, I wake up and begin to knock on the lid. That is all that is open to the eye of mortal witnesses. (160)

In sheer magnification of this incident, a redemptive move in the face of those who might dismiss it as trivial, he exclaims: “When the great event happened 7

Soyinka, The Interpreters (1965; London: Fontana, 1972): 169. Further page references are in the main text. 8 T.S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” (1915), in Eliot, Collected Poems, 1909–1962 (London: Faber & Faber, 1963): 16 (ll. 96–97).

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to me and I rose from the dead my life no longer belonged to me. I offered it to God” (160). However this may sound to Lazarus, when placed side by side with the Judaeo-Christian version which he weaves into his sermon, the incident informs and imitates the mythic pattern of death and revival or the structure of imagery, one of its earliest archetypes being the Adonis myth in the European literary tradition. It also echoes Odysseus’s visit to the underworld to seek the counsel of Teiresias, as counselled by Circe. His account apparently indicates the death-and-revival structure, that is, the mythos of resurrection, though he sees it as a miracle worth recounting in winning souls for Christ or to lend credibility to his ministerial duties. But through him and through his recounting, he leads us from the foregrounded, apparent, and partly displaced structure of this mythos to the indistinct and wholly displaced sort. For instance, what Lazarus claims for himself we can surmise in Noah, an important displaced figure of death /revival in The Interpreters, whose enunciation of this mythos commences from the funeral and burial of Brother Ezra, who meets Sir Derin at the Moloney Bridge. The bridge separates “the living from the dead” (112): i.e. the suburban settlements of the rich of Ikoyi and the poor quarters. That both processions meet there is symbolic, imbuing the bride with immense significance. The next symbol is posited by the lowering of the two corpses at the same time in the cemetery, and by the declaration that “the two bodies accepted now a common destination, passed through the final expunction” (113). It is this complicated interface of both the living and the dead, and the need for the living to make up for the dead, that creates the vacuum waiting for Noah to fill. But Noah is living and cannot now posit this structure of death and revival, except he himself has, in one form or the other, spread out actions that will, in the long run, implicate death. Then comes his act of theft, for which he must be given jungle justice, as with the ritual at Oyingbo (termed by the narrator “some strange, imprecise, unthinking agreement,” 115). The narrator bathes him in many echoes of the tragic as he scampers to safety: “Run, poor Negro, run,” “Barabbas, run” (114). By these, the runner appreciates in magnitude in comparison to what he must have or not have done. With the narrow misses of both the driver that “meant to kill him” and the mob, and with a renewed surge to amend these misses in order to make precise their next move of killing him, Noah can be said to have died moments before a policeman and Lazarus, and, later, Lazarus alone, perfected their rescue of him from death. At this point, having been dead and now coming back alive, in a more subterranean and almost indistinct manner, he

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deploys through his actions the mythos of resurrection, giving enormity to it in the process. He therefore serves to lend profound support to the Lazarus narrative, helping dismiss the mood of jocularity created by Lazarus’s story and replacing it with that of gravity. This argument is further strengthened in Lazarus’s sermon in the church scene, where both mythoi (inclusive of the death /rebirth mythos) are problematized, inter-refined, and accreted, drawing powerful echoes from both within the text and from the Judaeo-Christian tradition. The ‘interpreters’ have been invited to hear the detail of Lazarus’s resurrection story. In his prefatory remarks, he introduces himself as “ ‘ My name is Lazarus, not Christ, Son of God’” (164). In the course of his many strayings, all in an attempt to reveal how he died and rose again, he reveals much, including the genesis of Noah’s rescue: ‘My brother, this is the tenth day of the death of our brother [Brother Ezra], this is the day when we perform the outing of his death according to the traditions of our church. And those who are grieving will surely ask, did not the Lord Jesus promise resurrection? This man was an apostle of our church, a God-fearing man, why is he not here today? (165)

Later, he adds: ‘Brother Lazarus said unto God, where shall I find an apostle for the man you have taken? Which of my congregations must to be the twelfth Apostle in thy service? But the Lord shake his head. He said, Look outside the church, go ye into the streets and into the byways. (171)

The instruction from God he obeys by taking a step into the streets, and Noah is found, rescued, ushered in, and presented to the church. As if to make further elaboration to drum home the switching of Noah for Ezra to those members who cannot see beyond the ritual into some deep symbolic and metaphoric schema, Lazarus asks: ‘Well brothers, is Brother Ezra dead?’ He lives on in the Lord, praise God hallelujah! ‘Will he live on in Brother Noah?’ He walks among us! ‘Rejoice brothers. Receive him to your hearts!’ (174)

But who, then, is Brother Ezra, the old, dead member whom Noah, as a new, living member, substitutes for? A brief insight is given by Sagoe, who has interacted with Lazarus: “ ‘ Lazarus [...] founds a church turns thieves

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into apostles and calmly awaits the second coming’ ” (179). Nevertheless, any outside perception (say, that of Sagoe) could either be confirmed or refuted when substantiated on good authority. Lazarus himself serves us in that capacity as he confirms Sagoe’s half-doubting assessment: ‘Convert! I converted nothing. What you wrestle with, what you fight and defeat, that is true conversion. To change the nature of a real thief in a week, did you ever hear of that! I persisted only because it was the time of floods and this is the time for our Revivalist Services. We needed Noah. My true disciples are the thieves, the rejected of society. One of the apostles is a forger who has spent five years in prison. Another was the only member who escaped arrest when his gang was caught after a bank robbery. Urgent though my need was I could not break this rule. I had to find a sinner.’ (230)

Brother Ezra, from what one learns of Lazarus’s ministerial modus operandi, is definitely not Noah’s foil. Both possess similar histories in having been thieves, and if Brother Ezra did not really given up his thieving habits before his death, here is a living substitute to continue dragging on the string. Yet Brother Ezra’s and Noah’s histories are no different from Sir Derin’s, if their common Moloney Bridge funeral meetings, burials, and interrment in a cemetery have communicated some symbolic meaning. In a manner beyond superficial comprehension, whether it is Brother Ezra or Sir Derin, the compromising and corrupt Sagoe’s Chairman, and, by implication, Sekoni’s boss, who gets rid of Sekoni, his righteous employee, or the parliamentarians of the day, one deduces that the same deeds of corruption, in one way or the other, happens to link them all together and they seem to have contributed to the significance of the image that Noah is cut out to be at the point of his moblynching. His death at the hands of the mob and at the centre of his rescue back to life by Lazarus, even in his official taking-over of Brother Ezra’s space of apostleship as a living substitute for the dead, along with the profundity lent to the covert structure of death and revival beyond literal reading in The Interpreters – all this evokes ancient echoes from the world’s literary traditions. In the dedication of Barabbas, the Negro called Noah, or who, according to Lazarus, says “We baptized him Noah” (117), the dead Brother Ezra, corrupt like Sir Derin, is resurrected in the ‘resurrection’ or, rather, the rescue of Noah; he drops the robe of “the thief they chased at Oyinbgo” (172) and dons the kimono of Brother Ezra, the dead apostle. But here, too, a complication arises that plunges this structure in terms of symbol and praxis further into enigma before, during, and after the death of the former and the revival of the

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latter. Sir Derin, however, differs from Ezra. Sir Derin practises his corruption by using his office – officially, Ezra informally – on the streets; the other is literate, the latter not; much of the funeral procession – about a hundred cars – is attracted by Derin, the other, a little – just a car and eleven men. Moreover, Lazarus, who articulates the apparent evidence of the displaced mythos of resurrection, by his visit to Sagoe in the Club, becomes the instigator of another, indistinct, complementary phase of the same mythos. We hear the narrator say of Kola, whose imagination as an artist makes use of the orphic vision to see beyond the ordinary in Lazarus: Kola, his mind was full of fantasies – what should one make of this stranger’s timing, so soon after Sekoni’s death? [. . . ] Kola found he was boring into the man’s face as if he thought to see the Sheikh’s face de-metamorphosed from the albino’s [. . . ] from the face of mottled yellow chewing root wrung of all living juice. (160)

Sekoni, who has died, is broached here; he is not mentioned as a mere prompting of memory, but as a possibility and reality as an artist, or as more than an artist could figure out. In which case, Noah is to Sir Derin and Bro Ezra before the ‘interpreters’ and to Lazarus what Lazarus, unknowingly to him, is to Sekoni, before Kola, alone through the artist’s insight and nuanced poetic vision. With Christ having defeated death and opened a new chapter of living which Lazarus preaches, and, by the same preacher, coming, incidentally and coincidentally just after Sekoni’s death, to the Club where Sekoni’s chair is vacant, he makes himself a space-filler for others – precisely what he comes seeking for himself. In a sense, Lazarus is a filler occupying the interpreters’ vacant space as he ventures to seek a filler (i.e. in seeking Noah) to occupy the vacant opening in his church. This image is even carried further by Dehinwa, who, having not seen Lazarus before and being among the group of persons over whom Sekoni’s shadow hangs, exclaims: “He’s coming” (159), signalling Lazarus’ approach towards them to tell of his revival in the place where Noah is to be officially inducted. His presence marks a new beginning of Sekoni’s presence in the club long after he is gone. The narrator informs that “Sekoni [. . . ] was more oppressively with them now than the strain of his stuttering intensity ever was,” implying that he is much more felt then than ever (159). It is still this Sekoni’s presence that helps them preserve their calmness until a later time, during “The Wrestler”’s exhibition, when they can no longer contain their emotion.

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From the analysis so far, the covert mythos of resurrection can be seen to be unearthed; this suggests the practicability in the Nigerian critical tradition of the often neglected mode of purely (con)textual analysis, here with particular regard to The Interpreters.

W O R K S C I TE D Awosika, Olawole. Form and Technique in the African Novel (Ibadan: Sam Bookman, 1997). Dellal, Mohamed. “The Interpreters’ Cultural Politics, or Soyinka’s Postcolonial Otherness,” African Postcolonial Literature in English in The Postcolonial Web (6 December 2003), Postcolonialweb (accessed 13 June 2010). Eliot, T.S. “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” (1915), in Eliot, Collected Poems, 1909–1962 (London: Faber & Faber, 1963): 13–17. Frye, Northrop. Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays (Princeton N J : Princeton U P , 1957). ——. Fables of Identity (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1963). ——. Words with Power (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1990). Gyllensten, Lars. “Nobelprize.org” (7 September 2010), Nobelprize.org (accessed June 2010). Hodges, Hugh. “Return to Sender: The Small Town in Wole Soyinka’s The Interpreters, Season of Anomy, Aké and Ìsarà,” Journal of Commonwealth Literature 42.5 (March 2007): 5–20. Ogungbesan, Kolawole. “Wole Soyinka and the Novelist’s Responsibility in Africa,” in New West African Literature, ed. Kolawole Ogungbesan (London: Heinemann, 1979): 1–9. Soyinka, Wole. The Interpreters (1965; London: Fontana, 1972).

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The Àbikú Mystique — The Metaphor of Subversive Narrative in Buchi Emecheta’s Kehinde ABSTRACT Contemporary African literature pervasively represents corporeal fragmentation; unstable and incoherent selves emerge from the collisive transcultural space of postcolonial existence. Buchi Emecheta’s 1994 novel Kehinde dramatizes the tensions between the incoherent self and the quest for self-realization. It is a novel of crossroads – of cultures and traditions – of crises of identifications variously experienced by its major characters. In this autobiographical narrative, the eponymous protagonist is engaged in intense resistance to dominant discourses and patriarchal institutions at home and in the diaspora. Kehinde assumes a heterodox nature akin to that of Soyinka’s Àbikú. Àbikú, a primordial presence withcomplex, multiple, and contradictory identities and accretions, social, emotional, and cultural, serves as both a resistance trope and a theoretical frame for the recovery of disarticulated female identities in Emecheta’s novel. The Àbikú mystique involves the distinctive narration of fractured or subsumed identities embedded as a figuration of agency. The paradoxes of Àbikú’s existence offer a conceptual space; Àbikú works as a thematic, aesthetic, and narratological device which destabilizes essentialist and unified identities of postcolonial Nigerian women.

Colonialism never died; a seasoned, uncanny actor, it only went on to change its mask, then reentered the stage as neo-colonialism. And this state of dependent independence….1

Introduction

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following the profound depredations of Africa by colonialists has been massively represented in the decolonization literatures of the early post-independence era on the continent. Africa has tried to re-inscribe and reHE ARTISTIC, CULTURAL, AND INTELLECTUAL RENAISSANCE

1

Niyi Osundare, “Getting the Falcon to Hear the Falconer: The Eternal Value of Things Fall Apart,” in Blazing the Path: Fifty Years of “Things Fall Apart”, ed. Chima Anyandike & Kehinde A. Ayoola (Ibadan: Heinemann Educational, 2012): 299. ”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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assert the disarticulated and marginalized presence of its peoples into new national and cultural frames, and since this early period, African writers and critics have been preoccupied with the fissures, isolationism, lack of rootedness, the dilemmas of the alteration to their identities and other deep-seated concerns that reverberate from the conflicts of that disruptive experience. Ngugi’s critical essays in Homecoming (1970), Ayi Kwei Armah in his novels The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born (1968) and Fragments (1971), as well as Soyinka in his novel Season of Anomy (1973) and his well-known poem “Abiku,”2 are only a fragment of the expansive range of literary works that capture the anomic, sometimes schizoid, psychological, socio-political, national, and cultural crises following the experience of colonialism. While the foregoing may be truisms, they nevertheless indicate the twin problematic that underlies this essay. I will, therefore, proceed to indicate more directly the conceptual basis of this essay. My first position is that this essay is not a facile, rhetorical engagement with the conflicts of the long-gone experience of colonialism that, according to Olufemi Taiwo, seems to be the bane of the “criticism and analyses of the literary works by African writers in English.”3 Beyond the experience of colonialism, other endogenous problems threaten the very existence of modern African states. Since political independence in many of these countries over four decades ago, many socio-economic and developmental issues, extended periods of despotic military rulership, fratricidal wars and acts of genocide continually plague and define her realities. All of these, in combination with the tenebrous circumstances of the emergence of African literature, in particular that of African women, are inevitably inflected in the artistic / literary productions of these writers. For women writers in particular, the layers of masculinist imaginaries which have since the 1980s defined much of African literature compel them as writers to negotiate new spaces and identities in order to rewrite and reinvent the female presence and inscribe it in a hubristic national discourse

2

“In vain your bangles cast / Charmed circles at my feet / I am Abiku, calling for the first / And the repeated time”; Wole Soyinka, “Abiku” (1952), in Soyinka, Idanre and Other Poems (London: Methuen, 1967): 28. 3 Olufemi Taiwo, “On Agency and Change: Chinua Achebe and the Philosophy of History,” in Blazing the Path: Fifty Years of “Things Fall Apart”, ed. Chima Anyandike & Kehinde A. Ayoola (Ibadan: Heinemann Educational, 2012): 96.

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which depoliticizes women.4 While Emecheta has gained visibility and canonicity as a female writer in the diaspora, her 1994 novel Kehinde is less well known compared to her earlier novels. Also, Emecheta’s diasporic experiences substantially animate her novels. However, it is in Kehinde that we encounter a more elaborate thematization and structure of the author’s liminal, ‘mestiza’5 personality, which resonates in the idea and nature of Àbikú, prefiguring the duplicities central in the interpretation of the novel. The Àbikú phenomenon transcends the immediate Nigerian or even West African socio-cultural and mytho-religious space. Indeed, the iconic figure of Àbikú has, inevitably, migrated or wandered into other African diasporic settings in Brazil, the Caribbean, and America, gathering in its trail a plethora of polysemous significations that constantly redefine and reconstitute its attributes. The various attempts at defining Àbikú are indicative of its numerous métissage identifications, variously deployed negatively or positively. Wole Soyinka, in his 1952 poem “Abiku,” subtitles it “wanderer-child,” while Niyi Osundare describes it as a “child-god,”6 both poets epitomizing the “constellar concept”7 or essence that characterizes the phenomenon of Àbikú. It is, however, in the female Nigerian literary tradition that this essay seeks to earth Àbikú’s limbs. In this regard, I place the mytho-cultural phenomenon of Àbikú in the context of resistance in order to underline the twin critical conceptual positions of this essay. One of the most immediately revealing characteristics of Àbikú is its uncanny ability to defy conventional identifications. Indeed, its power lies mysteriously embedded in its defiance of attempts at normalizing 4

This is a paraphrase of studies by Rhonda Cobham, “Men and History: Achebe and the Politics of Revisionism,” in M L A Handbook on Critical Approaches to the Teaching of “Things Fall Apart”, ed. Bernth Lindfors (New York: M L A , 1991): 91– 100, and Nana Wilson–Tagoe, “Reading Towards a Theorisation of African Women’s Writing: African Women Writers within Feminist Gynocriticism,” in Writing African Women: Gender, Popular Culture and Literature in West Africa, ed. Stephanie Newell (London: Zed, 1997): 11–28, who originally articulated this idea. 5 Cf. Gloria Anzaldúa, Borderlands / La Frontera: The New Mestiza (1987; San Francisco: Aunt Lute, 3rd ed. 2007). 6 Niyi Osundare, “The Poem as a Mytho-Linguistic Event: A Study of Soyinka’s ‘Abiku’,” African Literature Today 16 (1988): 93. 7 Ato Quayson, Calibrations: Reading for the Social (Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P , 2003): 123.

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its existence. Second, conjoin this relentlessly defiant attributive nature of Àbikú with the notion of resistance in the development of the Nigerian feminist novel. Resistance is a temporal, spatial, and conceptual space in which the seminal narratives of African women are produced. African women writers not only continually reshape the fictional landscape of their respective countries, they also encode within their narratives various attempts to contest and resist conventional images and identities about women. It is thus imperative to interrogate the aesthetic forms and figures of these textual resistances in order to understand the reconfigured identities of these women. In the particular example of Emecheta’s Kehinde, resistance is considered as a narrative strategy, aestheticized and thematized through the Àbikú phenomenon. While previous studies of Kehinde mostly foreground its position in Nigerian feminist thought, as in the studies of Kolawole and Uwakweh,8 the present essay considers the author’s engagement with the powerful currents of racial, cultural, and sexual oppression in which resistance becomes an important aesthetic and thematic trope in that novel. Recent theorizations and critiques of identity in postcolonial discourse have benefited enormously from the insights of Pal Ahluwalia, Homi K. Bhabha, Arif Dirlik, Anne McClintock, Benita Parry, and Phillip Leonard, among several others.9 In particular, Homi K. Bhabha’s The Location of Culture remains one of the most influential theorizations of migrancy, identity, and in-betweenness, and, despite the controversies he inspires, the work is insightful in challenging normative concepts of cultural purity and identity and questioning the tendency of postcolonial theory to rigidly maintain binary 8

Mary E. Modupe Kolawole, Gender Perceptions & Development in Africa: A Socio-Cultural Approach (Lagos: Arrabon, 1998), and Pauline Ada Uwakweh, “To Ground the Wandering Muse: A Critique of Buchi Emecheta’s Feminism,” in Emerging Perspectives on Buchi Emecheta, ed. Marie Umeh (Trenton N J : Africa World Press, 1996): 395–406. 9 See, for example, Pal Ahluwalia, Politics of Postcolonial Theory: African Inflections (London: Routledge, 2001), Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London: Routledge. 1994), Arif Dirlik, “The Postcolonial Aura: Third World Criticism in the Age of Global Capitalism,” Critical Inquiry 20.2 (Winter 1994): 325–56, Anne McClintock, Imperial Leather: Race, Gender and Sexuality in the Colonial Context. (New York & London: Routledge, 1995), Benita Parry, Postcolonialist Studies: A Materialist Critique (London: Routledge, 2005), and Phillip Leonard, Nationality between Poststructuralism and Postcolonial Theory: A New Cosmopolitanism (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005).

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or oppositional differences between colonized and colonizer. Bhabha shows that hybridization points to the possibility of turning around hegemonic concepts of identities and cultural purity, a hybridization which may be, and has indeed been, used as a strategy of resistance to colonial authority. This suggests that, for the colonized, the fundamental and supplemental assumptions of their identities can be transcended and used for subversive purposes. In an explanatory note on Bhabha’s postulations, John McLeod observes that Bhabha addresses the “experience of those who live ‘border lives’ on the margins of different nations, in-between contrary homelands”: For Bhabha, living at the border, at the edge, requires a new ‘art of the present’ […]. Borders are important thresholds, full of contradiction and ambivalence. They both separate and join different places. They are intermediate locations where one contemplates moving beyond a barrier […]. For Bhabha, the border is the place where conventional patterns of thought are disturbed and can be disrupted by the possibility of crossing. At the border, past and present, inside and outside no longer remain separated as binary opposites but instead commingle and conflict.10

Bhabha makes it clear that living in borderlands requires a certain dexterity of living in-between. This space appears inchoate; simultaneously joined yet, ineluctably, separated. And various postcolonial African writers reveal that the experiences in these spaces or social contexts are influential in their imaginative narratives. The latter are replete with the imagery and symbolism of alienation, psychological disequilibrium, and/or fractured selves characterized by paradoxical presences and absences experienced on multiple levels. Emecheta’s Kehinde is one such novel in which the narrative is structured by the problems and politics of individual identities in the material and emotional postcolonial context. The Okolo family, first in the London diaspora and, eventually, in Lagos, is powerfully reflective of the contradictions and negations that once-colonized subjects embody. Symbolically and materially re-reading the erasures, contradictions, and negations of such people is central to postcolonial theory’s endeavour to access the multiple meanings and knowledges that transform predetermined placings of cultural identification.

10

217.

John McLeod, Beginning Postcolonialism (Manchester: Manchester U P , 2000):

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The Àbikú Mystique: A Resistance Strategy Within the complex interchange of the colonial experience, the concept of hybridity, in particular, suggests that there are borders in which the identities of colonial subjectivities are nuanced by the disruptive patterns of ambivalence and dislocation. Consistently, Emecheta incarnates her personal experiences in the lives of her female protagonists; Kehinde, the eponymous protagonist of the novel examined here, is one such. Emecheta’s threefold cultural roots in Ibuza, Lagos, and London are home to her, and her stories often oscillate between them, resonating with the politics of identity. These place Emecheta in borderlands which sometimes compel what, in postcolonial terminology, may be called ‘mestiza’ consciousness. Critics including Okonjo– Ogunyemi and Brenda Cooper correctly note this point and make it central to their interpretation of Kehinde.11 Okonjo–Ogunyemi perceptively notes of Kehinde that Emecheta’s “been-to fiction” straddles sharply contrasting worlds and observes that Emecheta herself is the most ‘ogbanje’ of all the writers considered in her own study, “journeying imaginatively and metaphorically in her texts.”12 In her other fictions, such as The Slave Girl and Joys of Motherhood, Emecheta again features the Àbikú phenomenon. Àbikú and its Igbo correlative, the ‘ogbanje’, which have served several writers and critics various interpretative purposes, originate in Soyinka’s poem “Abiku.” Àbikú, ever since its appearance, has animated a discursive range of issues on the socio-political history and dilemmas of Nigeria and other nations in Africa. Other discourses it has influenced include African metaphysics in dialogue with other religions, oral literature, memory, parent– child relationships, migrancy, and exilic conditions, as the engrossing studies of Chidi Maduka, Niyi Osundare, Chikwenye Okonjo–Ogunyemi, Douglas McCabe, and Christopher Okonkwo demonstrate.13 These studies demon11

Chikwenye Okonjo–Ogunyemi, African Wo/man Palava: The Nigerian Novel by Women (Chicago: U of Chicago P , 1996), and Brenda Cooper, “Banished from Oedipus? Buchi Emecheta’s and Assia Djebar’s Gendered Language of Resistance,” Research in African Literatures 38.2 (Summer 2007): 144–60. 12 Okonjo–Ogunyemi, African Wo/man Palava, 220. 13 See, for example, Chidi T. Maduka, “African Religious Beliefs in Literary Imagination: Ogbanje and Abiku in Chinua Achebe, J.P. Clark and Wole Soyinka,” Journal of Commonwealth Literature 22.1 (March 1987): 17–30, Niyi Osundare, “The Poem as a Mytho-Linguistic Event: A Study of Soyinka’s ‘Abiku’,” Chikwenye Okonjo–Ogunyemi, “An Abiku / Ogbanje Atlas: A Pre-Text for Rereading Soyinka’s Ake and Morrison’s Beloved,” African American Review 36.4 (Winter 2002): 666–78, Douglas

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strate the highly complex nature of the Àbikú phenomenon, which cannot be harnessed merely as an anthropological incarnation of a cultural artefact. In this essay, I deploy two important aspects of the Àbikú symbolic as a paradigmatic frame for understanding postcolonial identities, and further suggest it as possibly the most complex expression of subversion of identifications in Emecheta’s novel. The Àbikú mystique, beyond its mythopoeic cultural rationalization for the infant mortality once widespread in the West African sub-region, is thus evoked in this essay as a narrative of the instabilities of identiy. As a “wanderer-child,” the idiom Soyinka himself uses to subtitle his poem, Àbikú with its propensity for life-and-death cycles, persistently prompts counter-narratives of its previous existence and subsequent rebirth. The exploitation of its cumulative cycles of death and rebirth makes Àbikú simultaneously revered and feared. With its uncanny ability to bestride the bounds of temporality and space, Àbikú by its nature and existence is not merely vagrant, but proves defiant. This complex ability to defy and resist the natural order is what empowers Àbikú and connects its narrative structurally and thematically with Emecheta’s Kehinde. In her novel, Emecheta critiques and destabilizes the imperious discourses surrounding African women’s identities, producing thereby a counter-narrative. She deconstructs stereotypes of African women’s identity, sexuality, Western imperialism, and nativity, in order to re-present new and authentic images. Kehinde and other characters in the novel are in search of new and better experiences. But Kehinde is like Soyinka’s disruptive Àbikú, whose ambivalence and contradictions produce intensely conflictual identifications of its nature and character. Both Kehinde and the metaphor of her existence prefigured by Àbikú traverse hugely divergent locales, in the process triggering important relational debates such as between Empire and colony, past and present, traditional and modern urban life, deep introspection and lived experience, as well as the land of the living and that of the dead, all deftly crafted as sources of meaning in the novel. These manifold shifts between spaces are not merely physical but also symbolic, material, thematic, and

McCabe, “Histories of Errancy: Oral Yoruba Abiku Texts and Soyinka’s ‘Abiku’,” Research in African Literatures 33.1 (Spring 2002): 45–74, and Christopher Okonkwo, A Spirit of Dialogue: Incarnations of Ogbañje the Born-to-Die in African American Literature (Nashville: U of Tennessee P , 2008).

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psychological, connecting author /protagonist convivially with the irrepressible and indomitable spirit of Àbikú. Emecheta’s fictional Kehinde in real life bears within her the fragments of her immolated sister and mother. Their presence in her life is, of course, metaphysically rationalized by the parallel and inseparable African worlds of the dead and the living. As she carries with her the memorabilia of the past entombed in the dark recesses of her mind, Kehinde is like an Àbikú who carries with her the proverbial charmed circle of her beloved ones; she is never free of the haunting sense of their portentous presence. As Kehinde moves back and forth across the borderlands of consciousness and the subconscious presences of her loved ones, she is empowered by the accretions of their identities. She is able to escape into them, accessing there multiple layers of wisdom with which she can controvert the oppressive hegemonic discourses around her. Emecheta, concerned as a feminist with the gendered, economic, sociocultural, political, and religious forces that weigh down upon the marginalized lives and identities of her characters, is determined to reinscribe their agency. It is, therefore, inconsistent to find that Mary Kolawole, in her discussion of Kehinde, simply attributes Emecheta’s “probing of the male–female binary” to a paradoxical womanist inclination.”14 Kolawole’s suggestion is that Emecheta’s contribution to the discourse of hybridity appears merely incidental. However, in the context of postcolonial studies in which this essay is situated, Emecheta’s postulation is far more complicated, extending far beyond the simple binary opposition suggested by Kolawole. In a similar vein, Pauline Ada Uwakweh, in her reading of Kehinde, attributes Emecheta’s supposed failure to successfully integrate her African feminist aspirations to the protagonist’s “culturally ambiguous” position. Uwakweh argues further that Emecheta’s feminism is ambivalent, as “she seems torn by her allegiance to African culture and her ideological commitment to feminism.”15 Like Kolawole, Uwakweh fails to understand Emecheta’s recourse to the resonances of her hybridized identities as an important process in the formation of the female postcolonial subject. Two problematic points, therefore, emerge from the interpretative positions of Kolawole and Uwakweh. They both adduce ambivalence founded on Emecheta’s threefold origins as 14

Mary E. Modupe Kolawole, Gender Perceptions & Development in Africa: A Socio-Cultural Approach (Lagos: Arrabon, 1998): 160. 15 Pauline Ada Uwakweh, “To Ground the Wandering Muse,” 397.

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the nexus of the author’s seemingly contradictory feminism. Neither critic sees Emecheta’s attempt to encode new self-images through the disruption of mimetic correlatives rooted in stereotypical, socio-culturally defined identities. The present essay thus argues that it is in Kehinde that Emecheta’s feminism appears most eloquently enunciated in her subversion of the normative representations of African women. In this process, Emecheta undertakes a paradigmatic shift in which she interrogates orthodox notions of heterosexual roles and identities. Several of the characters in the novel, including Kehinde’s husband, Albert Okolo, their children, Bimpe and Joshua, as well as their other neighbours who migrated to the U K , traverse two or more opposing cultures and histories. They all, therefore, live in the precipitous consciousness of the borderlands of their immigrant status, both physically and psychologically. Readers of Emecheta’s Kehinde must negotiate the multiple locations, knowledges, meanings, ideas, and cosmologies that frame the consciousness of these characters. It is from the interstices of all these multiple cosmologies and locales, powerfully structured as aspects of their consciousness, that the reader can hope to uncover from the novel its multiple anterior and posterior meanings, cultural exchanges, and identities.

Fractured Identities: A Metaphor for the Displacement of Dominant Forms of Narration In Kehinde, the author explores the complex forms of mental and emotional distress suffered by several of the characters as they search for a home in places other than home. As they oscillate materially and emotionally between “contrary homelands” – home (in Nigeria or Pakistan), as well as home in urban London – they connect, in no facile manner, with Soyinka’s Àbikú. As Emecheta’s narrative traverses these locales, the reader encounters fractured snippets of the plot as well as of the characters which conjure images of cultural contradictions. One such contradiction is the potential for abstraction or atrophying of the characters behind a façade where they hide their real selves. To this extent, the characters embody several fissures which are variously symbolized in the novel. This is perhaps most eloquently demonstrated in the chapter titled “origins,” in which true familial and kinship ties are so complicated that the men, in exasperation, remark of their confusion: “Children of the same father calling each other ‘half’. No wonder the white man’s country

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is a place of everybody for himself.”16 The individuation of Western life and its exclusionary characteristic are clearly in opposition to the more robust and inclusive family relations of Africans. This confusing and alienating experience is also keenly felt by Prahbu, Albert’s colleague at the warehouse. Although a Pakistani, he is loosely identified by his other colleagues as “India.” This symbolically presents Prahbu to his colleagues as a abstract distillate of Asian extraction with all the pejoratives this stereotype connotes. In the two examples seen so far, Emecheta reveals the agonistic cultural dynamic that places her characters in intensely conflictual and contradictory struggles in their search for self realization. However, the protagonist’s quest for self-realization is more palpably represented in the novel. When, at the celebration of her late mother’s life, the praise-singers ululate and celebrate Kehinde’s threefold spiritual anchorage, their allusions are, simultaneously, magical and spiritual. They declare that Kehinde is the strong, indomitable, and irrepressible one who “has the chi of three great women in her” (82). The threefold symbolism of Kehinde’s essence, singularly, bestows on her mythic powers that appear to stand her in good stead as she journeys through life. As the story unfolds, feeding on her twin in utero is not a mere cannibalistic accident. Rather, Kehinde symbolically feeds on her sister’s flesh, thus conjuring the eucharistic injunction to feed on the flesh and blood of Jesus Christ. No wonder Taiwo resurrects in her consciousness, playing out the role of Kehinde’s messiah; source and pillar of strength. Emecheta seems to explore the Àbikú mystique in her novel as a heterodox critique of women’s identities. For instance, although appearing as the outsider in the life of her twin and, therefore, only parenthetical to the plot, Taiwo, like Àbikú, remains spectral – indeed, formidable – in Kehinde’s life and psyche. Taiwo, mostly speaking from the intangible world of the dead, has a life that is almost as tangible as that of her twin, Kehinde. Thus, Taiwo opens a divergent site through which she influences her twin; her voice, though elided, is strident like Àbikú’s voice in Soyinka’s poem. Although disembodied, Taiwo’s voice is strong enough to subvert the culture of silence and invisibility. And, separated from the conscious world of the living, Taiwo nevertheless returns to the land of the living, ostensibly playing significantly definitive roles in the process of her twin’s maturation. It is Taiwo who helps 16

Buchi Emecheta, Kehinde (Oxford: Heinemann Educational, 1994): 80. Unless otherwise indicated, further page references are in the main text.

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her never “to accept humiliation’ or defeat (128). It is the presence of her twin who doubles as her alter ego that sustains Kehinde at very depressing moments when she thinks of giving in to the pressures of her bitter experiences with Albert. At the end of the novel, Kehinde is conjoined to the spirit of her natal twin; she becomes radical, this time standing her ground, refusing to be pushed around by her son, Joshua, who returns to her London home hoping to take charge of it at the bidding of his father. The voice of Taiwo is thus the unscripted narration of Kehinde’s more revolutionary but subliminal self, subverting the identification of victimhood and marginalization assigned to African women. The narrational subversion of the linear or exterior narrative in Emecheta’s novel somewhat connects with the epistolary form of writing employed by the Senegalese writer Mariama Bâ in So Long a Letter. In Bâ’s novel, the interiorization of Ramatoulaye’s thoughts dramatizes the problems of exclusion of the self and the imaginary other. John C. Hawley reads this as a process of “defamiliarization,” reflecting, in the struggle between “distance” and “participation,” Kehinde’s fractured self. As Hawley further explains, the other “passersby,” usually westernized Nigerian women, overhear only one half of the conversation, they feel embarrassment for this apparently disoriented woman and they implicitly demand that such unorthodox communing cease.17

Kehinde’s constantly fragmented communications, though occurring on the subconscious level, affect her relationship with friends and relatives. The differences in the critical perspectives of the twins engender a duality, even sometimes a plurality of standpoints which is de rigueur in the postmodern feminist narrative tradition. While Moriammo, for instance, is acutely aware of this, Albert fails to connect with this familiar aspect of his wife because “Albert’s imagination could not carry him that far. […] He had nothing to offer her” (33). This process distances Albert from his wife, and so he is often left as the “outsider” as she communes with her inner resources. Their marriage is thus Àbikú-like, portending Kehinde’s eventual separation from Albert.

17

John C. Hawley, “Coming to Terms: Buchi Emecheta’s Kehinde and the Birth of a Nation,” in Emerging Perspectives on Buchi Emecheta, ed. Marie Umeh (Trenton N J : Africa World Press, 1996): 335.

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The ubiquities of her twin and mother figure in Kehinde’s life and psyche as continuities of the past in the present; they feature as alternative sites of meaning, producing new knowledges and inscribing themselves in the narrative of their hostess. Through the subliminal discourse of these enigmatic, invisible presences, Emecheta subverts the real conditions of Kehinde’s life, narrating on the level of the subconscious a counter-hegemonic discourse that is, in a sense, rebellious or, at the very least, iconoclastic. Thus, while Kolawole reads Kehinde as yet another victim of her circumstances,18 a re-conceptualization of the protagonist’s multiple consciousness through the metaphor of the Àbikú mystique revises the typical position of female victimhood. Thus by the end of the novel, Kehinde becomes fully agentive, demonstrating her ability to resist the selfish patriarchal influences of the men in her life. Kehinde’s return to her London home is, therefore, not as one returning to the old mould or the nostalgic past; she returns more knowledgeable and more confident, and she recovers what is her due. The author’s substantial foregrounding of the invisible but spectral presences of the dead establishes within her writing the metaphoric tropes for connectivity with Kehinde’s present and future. This connects remarkably with the political context of the novel’s emergence, in that, in the same manner in which Kehinde carries Taiwo’s essence around, the present postcolonial context would be more accurately understood in relation to its active past. In other words, the past is an active dimension of the present. This runs parallel to the way in which Pal Ahluwalia contextualizes the relationship between colonialism and postcolonialism – once colonization occurs, it, and the cultural shifts which it inevitably produces, leads to new configurations and new energies, as a result of which it is never possible to revert to precolonial forms. There is, in essence, no pre-colonial return to, for no society is static; all societies are changing constantly making and remaking themselves.19

This implies that the past experiences of colonialism, like the ubiquitous presences in Kehinde’s life, are not precluded but need to be constantly reinterpreted. This connects, in a way, with the second epigraph to this essay, which emphasizes its relevance as an historical and temporal presaging of the present. The compelling need to understand her origins inspires a precocious inquisitiveness in Kehinde. Although this is initially kept from her, even as a 18 19

Mary E. Modupe Kolawole, Gender Perceptions & Development in Africa, 176. Pal Ahluwalia, Politics of Postcolonial Theory, 111.

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child she actively and intimately engages with her unknown past in the realities of her daily life. It is necessary, therefore, to take a close look at this origin, as it is pivotal to explaining the realities of Kehinde’s life, as she herself recalls: Nobody told me that Aunt Nnebogo was not my mother, and that was what I called her till I was eleven years old. When they gave me akara or moyinmoyin as a toddler, I would share it into two, part for me and part for my Taiwo – the one who came to taste life for me. I did this even though I did not know I was a twin or that I had deprived my Taiwo of her life. I even talked to her in my sleep, without knowing who I was talking to. Sometimes Aunt Nnebogo used to be impatient and angry over my wanting to do everything twice. I later realised that she did not want me to know the story of my birth. She knew people would remember and say, ‘Was this not that baby that brought bad luck to her mother and baby sister? Was this not the child that deprived her brothers and sisters of the joy of having and a mother? What are you doing with such ill-luck child?’ But Aunt Nnebogo had no child of her own, and she wanted to protect me. (19)

In this one extensive paragraph, several factors of domination and repression inflect Kehinde’s origins and psyche; extending from her pre-natal origins into her adult life and foreshadowing her fragmented self. Brenda Cooper, in another context that speaks to the present discussion of the suppression of Kehinde’s origins, explains: Part of this suppression involves initiating Kehinde into the Christian stories and symbols, such as that of Esau and Jacob, echoing by concealing, the twin from whom Kehinde had become separated. She even gives her the Christian name, Jacobina, “after Jacob, who fought and won the battle against his brother Esau in the Bible.” Her aunt told her that story so often that “for a while, I thought it was the story of my own birth.”20

Importantly, Cooper illustrates how Aunt Nnebogo constructs for Kehinde a benign and christianized imagination founded in male “Symbolics.” Through the provision of alterities based on Biblical stories to replace Kehinde’s original story of her nativity, Aunt Nnebogo inadvertently lays the foundation for Kehinde’s mythologized and hybridized self in a Christian hegemony which Kehinde rejects. Significantly, Kehinde rejects the imposition of Christian symbolism; she seeks an alternative, expressed in her symbolic return to and 20

Brenda Cooper, “Banished from Oedipus?” 149.

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resolute occupation of her London home. Apparently, this latter home is central to Kehinde’s mental and financial security. It signals Kehinde’s personal triumphs and in it she gains a stable, possibly coherent, sense of self.

Conclusion In this essay, I have proposed the Àbikú mystique through which the reader is able to access and construct other levels of knowledge and interpretation. As a cultural symbol and interpretative rubric for the interpretation of Emecheta’s Kehinde, a novel in the postcolonial genre of female writing, the Àbikú mystique enables female subjecthood to be reconceptualized. Like the multiple narratives Soyinka’s Àbikú inspires, the understanding of Emecheta’s novel calls for dexterous movement through multiple idioms and meanings as the author depicts manifold struggles against oppressive traditional gender, sociocultural, political and racial prejudices, and institutions. As Emecheta revisits cultural institutions such as patriarchal, heterosexual marriages, she proposes new relational models in which women are able to redefine their selves and spaces. As demonstrated in this essay, Kehinde transcends the traditional bounds of victimization to refashion for herself psychological and physical spaces which destabilizes traditional concepts of African womanhood. Rather than privileging the unified and singular image of self, the interpretative frame of fractured selves helps in understanding the dislocations of the characters. From this study, a strategy that capitalizes on the splintering of Kehinde’s consciousness emerges as Emecheta destabilizes the linear and chronological narratives of dominant discourses through her protagonist’s oscillation between reality and the subconscious. Thus, in the process of re-inventing herself, Emecheta’s Kehinde connects with other female protagonists by female African novelists such as Maru in Bessie Head’s Maru, Ramatoulaye in Mariama Bâ’s So Long a Letter, Firdaus in Nawal El Saadawi’s Woman at Point Zero, and Tambudzai in Tsitsi Dangarembga’s Nervous Conditions, in which the complex of fragmentation, instability, and the various other resonances of hybridization intensely animate their psyche, and the novels, structurally and thematically.

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W O R K S C I TE D Ahluwalia, Pal. Politics of Postcolonial Theory: African Inflections (London: Routledge, 2001). Anzaldúa, Gloria. Borderlands / La Frontera: The New Mestiza (1987; San Francisco: Aunt Lute, 3rd ed. 2007). Armah, Ayi Kwei. The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born (London: Heinemann Educational, 1968). ——. Fragments (London: Heinemann Educational, 1973). Bhabha, Homi K. The Location of Culture (London: Routledge. 1994). Cobham, Rhonda. “Men and History: Achebe and the Politics of Revisionism,” in M L A Handbook on Critical Approaches to the Teaching of “Things Fall Apart”, ed. Bernth Lindfors (New York: M L A , 1991): 91–100. Cooper, Brenda. “Banished from Oedipus? Buchi Emecheta’s and Assia Djebar’s Gendered Language of Resistance,” Research in African Literatures 38.2 (Summer 2007): 144–60. Dangarembga, Tsitsi. Nervous Conditions, intro. Kwame Anthony Appiah (1988; Emeryville C A : Seal, 2004). Dirlik, Arif. “The Postcolonial Aura: Third World Criticism in the Age of Global Capitalism,” Critical Inquiry 20.2 (Winter 1994): 325–56. El Saadawi, Nawal. Woman at Point Zero, tr. Sherif Hetata (London: Zed, 1983). Emecheta, Buchi. Kehinde (Oxford: Heinemann Educational, 1994). Hawley, John C. “Coming to Terms: Buchi Emecheta’s Kehinde and the Birth of a Nation,” in Emerging Perspectives on Buchi Emecheta, ed. Marie Umeh (Trenton N J : Africa World Press, 1996): 333–48. Kandiyoti, Deniz. “Bargaining with Patriarchy,” in The Women, Gender and Development Reader, ed. Nalini Visvanathan, Lynn Duggan, Laurie Nisonoff & Nan Wiegersma (London & Atlantic Highlands N J : Zed, 1997): 86–92. Kolawole, Mary E. Modupe. Gender Perceptions & Development in Africa: A SocioCultural Approach (Lagos: Arrabon, 1998). Leonard, Phillip. Nationality between Poststructuralism and Postcolonial Theory: A New Cosmopolitanism (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005). McCabe, Douglas. “Histories of Errancy: Oral Yoruba Abiku Texts and Soyinka’s ‘Abiku’,” Research in African Literatures 33.1 (Spring 2002): 45–74. McClintock, Anne. Imperial Leather: Race, Gender and Sexuality in the Colonial Context (New York & London: Routledge, 1995). McLeod, John. Beginning Postcolonialism (Manchester: Manchester U P , 2000). Maduka, Chidi T. “African Religious Beliefs in Literary Imagination: Ogbanje and Abiku in Chinua Achebe, J.P. Clark and Wole Soyinka,” Journal of Commonwealth Literature 22.1 (March 1987): 17–30. Ngugi wa Thiong’o. Homecoming (London: Heinemann Educational, 1970).

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Okonjo–Ogunyemi, Chikwenye. “An Abiku / Ogbanje Atlas: A Pre-Text for Rereading Soyinka’s Ake and Morrison’s Beloved,” African American Review 36.4 (Winter 2002): 666–78. ——. African Wo/man Palava: The Nigerian Novel by Women (Chicago: U of Chicago P , 1996). Okonkwo, Christopher. A Spirit of Dialogue: Incarnations of Ogbañje the Born-toDie, in African American Literature (Nashville: U of Tennessee P , 2008). Osundare, Niyi. “Getting the Falcon to Hear the Falconer: The Eternal Value of Things Fall Apart,” in Blazing the Path: Fifty Years of “Things Fall Apart,” ed. Chima Anyandike & Kehinde A. Ayoola (Ibadan: Heinemann Educational, 2012): 298– 310. ——. “The Poem as a Mytho-Linguistic Event: A Study of Soyinka’s ‘Abiku’,” African Literature Today 16 (1988): 91–102. Parry, Benita. Postcolonialist Studies: A Materialist Critique (London: Routledge, 2005). Soyinka, Wole. “Abiku” (1952), in Soyinka, Idanre and Other Poems (London: Methuen, 1967): 28–30. ——. Season of Anomy (London: Rex Collings, 1973). Taiwo, Olufemi. “On Agency and Change: Chinua Achebe and the Philosophy of History,” in Blazing the Path: Fifty Years of “Things Fall Apart”, ed. Chima Anyandike & Kehinde A. Ayoola (Ibadan: Heinemann Educational, 2012): 96–116. Uwakweh, Pauline Ada. “To Ground the Wandering Muse: A Critique of Buchi Emecheta’s Feminism,” in Emerging Perspectives on Buchi Emecheta, ed. Marie Umeh (Trenton N J : Africa World Press, 1996): 395–406. Wilson–Tagoe, Nana. “Reading Towards a Theorisation of African Women’s Writing: African Women Writers within Feminist Gynocriticism,” in Writing African Women: Gender, Popular Culture and Literature in West Africa, ed. Stephanie Newell (London: Zed, 1997): 11–28.

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Richard Maduku’s Kokoro Compound — A Postmodern Reading ABSTRACT This essay affirms that postmodernism is germane to contemporary African fiction. The avant-gardist nature of postmodernism with its attendant radical departure from traditional norms of structure and narrative manifests itself in stylistically innovative ways in African fiction today, in a bid to find adequate aesthetic means of representing and problematizing the post-independence anarchy, dysfunctionality, and anomy of African societies. It is in the light of the above that this essay conducts a postmodern reading of Richard Maduku’s Kokoro Compound.

Introduction

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F R I C A N L I T E R A T U R E I S A P R O D U C T of the socio-historical experiences of the African continent. The novel is specifically a product of these experiences; it documents the dynamic socio-political, historical, and historic ambience of African circumstances that dictate the artistic disposition of the African writer. With colonialism and the traumatic encounter of Africa with the West, the concern of African literature has been to evaluate or assess that fateful contact. How much gain and how much loss? Postcolonial African nations emerged from colonialism with a heritage of social ugliness of all sorts: political corruption, general societal decadence, religious exploitation, social stratification, tribal sentiments and ressentiment, general disunity, nepotism, self-aggrandizement, and much else – this is what constitutes the entire fabric of our present-day reality in Africa. It has been imperative, therefore, for African writers to address these issues in their writings. In studying the preoccupation of the African writer vis-à-vis the age in which they write, it is apparent that there are variations imposed by historical and societal peculiarities. These peculiarities resonate in the literary products of African writers. As Jude Agho observes,

”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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While the colonial literature of Anglophone West Africa was essentially preoccupied with the question of defining the African personality, for example, the Francophone authors of the same period concerned themselves with romanticizing the cultural beauty and past of Africa in their treatment of the now familiar theme of Negritude.1

Ushie Joseph argues that in Africa, literature has never been a phenomenon that could be detached from the material reality of the society that produces it: The umbilical cord between the material world and the fictional world of literature is never severed, as literature continues to feed on this physical world, which it, at the same time interrogates, ridicules, satirizes, or praises when praise is deserved.2

The postmodern literary epoch is innovative and experimental in both form and content, endeavouring to accomplish an effective mimicry of the modern age in its meaninglessness and nothingness. This essay contends that postmodernism is applicable to the analysis and criticism of certain sectors of the contemporary African novel. Taking Richard Maduku’s Kokoro Compound as illustration, we explore its representation of contemporary societal realities. The essay seeks to examine the social conditions inhabited by the individuals that people the world of the novel while also unravelling the effects it exerts on individuals and society as a whole. Adunni Joseph’s view that, “since writers reflect contemporary issues in their society, we have each period of writing with its own specific ideology”3 is germane because, over the years, African writers, in rehearsing African social issues and realities artistically, have adopted different approaches according to their particular point of view. Writers of different periods either build on pre-existing approaches or adopt some of its principles, while some radically shift, transform, or revolt against the tenets of existing approaches. Technically, these approaches can be referred to as praxis; they serve as the medium or framework through which writers express societal occurrences. The emergence of postmodernist fiction in Africa became both a literary phenomenon and an answer to the all-important question of evolving a style 1

Jude Agho, Standpoints on the African Novel (1995; Benin: Jubilee, 2000): 2. Ushie Joseph, “Two Africas in One: Neo-Colonialism and the African Writer,” Journal of African Literature 5 (2008): 1. 3 Adunni A. Joseph, “Ideological Issues in Literature and Criticism,” in Critical Perspectives on English and Literature, ed. Olu Obafemi et al. (Ilorin: Department of English, University of Ilorin, 2007): 186. 2

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that adequately presents a given range of subject-matter. On the emergence of the postmodernist writing style in Africa, Ayo Kehinde states: Plagued by the density and morbidity of societal ills, the African Novelist rises to the challenge by coming out with a new style that literally oozes out with the chaos and disorder s/he observes in her/his society. The contemporary African novel can thus be perceived as going through a period of stylistic innovation. This innovative artistic thrust is not inadvertent; rather it is a reflection of the socio-historical realities of its enabling society. Thus, the contemporary African novel is mostly couched in postmodernist mode in an attempt to signify the anomic nature of the African post-colonial milieu.4

It is against this background that this essay attempts an examination of the literary features of postmodernism using Richard Maduku’s Kokoro Compound as launching pad.

Postmodernism: Meaning and Scope The terms ‘modernism’ and ‘postmodernism’ denote literary epochs thrown up by the aftermath of World War One and Two respectively. The mass destruction of life and property and the general catastrophe occasioned by World War One raised doubts about the durability and coherence of Western civilization and foregrounded its impermanence and, in regard to literary expression, its incapacity to serve as a hold-all domesticating the harsh and dissonant realities of the postwar milieu. Modernism is thus a move towards ordering an alternative, avant-gardist platform that radically shifts away from rendering society as as coherent and stable order towards the greater fidelity of capturing society as futile and anarchic. This occasioned the new forms and style that would, according to M.H. Abrams, “render contemporary disorder, often contrasting it to a lost order and integration that, he claimed, had been based on the religion and myths of the cultural past.”5 Examples of such modernist innovations can be found in James Joyce’s Ulysses, T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, and Virginia Woolf’s Jacob’s Room. Postmodernism, a post-World War Two phenomenon, is a further step, albeit a radical one, towards countering the old stabilities of the Western tradi4

Ayo Kehinde, “Rethinking African Fiction in the Era of Globalization,” 6. M.H. Abrams, A Glossary of Literary Terms (New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston, 1981): 202. 5

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tion started by modernism and instituting, in its place, a perspective of literary and artistic absurdity and dissonance that captures, succinctly, the decentering of the traditionally accepted norms of the good triumphing over the bad, while projecting, and often celebrating, the abyssal senselessness and unresolvable ambiguities of human existence. Postmodernism is also a breaking-away from the elitist high art of modernism to embrace populist mass culture. Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot is an example of the literary manifestation of the postmodern age. Jorge Luis Borges and Roland Barthes are renowned postmodernist writers. Peter Brooker describes postmodernism and its emergence thus: Since the first users of the term in the later 1950s and 1960s, postmodernism has acquired an amoebic range of attributions and meanings, in academic debate and journalism. In general terms, it can be said to describe a mood or condition of radical indeterminacy, and a tone of self-consciousness, parodic skepticism towards previous certainties in the personal, intellectual and political.6

Patricia Waugh views postmodernism as “a sensual term for some of the recent developments in literary theory and criticism, it is a label for the dominant tendency of the 20th century arts.”7 This postulate implies that postmodernism is a new development at the frontiers of literary theory and criticism which seems to dominate the twentieth-century literary scene.8 Writing on the nature and essence of postmodernism, Paul Hartman says caustically: A Text, the postmodernist insists, is “ultimately self-contradictory.” (Except, of course, the texts written by postmodernists!) In the sense that the Enlightenment encapsulated an acquired series of rational observations into Truths, and then wove those Truths into a coherent philosophy of the world, general laws which apply to it, and the consequences

6

Peter Brooker, Modernism / Postmodernism (London: Longman, 1992): 180. Patricia Waugh, “Modernism, Postmodernism, Feminism: Gender and Autonomy Theory,” in Postmodernism: A Reader, ed. Patricia Waugh (London: Edward Arnold, 1992): 189, 197. 8 In Practicing Postmodernism / Reading Modernism (Oxford: Hodder Educational, 2007) – esp. “Introducing Postmodernism: The Romance of the Aesthetic and PostRomantic Aesthetics,” 3–24 – Waugh adopts a more radical, distinctions-collapsing stance: here, she views postmodernism as a late outgrowth of aestheticist thought developed by Kant and already embodied in Romantic and modernist art. 7

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of such laws to its inhabitants, the postmodernists reject the notion that anything can be resolved to be True.9

Postmodernism plunges us into the protean idiosyncrasy of the societies and literary forms of the twentieth century in an anonymous city life that lacks moral principles, leading to greater freedom yet withal to fragmentation and a felt loss of community. Amidst the chaos of postmodern society, creativity should, as Oscar Maina suggests, “be functional to the human consciousness, this would heal the human spirit by giving back to it, its full, rich, hidden dimensions.”10

Postmodernism: Tenets, Principles, and Attributes Postmodernism is thus a radical shift from the tenets and artistic practices of modernism, and is characterized by the problem of objective truth. Postmodernism relies on concrete experience over abstract principles, knowing always that the outcome of one’s own experience will necessarily be fallible and relative, rather than certain and universal. According to Paul Hartman, Postmodernism rejects the modernist ideals of rationality, virility, artistic genius, and individualism, in favor of being anti-capitalist, contemptuous of traditional morality, and committed to radical egalitarianism.11

Indeed, a central tenet is that certain experiences and concepts resist any sort of representation in writing or art. However, in the view of Oscar Maina, one of postmodernism’s most recognizable attributes is a certain self-consciousness with regard to the methods of production and to the social contexts of any work, together with a playful incorporation of, or gesture towards, previous styles and modes of thought.12 9

Paul V. Hartman, “What is ‘Postmodernism’?,” http://www.naciente.com/essay15 .htm (accessed 23 February 2013). 10 Ben Okri, misquoted in Oscar Maina, Mirroring the Subtext: Postmodernism in Ngugi wa Thiong’o’s “Wizard of the Crow” (London: Longman, 2008): 67. Cf. Okri: “The thing is that its time that we started healing the human spirit by giving back to it its full rich hidden dimensions”; Okri, radio interview at the International Writers Center of Washington University, St. Louis, Missouri, in early 1994. 11 Paul Hartman, “Postmodernism,” in Encyclopedia of Literature and Criticism, ed. Martin Coyle, Peter Garside, Malcolm Kelsall & John Peck (London: Routledge, 1990): 198.

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Hartman describes the avant-gardist posture of postmodernism thus: Postmodernism is an anti-enlightenment position wherein adherents believe what has gone (modernism) is inappropriately dependent on reason, rationalism and wisdom, and is inherently elitist, non-multicultural, and therefore oppressive.13

Ayo Kehinde sees the experimental and innovative formal elements in postmodern novels thus: “there is no sequence except the reader’s sequence, no identities or events except those involved in reading the text.”14 Peter Brooker underscores postmodern aesthetics as “radical indeterminacy, and a tone of self-conscious, parodic scepticism towards previous certainties in personal, intellectual and political life,”15 while, for José Francisco Fernández Sánchez, postmodern fiction “privileges postmodern playfulness and magic realism, and it can be used for political purpose.”16

Influence of Postmodernism on Contemporary African Fiction Just like every human endeavour and phenomenon, the contemporary African novel is going through a phase of stylistic innovation. This innovation is occasioned by the African writer’s urge to evolve a new style that can adequately capture the contemporary societal realities and sensibilities that inundate the world of Africans. In fact, according to Kehinde, This innovative stylistic thrust is not fortuitous; to a certain extent, it is a reflection of modern technology, modern social relationships and the overall economic and political situations of the continent.17

He further asserts: African fiction is reacting to the outlooks of the age. The novels are becoming more and more abstract, thematically and stylistically, as a signifier of the deep doubt that humanity, in general, has about himself.18

12

Oscar Maina, Mirroring the Subtext, 68. Hartman, “Postmodernism,” 199. 14 Ayo Kehinde, “Rethinking African Fiction in the Era of Globalization,” 8. 15 Peter Brooker, Modernism / Postmodernism, 175. 16 José Francisco Fernández Sánchez, “Writers, Novels and Banyan Trees: Notes on Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy,” Revista Alicantina de Estudios Ingleses 10 (November 1997): 48. 17 Kehinde, “Rethinking African Fiction in the Era of Globalization,” 7. 13

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According to Ogunsanwo Olatubosun, Postmodernism has succeeded in highlighting the intricate relationship between formal autonomy and the historical/political context in which it is embedded, though only by offering provisionally and contextually determined answers.19

Kehinde further postulates: Postmodernism presents a society devoid of purpose, a society cut off from its religious, metaphysical and transcendental roots. In this society man is lost; all his actions become senseless, absurd and useless.20

The contemporary African writer’s shift in style is occurring against a backdrop of endemic instability in African societies. Thus, we should not be drawn to think that the artistic practice of postmodernism in contemporary African fiction is a stereotyped reflex echoing of or appendage to the Western literary tradition; rather, we should see it as an outcome of the effect of global innovations on fiction, and equally as a brave and commendable attempt by African writers to revert to the roots of African tradition. This is quite conspicuously evident in most postmodern African novels, to which Richard Maduku’s Kokoro Compound is no exception. For example, the basis of a close organic relationship between the individual and the rest of the community is being seriously threatened by new economic and social forces. These ordeals are indices of widespread dislocation and disequilibrium in modern African societies.

The Text as Praxis Having established the fact that postmodernism is a new form of art, applied by contemporary African writers to project and reflect the experiences and predicaments of contemporary African milieux, it is imperative to note that postmodernism usually comes into play on both the stylistic and the thematic level. Through Kokoro Compound, Maduku, who belongs to the younger generation of emergent Nigerian novelists, is contributing to the socio-poli18

“Rethinking African Fiction in the Era of Globalization,” 7. Olatubosun Ogunsanwo, “Intertextuality and Postcolonial Literature in Ben Okri’s The Famished Road,” Research in African Literatures 26.1 (Spring 1995): 43. 20 Kehinde, “Rethinking African Fiction in the Era of Globalization,” 12. 19

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tical discourse of the continent, with a view to deconstructing the popularly held notion that postmodernism and commitment are strange bedfellows. The novel evinces some traits of postmodernism, evolving a narrative style that is both innovative and experimental. The human condition portrayed is essentially typical of the Nigerian milieu, and more appropriately presented in the postmodern style. Maduku abandons a linear plot, plausible character development, and other hallmarks of the conventional novel. Drawing on his journalistic skills, he sets his story in an immediately recognizable contemporary Nigerian context. He is a conscious artist who successfully integrates the content and form of his fiction in such a way that they become a unified artistic expression of reality. In the novel, we meet Apioko Esabunefe, whose idiosyncrasy is to observe, record, and make sense of his daily experience as he transits from innocence to experience in his encounter with the realities of urban life. There is an underlying programme: the novel essays a mostly unsentimental and undisguised depiction of how the socio-economic status quo of individuals in contemporary Nigeria can be ameliorated. From the postmodern perspective, the society portrayed in the novel is not conducive to the progress of citizens. It is a society where hopes are almost always initially frustrated, but, thanks to doggedness, hard work, and determination, some individuals are able to climb the ladder and rise above socio-economic problems. Thus, the phenomenon of transition seems to be a central leitmotif in Kokoro Compound. As well as reflecting contemporary social realities on the level of action and theme, Maduku goes further, reflecting these on the stylistic level as well. One obvious postmodernist message of the novel is the revelation of the absurdity of life. The following passage clearly conveys a postmodern message about the absurdity of life: Jagun not only surrenders his monthly salary to his wife, he has also started a practice that is worse than that. You know Mrs. Jagun is in the last days of her pregnancy and their tradition forbids the man from making love to her for the last month of every pregnancy and also for three months after the delivery of baby. To prevent him from falling into the embrace of more beautiful women, she selected a retired old prostitute to act as his bedmate during this period of forced abstinence. And Engineer Jagun accepted the scheme? Stop calling him an Engineer! He applauded the wife for bringing up such a wise scheme.21

21

Richard Maduku, Kokoro Compound (Ibadan: Kraft, 2009): 132. Unless otherwise indicated. further page references are in the main text.

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This scenario is a tranche of the absurd reality to be found in some African cultures in a world where religious belief and moral rectitude have eroded away under the onslaught of modernity. A postmodernist technique used in the novel to foreground the endemic problems of individuals in the novel is the complex centre of consciousness. The story is not seen from one major point of view or perspective, or from the consciousness of one character; instead, the story is seen from the consciousness of different people, such as Apioko, Kokoro, Adam, Engineer Jagun, Mr and Mrs Savimbi, and Lawyer Akpefia. The novel is distinctive for its complex and unconventional point of view, and for its narrative mode, which is inflected with stream-of-consciousness technique and (In)Direct Free Style. This technique comes to the fore when Apioko is unable to sleep at night after his return from an outing with Boyoyo: How is Boyoyo faring now? He suddenly wanted to know. Why not go and find out right away? One daring thought suggested. Will that reduce the rising urge in you right now? A cynical variant mocked. You can never tell, the daredevil prompted. Maybe right now Boyoyo has turned her out for one reason or the other… and maybe he is the type who would not mind sharing… and lastly, a different woman desperately looking for an extinguisher might be lurking out there…the daring thought was not a pushover or short of possibility… I will go and check if Boyoyo actually locked the gate… yes, that’s what I am going to do right away! (120)

Such are the thoughts running through Apioko’s mind as he struggles to quell the burning sexual desire that surges up at such an ungodly hour of the night. This can also be seen as an attempt by the writer to indicate that the challenges engulfing individuals go beyond what we see to mirror the internal crises of contemporary Africans, in an admixture of the internal and the external that produces a total picture of the unfavourable environment and situation of twenty-first-century Africa. Apart from his daily experiences, Apioko’s naivety (or innocence) is revealed through what he thinks. For instance, when he first arrives at Kokoro’s house, he is deeply disappointed to discover that Kokoro does not live in luxury as he thought, and the following runs through his mind: “I don’t think I can pass a night here! He told himself. I can’t endure it more than tonight, I am a man now” (48). Maduku also employs an interweaving of subjective narration to reveal what ensues in the subconscious of Apioko while he battles with his urge for sex, after drinking some bottles of beer:

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our people have a saying that one should not reject a gift, Apioko began telling himself without first answering the person who was knocking. Any woman coming to knock this door at this time would be deemed as offering herself to me as gift… God knows I have done my best to restrain my passions… His thought went to Dana. (120)

Apioko’s thoughts open up to us a microcosm of rationalization and lack of moral scruples that stands for the whole society. The structural complexity of Kokoro Compound derives from the multitude of digressions and stories-within-a-story, and from a postmodern employment of fragmented narration. There is an authorial voice who integrates the divergent but intimate complementary voices of other narrators (Apioko, Adam, and Kokoro respectively). This method of narration is effective in signifying a sense of abnormality that is curiously consistent with the deplorable socioeconomic state of the characters. The story gives the impression of a rambling collection of memories, and it captures well the bewildering challenges faced by individuals in the contemporary African milieu. The novelist employs digressive anecdotes that catch the reader off-guard in order to sharpen attention to the main story, as when Apioko and Picolo are seen trying to remedy the silly mistake they have earlier made). The novel has no organic plot structure but is episodic and oblique, with a mounting use of flashbacks. One such analeptic effect is seen when Apioko’s mother sees him off to the motor park and she tells him about Kokoro and the feats he has achieved. At this point, a flashback dwells on what led to one of these widely acclaimed feats, which happened many years back. The reader is introduced to the revolutionary posture of Kokoro towards the white man he was working with. Also, within the main storyline, the reader comes across issues like the circumstance that led to the marriage of Mr and Mrs Atomre. During a heated argument over financial issues, a flashback details Mr Atomre recollection of how Mrs Atomre became his wife (21), an ostensible digression that brings home the embeddedness of the domestic and individual in broader socioeconomic patterns of hardship. Code-mixing, a technique informed by the postmodernist aesthetic of stylistic promiscuity and indeterminacy, is used in the novel to underline specific socio-economic ills. Maduku’s code-mixing involves an admixture of two or more languages – English, Pidgin, Yorùbá, Igbo, Urhobo – functioning simultaneously for stylistic and thematic effect. The reader finds numerous instances of code-mixing such as: “Oshare, pay me… Oshare, I say pay me”

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(16) – in this mixture of English and Urhobo languages, “Oshare” is an Urhobo word for ‘Boy’. Also, “you never go? Atomre asked her without venom. You dey drive me?” (25) – in this mixture of Pidgin and Standard English, Mr Atomre negotiates with a prostitute he took home for the night when he was a bachelor. Likewise mixing Pidgin and English are: “So you de drink ogogoro? She asked with a telling frown” (87); and: “I used to give to some of them who are now seeking my downfall, but God no go gree!” (108). More examples include: “Tufia! She spat out. This man de mess for us without shame” (145), an expression which is a mixture of Igbo, English, and Pidgin. “Ok oga, Moses replied… Oya, oga, let’s go” (189); “You get school secondary? The Whiteman asked me, I go school commercial, I told him…” (207); and “Otio! Savimbi exclaimed” (234) – this latter expression a mixture of Yorùbá and English. Code-mixing in Kokoro Compound is not inadvertent but a signifier of the instability and indeterminacy plaguing contemporary African society. It is also an artistic solution to the age-long problem of extreme linguistic pluralism in Nigeria, and, by extension, Africa. Code-mixing aims at appealing to the less privileged who are Maduku’s target readership, in a context in which the level of literacy in most African nations is still low. Another postmodernist technique used by Maduku in the novel is ‘eclecticism’ or the introduction of snippets of other genres in a prose work. In Kokoro Compound, the reader encounters features of drama, proverbial lore, and traditional wit and humour, which makes Maduku’s fiction somewhat ‘polygeneric’. As actions dovetail into one another, this reverting to folkloric elements spices up the narration and anchors the action tonally in local communities. This infusion foregrounds the novelist’s postmodern style of writing. This exploitation of the rich tapestry of traditional cultural resources provides diversity (“a rabbit never runs out of its hole at daytime on flimsy excuses,” 188). Playfulness, rather than overt seriousness, serves to erase the boundary between art and everyday life. The reader may often feel s/he is witnessing tongue-in-cheek melodrama, as in the scene in which Boyoyo tries to settle a brawl between two women in the compound: Boyoyo, she called while trying to edge out a young man who was restraining one of the fighters. Shoo, Boyoyo! Is it the fight you want to stop or something else that you are looking for? It’s not his fault, my wife who chose to disgrace herself in this manner is the one to blame… shoo! See me see trouble. . . what type of breasts have I not seen before? How can you of all

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persons, accuse me of such a thing when you have been seeing the caliber of girls I befriend? So I have done something bad by trying to separate them from fighting? God de! (94)

This playful scenario, which confirms Patricia Waugh’s view that “playful irony is a thrust of postmodernism,”22 enables Maduku to underplay the serious endemic conflicts of the milieu represented. It is a device for evasion, a refusal to dwell directly on social problems. Rather, he comments on the twenty-first century milieu in a circuitous way. The problems of most African nations are so vast that to dwell on them directly may come across as too alarmist. Things have degenerated to such a low level that certain people prefer to die than to remain alive in the postcolonial hell. Many African novelists before him have used realism to record Africa’s tribulations, Maduku prefers a circuitous, postmodern approach which does not serve up problems in a Sunday sermon but compels the reader to do some thinking, to participate actively. There are also near-pornographic elements, a celebration of sensuality that is an important aspect of postmodernism (and, hitherto, of much feminist African fiction). Sexual scenes and language may at first glance seem to be ends in themselves, as in the following passage: Apioko held his breath on nearing one room and instead of a fan, he heard a bed squeaking. Trying to blend with the noise of the bed but without much success was a medley of grunts, moans, eehs, ooohs, and heavy breathing… it is paining me o, a female voice was crooning breathlessly above the squeaking bed. Do I remove it? No! But do it gentl… ooh! (64).

Or in the following: “You no go do? She asked on noticing that he was backing her on the bed. Do what? You no go fuck?” (245). Such directness, however, far from being low-grade delectation, serves to bring home the senselessness of sensuality, the emptiness, corruption, and meaninglessness of contemporary African society. Postmodernism is not interested in concealing the reality of existence but in laying it before us as nakedly as possible.

W O R K S C I TE D Abrams, M.H. A Glossary of Literary Terms (New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston, 1981). Agho, Jude. Standpoints on the African Novel (1995; Benin: Jubilee, 2000). Boehmer, Elleke. Colonial and Postcolonial Literatures (Oxford: Oxford U P , 1995). 22

Patricia Waugh, “Modernism, Postmodernism, Feminism,” 202.

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Brooker, Peter. Modernism / Postmodernism (London: Longman, 1992). Fernández Sánchez, José Francisco. “Writers, Novels and Banyan Trees: Notes on Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy,” Revista Alicantina de Estudios Ingleses 10 (November 1997): 47–54. Hartman, Paul. “Postmodernism,” in Encyclopedia of Literature and Criticism, ed. Martin Coyle, Peter Garside, Malcolm Kelsall & John Peck (London: Routledge, 1990): 196–200. Joseph, Adunni A. “Ideological Issues in Literature and Criticism,” in Critical Perspectives on English and Literature, ed. Olu Obafemi et al. (Ilorin: Department of English, University of Ilorin, 2007): 186–95. Kehinde, Ayo. “A Parable of the African Condition: The Interface of Postmodernism and Post-Colonialism in Biyi Bandele–Thomas’s Fiction,” Revista Alicantina de Estudios Ingleses 16 (November 2003): 6–35. Maduku, Richard. Kokoro Compound (Ibadan: Kraft, 2009). Maina, Oscar. Mirroring the Subtext: Postmodernism in Ngugi wa Thiong’o’s “Wizard of the Crow” (London: Longman, 2008): 67–73. Ogunsanwo, Olatubosun. “Intertextuality and Postcolonial Literature in Ben Okri’s The Famished Road,” Research in African Literatures 26.1 (Spring 1995): 40–52. Ushie, Joseph. “Two Africas in One: Neo-Colonialism and the African Writer,” Journal of African Literature 5 (2008): 1–15. Waugh, Patricia. “Introducing Postmodernism: The Romance of the Aesthetic and Post-Romantic Aesthetics,” in Waugh, Practicing Postmodernism / Reading Modernism (Oxford: Hodder Educational, 2007): 3–24. ——. “Modernism, Postmodernism, Feminism: Gender and Autonomy Theory,” in Postmodernism: A Reader, ed. Patricia Waugh (London: Edward Arnold, 1992): 189–204.

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S OPHIA I. A KHUEMOKHAN

The Violation of Women’s Human Rights — Transformative Processes in Julie Okoh’s Edewede and Stella ‘Dia Oyedepo’s Brain Has No Gender ABSTRACT The limitations on and violations of women’s human rights have dominated dramatic discourse in Nigeria for decades now and Nigerian female dramatists have become established as activists for the rights of women in text and context. This essay sets out to demonstrate that Julie Okoh’s Edewede and Stella ‘Dia Oyedepo’s Brain Has No Gender are serious treatises on women’s rights. The two plays highlight social and cultural rights abuses such as female circumcision, forced marriage, refusal to educate the girl child, and preference for male children, and how these violations of basic rights inhibit women from realizing their full potential as human beings. Exploring the issues articulated in these two plays reveals that women’s human rights in Nigerian society are most often denied or violated on the grounds of culture and tradition; hence, both playwrights focus their attention on redressing cultural and social rights. The texts illustrate that the medium of drama is an effective tool in campaigning against the violation of women’s human rights and fostering social transformation. They also suggest methods by which these transformations can be achieved.

Introduction

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are perpetually compromised and violated by the laws and cultures of human societies, making it exigent for women to cry out against socio-cultural practices militating against them. In Nigeria, literary depictions of these injustices and trauma perpetrated on women abound, so we find depictions of the resistance of women to these practices. For the Nigerian female dramatist, these issues are personal because they have experienced it, seen it, or heard of it. More often than not, it is a combination of experiences; hence, their plays cry out against unacceptable violations of human rights as these issues pertain to women, and seek reform of repugnant practices in society. The lives of these playwrights have also been conditioned by the same situations they depict. OMEN’S HUMAN RIGHTS

”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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This essay addresses the violations of women’s rights embedded in cultural practices and beliefs such as female circumcision, forced marriage, women’s education, and preference for male children, issues depicted in Julie Okoh’s Edewede and Stella ’Dia Oyedepo’s Brain Has No Gender (Brain). It demonstrates that the playwrights question the subjection of women to these traditional practices and rituals. They aim to create awareness that these practices constitute abuses of women’s human rights. The dramatists have also used the medium of the plays to present the reality of issues they articulate, and to disseminate useful information aimed at transforming society’s perception of the practices in question as well as eliminating them. The plays advocate the redressing of these socio-cultural practices that constitute social injustice and provide a platform from which these dramatists canvass the rights of women. Human rights are claims, indispensible privileges to which persons are entitled by virtue of being human. The term ‘Human rights’ implies that these liberties are universal and are irrespective of sex, status, and age; neither are they associated with any particular social, religious or political system. Article 1 of the United Nations Declaration of Human Rights (U D H R ), proclaimed in 1948, declares: All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in the spirit of brotherhood. (1 of 32)

In response to the massive human and material atrocities of World War Two, the U D H R was adopted to promote the “recognition of the inherent dignity and of the equal and inalienable rights of all members of the human family” because these rights are “the foundation of freedom, justice, and peace in the world” (4 of 32). ‘Inalienable’ indicates entitlements, a set of rights that are not awarded by human power (fundamental) and therefore cannot be surrendered. Human rights are commonly classified into civil and political rights, economic, social, and cultural rights. (i) Civil and political rights comprise the right to life and political participation, the right to liberty, dignity, freedom of expression, choice, and association. (ii) Economic rights refer to the right to subsistence and a good living standard, choices of work, equity in wage earnings, and social security. (iii) Social rights include the right to education, peace, and a clean environment, health, and access to public resources, services and utilities. (iv) Cultural rights are the right to participate in cultural, religious, and creative activities, and to freedom of research. These rights are described as “universal in-

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divisible and interdependent and related” (Wikipedia, 16 of 32). This is based on the premise that the different rights are related and exist successfully in combination. For example, without civil and political rights, it would be impossible to assert or enjoy social rights. In the same vein, it would be impossible to exercise political rights in the absence of economic rights. Women’s human rights were first articulated in England by Mary Wollstonecraft in 1792. Her A Vindication of the Rights of Women, in which she argued for equality and better education for women, was the first sustained critique of a social system that relegates women to the background. Wollstonecraft argued that women are enslaved by the process of their socialization, which convinces them that the worthy purpose of their existence is to serve the male. She insisted that education will strengthen the female mind, enable critical thinking, and thereby put an end to blind obedience. However, it was the publication of John Stuart Mill’s The Subjection of Women in 1869 that established women’s rights as a major issue in intellectual discourse. Mills, a popular philosopher and economist, argued for equality for women – an unpopular cause at that time. He sought to shift the law and public perception to gain advantages for women. This fight for equality has continued into the present but has branched out into diverse theories and approaches that draw attention to the specific needs of and solutions to the problems of women. In spite of all these, little or no attention has been paid to social inequities and the rights of women resulting in the agitation of women for specific protection of their rights. The United Nations General Assembly eventually went on to adopt the Convention on the elimination of all forms of discrimination against women (C E D A W ) in 1981. C E D A W insists on the fundamental rights of women as human beings and equal rights for women and men in all fields, irrespective of marital status. It affirms that the human rights of women and girls are inalienable, integral, and an indivisible part of universal human rights. The Beijing Conference of 1995 was a major platform for articulating and implementing women’s rights. This essay therefore proceeds from the premise that women’s rights are human rights.

Women’s Human-Rights Discourse in Nigerian Literature The plight of the Nigerian woman and the violations of her fundamental human rights have been depicted from various perspectives in Nigerian literature. Male and female writers alike explore women-related issues and, by

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their assertions in some of their plays, condemn and insist on the reform of laws, cultural practices, and prejudices that deny or violate the rights of women. However, for the woman writer, these issues are very personal and, more often than not, form the nucleus of her creativity. Nigerian literary history provides evidence that it would indeed be hard to find a woman writer in Nigeria whose writing does not exhibit the need to address some problems that pertain to the rights of women. Male writers’ participation in women’s human-rights discourse is illustrated by works like J.P. Clark’s Song of a Goat, which presents Ebiere, who is severely stigmatized by her childlessness. Living in a cultural society in which a childless woman is an incomplete human being, Ebiere, in desperation, resorts to a sexual relationship with her brother-in law in the effort to be a mother. Clark’s authorial voice condemns the fact that, in this patriarchal set-up, a woman’s humanity and right to existence are not recognized beyond her duty of procreation. H. Oby Okolocha remarks: it is interesting that Clark does not make the woman guilty. Zifa, her husband is the unproductive one and the playwright gives the woman the option of adultery without presenting her as evil.1

Allwell Onukaogu and Ezechi Onyerionwu describe Ahmed Yerima as “a gynandrist for whom the cause and experiences of the woman constitute a veritable material for literary exploration.”2 They note that Yerima’s Aetu condemns the traditional practice of inheriting women, which causes women immense humiliation and pain, and The Wives explores the negative sides of polygamy, in which women always emerge as the losers.3 Affirming that Yerima is an advocate for women, Ikike Inieke Ufford asserts that Yerima’s The Portrait stresses “the need for women to aspire to great heights without neglecting their duties as mothers. The Portrait thus stands out as a strong weapon on attitudinal control and perception.”4 1

H. Oby Okolocha, “Feminist Theatre and Socio-Political Reforms: An Evaluation of J.P. Clark’s The Wives’ Revolt,” Nigerian Journal of the Humanities (Benin City) 15 (2008): 115. 2 Allwell A. Onukaogu & Ezechi Onyerionwu, 21st Century Nigerian Literature: An Introductory Text (Ibadan: Kraft, 2009): 197. 3 Onukaogu & Onyerionwu, 21st Century Nigerian Literature: An Introductory Text, 196. 4 Ikike Inieke Ufford, quoted in Onukaogu & Onyerionwu, 21st Century Nigerian Literature: An Introductory Text, 197.

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Confining the total value of a woman’s life to motherhood as Clark depicts it is also captured in Buchi Emecheta’s The Joys of Motherhood. Nnuego is worthless to her first husband, Amatokwu, because she is unable to bear him a child. Amatokwu is vicious when he tells Nnuego: “I cannot waste my precious male seeds on a woman who is infertile. I have to raise children for my line.”5 In the same novel, Ubani summarizes the roles of men and women in that traditional society: “You are to give her children; she is to bear the children and look after you and them” (31). The idea that a woman must serve some use to a man is seen when Amatokwu tells Nnuego: “But now, if you can’t produce sons, at least, you can help harvest yams” (32); hence, she virtually becomes a slave working on his farms, thus stripping her of dignity and violating her right to happiness. Even when the woman has children, her worth depends on the sex of her offspring. This is illustrated in the judgment given in the quarrel between Nnuego and her co-wife Adaku. Nnuego is obviously at fault, but the elders admonish Adaku for upsetting the woman who has preserved her husband’s immortality. It is ludicrous that the elders pronounce that, Adaku, a mother solely of girls, “is committing an unforgivable sin” by being flamboyant and making Nnuego, the mother of her husband’s sons, jealous (166). Emecheta’s protests against these injustices are articulated in her appeal to God: “God, when will you create a woman who will be fulfilled in herself, a full human being, not anybody’s appendage?” (186). In the bid to dismantle the cultural practices that abuse the rights of women, Tracie Chima Utoh’s Our Wives Have Gone Mad Again reverses the domestic roles of the sexes. The husband, Inyang, is depicted as more of a houseboy than as the traditional master of the home. Conversely, Utoh presents the wife, Ene, as economically empowered; in a reversal of male chauvinism, it is Ene who bullies Inyang. The play suggests that the economic empowerment of women can break the stronghold of patriarchal subjugation of women and eliminate the loopholes through which women’s rights are abused. Tess Onwueme’s Then She Said It is a revolt against the abuse of the economic and social rights of the Nigerian woman. As Iniobong Uko maintains, [the play] reveals the complexity and diversity of the dynamics of female survival in the Nigerian (economic) environment. Then She Said It dramatizes 5

Buchi Emecheta, The Joys of Motherhood (London: Heinemann, 1980): 32. Unless otherwise indicated, further page references are in the main text.

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the determination of the exploited, abused, and marginalized Niger-Delta women to survive.6

The women in Onwueme’s play are clearly determined to crush obstacles that marginalize them in the interactions that define society and deny them the right to benefit from societal resources. Similarly, J.P. Clark’s The Wives’ Revolt instigates a reform of the laws that deny women rights in order that they may benefit from communal economic resources. Okolocha posits that the women presented in The Wives’ Revolt succeed in bringing about societal reforms through organized protest. They succeed in putting an end to the marginalization of women in sharing communal allocations and resource, women being the most affected segment of the society when it comes to sharing resources.7

Julie Okoh’s concern with redressing the violation of women’s human rights is longstanding. In the introductory notes to In the Fullness of Time, she states that her mandate as a writer is to sensitize women about the need to know their rights and realize the outrageous havoc they do to themselves by adhering complacently to these obsolete customs and traditions, which drain from them vitality and turn them into cripples.8

Similarly, Oyedepo has always been emphatic about women’s rights, as she demonstrates in The Rebellion of the Bumpy-Chested. In this play, Oyedepo advocates among other issues that the structures and prejudices which have denied women the right to attain high level political positions such as Heads of State, Governors, and others must be dismantled.9 The Ghanaian Ama Ata Aidoo summarizes the African woman’s existence appropriately. She posits that the life of the African woman consists of waging heroic battles against the structures of negative traditions, resisting the constraints of religion, combating overwhelmingly hostile natural forces, and seeking redress from the

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Iniobong I. Uko, Gender and Identity in the Works of Osonye Tess Onwueme (Trenton N J : Africa World Press, 2004): 160–61. 7 Okolocha, “Feminist Theatre and Socio-Political Reforms: An Evaluation of J.P . Clark’s The Wives’ Revolt,” 108. 8 Julie Okoh, “Introduction” to Okoh, In the Fullness of Time (Owerri: Totan, 2000): xii. 9 Oyedepo, The Rebellion of the Bumpy-Chested (Ilorin: Delstar, 2002): 73.

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hegemony of exploitative economic, social, and political structures that seek to silence the woman completely.10 Literary evidence affirms that culture, tradition, and social practices such as domestic exploitation, stereotypes, bias, unequal opportunities in education and politics, early or forced marriage, female circumcision, widowhood rituals, preference for male children and more combine to violate or deny the human rights of women in Nigerian society.

Culture and Women’s Human Rights The discourse on women’s rights in Edewede and Brain Has No Gender is approached in the context of traditional Nigeria societies, in which the woman’s life is constrained by a multitude of traditions, practices which violate her human rights and prevent her from achieving her full potential as a human being. Female circumcision is the major topic of Okoh’s Edewede. In the traditional village of Otoedo, the practice has been to circumcise the girl child in her early teenage years. Through the experiences of the protagonist, Edewede, Okoh argues that female circumcision is a death-trap for the girl child, whose life is often cut short as a result of the dangers arising from the ‘evil blade’. The author begins her quest to eliminate this practice by presenting the audience with the two sides of the coin – the advantages of circumcision as perceived by the traditional mind-set, and the actual reality of it as illustrated in the play. The audience is given ample opportunity to weigh the perceived advantages and disadvantages on a scale. Oyedepo’s Brain depicts the preference for male children, forced marriage, and the refusal to educate the female child. Alani has seven wives and sixteen female children. He considers having only female children a curse from the gods and he does all in his power to remove the curse. This issue is so serious that, in the effort to remove the curse, we are told that he had to feast on the faeces of pigs, as advised by the medicine man, and to endure the creepy sensation of having a toad in his pants so that his sperm might change to male-forming ones.11 Ifalami the medicine man sympathizes with Alani: 10

Ama Ata Aidoo, “To Be an African Woman Writer: An Overview and a Detail,” in Criticism and Ideology: Second African Writers Conference (Uppsala: Scandinavian Institute of African Studies, 1988): 157. 11 Stella ’Dia Oyedepo, Brain Has No Gender (Ilorin: Delstar, 2001): 10.

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“Who does not know the importance of male children?”12 Alani does not believe that female children can amount to anything, but he reluctantly sends Osomo to school because she is brilliant. As soon as he has arranged a marriage for her, he stops her from attending school. The forced marriage to Kelani – the old man – proves to be a disaster from the wedding night. Osomo runs away with the help of her teacher. She acquires an education and returns to the village years later as a medical doctor. She is the evidence that female children should be educated, that they will amount to something if they are given the opportunity. Osomo’s success in school and her emergence as a medical doctor prove that the intellect is not gendered.

(i)

Female Circumcision

In Okoh’s Edewede, Ebikere insists on having her granddaughter, Oseme, circumcised in spite of the fact that she has already lost Izenebu, her older granddaughter and Oseme’s sister, to circumcision. Ebikere dutifully trots out the reason for strict adherence to this cultural practice: circumcision is part of our culture. My mother was circumcised. So were her grandmothers, great grandmothers and great, great great grandmothers. It is a rite that every woman in this land goes through.13

The conflict between Ebikere and her daughter-in-law Edewele, who is adamant that Oseme shall not be circumcised, because of the high risk to life and health, culminates in a community crisis. Edewede and those who are against the cultural practice of circumcision become a threat to societal harmony and tradition. The threat they represent is such that Edewede is publicly repudiated by her husband and evicted from the village by a ritual masquerade. This act of public humiliation motivates the women into solidarity to fight for their basic rights. Like the women of Erhuwaren community in J.P. Clark’s The Wives’ Revolt, the women of Otoedo abandon their homes and depart into self-exile in protest against the treatment of Edewede. Without the women, the community is unbalanced and the men are forced to find ways to resolve the conflict between traditional practices and change.

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Oyedepo, Brain Has No Gender, 111. Julie Okoh, Edewede (Port Harcourt: Pearl, 2006): 2. Unless otherwise indicated, further page references are in the main text. 13

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The old woman Ebikere represents traditional practices. She informs her granddaughter Oseme that “circumcision is a thing of joy, prestige and cultural identity” (6). She tries to prepare Oseme’s mind for the exercise: Your bravery in the camp of circumcision will be the pride of your family and lineage. You are from a family of a brave warrior. Ah! The descendant of Edokparu, the Ogbomhagbesin, revered far and wide in Otoedo land for his military prowess. Oh yes, you will be brave. (3)

Ebikere alerts the audience and her granddaughter to the fact the procedure for circumcision as it is carried out in Otoedo land is a painful exercise. She does not speak of any benefit that the child will derive from it, nor does she give a good reason for the exercise. Instead, the girl Oseme is advised that she must undergo the procedure bravely to make her family proud. The only reason given for the push to get Oseme to participate in the gruesome ritual, in which assistants have to hold the girl’s legs apart forcibly for the operation to be performed, is to uphold tradition and promote family pride (3). The girl child is reminded that she is the descendant of a brave warrior and so must display the bravery of her ancestors. To justify the pain she will suffer, Ebikere insists: “My child, happiness and sorrow go hand in hand like day and night. That is the pattern of life itself” (5). Ebikere’s insistence on the preservation of this traditional practice despite the fact that she has already lost a grandchild to it indicates that, for her, tradition, no matter how useless, is more valuable than the individual or human life. It is outrageous that the only benefit of taking the risk of irrevocable death is to promote family pride and uphold tradition. The death of Izenebu (Ebikere’s granddaughter) and all others who have died as a result of circumcision amounts to a senseless waste of human lives and a denial of the right to life. Edewede represents the transformation of dysfunctional traditional practices. She is the vehicle through which the playwright educates the women on the reality of the circumcision exercise. She asks her mother-in-law: What about those girls who do not return to the village and are never even mourned, after bleeding to death? Regarded as sacrifice, they are left behind for the vultures to feed on. Tell her also about those girls who do not live long enough to see the days of their marriage and motherhood because of the infection contacted through the operation. (5)

We realize that a good number of young girls die in the process from infection. The situation is made even more horrific by the fact that the girls who

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die are not mourned or accorded the honour of a burial. Traditional society regards each one that dies in the process as a sacrifice, and the victims are therefore left for vultures to feed on. The waste of promising young girls seems so senseless when the reason is merely family pride and tradition. Edewede remembers that circumcision has brought tears to her eyes several times (6). She lost her older daughter, Izenebu, to circumcision. Her sister Azelu has died from the complications and her childhood friends Akalo and Denowe bled to death after the ritual; and there are many more (19). The audience is made aware that even when the consequence is not death, there are numerous other consequences such as vesico-vaginal fistula (V V F ), which damages the girl’s genitals. Often enough, damage to the tissues of her private parts may also result in the narrowing of the birth canal, creating many other problems during childbirth and after (29). As Eriala, the nurse in the play, testifies, Many women are suffering from different types of diseases because of circumcision: Tetanus, urinary infections, V.V.F., H I V / A I D S are all dangerous afflictions contacted through circumcision. Women! Do you know the exact reason they make you go through with it? Do you know what harm you do yourselves by agreeing to do it? (36)

The major reason given for the practice is the belief that it curbs the sexuality of girls /women, rendering them incapable of promiscuity. We are told: The custodians of our customs [men] and traditions claim that your peanut is the source of confusion and impurity. So they carve it out of its pod to prevent you from having impure thoughts. But women! For once in your life, stop and think. Think for yourselves…. Do you think with your brain or bottom? Do you see with your heart or bottom? Do you desire with your heart or bottom? (37)

The nurse urges the women to evaluate the logic behind the circumcision exercise. She is the author’s voice of self-awareness and perception. The market women begin to realize that there is a great deal of sense in her logic. They review the issue, recalling several instances where women have been promiscuous after circumcision. The women remember Aimufia, who “was circumcised but how many times was she caught sneaking behind her husband to sleep with other men?” (38), they remind themselves of others like Aimufia, and awareness comes. They reach the logical understanding that circumcision does not prevent sexual laxity. Hence, the third market woman asks: “If circumcision does not prevent promiscuity, why then do they make

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us go through it?” (38). Hence, the myth that circumcision curbs sexuality, thereby reducing sexual immorality, is proved to be false. The dramatist initiates the process of transformation by establishing that, in reality, circumcision serves no purpose at all. She goes further, fostering the consciousness that women have as much right to enjoy sex as men. The nurse asks the women: Do you forbid enjoyment? If it is cut off, the woman is unable to enjoy sex. She becomes a mere vessel for man’s pleasure. Women! Are you bowls, pots or mortars to be used and thrown to the corner, until the next time around? (38)

It becomes obvious that the patriarchal structure of traditional society has instituted and maintained the practice for the sole benefit of the man. The myth of curbing sexuality was so that the men would have wives who were strictly faithful while they could do as they pleased and have as many wives as they wished. In that circumstance, the woman is merely a toy for a man’s pleasure and convenience. In addition, the physical pain it involves, the health consequences and instances of death that often occur – all this is meant to give the man advantages over the woman. Clearly, evidence indicates that the practice of circumcision does not provide any advantage, so a continuation of the practice seems illogical. The dramatist leaves us in no doubt that this practice violates the woman’s right to happiness and sexual pleasure. It is also a denial of her fundamental right to life and health, as the practice often results in death and numerous health complications. Establishing these violations of women’s rights in the text advocates for the redress of the issues highlighted.

(ii) Forced Marriage The Nigerian traditional societies depicted in Edewede and Brain are patriarchal societies in which the woman’s life is defined by the man as the principal representative of culture. Certain privileges are accorded to the man as patriarch, husband, and father. As the patriarch and head of the family, the man has the right to decide the fate of the members of that family. Hence in Brain, Osomo’s father, Alani, marries her off to the octogenarian Kelani against her will. In this traditional social structure, it is his right as head of the family and her father to choose a husband for his daughter. As is often the case, the husband chosen for a daughter is for the benefit of the entire family; the benefit for the girl or her own wishes are not taken into consideration. Osomo’s father does not even think that she is entitled to know she is getting

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married. When requested by the prospective bridegroom that Osomo should be informed of the marriage plans, her father is infuriated: “Why do we need to tell her? Am I not her father? She is a bastard if she doesn’t obey me. Has she two heads? How will she refuse a husband I have chosen for her?” (31). The aged Kelani gives the following reason: “I am asking because children of nowadays… because of their education, they want their consent to be sought” (32). Alani won’t hear of such talk: Unless a father is not worth his salt. No daughter of mine dare to oppose my wishes. I have suffered enough from the curse of having female children. I want to marry them off as soon as they see their first period. I am not happy seeing them fill up my house like alligator-pepper seeds fill up their pod. (32)

It is noteworthy that Osomo breaks Kelani’s testicles on their wedding night rather than allow him to touch her. This act of physically incapacitating her husband indicates the breakdown of the absolute power of the husband over his wife – Kelani is now effectively useless as a husband; the instrument of oppression has been destroyed. This conspicuous refusal to adhere to an unfavourable tradition is an act of liberation from the injustice of cultural practices. Implicit in this action is the playwright’s encouragement that women in situations that constrain and abuse their rights must do whatever is necessary to extricate themselves from these circumstances. Oyedepo stages the radical act of smashing the man’s testicles as a rhetorical, monitory dismantling of the practice of forced marriage. We are told (doubtless ironically) that “maiming one’s husband’s organ and rendering it useless is unheard of” (36). This alien ‘unheard-of’ action is projected as the ultimate means to transform old practices and perhaps usher in more equitable marriage practices. The issue of the man’s absolute power to choose his daughter’s husband in patriarchal society also crops up in Edewede. When Edewede has the audacity to entertain thoughts of choosing her own husband, her mother scolds her: “You should be ashamed of yourself. A girl rejecting the spouse chosen for her by her father. Unheard of!” (27). The woman is expected to make do with any man chosen for her, no matter how old he is, how incompatible they are, or how repulsive he might be to her. The woman’s happiness is obviously not a consideration in the choice of a husband. She is sentenced to what might turn out to be a lifetime of misery – a denial of her basic right to happiness. In addition, the woman’s life is constrained by a multitude of biases into which she has been socialized from birth. She is someone’s daughter, wife or sister; these positions have been so internalized that women cherish them.

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Edewede is progressive and wishes to keep up with the changing times, yet she cherishes her position as Ordia’s wife. She kneels to serve him food, to discuss important things with him or offer him an apology (12). She assures him: “I consider myself very lucky to have a husband like you” (24). As she advocates for a change in the structures that violate the rights of women, she pleads with her husband: “I’ll want to still sit high in your mind, no matter what happens” (25). Often, the socialization of women in patriarchal cultures is so deeply ingrained that they resist attempts to improve their circumstances. In Edewede, the playwright asks in exasperation: “How do you educate a people that see every new idea as a threat to traditions?” (30). Hence, some of these abuses and violations remain unacceptable or unperceived by both the violaters and those violated. That women are essentially enslaved by their socialization is affirmed in the practices discussed in the plays. Also implicit is the idea that women have to break out of the confines of their socialization to effect transformations in the cultural practices and attitudes that violate their basic human rights.

(iii) Women’s Education Oyedepo’s Brain Has No Gender voices a strong argument against the violation of the woman’s right to education. Alani has sixteen female children and he has sent only one – Osomo – to school because she shows unusual brilliance. Soon enough, he stops her from attending school, because he has given her away in marriage without her knowledge or consent. More importantly, Alani considers it a waste of money to educate female children: “What is the use of a woman’s education? Is she not going to waste it in the kitchen?” (30).This odious belief that it is a waste of time and money to educate the female child is only one of the numerous traditional beliefs that are negatively prejudiced against women. Oyedepo states that these prejudices are intended to “keep women perpetually relegated to the background” (3). The dramatist places a high premium on education as the means by which the woman will emerge “from the path of darkness and ignorance” (4). The third voice in the play insists that women must Force open the door of knowledge. Education will liberate us from suppression. Education shall lift the veil of ignorance from the eyes of all women. Women must go through life with greater visibility! (4).

Education is seen as the route to freedom from societal injustices, and will bring women opportunities to be more active and visible in spheres of social

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interaction. Oyedepo takes time to evaluate the issues through a dialogue between young male and female university undergraduates. Jide, a young man, posits that a man’s intellectual superiority is widely established in the world. As he reminds his female colleague Funmi, Come on Funmi. I think you women are becoming rather swollen headed. Now think of scientific inventions and discoveries of monumental significance, was there any one made by a woman? Isaac Newton, Benjamin Franklin, John Thomson and most of the world’s great scientists were men. (41)

Funmi has a more realistic, forceful argument. She asks: But the question is, can’t women do it? Were these discoveries and inventions made with male organs? Pardon my vulgar language. Now, are you trying to prove that the possession of a male organ is an index of a higher mental capability? I am saying emphatically, that the brain has no gender.

But Jide is unconvinced and refuses to entertain any notion of women’s intellectual equality. To buttress her point, Funmi points out that even the human anatomy teaches a simple lesson of human equality irrespective of gender: It’s surprising that men find it difficult to accept that they aren’t superior to women. Now… look at the human anatomy. You will observe that what exists on pairs have equal status in nature’s scheme. Our two eyes or two ears, legs, etc convey the symbolic message of parity. So in essence, the two sexes, male and female should therefore be conceived as equals and partners. (43)

She makes the point that part of the reason why women do not make a visible contribution to science and society is that they have not been given opportunities equal to those of men (44). The playwright raises awareness of this lack of opportunities, of the unsavoury positions women are relegated to. The fifth female voice asks: How many of us are governors? How many of us are statesmen or are permitted to use the word statesmen? How many of us are great scientists and inventors? (3)

Women are aware that, through the denial of education, they lack opportunities to occupy these positions. This lack is a result of cultural prejudices against the woman. However, they resolve: “We shall get there” (3). The dialogue between women leaves us in no doubt that the women are determined to find their way out of their confined spaces. 1st Voice:

Women, we need to steer ourselves from the path of darkness and ignorance.

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2nd Voice: Yes, we need to gain more dignity. How do we do it? 3rd Voice: I think I have the answer […]. Education shall liberate us from

suppression… 4th Voice: Yes we agree. Education shall rescue us. We too shall join the

men in exploring the depths of knowledge. 5th Voice: But can we do it? 6th Voice: Women yes, we have the grey matter to cope. The human brain

does not have gender differentiation. […] A woman’s brain does not function less than a man’s… 7th Voice: Women let us rise to the challenge. We can do it! And we shall do it! (4–5)

These seven women activate their right to education, and the story of Osomo proves that education will indeed liberate the women from the confines of culture. Osomo’s escape from forced marriage releases her, and her return many years later as a qualified medical doctor proves to her father and all others that, indeed, ‘brain has no gender’.

(iv) Preference for Male Children The woman’s situation depicted in these plays has been so marginalized by the structures of society that she has suffered several forms of human-rights abuses. Yet another example of such abuses is that even the woman’s role of motherhood is graded according to the sex of the child. In Brain Has No Gender, Alani does not consider female children as a sign of virility. He is sorely aggrieved that his wives have not given him a male child. He questions the seer: I tell you Baba, mine has been an unusual ill-luck. It isn’t that I’m impotent. […] Baba, is it not a bitter irony that I, the same one whose masculine power is stronger than that of a horse should father sixteen female children with no male child, no single male child, not even a premature one as evidence of my potency? (10)

When the seer prophesies that Alani’s pregnant wife, Awele, will soon be delivered of triplets – all boys – he is overjoyed. He foresees that his enemies and those who have laughed at him will bury their heads in shame. The anticipation of three male children at one go means that he has “triumphed over his enemies” (20), and his pride is restored. He gloats prematurely: “Me, Alani, the son of buffalo, the son of the fighting elephant…!” (20). When the babies turn out to be girls, he is vicious in his disappointment. His wife Awele

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is urgently in need of blood after the birth of girl triplets. At the request of the nurse that he should donate blood to his ill wife, he bluntly refuses. His position is clear, as he tells the nurse: Look nurse, if you want to save Awele’s life, save it. […] I do not think I can donate blood. Let me say this, Awele is not coming back to my house. I strongly suspect she is a witch. No medicine works with her […] when Awele leaves here let her go to her father’s house. That’s all. Her triplets are her trouble o! I don’t have any hand in it o! (22)

Rating sons above daughters in patriarchal society also features in Edewede. Edewede’s mother-in-law regards her as barren because she does not have a male child. She fumes: How many men in this village treat their wives like he [her son] does? Others in his place would have since married another woman. His homestead is empty, yet he calls you: “my wife!” Go away! Barren woman! (8)

Edewele insists that she is not barren, that she has a daughter, Oseme, but Ebikere is unconvinced: “Having only one issue is like having none at all. And a girl too (Hissing). Chiew! Nonsense!” (8). It is important to note that Edewede has had two sons who died, actually losing one of them to superstition. She recalls: I have had male issues. My first son was bitten to death by a snake in your plantation. Six years ago, I had another baby boy. He cried. Mama, I heard him cry. But nobody came to his rescue. They said he was an evil child for he wore the cord around his neck like a necklace. I would have died too, while waiting for the medicine man to come and separate me from him. But God saved me. (8)

The danger of ignorance and superstition is demonstrated in the practice of leaving perfectly healthy, normal children to die for the simple accident of being born with the umbilical cord around their necks – a gross denial of their basic right to life. These plays show that traditional culture does not ascribe any noticeable social rights to the women. The position of the woman is from birth secondary to that of the man. The woman who has had only female children is distraught with anxiety and afraid that her husband may discontinue the marriage. She has no voice. Even the one who has male children does not have much of a voice. Ebikere reminds Edewede that she is “ only a wife in this house” (7). That men and women are “born free and equal in dignity and rights” is not in

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evidence in the socio-cultural setting of either play. The human-rights concept of ‘inalienable rights’ is constantly violated, as these issues illustrate.

Instigating Transformations Okoh and Oyedepo set wheels in motion to transform the practices that are inimical to women’s progress. They do this in various ways. Okoh questions the logic behind the practice of circumcision. To show the factitiousness of the perception of circumcision as a means of curbing sexual immorality among women, she debunks the myth through a scientific explanation establishing that circumcision serves no purpose, making it clear that it is imperative to abolish the practice because of the dangers it constitutes to women’s life and health. In what amounts to a basic lecture in health education, Okoh explains such illnesses as H I V and V V F , which are often contacted through circumcision. These explanations bring awareness of how dangerous the practice really is, motivating both men and women to condemn and reject the practice. It is also worthy of note that when Edewede is publicly repudiated by her husband and the ritual masquerade, the women are united in solidarity with her against the community represented by the masquerade and against circumcision. The cliché ‘united we stand’ holds true here. In addition, Edewede debunks other superstitions that have made the woman’s life difficult in traditional society. She makes the women of Otoedo realize that a child that is born with the umbilical cord around his /her neck is perfectly normal, not evil as superstition would have them believe, and that the practice of leaving such children to die was a terrible waste of humanity that cries out for rectification. Edewede summarizes it thus: “Ignorance is worse than any disease” (8). Oyedepo thus urges reform in the areas in which women are marginalized and are not accorded rights at all. Brain Has No Gender is a convincing demonstration that women and men are equal intellectually. As Josephine Donovan puts it, Intellect is not sexed; […] strength is not sexed, and […] our views about the duties of men and the duties of women, the spheres of man and the sphere of woman, are mere arbitrary opinions.14 14

Josephine Donovan, Feminist Theory (New York: Continuum International,

2000): 31–32.

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Against all the odds of traditional beliefs, practices, and biases in favour of men, Osomo is a demonstration that the division of men and women into public and private domains is without justification. The idea that a woman’s education would be wasted in the kitchen – the arena to which she is assigned by culture – is projected as invalid and unfair to the woman. Osomo confirms the intellectual capacity of woman when she becomes a medical doctor. Alani is forced to acknowledge that a daughter is as good as a son. There is a revision of attitudes, a change of perception. He agrees that Osomo is “a child in a million. A daughter who has done what a thousand sons could not do” (52). The old attitudes towards women are being transformed in text and, by implication, in society. Since literature is a mirror of society, such politicized, gender-focused writing heralds the emergence of a new era. Alani’s new perception is the advent of transformation. In regret for his mistakes in the past, he declares: I am going to feast in this house for twenty-one years to compensate for my years of mourning. I have mourned and mourned that God didn’t give me a male child. Is Osomo not greater than a hundred men? A doctor…a doctor. Now, I am a most happy man. I thank my creator. (53)

Osomo is the example that is held up for other women to follow. She also embodies for the playwright the need for women to be courageous enough to extricate themselves from the prison of cultural practices. Osomo’s extreme acts of rejection, culminating in the emasculation of her husband on their wedding night, are iconic illustrations of the harsh fact that those affected must take matters into their own hands – even to the point of melodramatic physicality – to effect change. It is, however, highly significant that resistance cannot be encoded in physicality alone, or in domestic resistance to the entrenched structure of forced marriages. It is also a question of breaking out mentally, intellectually, onto a higher plane to secure social respect and recognition as a worthy individual contributing meaningfully to society; hence Osomo’s determined enlistment of the right to education to become a medical doctor. Behind the breaking of Kelani’s testicles, however, is the root issue: Is a man’s masculinity centred in his testicles? Is that his seat of power? Or does he, rather, have the balls to renounce the factitiousness of extreme patriarchy? The answer comes too late for Kelani, as Osomo has, in his individual case, already given a draconian answer. But for society as a whole, the question remains hanging in the air.

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Conclusion Nigerian female dramatists show a consistent preoccupation with traditional practices that abuse the rights of women and impede the development of Nigerian women. Edewede and Brain Has No Gender highlight and evaluate some of the issues that contemporary Nigerian female playwrights seek to redress through their creativity. The issues of female circumcision, forced marriage, the lack of access to education of girls, and the preference for male children discussed in the plays raise many questions. What rights do women have in the traditional societies depicted in the texts? Are these rights protected, compromised, or violated? What is the basis of male superiority? If brain is not gendered, as the play insists, and the essential biological difference between the sexes is so vulnerable that a blow or kick from a young girl can disable it, then what and where is the seat of masculine power? This means that the real factors that institute or enable the violation of women’s human rights are culturally constructed and rigged in favour of the male. The plays convey the stark message that patriarchal Nigerian culture pays no attention to social inequity and women’s human rights are perpetually violated by cultural practices and a multitude of biases against them. Hence, female dramatists script visions committed to providing options for correcting this situation. As Okoh recognizes, female playwrights use their creative writing to develop in their fellow women a sense of self-awareness and self-actualization so they can participate advantageously in contemporary global economy.15

Okoh and Oyedepo script transformations in the socio-cultural practices that violate the rights of women. In these plays, these practices are abolished successfully, women are made to overcome the limitations that constrain their existence and abuse their rights. It is noteworthy that there are men in society who are also capable of embracing processes of societal reform; in this important respect, the plays are not manichaean, do not set up the male world as irredeemable. We are left in no doubt that change is inevitable, as the fourth Elder in Edewede states: “tendency to resist change is a common trait in man. But sooner or later, change will come despite all resistance” (62). In discussing the social and cultural practices that violate the rights of women in 15

Juliana Okoh, “Oral Traditions in Nigerian Drama Written by Women,” The Crab: Journal of Theatre and Media Arts 1.1 (2005): 117.

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Edewede and Brain Has No Gender, the playwrights explore the options for correction. Transforming the situations of women’s rights abuses, and eliminating or at least ameliorating the social structures that constrain women in the plays is a definite, crafted advocacy for human rights. These plays are therefore employed as a platform from which to redress violations, and entrench the human rights of women.

W O R K S C I TE D Aidoo, Ama Ata. “To Be an African Woman Writer: An Overview and a Detail,” in Criticism and Ideology: Second African Writers Conference (Uppsala: Scandinavian Institute of African Studies, 1988): 155–71. Anon. “Human Rights,” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Humanrights (accessed 7 June 2009). Clark, J.P. Three Plays: Song of a Goat (Ibadan: Ibadan U P , 1988). ——. The Wives’ Revolt (Ibadan: Ibadan U P , 1991). ’Dia Oyedepo, Stella. Brain Has No Gender (Ilorin: Delstar, 2001). ——. The Rebellion of the Bumpy-Chested (Ilorin: Delstar, 2002). Donovan, Josephine. Feminist Theory (New York: Continuum International, 2000). Emecheta, Buchi. The Joys of Motherhood (London: Heinemann, 1980). Evwierhoma, Mabel. “Theatre, Minority Rights and the Gender Question: Whither Nigerian Female Dramatists?” in Theatre and Minority Rights: Perspectives on the Niger Delta, ed. Austin Ovigue Asagba (Ibadan: Kraft, 2009): 238–52. Okoh, Juliana. “Oral Traditions in Nigerian Drama Written by Women,” The Crab: Journal of Theatre and Media Arts 1.1 (2005): 115–29. Okoh, Julie. Edewede (Port Harcourt: Pearl, 2006). ——. In the Fullness of Time (Owerri: Totan, 2000). Okolocha, H. Oby. “Feminist Theatre and Socio-Political Reforms: An Evaluation of J.P. Clark’s The Wives’ Revolt,” Nigerian Journal of the Humanities (Benin City) 15 (2008): 108–26. Onukaogu, Allwell A., & Ezechi Onyerionwu. 21st Century Nigerian Literature: An Introductory Text (Ibadan: Kraft, 2009). Onwueme, Tess. Then She Said It (San Francisco: African Heritage, 2002). Uko, Iniobong I. Gender and Identity in the Works of Osonye Tess Onwueme (Trenton N J : Africa World Press, 2004). Utoh, Tracy Chima. Our Wives Have Gone Mad Again and Other Plays (Awka: Valid, 2001).

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B RIGHT M OLANDE ———— º The Fatal Voyage

— Colonialism as Tragedy in Steve Chimombo’s Writing ABSTRACT Tragedy is a term that oscillates across three senses. A tragedy can be an event or a literary piece of work understood to be tragic. But tragedy can also describe a conception of human existence, tragic existence. This essay settles on the first two senses of the word. But tragedy is “a precious word” reserved for precious suffering too often associated with Western aesthetic and literary sensibility. Tragedy is not a word that is common in African literary and critical parlance. Exploiting the senses of the tragic event and the Western literary form, Steve Chimombo uses tragedy as a prism for interpreting colonial history in protest against imperialism. Colonialism becomes a tragedy, the colonizer its tragic protagonist, while mythological heroes play the nemesis that brings down imperialism and its hubris. This essay illustrates how the author resorts to Malawian mythology to formulate a vernacular perspective on tragedy, and to valorize native African agency in the fight against imperial domination. Ultimately, Chimombo calibrates tragedy as a mode for interpreting experiences of the postcolony in a framework of vernacular mythology.

I

M P E R I A L I S M I S A W O U N D E D B I R D soaring blindly beyond the skies. The tale of imperialism is the tragedy of a mortally wounded soul craving to be a god, but crash-landing to earth in defeat when native agency rouses itself to confront it. The high pride of colonialism has been its own fatal flaw and it is a mission that came sowing diseased seeds of selfdestruction. This is what you get from reading the works of Steve Chimombo, a Malawian writer who (for his fineness of poetic imagination, writing about tragedy, and sustained exploration of his people’s vernacular world-view) ought to be placed somewhere close to Wole Soyinka – one writer who has influenced him. But Chimombo’s self-publishing and circulation of most of his works locally has limited international recognition and even prejudiced public perception of his literary place on the continent.

”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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We hardly ever think of African colonialism as tragedy. Rather, we reserve the ‘ precious word’ ‘tragedy’ to identify a European sensibility of ‘precious suffering’ as seen in Greek and Shakespearean drama. Soyinka began to relocate this conceptual paradigm by delving into the abyss of his peoples’ tragic imagination in order to assert that Africans have always had thoughts of ‘the tragic’. We can think of Things Fall Apart as a tragedy – Okonkwo’s blind pride and the fatal fear of fear itself resemble those of Julius Caesar when the line between heroic courage and foolishness is missing. We can certainly think of Ngugi’s A Grain of Wheat as being tragic. Yet, it is rare to find in African literature and its critical canon titles containing the word ‘tragedy’. It is as though we hardly recognize tragedy as both a literary and an historical conception of African experience. In this essay, I examine Chimombo’s formulation and narration of the native–colonizer conflict as a tragedy. The argument follows from what Ato Quayson calls calibrating tragedy as a literary paradigm for interpreting history in the postcolony.1 Quayson expands Achille Mbembe’s use of literary and cultural theory to examine postcolonial reality, going further to specify literary tragedy as a prism for analysing political action “at the dual levels of structure and agency.”2 The present essay illustrates how Chimombo imagines tragedy as a prism for resistance against imperial domination. This postcolonial writer draws from the Western ambit of the discourse of tragedy in order to valorize a vernacular world-view and its agency against imperialism. Chimombo’s cross-formulation of Western discourse and indigenous mythology in order to posit tragedy as a prism for viewing postcolonial experience is to be seen as a statement of resistance. Given that imperialism marginalizes vernacular conceptual frameworks, Chimombo joins what James Ogude has described as “an engagement with epistemological practices that came with colonialism” in order to recover “African gnosis repressed by colonialism.”3 ‘Hubris’ is a word that has been central to the Western conception of tragedy since Aristotle’s descriptions of Greek drama. The definition of hubris that is often drawn from Western drama speaks of “wanton insolence” or “overweening pride, arrogance, [and] excessive confidence” that leads one to 1

Ato Quayson, Calibrations: Reading for the Social (Minneapolis: U of Minnesota

P , 2003): 57–58. 2

See also Achille Mbembe, “Provisional Notes on the Postcolony,” Africa 62.1 (1992): 3–37. 3 James Ogude, Ngugi’s Novels and African History (London: Pluto, 1999): 1.

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“ignore the warnings of the gods and to transgress their laws” in prelude to one’s destruction.4 Greek as the word itself may be, the idea of hubris is archetypal. It is therefore universal and atavistic in human consciousness. It is an archetype that conjures a primordial scene when high pride rose, only to be consigned to “the depths of the abyss.” This is the blind pride that ascended in the beginning: I will sit on the mountain where the gods meet in the far recesses of the north. I will rise high above the cloud-banks and make myself like the Most High. (Isaiah 14:13–14)

The fall from arrogance is swift in coming. This protagonist is brought down to “the depths of the abyss.” What characterizes the protagonist is his loss of a sense of place in the cosmic order and the yearning to be what he cannot be in his finite nature. His defeat and being plunged to the bottom of the abyss proves the finitude of his powers and nature. Hubris transcends the arrogance of scoffing at warnings and breaking the laws of the divine powers. According to Jennifer Wallace, the term was used in Greek society to encompass the crime committed when an individual did anything deemed to have transgressed human boundaries. It would still be counted a crime of transgression even though only the gods had the arbitrary prerogative of defining such boundaries.5 Rebecca Bushnell describes hubris as an act of “overreaching” when one’s “actions go beyond what is expected.” Such excesses may be motivated by a person’s inherent nature (ethos) or some external superhuman force, which can be divine or daemonic.6 Such an act of insolence would elicit the wrath of the gods, which could result in the falling of the high, suffering, and death. According to Friedrich Nietzsche, hubris was a latent problem in the ethos (the communal character) of the Greek state. It was a society in which success was premissed on the principle of contest. But a man who out-competed everyone also risked facing the destructive envy of the gods. In one instance, 4

J.A. Cuddon, A Dictionary of Literary Terms and Literary Theory (Oxford: Blackwell, 1998): 401–402; Sylvan Barnet, Morton Berman & William Burto, A Dictionary of Literary Terms (London: Constable, 1964): 144. 5 Jennifer Wallace, The Cambridge Introduction to Tragedy (Cambridge: Cambridge U P , 2007): 12. 6 Rebecca Bushnell, Tragedy: A Short Introduction (Oxford: Blackwell, 2008): 88.

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this divine envy flares up when it sees a man without any competitor, without an opponent, at the lonely height of fame. He only has the gods near him now – and for that reason he has them against him. But these entice him into an act of hubris, and he collapses under it.7

This “act of hubris” with which a man falls would also be followed by punishment by the divine authorities offended. The agent of retribution among the Greeks was called Nemesis – the goddess who was “born as an affliction to mortal men.”8 ‘Nemesis’ has come to mean “retribution or punishment for wrongdoing” or the agent thereof.9 This term is related to the concept of “poetic justice” via some logic of secularization. It implies socially unaccepted behaviour warranting punishment and suffering without any involvement of the gods. Chris Baldick defines it as “the morally reassuring allocation of happy and unhappy fates to the virtuous and the wicked” respectively.10 In short, it is the idea that “the evil are punished appropriately and the good rewarded.”11 Thomas Rymer introduced the term ‘poetic justice’ in the eighteenth century, applying it to instances when the virtuous are rewarded while the guilty are punished and tormented right here on earth, or before they leave the stage in drama. In this case, he argues, “nothing [is] left to God Almighty and another World”; the sufferer and the dying are deemed criminals who deserve their plight and ruin without deserving pity.12 Chimombo depicts the ideas of hubris, hamartia (error of judgement), and poetic justice as themes in The Wrath of Napolo as well as The Vipya Poem.13 The novel and the poem (sequel to the novel) are based on a tragic historical 7

Friedrich Nietzsche, “Homer’s Contest” (1872), in The Nietzsche Reader, ed. Keith Pearson & Duncan Large (Oxford: Blackwell, 2006): 99. 8 John Roberts, Dictionary of the Classical World (Oxford: Oxford U P , 2007): 498. 9 Chris Baldick, The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms (Oxford: Oxford U P , 1990): 148. 10 Baldick, The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms, 172. 11 Cuddon, A Dictionary of Literary Terms, 681. 12 Thomas Rymer, Tragedies of the Last Age Consider’d and Examin’d, preface by Arthur Freeman (New York: Garland, 1974): 26–27. 13 Steve Chimombo, The Wrath of Napolo (Zomba: W A S I , 2000) – subsequent page references are in the main text, abbreviated as T W N ; Chimombo, The Vipya Poem (Zomba: W A S I , 1996) – subsequent page references are in the main text, abbreviated as T V P .

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event that occurred in colonial times, which the writer now re-interprets using the myth of Napolo. In Malawian cosmology, Napolo is a spirit believed to be the cause of heavy rains, landslides, hurricanes, earthquakes, and floods every time it erupts from its subterranean lair and goes on a river voyage to the sea.14 Any of these natural events reaching cataclysmic proportions is also called Napolo. The myth is often invoked when a disastrous event is of such great impact that it confounds the human psyche beyond comprehension. Napolo is therefore the ultimate explanation for cataclysmic events whose occurrence is kinetic in nature. One could argue that Napolo operates as a mythic framework for explaining tragic events caused by kinaesthetic forces of nature, the forces of water and wind being a case in point. One such event was a severe cyclone, deflected from the Indian Ocean, that was followed by heavy rain that poured down continuously for forty-four hours on 13 December 1946. A meteorological report recorded the rainfall at 965 mm (38 inches).15 It caused a landslide on Zomba Mountain, which sent huge boulders and rocks crashing down on the colonial capital. Roads and bridges disappeared in the floods; electricity poles and trees were uprooted, and whole villages of people were swept down to Lake Chilwa. It killed a colonial officer, the Commissioner of Prisons, Mr Ingram, as he drove through the deluge. He was caught in a furious flood as he crossed a bridge and was found dead ten miles down-river.16 This was an act of Napolo in the mythological explanation of the local people. Earlier in the same year, the one-year-old Chimombo had sailed on a ship that sank on Lake Malawi soon after he and his family had disembarked. Many people drowned. This catastrophe was also locally interpreted as an act of Napolo. The novel and the epic poem use both the sinking of the ship and the death of the Commissioner of Prisons as the basis for the plotting and charac14

Chimombo, “Preface,” in Chimombo, Napolo Poems (Zomba: Manchichi, 1987). See also Anthony Nazombe, “The Role of Myth in the Poetry of Steve Chimombo,” in New Writing from Southern Africa, ed. Emmanuel Ngara (Nairobi: Heinemann & London: James Currey, 1996): 93. 15 A.C. Talbot Edwards, “Zomba Floods, December, 1946,” The Nyasaland Journal 1.2 (July 1948): 60. 16 Cloudburst, “Disaster at Zomba,” The Nyasaland Times 49.95 (16 December 1946): 1. The story was confirmed by Ahmad Rabic who remembers the events, personal communication, 3 Miles, Zomba, October 2010.

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terization of the colonial protagonist who takes his empire to self-destruction. It is a story of the colonizer who suffers a tragic flaw and destroys himself along with the empire in a political storm of his own making. This protagonist falls at the hands of an indigenous force as the writer affirms the agency of natives in colonial history.

A Fatal Gift of the Gods Chimombo uses the idea of hubris in order to present colonial history as a tragedy. The colonizer is presented as a tragic protagonist whose coming to Africa is an outright hamartia that issues from his hubris. Commenting on the 1946 landslide, floods, and the death of the Commissioner of Prisons, Chimombo shows that he consciously interprets colonial history in terms of hubris, hamartia, and nemesis. The poet recollects: the wife of a colonial officer waited in anguish for the mangled remains of her husband’s body to be brought home to her. Her husband had scoffed at the warning signs that the mountain was cracking. He had tried to drive through the deluge that had destroyed seven bridges in Zomba town alone, and had met with Napolo head on.17

The journey motif subtly presented in this statement later develops as the theme of the territorial transgression of colonialism in The Wrath of Napolo and The Vipya Poem. The Napolo which the colonial officer meets “head on” in this historical event is the nemesis that metes out poetic justice to the colonizer. The colonial officer’s behaviour and its fateful consequences are presented as a disregard of clear warnings, which is tantamount to insolence towards native divine powers, an arrogance that stems from the white man’s overweening pride and sense of superiority. In short, hubris. Another poem, “Obituary,” also based on this event, characterizes the white man as an imperialist who dared trespass into the territory of invincible local forces and “met Napolo head-on.” Prior to his debacle in the poem, the colonial officer is an ambivalent figure who is received as a blessing and a destroyer at the same time. The poet mirrors colonialism as an attractive modernizing process that is also loathed by natives for its oppression and cultural destruction. The ambivalence of colonialism is evident among Malawians, who speak of the colonizer as mtsamunda. This is “a term laden with scorn

17

Chimombo, Napolo Poems, viii.

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and contempt” for a person considered to be racist and oppressive.18 Things associated with the white man, the Mzungu, are described as zachizungu, which can be an expression either of veneration or of repulsion. “Obituary” ambivalently presents the colonizer as a fatal gift from the gods: He was a blessing one never prays for – lightning coming uninvited while men, women, and children flee in terror at Mphambe’s wrath; but once the god has struck and buried his bolt in the earth, they rush to the riven place, claw at its charred remains.19

The colonizer comes like lightning when sent by Mphambe, the god of thunder. This is a terrorizing god; his lightning can kill instantly. The people flee for their lives, only to return and claw out healing charms from the epicentre of the thunderbolt. People in the poet’s society use the bark of a tree struck by lightning for traditional medicine. The thunderbolt thus brings death or destruction and healing (life) at the same time. It is noteworthy that Mphambe (and his ambivalent thunderbolt) is using the colonizer as a divinely sent agent of retribution. The idea of a fatal gift from the divine realm is particularly developed in the second stanza of “Obituary”: He was a gift one never utters thanks for— locusts swarming after the planting rains while men, women, and children watch with desperate hearts and raging eyes [. . . ] but, once darkness has descended, run to grab the drooping bodies and bring basketfuls of heaven-sent food. (N A P , 17)

18

Pascal Kishindo, “Evolution of Political Terminology in Chichewa and the Changing Political Culture in Malawi,” Nordic Journal of African Studies 9.1 (2000): 20–30, http://www.njas.helsinki.fi/pdf-files/vol9num1/kishindo.pdf (accessed 3 February 2011). 19 Steve Chimombo, Napolo and the Python (London: Heinemann, 1994): 17. Subsequent page references are in the main text, abbreviated as N A P .

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This ambivalent gift brings food for life and such destruction that can wipe out the agrarian society. As in Achebe’s Things Fall Apart, particularly after gunning down almost the entire Abame community at the marketplace, the white man is feared as a force capable of annihilating entire communities. The same white man brings what the people find to be admirable. Chimombo has, in “The Locusts,” explicitly compared colonizers to locusts coming as divinely despatched agents of destruction. The white man’s coming is explained as part of a series of catastrophes inflicted on society for its offences against divine powers.20 The play complements the portrayal in the poem of the colonizer as a divinely sent but fatal gift. Having been divinely sent, the colonizer commits hubris in “Obituary,” developing excessive pride and seeing himself as a god reigning over the natives. He overleaps his human boundaries: He stood among us, divine, listening to our songs, supervising the rain dances, receiving our sacrifices of bull, goat, or cock, drinking to the dregs prayers fermenting in beer. (N A P , 17)

The colonizer’s failure to understand his human status and role is equivalent to the violation of the Delphic wisdom imparted in ancient Greece: “know thyself.”21 It was thought that flouting this principle led to a failure of selfmoderation which among the Greeks warranted the destruction of heroes. Achebe’s Okonkwo is destroyed for his self-aggrandizement above other men and for challenging the gods.22 In “Obituary,” Napolo destroys the colonizer for assuming himself to be higher than natives. The colonizer’s overreaching as a divine poseur is evident in the poem from his habit of receiving sacrifices and prayers. He poses as an ultimate divine authority himself.23 The people’s prayers have fermented along with the sacrificial beer he drinks because the prayers cannot ascend to the divine 20

Steve Chimombo, “The Locusts” (M S ): 3–4. Friedrich Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy and Other Writings, ed. Raymond Geuss & Ronald Speirs, tr. Ronald Speirs (Cambridge: Cambridge U P , 1999): 27. 22 See Chinua Achebe, Things Fall Apart (London: Heinemann, 1958). 23 Anthony Nazombe, The Haunting Wind: New Poetry from Malawi (Blantyre: Dzuka, 1990): 8–9. 21

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realm proper. He actually drinks the prayers “to the dregs” because they cannot get anywhere beyond him. As Anthony Nazombe comments, the protagonist attempts to usurp the godhead.24 His excessive insolence shows as he boasts of being all-powerful, egoistic, and omniscient – only to be confronted by his nemesis. The problem facing Chimombo’s colonizer is that he is a divinely sent agent of retribution who cannot fathom the limits of his mission. He is supposed to moderate himself, in awareness that there are higher powers above him even if he does not subscribe to the local divine authorities. The complicating factor is that the colonizer is an agent of divine authority which he cannot comprehend in his finitude as a human being. The case of being given unfathomable limits, thereby increasing the risk of flouting them, compares with the fate of Mlauli in Chimbombo’s Python! Python!. Chimombo suggests that reverence for superhuman authority and understanding one’s human limitations remains important irrespective of being in the presence of strange gods one does not believe in. It is the same need for humility that Clytemnestra expresses in Agamemnon: “If they revere the gods of that city in that captured land, / if they revere the gods’ sacred places, / they who are conquerors will not be reconquered.”25 Chimombo portrays the colonizer as a conqueror who gets conquered for his lack of humility.

Myths of Colonialism Chimombo uses the arrival and sinking of the ship as an allegory for the rise and fall of colonialism. The assembling of the ship Maravi is like the slow and stealthy infiltration of colonialism found in Achebe’s Things Fall Apart and Ngugi’s The River Between. The name Maravi is particularly symbolic, given its etymology. There was once a Maravi Kingdom in pre-colonial times which the English colonizers pronounced as ‘Malawi’. It was in memory of this native kingdom that the country was renamed after independence. The assembling of the Maravi therefore has connotations of nation-formation, as happened with the coming of colonialism. The novel explicitly presents the sinking of this ship as the end of colonialism: 24

Nazombe, The Haunting Wind, 8. Aeschylus, Agamemnon, The Oresteia, tr. David Grene & Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty (Chicago: U of Chicago P , 1989): 45. 25

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The Maravi is a symbol of the foundering of white colonial rule over the black man. The white man came, one by one at first, in twos and threes later, to build his empire on Mandania, just as the ship parts, rivets, anchor, wheel, plates, came piece by piece on the same route from England, to build the whole ship on the shores of Tamanda. The white man ruled Mandania as the Maravi ruled the lake. He met local resistance in the form of tribal uprisings, just as the ship met several storms before the mwera, the big one, overwhelmed it. (T W N , 337–39)

This surreptitious infiltration compares with Obierika’s lament, in Things Fall Apart, that the white man “came quietly and peaceably with his religion” and unsuspecting natives allowed him to stay.26 Chimombo presents the empire as a failed mission that faced resistance and collapsed just as the ship encountered storms and sank. The ship is, in this case, the central symbol of political conflict – both appropriate here and widely used in literature generally. Michael Ferber says it is common to find the ship as “an allegory of political strife” with “the ship-of-state metaphor, whereby the king is the captain or helmsman, the citizens are the crew, the weather is all political, and the goal is safe harbor.”27 The colonizer in Chimombo’s case indirectly causes the political storm that destroys him because of the way he uses his imperial powers. Like the colonial officer in “Obituary,” the sea captain meets his nemesis. The narrator describes his self-destruction as “more poetic justice than irony” because in “his insistence to distance himself from the black man and other races, the white man built a death trap for himself” (T W N , 410). Thus, the storm comes as a form of retribution for his actions. Evocative of Prospero’s “mutinous winds” and “roaring war,” divine mutiny against the colonizer is encountered in “A Gathering of the Spirits” in The Vipya Poem. The spirits are brewing a tornado to depose the colonizer: The ancestral spirits brooded sorely over the encroachment of their lands, the trampled sacred trees and shrines. The slumbering spirits languished over The forgotten libations and forsaken graves. The forefathers gnashed their teeth at the incursions into their last preserve: the lake and its deep sacred pools. 26

Achebe, Things Fall Apart, 160. Michael Ferber, A Dictionary of Literary Symbols (Cambridge: Cambridge U P , 2007): 193. 27

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They could brook the insolence no longer [. . . ] Foreign sails have to be sunk, they said, for navigating upon our native waters; for disturbing our peace and sacred grounds not a single part shall be salvaged (T V P , 14).

The colonizer’s crimes range from insolence, overreaching powers, and encroachment on foreign lands to desecration of the natives’ traditions. These stanzas explain the mythological cause of the storm as a “political strife” between colonial power and native forces. The diction of “encroachment” and “incursions” highlights the process of colonial invasion of other people’s physical, cultural, and psychic spaces. But both “encroachment” and “incursion” also signify overreaching or hubris understood as the “insolence” which the native divine authorities cannot accept. The idea of the compound is that colonial invasion was a fatal overreaching. Chimombo suggests that the establishment of the empire was driven by the colonizer’s tragic hubris. The sunken ship is the allegorical vehicle for narrating the ‘political tragedy’ of colonial drama. Jere, the academic in the novel, sets up this link succinctly as follows: The Maravi story is the history of Mandania, in both time and space. [. . . ] What we are seeing is the re-enactment of colonial drama, the performance of a political tragedy, with the crew and the passengers as the actors and actresses and the ship and the lake as the stage. (T W N , 373)

The re-enactment of this colonial tragedy begins with the white man’s desire to rise above the rest of humanity. We have already noted that the colonizer looks down upon blacks as “barely human.” This superiority complex explains the racism in the novel and the sinking of the ship. The ship was originally designed in Scotland to have two decks. The manufacturer made all the parts and exported them to the colony, where it was assembled. It sailed perfectly. But the colonial owners added a third deck using heavier wood, and that made the ship unstable. Various characters who witnessed the disaster explain that selfishness and racism were the raison d’être for adding of the third deck which overweighed the ship, precipitating its demise. The following accounts illustrate the point:

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‘They did not allow the blacks, coloureds, or Asians to be with the whites so they added what we called a white deck. That is what made it [the ship] dance around all over the place. It did not do that with two decks.’ [. . . ] ‘Rumour has it the white man wanted it for himself. The second deck was for Asians and coloureds, the bottom one for blacks.’ [. . . ] ‘And it killed hundreds of people.’ ‘Precisely, just to keep the whites on top of everyone else. [. . . ] It turned out the local wood they used was several times heavier than the original one recommended by the designers, making the whole ship top-heavy.’ (T W N , 406, 336)

The idea of a “top-heavy” ship also functions on the level of political symbolism, given the colonial situation. It draws a parallel between the ship and the colonial government, which was “top-heavy” because a white minority wielded too much power over millions of natives. Just as the top “white deck” was wrongly added, the colonizer’s advent was largely unwelcome, although some of what he brought was attractive. He was persona non grata, bringing attractive things into the colony, as seen in “Obituary.” The structure of the ship conveys the idea of race as a hierarchical category, and racism as the construction of such categories. The passage implies that one’s race is not only a matter of difference from another but also a class within a vertical order of humankind. The placement of the “white deck” above the other two decks highlights how blackness and whiteness are conceived in these hierarchical terms. Chimombo’s other point is that skin colour is often used to segregate humans in terms of where one belongs. This thinking is evident in South African literature grappling with the apartheid system. Alex La Guma’s A Walk in the Night aptly dramatizes this point when two policemen accost Michael Adonis with “Where are you walking, man?”28 As a black man, he has to account for the part of the earth upon which he walks because there are places to which blacks cannot go. Note that apartheid was a colonial policy also comparable, albeit macrocosmically, to the ‘apartness’ we find on the ship. The practice of confining a race to a particular place in exclusion from another person amounts to racism. The Wrath of Napolo seeks to explain that racism issues directly from the colonizer’s arrogance in separat-

28

Alex La Guma, A Walk in the Night and Other Stories (London: Heinemann,

1962): 6.

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ing himself from, and rising above, other races. This is the colonial hubris that courts nemetic consequences. Chimombo uses mythology to explain the nemetic encounter that sinks the ship. It gets caught in the coils of the submarine Napolo who torpedoes it from below – the ancestral spirits cannot bear the burden of colonial encroachment on land and sea. One old man sums up the technical, mythical, and political reasons for the sinking of the ship and the fall of the colonizer: ‘Some people say that the ship sank because it was too tall in the air and too shallow at the bottom. Others say the mwera was too strong for it. What do you think caused it to sink?’ ‘All these reasons are right. The ship was too tall; everyone could see it teetering like the willows every time it came to Kuya Bay. Everyone knows that the mwera was the fiercest in the history of man so the ship was not strong enough. It sank!’ ‘What caused the mwera to be so fierce, especially on this particular occasion?’ ‘Chipiri, of course.’ ‘What is chipiri?’ ‘The huge dragon on the mountains and seas. He sank the ship.’ ‘Why would he sink the ship?’ ‘The white man had been too long in the country. He had taken over his mountains and seas. He had built on his abode and was sailing on his waters. He had just brought in his biggest ship. Chipiri challenged the white man. He picked on the white man’s pride to show him he was master of the land.’ (T W N , 528)

This Chipiri is the Napolo that Chimombo uses elsewhere. He is “the instrument of revenge, punishing a wayward people” such as the colonizers, and he is a formidable force that is far “beyond appeasement.” His anarchic prowess is manifest in causing “hurricanes, earthquakes, destruction, devastation, [and] death everywhere’ (T W N , 528). Notice that the ship which Napolo sinks is the insignia of the empire. Like a tragic character who is fatally flawed, the ship and the empire are both structurally defective. This idea is central to what Chimombo calls “the political tragedy” of colonialism. His sense of tragedy in this context has a Shakespearean flavour. The protagonists in Shakespeare’s tragedies are always internally flawed and their fall is swift in coming, once once triggered by external circumstances. According to A.C. Bradley, the Shakespearean hero “always contributes in some measure to the disaster in which he perishes”

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beside some external forces contributing to his debacle.29 The ship is depicted as being doomed to destruction in the process of its making. The boatswain in The Wrath of Napolo describes the ship as “a floating coffin” on a “fatal voyage” because “[she] was built all wrong, too tall.” Another character says there was a shared sense of premonition, “[this] feeling always came when we went out on the open sea” (T W N , 403). The Vipya Poem particularly dramatizes the making of the ill-fated ship as a portending of doom at every stage of its construction: Here was the scream of a smashed toe and there was the oath of a crushed finger. The din swirled in the boiling sun as hammer went down on iron and wood. The chatter, the grunts and laughs around competed with those of the fish eagles. Yet each plate hammered into place was a death plate waiting for the end. Each whoosh of the mighty hammer anticipated the hurricane of the mwera. Each clang of metal on metal was the clamour of screaming voices as they witnessed their watery death. At last the floating graveyard was fit to sail with her unsuspecting inmates (T V P , 7).

The narrator’s imagination returns to the workshop in order to recount the labour and pain that went into the building of the ship. However, the product thereof turns out to be a “floating graveyard” bound to sail on a fatal voyage with unsuspecting souls who will become a sacrifice. The narrator compares the construction to cooking the ship “in the boiling sun” while evoking the auditory image of cacophony in the first four lines. It is as if the din plus the “smashed toe” and “crushed finger” were all “swirling” or stirring to cook “the floating graveyard” in the furnace of “the boiling sun.” The imagery of the labourers’ increasing toiling, the concoction of human parts. and the din boiling to cook trouble, evokes the doubling of “toil and trouble” and the boiling cauldron in Macbeth.30 Once the cauldron is 29

A.C. Bradley, Shakespearean Tragedy (London: Macmillan, 1905): 12. William Shakespeare, Macbeth, ed. R.P. Brownmuller (Cambridge: Cambridge U P , 1997): IV.i.5–37. 30

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ready, the witches are set to take Macbeth on a ride to his downfall. And once the ship is finished, it is set to take the colonizer on a “fatal voyage” to his destruction as well. The narrator also suggests that some of the people working on the ship are agents of doom just as the weird sisters are in Macbeth. He recounts that “there was the oath of a crushed finger.” Someone makes a solemn promise for something to happen. This is ironical: a crushed finger would naturally elicit a curse, not an oath. The vocative resolve from the unnamed owner of the crushed finger suggests that he may be vowing ill-will on the ship and the destruction of the colonizer. We are also told “Each whoosh of the mighty hammer / anticipated the hurricane of the mwera.” But why should this be a “mighty hammer” if it is only an ordinary carpenter’s hammer? It must be the same “instrument of revenge” (Napolo and/or Mphambe). There certainly is a higher supernatural hand that is invoking destruction in the poem – the hand of Mphambe the god in thunder, as I will elaborate shortly. On another level, “the mighty hammer” is Napolo himself invoking the hurricane; he, too, is believed to be the cause of violent storms. The word “whoosh” connotes the act of invoking. This sense of causation occurs beyond the onomatopoeic and kinaesthetic images of the moving hammer. To ‘whoosh’ also means to “Cause [something] to move with a rushing sound.”31 Thus, the building of the ship is an invocation of both Napolo and the hurricane that destroy the colonizer. The native supernatural authorities beat the white man at his own game in that case, joining the construction of the ship in order to turn the labouring in the workshop into a ritual for invoking forces of destruction. Chimombo’s characterization of the colonial captain reveals more of the tragic dimension of colonialism. Note that the name Captain McGovern has connotations of the governor of the colony. An existing captain, Captain Shaba, explains that Captain McGovern challenged the hurricane against all warnings because he wanted to prove his heroism. This colonial captain fully knows the perils of undertaking a voyage in the face of the hurricane but he insists on daring the fierce storm. He resembles Joseph Conrad’s Captain MacWhirr in Typhoon. MacWhirr is an empirical man to whom omens mean nothing and he cannot attend to any prophecy until the danger, once become fact, affects him personally. Besides, MacWhirr is haunted by the fear of

31

Shorter Oxford English Dictionary (Oxford: Oxford U P , 2007), vol. 2: 3629.

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being considered cowardly if he avoids a storm.32 His move is similar to the bravado of wanting to test death and prove that he can survive it. In The Wrath of Napolo, Captain Shaba explains that every captain knows the mwera is “a gale gone mad” and nobody takes chances with it: ‘You don’t take liberties with the mwera. Everyone runs to port and remains in shelter. What you have in the mwera is tons of destructive energy roaring across the waters, gathering everything in its path, and hurling it hundreds of metres away.’ (T W N , 469)

Captain McGovern defies his own judgement just as Conrad’s MacWhirr scorns precautions he has just registered. He has two reasons for challenging the storm. First, he wants to test the new ship’s capacity to sail under different conditions, including the heaviest seas. More importantly, he, too, is troubled by the fear of being thought a coward who runs away from the storm when he has the best ship on the lake. Captain Shaba captures the deceased captain’s fears as follows: ‘How could Captain McGovern come back to his bosses to report that he had run away from the mwera and didn’t know how the Maravi would behave in gale-force winds? How could he come to the sailor’s club and drink with his fellow captains or crew, when everyone knew he scuttled to the shelter of harbour as soon as he smelt the mwera?’ (T W N , 470–71)

The captain’s resolve to sail for fear of appearing to be a coward is an error of judgement that takes him to destruction. It is hamartia – for Aristotle, a central aspect of a tragic hero whose misfortune issues from fallibility rather than vice or depravity.33 Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar commits the same error of judgement when he insists on going to the Capitol against all warnings for fear of its being thought that he is afraid.34 Caesar proceeds to his literally backstabbing betrayal. Achebe’s Okonkwo commits a similar tragic blunder in killing a boy who calls him father, because he is afraid of being thought weak. The same fear, plus a blind yearning for heroism, makes him brusquely brush aside all caution as he proceeds to fight a lonely war whose outcome is

32

Joseph Conrad, Typhoon (1902), http://www.online-literature.com/conrad/typhoon/ (accessed 25 August 2010). 33 Aristotle, “The Poetics of Aristotle,” tr. S.H. Butcher, in Tragedy: Development in Criticism, ed. R.P. Draper (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1980): 46. 34 William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, ed. Marvin Spevack (Cambridge: Cambridge U P , 2003): V.ii.1–107.

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his death. This error of not wanting to be thought of as weak is part of hubris. It entails a failure to accept one’s human limitations and frailties. The quest for heroism was part of what Stewart Easton has described as the prestige of being a colonial power.35 The scholar argues that this attitude was a significant underlying factor in the imperial expansion of the nineteenth century. A metropolitan nation would feel that its political power was measured by the size of its overseas empire.

Insignia of the Empire Vanquished Chimombo uses vernacular mythology to enhance his dramatization of Captain McGovern as a man who proceeds into a war zone while flawed with hamartia and hubris. The image of a heroic figure daring an ultimate force makes Captain McGovern comparable to Chiluwe or his antagonist in Malawian mythology. Chiluwe is a “mythical half-human, half-spirit” who exposes his hubristic nature by embarking on a quest to find an ultimate challenging force in a bid to test his own mortality. The narrator draws the comparison between the captain and Chiluwe as follows: Testing your strength, proving yourself, reaching the ultimate was like Chiluwe, the mythical figure who inhabited lonely, densely-forested places, and would waylay an unwary traveller or hunter, challenging him to a wrestling match. If Chiluwe was felled, the antagonist would be given all the secrets of the jungle to keep. If Chiluwe won, the other would be killed to protect the knowledge of his existence. (T W N , 470)36

Chiluwe bets his life on death, which he must survive in order to be a master of the forest. His action, however, is tantamount to challenging death itself; losing means being killed. The wayfarer who dares Chiluwe equally seeks to find the meaning of life in death. He, too, has to survive death in order to receive the mysteries. Captain McGovern’s relationship to Chiluwe can be seen from two opposed perspectives. What the protagonist ridicules as McGovern’s act of bravado is what Captain Shaba hails as heroism and a case of bravura in ship sailing. The protagonist compares Captain McGovern to Chiluwe and mocks 35

Stewart Easton, The Rise and Fall of Western Colonialism (London: Pall Mall,

1964): 11–12. 36

See Steve Chimombo, Python! Python! (Zomba: W A S I , 1992): xiv.

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him for his folly and failure to survive the contest. Conversely, Captain Shaba idolizes his deceased colleague and compares him with an antagonist who dares the half-human half-spirit Chiluwe. He thinks that daring alone is a mark of heroism. In this second perspective, Chiluwe becomes the mwera storm which the seafarer challenges to prove his heroism and gain the mysteries of the sea. Shaba conveys his understanding of the dead captain as follows: ‘It is not every mwera that’s your ultimate test. You have to keep meeting as many as you can, hoping one of them will be the one that opens the bowels of the lake to you. Nor is it just any mwera that carries the meaning of life.’ ‘In Captain McGovern’s case, he met his mwera and carried the secrets with him to Kuya deeps.’ ‘The important thing is, before he died, he came face to face with the ultimate. And that makes him a hero.’ ‘A hero?’ Nkhoma was startled. ‘Yes, a hero.’ The light in Shaba’s eyes burned brighter. ‘Captain McGovern had command of a brand new ship. It was the biggest and best on the lake, if not in Central Africa. The mwera of July ’46 was the worst in sailors’ memory. What greater chance than that to test the latest and biggest ship on the most ferocious and violent mwera of all times?’ (T W N , 470)

Notice the irony of searching for the meaning of life in death. Captain McGovern searches for the mystery of the sea by encountering the violent storm “that carries the meaning of life.” In actual fact, the storm is the ultimate force that brings with it his death. However, Captain Shaba is comforted that the deceased is heroic: “he came face to face with the ultimate” before he died. This logic of heroism baffles Nkhoma, who does not agree that the captain must be hailed as a hero at all. What he sees is the wanton insolence of a selfaggrandizing, fallible human being who dares supernatural forces at the cost of his destruction. What he sees is the “stubbornness, foolhardiness, lack of mature judgement, [and] jeopardising the lives of many” (T W N , 471). Chimombo’s mythopoeia presents ultimate forces that expose the fallibility of the colonizer. The use of myth is also intended to celebrate the nationalist movement that led to the end of the colonial empire. In this regard, the narrator draws four lessons from the sinking of the ship: First, Lake Tamanda was not to be underestimated. Even the biggest ship, the Maravi, could sink. Second, it shook the white man’s confidence in the supremacy of his own technology. There was something greater than technology. Third, the white man can die too. Hitherto, the returned soldiers or the domes-

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tic servant were the only ones who knew the fact. Now it was common knowledge the great white captain and the white crew and passengers died together with the blacks. Fourth, the white man was not invincible. He could be conquered, like the Maravi, if enough force was applied. (T W N , 374)

The first lesson celebrates the heroism of native forces. The second suggests that the overreaching colonizer was humbled and reminded of his place in the cosmos. The last two lessons directly point at the anti-colonial mood that swept across Africa after the Second World War. Native Africans saw the white man conquered, suffer, and die on the war fronts. The discovery of the fallibility of the colonial masters, hitherto viewed with awe as avatars of the gods, was momentous in the battle against imperial powers. As Easton argues, “colonial peoples everywhere now recognized that European powers were no longer invincible. Never again would they feel they were struggling against insuperable odds.”37 This realization inspired native Africanss to engage increasingly in colonial resistance that led to the fall of the empire. Although there were other factors, the fiercest challenge to British colonial in rule was native resistance.38 The empire suffered decisive blows from subalterns, just as Napolo torpedoes the ship from below. The mythologizing of colonialism in The Wrath of Napolo emphasizes this subaltern agency of native Africans. Not only does The Vipya Poem celebrate native victory over colonialism but it also dramatizes the conflict on the battlefield. As the colonial captain enters this battle zone, a team of “spirits, waifs and ghosts” shout that “The wages of encroachment is death! / Your fate has already been decided” (T V P , 14). The captain dies after snubbing warnings. These warnings come in reflection as the narrator addresses the captain in his death: Captain, it is not true the mwera descends upon unsuspecting victims. You saw the tiny rainbow up in the sky riding the crest of the eastern mountains, and the cloud banks of the south east. 37

Easton, The Rise and Fall of Western Colonialism, 152. See Martin Thomas, Bob Moore & L.J. Butler, Crises of Empire: Decolonization and Europe’s Imperial States, 1918–1975 (London: Hodder Education, 2008): 79–80. Other reasons were domestic economic circumstances; a declining will for colonial prestige; and growing international anti-colonial opinion after the formation of the United Nations. 38

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All these signs the spirits put on for show, hours in advance, if not days before. You were forewarned, but stubborn. (T V P , 15)

The rainbow is a symbol of peace-making in the Malawian world-view just as it is in the Judaeo-Christian. In the latter, God promises his people that “I have set my rainbow in the sky” (Genesis 9:11–15) as a sign of ceasefire and respite while warning that He will destroy the earth with fire (rather than water) if the people do not repent.39 Locally, the rainbow signifies the presence of God-in-the-rainbow. This attribute of God is locally known as Leza, which means ‘the patient one’ who represents providence rather than retribution. It is a trait present in the providence of the vernacular High God or the Great Spirit, called Chiuta or Chauta, ‘the great bow’ of the sky (thereby partly evoking the rainbow). The name Chiuta is derived from the vast arching sky and denotes his unbounded powers in the universe.40 Chimombo conceives Leza and Chauta as a joint divine force when the narrator speaks of “Chiuta the high god of the rainbow” (T V P , 22). The binary opposite of Leza is Mphambe, mentioned above as the retributive god in thunder who is dreaded for his thunderbolts and scorching powers. The conspicuous absence of this retributive force in the first part of the poem is highly significant, suggesting as it does a time to offer peace. But, having been offered ample warnings, a chance to surrender and make peace, the haughty colonial captain proceeds to sail in defiance. In the Bible, it is only after God sets the rainbow of peace across the sky that he promises to destroy the world with fire. Likewise, it is after Leza (God in the rainbow) that the scorching Mphambe and his agent (Napolo) arrive on the scene. These two destructive forces join the battlefield because the colonial captain has failed to repent his pride and renounce his encroaching voyage. The destruction of the ship begins as follows: At Mphamba Bay, the spirits teamed up, with Mphambe’s lightning ng’ani! and Bingu, the thunder, trrr! roaring. The lightning cock alighted on the mast. He flapped fiery wings in the winds,

39

In Biblical scholarship, this covenant means God will destroy the earth with fire. For a discussion of nomenclature in the Malawian traditional pantheon, see J.W.M. Van Breugel, Chewa Traditional Religion (Blantyre: C L A I M , 2001). 40

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and sent electric shocks to the bowels. The singed ship sizzled and shuddered. (T V P , 15)

The words “ng’ani!” and “trrr!” onomatopoeically express the flashing of the lightning and the roaring of thunder respectively. The word “bingu” means ‘thunder’, a pointer to the god of thunder. The image of “the lightning cock [that] alighted on the mast” also needs some elaboration. Malawian myth has it that when lightning strikes, there is a cock that descends in the fiery cracks across the sky. Thunder strikes wherever the cock alights. This cock, herald of thunder, is called the thunderbird in other cultures or can be explained as the thunderbolt associated with Jupiter or Zeus in ancient Roman and Greek times respectively.41 Chimombo possibly borrows the idea that the Jupiter who hurled thunderbolts is also associated with causing winds. He thus presents “the lightning cock” as fanning the fiery wind that scorches the engines. This is a mythopoeic case of Chimombo forges a nexus between the scorching Mphambe and wind or, indeed, the tornado on the lake. At the same time, Chimombo adapts Mphambe as a god of electricity via the deity’s association with lightning in the same way that Soyinka adapts Œango in the Yorùbá cosmology.42 He succeeds in presenting Mphambe as a technological force that matches and overthrows the white man’s technology and insignia of empire. This is the deity who has “sent electric shocks to the bowels” of the ship, thereby hitting the colonizer’s key technology at the foundation of the empire. The poet re-invents Mphambe as a divine figure potent with such technological force that torpedoes the very epitome of colonial invasion. It is important to note that Chimombo’s use of the ship in both the poem and the novel has significant historical resonance. The ship was used during the voyages to ‘discover’ the colonies. It exported the colonizers. The nautical imagery upon “the beginning of an interminable waterway” to the colony at the opening of Heart of Darkness refers to this history.43 The conquered ship was thus central to the imperial mission. 41

Pierre Grimal, The Penguin Dictionary of Classical Mythology, ed. Stephen Kershaw, tr. A.R. Maxwell–Hyslop (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1991): 231. 42 See Wole Soyinka, Idanre and Other Poems (London: Methuen, 1967): 86. 43 Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness: An Authoritative Text, Backgrounds and Sources, ed. Robert Kimbrough (1899; Norton Critical Editions; New York: W.W. Norton, 1988): 7.

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The combination of Mphambe and Napolo in The Vipya Poem signifies the native African forces that defeat the colonizer. The deity is salient but works invisibly in the poem. We encounter the god’s scorching powers felt when Napolo sets to work with progressive intensity towards the climax: Napolo’s burning breath scorched the timber of the decks and doors as he melted the metal fittings down to their liquid elements. His nostrils spouted eddies that grew into a whirlwind, that grew into a cyclone, that grew into a hurricane, that grew into a tornado. The ‘Vipya’ whirled and whirled in meaningless meanders round an invisible circle marked by a giant unseen watery hand. (T V P , 16)

Here is another mythopoeic endowment of Napolo with scorching and melting powers in order conjure the presence of the retributive deity, Mphambe. The progression from the whirlwind to the growth of the tornado dramatizes the mounting action towards the climax of sinking the ship and its colonial master. Particularly when read aloud, the lines from “that grew into a whirlwind” to “that grew into a tornado” echo each other in a way that creates a kinetic spiralling image of a growing tornado. The rhythm and sense in “whirled and whirled / in meaningless meanders” certainly also echo W.B. Yeats’ “turning and turning in the widening gyre” in “The Second Coming,” where the fall of the empire is pronounced. Yeats suggests that imperialism has rocked a civilization and turned into a “rough beast” slouching towards rebirth. Colonialism has loosed “mere anarchy [. . . ] upon the world” and innocence is drowned in the bloodshed in the colonies. This has prompted a kingly figure of “A shape of with a lion body and the head of man” somewhere in the deserts of Africa to rise up and re-establish his kingdom.44 Chimombo reinforces this theme of empire’s instigating an insurrection against itself as a prelude to its downfall. The sunken ship, like colonialism, awakens “the black

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W.B. Yeats, Selected Poems (Oxford: Oxford U P , 1993): 26.

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man’s incipient rebellious instinct” and props up his ego in The Wrath of Napolo (374). The author depicts the destruction of the ship as a symbol of native African victory. The following stanza dramatizes how the ship gets caught in the coils of Napolo. The tone in this part of the poem is clearly that of celebration: Like a screw going through a cork the twin-screwer spiralled down the multi-coils of the sea serpent and settled in the murky depths, forever doomed not to float again. The ancestors snorted their scorn: The valiant ‘Vipya’ was no match for the incensed indigenous spirits. (T V P , 17)

The celebratory tone affirms native agency in the conquest of the colonizer. This tone largely distinguishes the poem from the novel, although both narrate the same event. The novel intends to re-narrate the event as a tragedy emerging from the event in order to valorize the local human beings who died; the novel mourns those dead. The end of the poem celebrates the deaths as sacrifices in the victory of the native forces. In both, the portrayal of the colonizer as a tragic protagonist is not meant to arouse ‘pity and fear’ at all. Chimombo ridicules this tragic protagonist as a man who is destroyed for his folly and vices. This ridiculing is Chimombo’s way of using Western dramatic tragedy in order to write back to the empire. What emerges in the foregone discussion is a process of reconstructing history as an aesthetic form of tragedy. Chimombo uses the conventions of the genre as a prism for interpreting colonial and postcolonial experiences. This is a strategy which Ato Quayson describes as calibrating tragedy to read social experience. In this method, “real-life events are relocated in the emotionally and philosophically charged discourse of literary tragedy.”45 Colonialism and the sinking of the ship constitute the ‘real-life events’ in question.

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Quayson, Calibrations, 58.

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W O R K S C I TE D Achebe, Chinua. Things Fall Apart (London: Heinemann, 1958). Aeschylus. Agamemnon, The Oresteia, tr. David Grene & Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty (Chicago: U of Chicago P , 1989). Aristotle. “The Poetics of Aristotle,” tr. S.H. Butcher, in Tragedy: Development in Criticism, ed. R.P. Draper (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1980). Baldick, Chris. The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms (Oxford: Oxford U P , 1990). Barnet, Sylvan, Morton Berman & William Burto. A Dictionary of Literary Terms (London: Constable, 1964). Bradley, A.C. Shakespearean Tragedy (London: Macmillan, 1905). Bushnell, Rebecca. Tragedy: A Short Introduction (Oxford: Blackwell, 2008). Chimombo, Steve. “The Locusts” (M S ). ——. Napolo and the Python (London: Heinemann, 1994). ——. Napolo Poems (Zomba: Manchichi, 1987). ——. Python! Python! (Zomba: W A S I , 1992). ——. The Vipya Poem (Zomba: W A S I Publications, 1996). ——. The Wrath of Napolo (Zomba: W A S I Publications, 2000). Cloudburst. “Disaster at Zomba,” The Nyasaland Times 49.95 (16 December 1946): 1. Conrad, Joseph. Heart of Darkness: An Authoritative Text, Backgrounds and Sources, ed. & intro. Robert Kimbrough (1899; Norton Critical Editions; New York: W.W. Norton, 1988). ——. Typhoon (1902), http://www.online-literature.com/conrad/typhoon/ (accessed 25 August 2010). Cuddon, J.A. A Dictionary of Literary Terms and Literary Theory (Oxford: Blackwell, 1998). Easton, Stewart. The Rise and Fall of Western Colonialism (London: Pall Mall, 1964). Edwards, A.C. Talbot. “Zomba Floods, December, 1946,” The Nyasaland Journal 1.2 (July 1948): 60. Ferber, Michael. A Dictionary of Literary Symbols (Cambridge: Cambridge U P , 2007). Grimal, Pierre. The Penguin Dictionary of Classical Mythology, ed. Stephen Kershaw, tr. A.R. Maxwell–Hyslop (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1991). Kishindo, Pascal. “Evolution of Political Terminology in Chichewa and the Changing Political Culture in Malawi,” Nordic Journal of African Studies 9.1 (2000): 20–30, http://www.njas.helsinki.fi/pdf-files/vol9num1/kishindo.pdf (accessed 3 February 2011). La Guma, Alex. A Walk in the Night and Other Stories (London: Heinemann, 1962). Mbembe, Achille. “Provisional Notes on the Postcolony,” Africa 62.1 (1992): 3–37.

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Nazombe, Anthony. The Haunting Wind: New Poetry from Malawi (Blantyre: Dzuka, 1990). ——. “The Role of Myth in the Poetry of Steve Chimombo,” in New Writing from Southern Africa, ed. Emmanuel Ngara (Nairobi: Heinemann & London: James Currey, 1996): 93–107. Nietzsche, Friedrich. The Birth of Tragedy and Other Writings, ed. Raymond Geuss & Ronald Speirs, tr. Ronald Speirs (Cambridge: Cambridge U P , 1999). ——. “Homer’s Contest” (1872), in The Nietzsche Reader, ed. Keith Pearson & Duncan Large (Oxford: Blackwell, 2006): 95–100. Ogude, James. Ngugi’s Novels and African History (London: Pluto, 1999). Quayson, Ato. Calibrations: Reading for the Social (Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P , 2003). Roberts, John. Dictionary of the Classical World (Oxford: Oxford U P , 2007). Rymer, Thomas. The Tragedies of the Last Age Consider’d and Examin’d [1678], and A Short View of Tragedy [1692], preface by Arthur Freeman (New York: Garland, 1974). Shakespeare, William. Julius Caesar, ed. Marvin Spevack (Cambridge: Cambridge U P , 2003). ——. Macbeth, ed. A.R. Braunmuller (Cambridge: Cambridge U P , 1997). Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, 2 vols. (Oxford: Oxford U P , 2007). Soyinka, Wole. Idanre and Other Poems (London: Methuen, 1967). Thomas, Martin, Bob Moore & L.J. Butler. Crises of Empire: Decolonization and Europe’s Imperial States, 1918–1975 (London: Hodder Education, 2008). Van Breugel, J.W.M. Chewa Traditional Religion (Blantyre: C L A I M , 2001). Wallace, Jennifer. The Cambridge Introduction to Tragedy (Cambridge: Cambridge U P , 2007). Yeats, W.B. Selected Poems (Oxford: Oxford U P , 1993).

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“The Religion of the Dream” — Colonial Myths and the Epistemology of Power in Alain Mabanckou’s Bleu blanc rouge ABSTRACT The aim of this essay is to interrogate representations of African migrants’ fetishization of things French in Alain Mabanckou’s debut novel, Bleu blanc rouge, and to thereby explore the manner in which epistemologies of power are reproduced by sans-papiers and sapeurs alike in a cycle of performance and identity creation that obfuscates the harsh realities of life in France for African immigrants. Drawing on the work of Achille Mbembe, it argues that this novel effectively exposes the constructed, performative, and often-erroneous nature of both migration myths circulated in Congolese society and the dream that life for African migrants in France is one of empowerment and full participation in the dominant culture. Furthermore, this article suggests it is the process of creating new identities which are intended to move individuals from the global periphery to the centre that drives Mabanckou’s target group in this novel: foreign fashion- and migration-obsessed Congolese youth. Through the judicious use of humour, Mabanckou lays bare the migrants’ grotesque imitations of power, and humanizes their stuggle by illustrating their limited opportunities and challenging circumstances at home and abroad.

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is to interrogate representations of African migrants’ “desire for a certain majesty”1 in Alain Mabanckou’s debut novel, Bleu blanc rouge (1998), and to thereby explore the manner in which epistemologies of power are reproduced by sans-papiers and sapeurs alike in a cycle of performance and identity creation that obfuscates the harsh realities of life in France for African immigrants. Drawing on the work of Achille Mbembe, it argues that this novel effectively exposes the constructed, performative, and often erroneous nature of both migration myths circulated in Congolese society and the dream that life for African migrants in France is

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HE AIM OF THIS ESSAY

Achille Mbembe, On the Postcolony (Berkeley: U of California P , 2001): 133.

”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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one of empowerment and participation in the culture of commandement.2 And, following Didier Gondola, this article suggests that it is the process of creating new identities intended to move individuals from the global periphery to the centre that drives Mabanckou’s target group in this novel: fashion- and migration-obsessed Congolese youth.3 Through the judicious use of humour, Mabanckou lays bare the migrants’ “cheap imitations of power”4 and humanizes their stuggle by illustrating their limited opportunities and challenging living conditions in France.

Narrative Structure Bleu blanc rouge tackles the subject of transnational migration from the perspective of the sans-papier. Whereas the protagonists in other popular and contemporary migration novels such as Fatou Diome’s Le ventre de l’Atlantique5 endeavour from a position of legality to re-orient their families and community members away from the imagined chemin d’or to the Hexagon, Mabanckou’s protagonist, Massala-Massala, is attempting to strike it rich in Paris, to hit Gallic pay dirt by any means necessary. And, while not much of a sapeur himself, he is propelled by his awe of successful migrants who use ostentatious fashion displays to reshape their identities into a world where African youth subsist on dreams of greatness while suffering the harsh realities of life as illegal immigrants in France. The novel is divided into two brief opening and closing segments, “Ouverture” and “Fermeture,” and two main sections entitled “Le Pays” and “Paris.” This structure evokes the notion of theatre, as though the actions of opening and closing were indicative of a curtain rising and falling over a spectacle. This is perhaps related to the concept of performance, which is a central theme of the novel. “Ouverture” describes the isolated confinement of Massala-Massala and the immediate circumstances leading to his arrest and encounter with the French state. “Le Pays” provides background regarding the manner in which Massala-Massala was drawn into the real and imagined 2

Achille Mbembe, “Provisional Notes on the Postcolony,” Africa: Journal of the International African Institute 62.1 (1992): 3–37. 3 Charles Didier Gondola, “Dream and Drama: The Search for Elegance Among Congolese Youth,” African Studies Review 42.1 (April 1999): 25. 4 Mbembe, On the Postcolony, 133. 5 Fatou Diome, Le ventre de l’Atlantique (Paris: Anne Carrière, 2003).

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transatlantic migration current, particularly through charting the ascendance of Moki, a neighbour residing in Paris, and his family. Witnessing this transformation, which is not without its negative consequences but which nevertheless exerts an inexorable appeal for the local community, is the proximal cause leading Massala-Massala to enlist the help of his and the Moki families in order to fulfil his desire to “shine” in the sense given to this word by Mbembe, which is to partake of postcolonial power. “Paris,” sharply contrasting with the collective Congolese imaginary so aptly described in the preceding section, illustrates the gritty realities of life for African sans-papiers in Paris and charts the path Massala-Massala is forced to take in order for irregular immigrants like him to survive within the institutional constraints of contemporary French society. This section concludes where the novel opened, with his arrest and subsequent eighteenmonth imprisonment. “Fermeture” explores the deportation process and the final moments prior to Massala-Massala’s return to Congo-Brazzaville, and serves as a focal point for discussion of the social implications of ‘failure’ in France as well as potential outlets for the mitigation of the attendant social repercussions – notably suicide and a return to France.

“Shining” and the Epistemology of Dominance Bleu blanc rouge is, of course, a tragedy. Massala-Massala, the novel’s protagonist, is unable to realize his endeavours, to make good on his quest: “Je ne suis plus qu’un bon à rien. Je ne suis plus qu’une loque. Un raté. Je ne m’étais pas préparé à cela” [I’m nothing but a washout. I’m nothing but a wreck. A failure. I wasn’t ready for that].6 The problem Massala-Massala attempts to solve in the novel concerns the modest material circumstances and social standing of himself and his family, and their transformation. While he and his family lead humble lives, their neighbours, the Mokis, are completely remade by the wealth and prestige they accumulate through their son, a prominent local Parisien. From unremarkable neighbours, the family comes to dominate the political, economic, and geographical space of the village to the point where “il y avait deux mondes. Celui de la famille Moki et celui du reste du quartier” [There were two worlds. That of the Moki family and that of the rest 6

Alain Mabanckou, Bleu blanc rouge (Paris: Présence Africaine, 1998): 214. Unless otherwise indicated, further page references are in the main text.

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of the neighbourhood] (44). The father of the Moki family becomes the political leader of the area despite the existence of more senior and qualified candidates; they achieve economic prosperity through business ventures in the fields of transportation and potable water; and they display their ostentatious life-style through their imposing villa and cars. While none of the Mokis who continue to reside in the Congo have ever been abroad, ‘France’ has transformed them, just as it has transformed their son George (who is known simply as “Moki”): “La France l’avait transfiguré” [France had transformed him] (40). Their residence towers over those of the neighbouring community members, and they use their automobiles as material manifestations of their newfound superiority: Lorsque le véhicule roulait, le père de Moki dictait lui-même au chauffeur quelles vitesses passer. Il lui répétait d’embrayer d’abord et de freiner ensuite avec précaution. Les deux hommes avaient l’air d’être en plein cours de conduite. « Vire à gauche ! Clignote ! Klaxonne ! Ne lui donne pas la priorité, tu ne vois pas que sa voiture est plus vieille que la nôtre ! Double-moi cet imbécile qui nous envoie de la fumée en pleine gueule ! Qui c’est cet hurluberlu qui veut nous doubler ? Fonce, ne le laisse pas te dépasser, allez, fonce, fonce, fonce, je te dis !. . . (52) [When the vehicle was travelling, Moki’s father himself dictated to the chauffeur which speeds to exceed. He repeated to him to first put it in gear and then to brake with caution. The two men gave the impression of being right in the middle of a driving lesson. “Pull left! Signal! Honk! Don’t give him the right of way, you don’t see that his car is older than ours! Pass that imbecile sending smoke down our throats! Who the heck is this numbskull who wants to pass us? Move, don’t let him pass you, go, move, move, move, come on!. . . ]

This dramatic increase in social inequality, negatively depicted through the egomania of the father of the Moki family, adds fuel to the fire of MassalaMassala’s migration dream. While the novel focuses much on the vices and flaws of the Africans who perpetuate the myth of a French utopia, the rise of the Moki family in economic status and the effect this has on Massala-Massala’s intention to emigrate can perhaps be taken as suggestive of a deepening process of globalization in general and the author’s misgivings about this development. Massala-Massala, as the observer of this phenomenon, is a symbolic representation of the ‘losers’ in the ongoing aggravation of social inequality developing in Congolese society. More than this, however, Mabanckou’s representation of the Moki family speaks less of economic change than it does of identity-politics. For Bleu

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blanc rouge demonstrates in this regard – through carefully chosen details like the young Moki’s choice to define himself as a Parisien and the manner in which automobiles are creatively employed in his family to accentuate social superiority – that international migration networks and the economic relationships thereby engendered are embedded in a project of self-re-invention that hinges on the postcolonial dispensation of scarcity and its attendant phenomenon: the vulgar display of consumption. In this context, even identifying oneself as a Parisien is an act of “shining” in this way, an act of consumption, for it is a means of identifying oneself with plenty and in so doing to assert one’s dominance over those who go without. This notion of dominating the weak is reinforced by the car-driving passage above, wherein the expensive vehicle is not simply a representation of wealth but must act as an instrument of domination – by overtaking the poor – if it is to maximize its potential to induct its own into the grotesque world of postcolonial “majesty.”7 While this individual ‘success story’ further encourages Massala-Massala in his wish to become a Parisien, Mabanckou makes it clear that this desire completely transcends the level of the individual and has penetrated Congolese society as a whole. The following observations by Massala-Massala reveal as much: Il est vrai que je labourais en secret, dans le champ de mes rêveries, le vœu de franchir le Rubicon, d’y aller un jour. C’était un vœu ordinaire, un vœu qui n’avait rien d’original. On l’entendait dans toutes les bouches. Qui de ma génération n’avait pas visité la France par la bouche, comme on dit au pays ? Un seul mot, Paris, suffisait pour que nous nous retrouvions comme par enchantement devant la tour Eiffel, l’Arc de triomphe ou l’avenue des ChampsÉlysées… Le rêve nous était permis. Il ne coûtait rien. Il n’exigeait aucun visa de sortie, aucun passeport, aucun billet d’avion. Y penser. Fermer les yeux. Dormir. Ronfler. Et on y était toutes les nuits… (36) [It is true that in secret I laboured, in the field of my daydreams, upon the wish to cross the Rubicon, to go there one day. It was an ordinary wish, a wish that was in no way original. It was heard in every mouth. Who of my generation hadn’t visited France by the mouth, as they say at home? A single word, Paris, was sufficient for us to find ourselves, as through a spell, before the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, or the Champs-Élysées… We were allowed the

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This interpretation owes much to Mbembe’s discussion of “Excess and the Creativity of Abuse,” in On the Postcolony, 105–16.

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dream. It cost nothing. It required no exit visa, no passport, no plane ticket. Think about it. Close your eyes. Sleep. Snore. And we were there every night…]

Such descriptions of a culture of longing to be elsewhere, one in which all eyes look toward the exterior for fulfilment, is suggestive not only of profound socio-economic challenges facing Congolese society but also of the ongoing and perhaps unintended consequences of colonialism. Indeed, as Didier Gondola has noted, processes of borrowing foreign identities and elaborating social hierarchies based on possession, consumption, and mastery of foreign things and ideas – notably fashion – began in the early days of the colonial encounter.8 These are processes that, Mabanckou demonstrates, continue to play out, often with ambiguous and perhaps deleterious consequences for local African communities. Considering the protagonist’s decision to go abroad in the face of his neighbour’s success, it would seem the principal objective driving the novel’s plot is for Massala-Massala to rectify the relative loss of social status he and his family have been subjected to due to the orientation of Congolese society towards a certain mythologized notion of ‘France’, which is intimately tied to colonialism, capitalism, and conspicuous consumption. Ironically, this would only accentuate and further entrench this process – what Mbembe calls the epistemology of power – which is surely part of the reason Massala-Massala fails, for a common focus in much of Mabanckou’s oeuvre is a critique of grotesque imitations of dominant cultural forms.9 Massala-Massala attempts to effect this transformation and enhance his social status through engagement with a sartorial subculture known as la sape, which has the goal of constructing the identity of a Parisien. Lydie Moudileno notes, with regard to the motivation for adopting this identity: “The issue, for the migrant, is to make the metamorphosis he exhibits pass for a natural consequence of migration.”10 This façade of naturalness is an elaborate sham that Mabanckou is at pains to expose, particularly in the second half of his novel, “Paris.” The beneficiaries of this transformation would be Massala-Massala and his family, who stand to make significant economic and 8

Gondola, “Dream and Drama,” 26. See, for example, Pascale De Souza, “Trickster Strategies in Alain Mabanckou’s Black Bazar,” Research in African Literatures 42.1 (Spring 2011): 102–19. 10 Lydie Moudileno, Parades postcoloniales: La fabrication des identités dans le roman congolais (Paris: Karthala, 2006): 116. “L’enjeu est, pour le migrant, de faire passer pour conséquence naturelle de la migration la métamorphose qu’il exhibe.” 9

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social gains if a successful migration can be executed and, perhaps more importantly, if the tangible and intangible materiel required for the elaboration of a new identity based on the grotesque imitation of power can be obtained. That this does not come about is indicative of Mabanckou’s scepticism regarding the benefits of participating in such endeavours. The characters who function as helpers to Massala-Massala in his endeavour are principally his father, his uncle, George Moki, and Moki’s father. Massala-Massala’s father goes to great lengths to aid his son in the realization of his dream, doing much to impoverish and indebt himself to other members of the community in the meantime. This takes the form of three debts. He becomes indebted to the Moki family, as he must ask the father to help Massala-Massala get to France through engaging the assistance of his son. Secondly, he is required to enlist the help of Massala-Massala’s uncle, who finances his plane ticket. And, thirdly, he becomes indebted to a Lebanese merchant for the purchase of clothing appropriate to the occasion of his son’s leaving the continent on his journey to become a Parisien. Moki’s role is ambiguous, in that, while he is a support for Massala-Massala in his efforts to reach Paris, he also leads him on and encourages him to believe in a Paris that has far more to do with the performance of an identity intended to increase social mobility at home than it does with the reality of life abroad. Indeed, Moki actively encourages Massala-Massala in the pursuit of a goal he knows only too well is unattainable, effectively throwing him under the bus in order to consolidate his position as a participant in what is construed as continual celebration and display of opulence. Préfet, Moki’s associate, who assists Massala-Massala in the acquisition of the identification and documents necessary for the free circulation of an illegal migrant in French society, is also a helper of sorts. Of course, Préfet also manipulates Massala-Massala for his own interests when he recruits him into an illegal purchasing scheme involving bogus cheques. Indeed, as the following passages demonstrate, he is described as a heartless, two-faced alcoholic who, concerned only for his own survival and enrichment, has turned his back on the suffering of his family: Il n’était en effet pas retourné au bercail depuis une vingtaine d’années. Sa famille – sa mère, ses frères et soeurs puisque son père avait rendu l’âme – croupissait dans une misère extrême, sans nouvelles de lui. (156)

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[He had in fact not returned home for over twenty years. His family – his mother, brother and sisters since his father had passed away – rotted in extreme destitution, without news of him.] Cette duplicité des gens de notre milieu m’intriguait. Préfet, de prime abord moins charismatique, avait en fait un caractère autoritaire enfoui en lui. (164) [This duplicity of the people in our environment intrigued me. Préfet, prima facie less charismatic, had in fact an authoritarian streak buried within him.]

While his self-interest is unquestionable, he provides much assistance to Massala-Massala and his fellow migrants: “Les Parisiens, pour la plupart, lui devaient leur séjour en France” [The Parisians, for the most part, owed their stay in France to him] (155). Furthermore, while Préfet left Massala-Massala with no option but to work for him owing to the power dynamic and relationship of indebtedness he sets up through the provision of Massala-Massala’s papers, the latter may in fact have had few other options. He is both forced to adopt a false (French) identity through his forged papers – which he experiences as a painful and troubling loss of identity and self-worth – and to enter the illegal workforce for want of other viable opportunities. As Moki points out, if Massala-Massala were, for example, to seek state assistance in the search for gainful employment he would likely be subjected to a series of questions aimed at verifying his identity: Plusieurs questions me dépasseraient alors. Depuis quand êtes-vous devenu français ? Et vos parents, vivent-ils ici ou en Guadeloupe ? Quelle est la profession de votre père ? De votre mère ? Quel est votre numéro de Sécurité sociale ? Avez-vous un numéro matricule de la Caisse des allocations familiales ? Touchez-vous une allocation-logement ? Où avez-vous travaillé avant ? Quel est le nom de votre premier employeur ? Pouvez-vous nous produire une attestation de résidence ? Une facture d’E D F - G D F ou de FranceTélécom ? Et votre déclaration de revenus ?. . . (165) [I would be overrun with questions. Since when did you become French? And your parents, do they live here or in Guadeloupe? What is your father’s profession? And your mother? What is your Social Security number? Do you have a welfare identification number? Are you getting a housing allowance? Where have you worked previously? What is the name of your first employer? Can you provide us with a proof of residence? A bill from the power company or France-Telecom? And your revenue declaration? …]

However one might judge his relationship to the protagonist, Préfet’s role in the narrative is unquestionably an ironic one. As a ’prefect’, he is an official in a world that is completely, and problematically, unofficial. He is the pro-

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vider of opportunity while being the embodiment of authoritarianism and constraints. And he is an assistant to others while he won’t assist even his own family. This characterization is perhaps suggestive of the predicament of the African migrant in general, who is subject to strong conflicting forces, such as the need to construct an identity in conformance with the expectations of community members at home while at the same time having to face the discordant reality of day-to-day living in Europe. Massala-Massala’s ‘friends’ in Paris provide him with opportunities, and yet they exploit him for the furtherance of their own agendas as well. All of the Parisiens are under intense pressure to verify their ostensible success in France to their home communities, and the challenges of this duplicitous endeavour often set them against each other. This project as a whole is one that Mabanckou subjects to intense scrutiny, and, indeed, the likely prospect of failure that is built into endeavour by its very nature is the principal focus of the book. Lydie Moudileno describes this main thrust of Mabanckou’s criticism in the novel: In making the failed Parisien a central character, Bleu blanc rouge denounces not only the acts and discourses participating in the Parisian myth, but also the complicit silence of migrants on certain aspects of their experience.11

While the French state also comes under criticism in Bleu blanc rouge, the bulk of Mabanckou’s considerable sharp wit and biting satire are reserved for immigrant myth-makers themselves, who assist Massala-Massala and at the same time set him up for failure. This perspective is also privileged by other writers who focus on migrants, such as Fatou Diome in her novel Le ventre de l’Atlantique, and demonstrates a common preoccupation with the deceptive nature of the migration system and the cultural structures of which it forms a part among African expatriate authors.

Fashion and Fiction in the Elaboration of Parisien Identity Est-ce prétentieux de ma part que de dire que nous sommes presque des héros ? [Is it pretentious of me to say that we are almost heroes?] (Moki, 83) 11

Lydie Moudileno, Parades postcoloniales, 129. “En faisant du ‘Parisien refoulé’ un personnage central, Bleu blanc rouge dénonce non seulement les actes et discours qui participent du mythe parisien, mais également le silence complice des migrants sur certains aspects de leur expérience.”

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This section will explore in greater detail the phenomenon of la sape, as well as its extension from the realm of fashion to encompass the investment of a variety of French objects with particular meaning for the elaboration of grotesque and borrowed identities. According to Didier Gondola, la sape is a phenomenon with origins in the early days of the colonial encounter in the Congo, where clubs devoted to adoption of French forms and ways emerged in the early-twentieth century.12 This view is supported by Mabanckou, who, in a 26 January 2009 interview, described what he terms “le culte que l’on a voué à l’habit” [the cult of clothing worship]: It would seem that this cult comes from colonisation. When the Westerner arrived to colonise the African, he was always well dressed, all in white, colonial hat…13

And while the subculture of la sape has far more complex motivations than being well-dressed, Mabanckou is on the right track. The key to analysing the phenomenon is in the notion of determining what exactly qualifies on as ‘well-dressed’. For, as Gondola points out, discourse concerning fashion – that is to say, how people speak about clothes and invest particular items and styles with meaning – is far more significant than the clothing qua clothing. And as regards la sape, it is a question of investing foreign name-brand fashions with political meanings intended to alter the wearer’s relationships with both African and Europe.14 It is intended, as the quotation at the start of this section suggests, to transform the marginalized into the heroic. In addition to their self-appointed role as inheritors of the mantle of African heroism, the sapeurs are also responsible for the oral propagation of the tales of their exploits. Lydie Moudileno aptly describes the fusion of roles that the sapeur embodies: The odyssey of migration, conveyed by a completely postcolonial orality, becomes the new founding myth of which the sapeur gives himself the responsibility of being at the same time its teller, its hero, and, visually, its incarnation.15 12

Gondola, “Dream and Drama,” 26–27. Alain Mabanckou, “Livre: Black Bazar d’Alain Mabanckou” (interview), Télé Toulouse (26 January 2009). “Il semblerait que ce culte vient de la colonisation. Quand l’occidentale est arrivé pour coloniser l’africain, il était toujours bien habillé, tout en blanc, casque colonial….” 14 Gondola, “Dream and Drama,” 26–27. 15 Moudileno, Parades postcoloniales, 120. “L’odyssée de la migration, véhiculée par une oralité toute postcoloniale, devient le nouveau récit fondateur dont le sapeur se 13

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The heroic nature of the sapeurs is particularly demonstrated in the section of Moki’s discourse (during one of his yearly visits home) devoted to recounting the exploits of his club, ‘Les Aristocrates’, the purpose of which he describes in the following way: “Ce qui nous préoccupait, c’était surtout l’habillement, la sape, et partir un jour pour Paris” [What preoccupied us was above all clothing, the sape, and leaving one day for Paris] (77). The club, akin to a band of warriors, actively sought to battle or challenge the other local clubs in order to assert their dominance: Nous défiions nos adversaires sur leurs terres. Pour les inciter à nous répondre, nous les bousculions un peu par notre insolence. Nous les traitions de mal fringués, nous leur disions qu’ils étaient incapables de s’habiller comme à Paris, de parler de cette ville, de s’exprimer en français, de citer de mémoire les passages célèbres des grands auteurs français. (79) [We challenged our adversaries on their home turf. To incite them to respond to us, we pushed them a bit with our insolence. We called them poorly dressed, we told them they were incapable of dressing as in Paris, of speaking of that city, of expressing themselves in French, of quoting from memory the famous passages of the great French authors.]

This eventually leads to a sort of “catwalk battle,” wherein the two groups face off before an audience which provides spontaneous judgment, and the team deemed most ostentatious and ‘Parisian’ (though none of the audience members has ever been to Paris) is declared the victor. In the particular faceoff described by Moki in Bleu blanc rouge, there is an overtly colonial and religious theme in his dress. This clearly underscores the colonial origins of the sapeur subculture; the significance of this particular display will be further examined under the following subheading of this essay. While the haute-couture aspects of this phenomenon have been quite well examined by the scholars who have analysed Bleu blanc rouge,16 the literary element of these heroic face-offs has hitherto gone unremarked. This, however, is one of the most interesting elements of the sapeur’s efforts to assert charge d’être à la fois le conteur, le héros et, visuellement, l’incarnation.” 16 See, for example, Dominic Thomas, Black France: Colonialism, Immigration, and Transnationalism (Bloomington: Indiana U P , 2007), Wandia Mwende Njoya, “In search of El Dorado? The Experience of Migration to France in Contemporary African Novels” (doctoral dissertation, Pennsylvania State University, 2007), and Moudileno, Parades postcoloniales.

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his dominance in the local community. Literary texts such as Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du mal and Saint-Exupéry’s Terre des hommes are actually described by Moki in the language of weaponry: “Nous empruntions ces livres au Centre culturel français pour nous armer” [We borrowed these books from the French Cultural Centre to arm ourselves] (80; my emphasis). The use of these texts is less about understanding them or appreciating the ways in which they illuminate and explain human existence, and more about using them as symbolic objects, as weapons to be strategically deployed to defeat an enemy. As described in the passage above detailing the tactics used to lure a rival club into a ‘battle’, failure to demonstrate possession of the texts – defined as the capacity to recite them, and to do so in a ‘Parisian’ way, with the more famous texts and passages carrying more symbolic weight as markers of France and one’s relationship to it – is what must be avoided. Appreciating their value in terms of meaning is secondary at best. This relates to Moudileno’s analysis of the use of the French language as sound, likening the way the sapeurs deploy French as an auditory performance to the way their dress is a visual performance. She describes this aspect of sapeur culture as follows: the words themselves seem less important than the sound they produce for the audience: the sonority of the French language adds to the visual staging of the body an auditory dimension, which reinforces the idea of a performance.17

This relegates the French language to the level of a material object, an object of sonority, rather than as a referent for the expression of thoughts and ideas. It demonstrates a creative resignification of the texts by the sapeurs, and is an excellent example of the active role of the reader in creating meaning in writing. On the other hand, it is equally an expression of marginality and an apt example of Mbembe’s contention that postcolonial subjects desire to enact “cheap imitations of power.”18 a

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Moudileno, Parades postcoloniales, 120. “Les mots eux-mêmes semblent moins importants que le son qu’ils produisent pour l’auditoire: la sonorité de la langue française ajoute à la mise en scène visuelle du corps une dimension auditive, qui renforce l’idée d’un spectacle.” 18 Mbembe, On the Postcolony, 133.

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The Religion of the Dream The theme of religion is one of the most prominent in Bleu blanc rouge, particularly with regard to the ways in which les sapeurs, and Congolese society as a whole, treat an imagined France and those who are ostensibly related to it as objects of devotion. This behaviour has deep historical roots: One cannot attempt to discuss the phenomenon of La sape without considering the particular role that Paris (as the Hexagon’s capital) played in the minds of colonized African subjects.19

Again and again, anything having a French allure, be it migrants, their families, or the objects and knowledge they possess and strategically deploy, is consistently referred to in religious terms. Thomas has remarked as much, likening the voyage to France to a “secular quest or pilgrimage.”20 A notable example of the religiosity associated with migration and France in Congolese society is the way in which the return of Moki for one of his periodic visits is viewed and prepared for. The entire community awaits his arrival with intense reverence, and, even before he has arrived, his father insists that the house be immaculately swept at all times, as though he were attempting to create some kind of holy environment by slowly imbuing their home with cleanliness. When Moki finally arrives, he is chauffeured from place to place, and is escorted under the shade of a parasol as though he had transcended the human realm and can no longer be subjected to the rigours of pedestrian existence. In brief, his return is regarded as “un jour béni. Un événement” [a blessed day. A phenomenon] (51). That a Parisien, as a sacred and holy entity, would have the power to create a “blessed day” is also expressed by Massala-Massala in his biblically inspired description of Moki and his role in his migration. In rhetoric clearly reminiscent of the biblical phrase ‘In the beginning was the word’, MassalaMassala repeats several iterations of the phrase “Au commencement il y avait ce nom… Au commencement, il y avait ce nom-là… Au commencement, il y avait le nom de Moki” [In the beginning there was the name… In the beginning, there was that name… In the beginning, there was the name of Moki] (35–38).

19 20

Dominic Thomas, Black France, 158. Thomas, Black France, 156.

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Indivisible from the theme of religion is that of “the dream.” At the opening of the novel’s first main section, “Paris,” there is a revealing quotation from Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu: “Il vaut mieux rêver sa vie que la vivre, encore que la vivre, ce soit encore la rêver” [Better to dream one’s life than to live it, especially as to live it is to dream it all the more] (31). This suggestion that dream and reality are fused in Congolese society’s obsession with the myth of France is reinforced on the novel’s closing page. At this point, Massala-Massala has spent eighteen months in a French jail, where he has lost all fascination with the Hexagon and desires simply to be with his family and community. When he speaks of dreaming in his cell he repeats over and over: “Le pays était là. Proche… Le pays était là” [home was there. Close… home was there], and in the silence of his cell he “was communing with [his] people back home” [“communiai[t] avec les miens au pays”] (203– 204). Completely disabused of any notion of French grandeur, at this stage in his adventure he describes France in the following way: Celle qui me montra que le destin était une ligne brisée, un terrain émaillé de bancs de sable qui empêchent la marche. Ma France était celle-là. (203) [The one who showed me that destiny was a broken line, a land marked with sand dunes that block one’s path. This was my France.]

Yet in spite of all this, when he is aboard his deportation flight and only moments away from home, the force of this social myth overtakes him again, and he makes the following remarks about his desire to leave once again for France, remarks completely antithetical to his prior convictions and experience: Repartir, ai-je dit ? Suis-je endormi ou éveillé ? Qu’importe. Le rêve et la réalité ici n’ont plus de frontière. (222) [Leave again, did I say? Am I asleep or awake? What does it matter. Dream and reality no longer have a boarder here.]

This signifies the immense power of this deeply held cultural myth, which even has the ability to attract those having firsthand experience of its falsity. It speaks to the collective momentum of a society, and the power of a widely shared “dream” to overtake those aware of its dreamlike nature and to cause them to see it as a reality – thus fusing the real and the imagined. This dis-

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pensation leaves little choice for Massala-Massala but to acquiesce to the myth, as he himself points out: La religion du rêve est ancrée dans la conscience des jeunes du pays. Briser ces croyances, c’est s’exposer au destin réservé aux hérétiques. Je me sentais le devoir d’entretenir moi aussi le rêve. De le cajoler. De vivre avec. (139) [The religion of the dream is anchored in the conscience of the country’s youth. To destroy these beliefs is to expose oneself to the fate reserved for heretics. I as well felt the duty to maintain the dream. To cajole it. To live with it.]

This false image of France is linked to the pretentions of the colonizers who endeavoured to create such a myth in an effort to sustain their capacity to rule as a minority. Mabanckou demonstrates that these actions continue to have a profound effect on Congolese society, and he provides detailed descriptions regarding the ways in which Congolese adopt colonial attitudes in order to belittle other members of their community and assert their dominance. For example, Massala-Massala tells the reader, with no small dose of irony in the writing, of the “learning” bestowed up him and other locals by Moki: C’est lui qui nous apprit que même ces imbéciles qui nous présentaient le journal à la télé et à la radio au pays ne parlaient pas le vrai français de France. Lui, Moki, ne saisissait pas ce qu’ils racontaient. (63) [It was him who taught us that those imbeciles who presented the news on the T V and the radio back home did not speak the real French from France. He, Moki, could not understand what they said.]

What amounts to nothing more than a glaring falsity conveying the most antiquated formulas of foreign arrogance becomes a powerful means for Moki to exert his influence in society. The degree to which Moki has mastered these narratives of alterity is both impressive and tragic, and yet he is not the only one prepared to fulfil such exploitative roles. Massala-Massala reveals his willingness to submit to any degradation necessary to the completion of his quest: J’étais prêt à tout. J’étais résolu à m’épuiser. À travailler en France vingtquatre heures sur vingt-quatre. Comme un nègre… (108) [I was ready for anything. I was resolved to exhaust myself. To work in France twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Like a nigger…]

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This demonstrates the ongoing influence of an ideology of difference and domination, whereby Congolese are willing to assume the role either of colonial subject or of colonial ruler, depending on their particular circumstances. Such representations in Blue blanc rouge equally speak to Mbembe’s portrait of the postcolony, which has emerged from the colonial experience with a logic of domination based on the fetishization of particular signs.21 ‘France’ as a sign invested in a multiplicity of signifiers in Congolese society indeed operates as a fetish object so powerful that it draws in even those who know the truth about France as a lived experience rather than as an instrument of identity-politics. As was briefly indicated above, colonial symbolism is also used by Moki in order to win a “battle” against another local club of sapeurs. This moment in the text is also the embodiment of the link between colonialism and the colonially inspired France-based “religion of the dream.” It takes place during the competition of the sapeurs recounted by Moki – an experience religious by its very nature, for, as Moki describes it, “Le vêtement est notre passeport. Notre religion” [Clothing is our passport. Our religion] (78). However, while the latest French fashions are the typical fare for such competitions, Moki in this case is able to vanquish his opponents in an unusual display of colonial attire: J’avançais paisiblement vers le milieu de la piste. J’étais coiffé d’un casque colonial et je portais une longue soutane qui balayait le sol lorsque je me déplaçais. Je tenais une Bible dans ma main droite et, pendant que mon adversaire me tournait le dos, je lisais à haute et intelligible voix un passage de l’Apocalypse de Jean. Le public était euphorique… (82) [I gracefully approached the middle of the runway. I was adorned with a colonial helmet and I was wearing a long cassock that swept the ground when I moved. I was holding a bible in my right hand and, when my adversary turned his back on me, I read in a loud and intelligible voice a passage from John’s Apocalypse. The crowd went wild…]

That Moki is able to elicit such an ecstatic response from the crowd by combining two of the main tools underpinning colonialism – the threat of military force as embodied in the pith helmet, and the church, represented by the cassock and bible – is indicative of the degree to which fascination with France, and consequently the desire to migrate, is dependent upon paradigms of power established during the colonial era. These paradigms have been reinforced in 21

Dominic Thomas, Black France, 103.

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the postcolonial era through increasing engagement with processes of global integration and the ongoing development of specific channels of exchange between the Congo and francophone Europe in particular.

Vin rouge de France and the Investiture of the Object The manner in which the material culture of France – beyond the sartorial concerns commonly associated with the sapeurs – is invested with particular meanings through particular kinds of identity-forming performances in the Congo has already been discussed in some detail in this essay. The way in which visual and auditory objects are enshrouded with an aura of ‘Frenchness’ and transformed into instruments of difference-making in the culture and performances of the sapeurs, for example, has been explored in previous sections. Beyond the sapeur subculture, however, Bleu blanc rouge also demonstrates the way in which a certain form of discourse is employed to invest oneself with ‘French’ power, with the assistance of elements of visual culture and potent catchwords and phrases. A notable example of this phenomenon is the strategic deployment of the phrase “vin rouge de France.” This phrase is repeated numerous times throughout the novel, and is always set in italics as a means of conveying that it is a sort of anonymous collective quotation, a Congolese keyword that is a marker of identity more than an element of conversation. On the most basic level, stripped of its French connection, the object in question is a simple alcoholic beverage. The first layer of specificity and the first stage in the development of the phrase as an instrument of power is on the level of the word “wine,” as this already carries certain French connotations. Qualifying it as red only strengthens the association of this object with a mythical Paris. The addition of the words “de France” potentiates the satirical qualities of this scene, as it is so utterly excessive. The addition of these two words to a referent which is already very clearly French only serves to make transparent the motives of the speaker, associated with social climbing. The wine in question is no longer simply wine, nor even just a visual performance of Frenchness transmitted by the conspicuous display of the bottle. Further than this, possessing the wine is also an opportunity for the creation and exhibition of an auditory object: vin rouge de France, which is an instrument capable of exponentially increasing the power and influence associated with simple possession of French wine. Indeed, the wine can only be drunk

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once, yet there are no restrictions on the number of times it can be talked about and to which it can be referred. And, indeed, this auditory object is referred to many times throughout the novel. Below is an illustration of the way this phrase is objectified and re-created as a means of asserting one’s social position: “Au pays, on les nourrissait, on leur payait du vin rouge de France” (41) “Mon père, je vous ramène du vin rouge de France” (43) “Le père de Moki, lui, détaillait le repas de son fils qui mangeait convenablement: il prenait un apéritif, une entrée, un plat, du vin rouge de France, du fromage, un dessert et du café. Comme en France, chez Digol…” (51) “Il revenait servir à ses convives de la bière et du vin rouge de France.” (58) [“Back home, they fed them, they bought them red wine from France” “Father, I bring you some red wine from France” “He, Moki’s father, described in detail the meal of his son who ate properly: he has an aperitif, an appetizer, an entrée, some red wine from France, some cheese, a dessert and a coffee. Like in France, the land of Digol…” “He came back and served beer and red wine from France to his guests”]

The phrase “chez Digol” in the last of the above passages is another excellent example of the way French materialism is created and displayed as a status symbol. In this case, Mabanckou draws the reader’s attention to the way de Gaulle is mispronounced (to speak prescriptively) as a means of satirically undercutting the speaker’s claimed knowledge of and connection to France. In this case, the speaker in question is Moki’s father, who uses his alleged knowledge of France in order to wield power over the other members of the neighbourhood council, of which he has been appointed leader. The irony is palpable in this portion of the text, as it is clear that Moki’s father is attempting to appropriate de Gaulle for his own edification, yet his fervent devotion to the former French leader is in reality a symbol of his continued subjugation to colonial discourse. The following quotations are indicative of this practice: “Il aimait particulièrement le général de Gaulle (Digol, prononçait-il), et il racontait, comme s’il s’y était trouvé, que le Général était venu à Brazzaville dans les années quarante…” (48) “– Le général Digol était grand. Très grand.” (48) “Aux réunions du conseil du quartier, les pauvres notables étaient dépaysés par ses récits sur Paris, la France et la bravoure de l’homme du 18 Juin:

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– Digol, un grand homme comme il n’en existe plus de nos jours. Des hommes comme lui, il n’y en a qu’un seul par siècle. Et encore, il y a des siècles où le destin fait une impasse sur ses réserves d’hommes géants.” (53) “– Souvenez-vous, mes amis, Digol a carrément refusé l’armistice de 1940 et le gouvernement de Vichy.” (53) “Après ça, quelques jeunes ingrats ont voulu lui chercher les poux dans la tonsure en mai 1968. C’étaient des groupuscules d’étudiants et de syndicats. Là encore, Digol a montré qu’il était géant en quittant le pouvoir une année plus tard.” (54) [“He particularly loved general de Gaulle (Digol, he pronounced it), and he recounted, as though he had been there, that the General had come to Brazzaville in the forties…” “—General Digol was great. Very great.” “At the meetings of the neighbourhood council, the poor members were put out of their element by his stories of Paris, France and the bravery of the man of June 18: – Digol, a great man of the kind that no longer exists these days. Men like him, there’s only one per century. Even then, there are centuries where destiny comes up short in its reserves of great men.” “—Remember, my friends, Digol flat out refused the armistice of 1940 and the Vichy government.” “After that, a few young ingrates wanted to dig up dirt on him in May 1968. It was some piddly student and union groups. Even there Digol showed that he was a giant by leaving power one year later.”]

Mabanckou’s descriptions of these verbal displays of knowledge of – or, rather, possession of – things French provide valuable and humorous insight into the way migration patterns are influenced by identity-building projects imbued with postcolonial logic in the Mbembian sense. That one’s social position can be advanced and reinforced through the display of French objects and the manipulation of ostensibly French symbols, auditory or visual, is an important element in the reproduction and fortification of the myth of France and, more importantly, the elaboration of social hierarchies in the Congo in which France operates as a fetish concept. The modification of the pronunciation of the words ‘de Gaulle’ also underscores the reality that, just as the image of French utopia held by Congolese society is grossly distorted, what passes for French knowledge and objects in Congolese society is also an independent Congolese creation. Digol is in fact

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not a French concept or even a French word, but something possessing its own independent existence in this particular society. This, of course, is rather to be expected. given the very small number of Congolese who have the opportunity to visit France; yet it is also something that is so obvious as to run the risk of going completely unremarked. This is an important distinction to make, and Mabanckou makes it clear that it is not one’s control of French objects and knowledge that is valued in Congolese society, but one’s mastery over that which is considered to be French in the Congolese discourse. This is demonstrated by the discussion of the “Paysan.” This is a passage in the text in which the sapeur is contrasted with another type of ‘successful’ migrant, yet one who is largely ignored and who enjoys little or no improvement in his social standing based on his exploits, despite their French provenance. An abstract character, he is described as wearing a tee-shirt and jeans, of living outside of Paris, and as being a graduate student (89–90). And while all of these attributes have France as their origin – a pair of jeans is no less French than a pair of British Weston shoes, so sought after by the sapeurs – they have no place in the Congolese discourse regarding what is ‘French’, because the paysan does not participate in the fetishization of France and the types of identity competitions in which the sapeurs engage. It is a question of false cognates, whereby the same word is employed in two different idioms or societies with the meaning differing widely. Mabanckou is critical of this material culture, and his satirical portrayal of the pretentiousness of those who attempt to control this discourse about ‘France’ is one of the most humorous elements of the novel. And while our analysis has focused mainly on the way in which ‘auditory objects’ are formed and circulated, the material culture of France is also visually performed in a variety of ways. A notable example would be Moki’s conspicuous reading of Parisian newspapers during one of his visits home. Of all the French and Parisian newspapers available to him, Moki is careful only to purchase those with the word ‘Paris’ in the title (61), as a means of reinforcing his ‘Parisian’ identity. The power of the material culture of France is also reinforced by the fact that Moki is able to use miniature maps of the French subway as currency, paying for services such as haircuts with these objects – free and disposable in France – as though they were bank notes (62).

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Conclusion Alain Mabanckou’s Bleu blanc rouge is a valuable resource for understanding the role of culture in migration patterns between Congo-Brazzaville and France. It demonstrates the manner in which migration networks are embedded in the postcolonial dispensation, and how human movement is motivated by a set of factors far more complex than the economic drivers so often ascribed to population flows by social scientists. Indeed, the novel allows us to observe the manner in which the Congolese community in France and the Parisien identity its members seek to cultivate in their ongoing relationships with home are extensions of the politics of grotesquerie and the desire to partake of power in the face of the poverty which afflicts the postcolony as a whole. Bleu blanc rouge elucidates the ways in which sartorial, literary, and other cultural codes are borrowed and patched together by Congolese youths in order to move them from the social periphery to the centre. It equally shows the cyclical negative consequences of these efforts, which tend to perpetuate epistemologies of power that privilege borrowed identities, ostentation, and social hierarchies rooted in foreign superiority. In this regard, Mabanckou’s novel aptly bears out Mbembe’s contention that the postcolony is afflicted by the common person’s desire to “shine” and partake in the performance of domination in such as way as to reproduce their own marginality. With great wit and literary acumen, Bleu blanc rouge illustrates that the world of African migrants is one that is paradoxically (and tragically) rooted in both the social hierarchies of home and the performance of and self-identification with Otherness.

W O R K S C I TE D De Souza, Pascale. “Trickster Strategies in Alain Mabanckou’s Black Bazar,” Research in African Literatures 42.1 (Spring 2011): 102–19. Diome, Fatou. Le ventre de l’atlantique (Paris: Anne Carrière, 2003). Gondola, Charles Didier. “Dream and Drama: The Search for Elegance Among Congolese Youth,” African Studies Review 42.1 (April 1999): 23–48. Mabanckou, Alain. Bleu blanc rouge (Paris: Présence Africaine, 1998). ——. “Livre: Black Bazar d’Alain Mabanckou” (ínterview), Télé Toulouse (26 January 2009). Mbembe, Achille. On the Postcolony (Berkeley: U of California P , 2001).

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——. “Provisional Notes on the Postcolony,” Africa: Journal of the International African Institute 62.1 (1992): 3–37. Moudileno, Lydie. Parades postcoloniales: la fabrication des identités dans le roman congolais (Paris: Karthala, 2006). Njoya, Wandia Mwende. “In search of El Dorado? The Experience of Migration to France in Contemporary African Novels” (doctoral dissertation, Pennsylvania State University, 2007). Thomas, Dominic. Black France: Colonialism, Immigration, and Transnationalism (Bloomington: Indiana U P , 2007).

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W UMI R AJI

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He also was just trying to pull himself together. He was equally devastated. He just thought that he must live up to the role expected of a man; he must rise up to the challenge of the occasion. As the husband, he had to keep himself under control. But he was being put in a tight corner. He could not allow the two women to go on crying. They might soon have a flood to contend with, going by the rate at which they were expressing themselves. In any case, even if he could just ignore his wife, he had no choice concerning the other woman. Where would he find the strength to console her? Where? For he knew he himself was bound to break down, should he try to rise up to the demanding occasion. Just then Olabisi came in. She saw her friend as she wept very copiously. She saw, too, the helpless woman as she was being tortured by emotion. She also noticed Taye’s predicament. She knew the challenge was hers. “E se mama. O ti to.” She was moved herself. She was just mustering resistance against the emotion that was threatening to overwhelm her. She was doing this with all her strength. She had to save the situation. “Mama, please calm down. Only pray for us. Pray for us. Pray that our plantain may never die without fresh shoots to replace it. Thank you, mama. Just pray for us. And Malomo, isn’t that enough? All morning, and you’re still at it. Won’t you stop and get something done? You can’t go on like this forever.” Everybody agreed that the couple deserved to be happy. When Malomo was delivered of Moyosore, she was in a very critical condition of ill-health. The baby was not a bouncing one, either. Mother and child had to be placed in intensive care. Ajani, their doctor, was a first-class physician. Being himself of humane disposition, he was very patient with them. The naming ceremony had to be postponed for a considerable time, as AYE NOTICED THEM FROM A DISTANCE.

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they spent several days in the hospital. Having gone through the health history of both patients, Ajani already had an opinion. Trying to confirm this, and knowing that they had already incurred heavy bills, he had to find a way of persuading them to undergo blood tests. He was proved right by the results. Before discharging them, therefore, the doctor had called both father and mother to advise them on the health of their new baby. The child, he said, was likely to give plenty of trouble, not its own fault, though. Rather, it was due to the health problem which he would have inherited from both parents, who, as he suggested, must themselves have been very sickly at birth. They also had this weakness handed down to them from their own parents. Weak blood type, he called the cause, venturing a description for the layman. The baby would need extra attention in order to survive. He would be susceptible to malaria, as all such children were, and must therefore be protected from mosquitoes and other possible infections from the environment. Anything could be hazardous to the child’s health, though he should drink plenty of water. Ordinary water. He laid out other details, general and specific. He prescribed drugs and emphasized that the directions be strictly adhered to. The baby’s blood type would be confirmed after one year but, as he said, and given what he had seen of those of the two parents, nothing could prove his present diagnosis wrong. In any case, he would be available to advise them as occasion demanded. Husband and wife were greatly impressed by the careful attention they received from the doctor. They also felt enlightened and educated concerning their own backgrounds. At least, he had no knowledge before of their own health history. Yet he discussed it with such preciseness. For example, Malomo was the only child left of her parents. Her mother had had eight. Three had preceded her. She grew up to know only one of them, the one directly before her. She was eleven when he died at the age of fifteen. By that time, two of her juniors had also died. The third, at the age of four, was caught by a strange illness, an illness that defied all attempts at healing, modern or traditional. The child would not eat and would not drink. He could not talk. Neither could he walk. His eyes were open, however. As he lay on his back in the early stages of the illness, his eyes would glow at the sight of a familiar figure. But only in the early stages. As time wore on, his body began to shrink: the limbs, the frame, even the hand. His eyeballs shrank also and the sockets became too large for them. He grew thinner and thinner until he was no fuller-bodied than copper wire. There could be only one interpretation. Some punishment, wholly undeserved, inflicted by people who would prefer

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nobody should be successful. The child died after sixteen months, hard as the parents tried to see that he lived. Soon after, the mother became pregnant again. This resulted in a stillbirth and she almost lost her life in the process of delivery. Thus the parents gave up and Malomo became their only hope. She herself was very sickly in childhood and was taken ill almost every other day. Her illness each time lasted approximately two weeks, after which she was up for a few days. Due to this fact, she did not begin schooling on time. She started at the age of eight and picked up gradually from then on. It was as if she had been waiting to start school. She was a very interesting girl, highly talented and brilliant. She was a good sprinter, could sing very well and was beautiful. In fact, ravishingly beautiful, with her ebony black complexion, her moderate height, her long, shapely legs, her glowing eyeballs, and her jet black hair. She mixed freely with boys and would expend her energies playing with them. Then she would arrive home, only to complain of acute pains in her bones. Then she would go back to school, with her parents warning her against any rigorous exercise. It was all futile, as she would do the same thing all over again and the same story would repeat itself. In spite of her being so brilliant, Malomo stopped schooling after Primary Six. The fact that there was no secondary school in their immediate locality contributed to this. The closest one was located at least five kilometres from them. Asking a girl in her condition to do that to-and-fro on a daily basis would, simply, be tantamount to inviting trouble. And it would be equally risky to ask her to stay away on her own, especially given the dangers she was capable of exposing herself to. So her parents reasoned that she had had enough school education. But the young mother was excited to know the cause of her health problem: weak blood type inherited from both parents! The doctor certainly knew his job. So the young couple decided to place all their trust in him regarding the health of their child. They were frequently in the hospital, and Ajani never disappointed them. Tongues soon began to wag. People could not understand what was wrong with Taye and his wife; how they got so easily brainwashed. It perhaps would have been pardonable for two different partners. Certainly not Malomo and Taye. Being themselves Àbikú, how could they fail to recognize the same spirit in their child? Or had they forgotten their own history? Impossible. The wife carried it about in the name she answered to. Malomo. That was a desperate plea. She kept coming and going like that, defying all efforts to

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make her stay. Until her mother begged her: “Don’t go again, please. Stay with me, please.” She begged in helpless agony. With tears. Poor woman. Or could it be possible that Taye’s parents did not tell him what it cost them to make him stay? Kehinde, his twin sister, having died at the age of four, Taye began to give his parents trouble. He was missing his partner. His real illness, however, did not come until he was nine. It was a prolonged illness. For several months his parents ran from public hospital to private clinic to professional mullahs and later to Christian evangelist homes. But none was able to cure him. Until they brought him before alayewo. The man said they had come just in the nick of time. A little further delay, he went on, and the child would have died. He confirmed that the child was being attracted to the other world by his partner, twins being inseparable, as they had the same spirit. It was very wrong of the parents not to have let the child know this, the people pointed out. And how about this: how about the eventual sacrifice, the most expensive ever in the village, with a whole ram killed? This in addition to other things which included a gallon of palm oil, seven metres of white terrylene cloth, two hundred and one kolanuts, and even money; seven hundred and seventy-seven naira, seventy-seven kobo. And how he sleep-walked. Remember that. At least, so the parents reported to the whole village. Why did they not tell the boy? How he started by talking in his sleep, cursing someone invisible for trying to steal his meat. How, then, he rose up and walked out of his mother’s room, heading for his father’s; how he picked up the leg of the ram which had been reserved for his father’s private consumption and how he held a final conversation with the spirit of his partner. His father painted a vivid picture of the event – and they could still re-capture the child’s exact words as he talked with Kehinde. First, he appeared to be looking at the meat as he picked it up. Then he cast up his gaze and fixed it on the wall. Of course, he was seeing beyond it. “Yes,” he said, “you can take that away.” “Hmn,” he said again after the other had replied to him, “I said you can take that away.” Then he replaced the meat, walked out quietly, re-entered his mother’s room, and lay back on his previous position. Was that not the story? And how did he end up in school? It was not originally planned that he would go to school. Otherwise he would have started earlier. Much, much earlier. Was it not his father’s idea that Taye, being the only male child, should inherit his large farm? But the Babalawo had instructed them after the sacrifice that the boy be allowed free movement

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with his peers in order that he might have people to play with and so easily forget his twin. Was it not, then, that the parents thought the best way to solve the problem was by sending him to school, where he would meet many of his age-group? Was that not how he started school at the age of eleven? Taye and Malomo attended the same school but he was two years ahead of the girl who was later to become his wife. Like Malomo, he was a brilliant pupil. Unlike her, however, he was very reserved, and he never had a talent for any kind of games or sports. There was no way anyone could doubt his intellectual endowment, though, as he led his class throughout. In Primary Six, he was appointed the senior prefect, being the best and the oldest. Taye’s teachers so much wanted him to further his education, but his father could not be persuaded. He was his only male child, Taye’s father had repeated again and again, and he had a number of things which he would like him to take charge of. He was therefore not ready to allow his son to wander too far. While still waiting for him to attain maturity, the father thought the boy might as well pick up a skill. This was how Taye was sent out to learn tailoring. Parents from both sides had meanwhile noticed that Malomo and Taye seemed somewhat drawn towards each other. Having confirmed his boy’s feelings for the girl, Taye’s father wasted no time in making his mind known to Malomo’s parents. Taye was twenty-two and Malomo seventeen when they got married to each other. It was now fourteen years into the marriage and still they had no issue. Or, better put, they had none that was still alive. They had three before Moyosore. One was stillborn and the other two had died at infancy. In the first two years of Moyosore’s life, the couple had consulted no other person and sought no alternative opinion. They simply stuck to Ajani. Any little whimper from the boy, and one could be sure they were already on their way to the hospital. After the first year, the blood test was carried out and the doctor confirmed his view. The boy suffered from sickle-cell anaemia, he had told them, assuring them in addition that it could be managed, that it would be managed. Husband and wife were happy. Moyosore was their source of joy. Their boy having survived the first four years, the couple felt convinced that they could place their hopes on this doctor, who was trained in the orthodox form of medical practice. Moyosore fell ill on a regular basis, to be sure, and each time he did, the parents experienced intense anxiety. It was during such times that people seized the opportunity to bring in their opinions. The tension was great. As

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pressure mounted on Taye and Malomo, so it did on their parents from both sides. Moyosore was a spirit child. Modern medicine could not solve his problem. Did they not see how the child went down now and again? If the matter had been approached in the traditional way, his problems would have long been a thing of the past. They cited several cases to back up their arguments, several instances, some similar and others different, where, as they contended, the new method had failed while the traditional alternative had worked. The pressure continued to mount. There was soon to arise another dimension to the matter. Moyosore might or might not be an Àbikú. But since people had said so, it was only best to accept it and abide by their suggestions regarding the health of the child. At least, this was what Taye’s father did when he was growing up. Everybody knew the story, so the meaning went down deep. It happened that during Taye’s much-talked-about illness, his father was very reluctant to take him to alayewo. Having converted to Islam and now staunch in the faith, he was determined to have no hand again in what he now saw as heathen practices. The pressure was great, but the man would not budge. He went everywhere, tried all methods, leaving out only the medical herbalist. He spent a lot, yet the child refused to respond to treatment. The mother knew she had to act or her son would die. She called her husband one day. She begged him, pleaded with him to give the traditional alternative a chance. After all, all that mattered was the child’s life. What everybody wanted was for him to live. “I am also a Muslim,” she said at length. “I believe in God. And his prophet, Muhammmadu – salalalu alehi wa salam. Allah is the source of all knowledge. He created all trees. He knows all herbs. I would like you to think again about the illness of Taye. We’ve tried many things. They’ve refused to work. I want you to think again whether we may not have to try the traditional healer….” She stopped, not wanting to spell out the suggestion. Her husband remained as he was: seated, his head hung low, his two hands hidden inside his agbada. One of his legs was drawn up and the other stretched out. He was thinking. Four women now in his life. The first two between them had six children. Only two of them remained alive now. Both of these girls were now married. Their mother had divorced him. She died a year after the separation. The third was still with him. She had no issue. She was a patient woman. Hoping that with time God would answer her prayers, she had waited. Time

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passed, and now it was too late. She was finally resigned to fate. She had children around her, though all of them were adopted. Iya ‘Beji, the last of them, was taken on, having divorced her first husband. Now she had four children, Taye being the second and the other three happening to be girls. He was thinking. His only son was dying and the disease had defied all cures. Just one option was left now. There had been pressure from several quarters, with his wife now adding her own. The fact was, that he could no longer remain adamant or he would be held responsible for it, should the child die. His faith was on trial. What should he do? What would they say: members of the Muslim community especially? His wife read his mind. “You don’t have to base your action on what people will say. Of course they will always talk. But most of them are hypocrites. What they practise in the secrecy of their homes is a deliberate contradiction of what they profess publicly. Besides, Baba ‘Beji, the courageous man is not the one who boasts loudest. It is the one who knows how to appropriately adapt his principles when confronted with fresh challenges.” “I heard you, Iya ‘Beji. I will talk to you tomorrow.” When he called her the following morning, it was to tell her to get ready for the visit to alayewo. The rest of the story was not unfamiliar to Taye. When they first approached him, the reaction of the ageing medicine man was to refuse to attend to Taye and Malomo, telling them pointedly to return to their new-found healer. Husband and wife were themselves not unprepared for this. They were aware that the old man had full information regarding their reluctance to come to him, their decision to leave matters of their son’s health in the hands of Ajani. In any case, Moyosore was well over five years at the time they reported to him for the first time. Even if he had not received any prior information, the question would still have arisen regarding whom they had been visiting. Rather than put up any argument, then, they simply pleaded for the old man’s forgiveness. He accepted their plea in the end, but not before reminding the two young parents of their own health histories. In particular, Taye was taken through the story of the big sacrifice for the umpteenth time and he was asked to obtain confirmation from his parents about how it happened that he was sent to school. Malomo was also reminded of the profound troubles she took her parents through, how she often returned from the same school with acute pains, and how it was his medicine that cured her of the illness. All these he did, as he told them finally, thirty or

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twenty-five years before, when he was much younger and therefore less experienced. Since then, he had achieved many more such feats, and even a few others that were much more astounding. He did not fail to cite examples. They thanked him and he proceeded with his diagnosis. Having consulted the oracle, he reported that it was the same Àbikú spirit that had haunted both parents in their childhoods that had now taken possession of Malomo’s womb. Special rites would have to be performed to expel it once and for all. In his own case, what Moyosore needed were rites of exorcism. Once this was done, his health problems would simply disappear. The rituals were not so expensive as Malomo and Taye had feared, and they were both happy that they carried them out. They resolved to continue to consult the man regularly, even as they made up their minds never to abandon the conventional hospital. What they wanted was for Moyosore to remain in good health; how they achieved it was not of particular importance. It somehow happened that for two years after his parents’ visit to alayewo, Moyosore never took ill, not even once. He never even had malaria. At age six, he started school. It turned out that he had inherited his parents’ prodigious intellect. And for over one year, he went to school and returned without any complaint. People did not allow this to go unremarked. They pointed out the difference between the boy’s condition when his parents consulted only the modern healers and the way he was now. They reminded the parents of their initial reluctance to visit the old man and pointed out how difficult it had been persuading Taye and Malomo to take the necessary steps. Although they themselves noticed the improvement in their child’s condition and felt really relieved about it, the young couple did not, on their own, talk much about the development. It was as if an open discussion of the situation would engender a reversal. They probably were really afraid, since, it would seem, the rituals carried out in specific relation to Malomo had not worked. Or, rather, and to put it a little more appropriately, what it had done was to effectively seal up the young woman’s womb. This was to the extent that, throughout the same two-year period, she had not missed her period even once. Which was unusual. But the old man continued to assure them that there was no cause to worry, that the couple needed to exercise just a little patience, that Malomo would give birth again and again. When the matter was mentioned to him, Ajani told them, for his part, that the woman might need to undergo a comprehensive medical investigation, adding that it might be necessary to refer them to the bigger hospital in the city for the tests. The couple received this suggestion without much enthusiasm; part of the reason was not unconnected

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with what the financial implication of the investigation might be. They decided to continue to invest their hopes in God and in the old man. In any case, they still had Moyosore, and he was doing well. Two months into his ninth year, and the boy went down. It was a major crisis which caused the parents much distress. To them, it was a clear indication that the problem was not yet over, that Moyosore might after all not be a sure hope. To most of the rest of the community, however, it was not really a big issue. The medicine man had been at it for too long. He would not allow Moyosore to put a blot on what otherwise had been an immaculate career. The old man himself assured the parents that they need not worry. It was the same Àbikú spirit that was expelled two and a half years before that was trying to return; it was trying to re-possess the boy. Since he, the old man, was now in charge, it would not be possible for him to regain entry. Well, Moyosore recovered after two long months, after he had succeeded in shaking his parents’ faith in everything and everybody around them, after he had created a permanent sense of anxiety in them. While he was still on his sickbed, the school session drew to a close. Moyosore could not participate in the promotions examinations that were written in the last two weeks of the term. He had no choice but to repeat the class. The boy did not even try to douse his parents’ anxieties after this – he fell ill regularly. And, one night, just two weeks before his tenth birthday, he gave up all effort to live. Neither Malomo nor Taye could cope with the reality when eventually they were confronted with it. The future held no respite, as they saw it. They were devastated. Dr Ajani decided to pay Moyosore’s parents a condolence visit on hearing of the boy’s death, but neither the husband nor the wife could pay him any real attention. They were in intense agony. On their own, the men preparing the corpse for burial simply thought they should not allow the doctor to waste their time. They deliberately snubbed him, displaying their absolute impatience at the rubbish he continued to mutter, attributing Moyosore’s persistent illness to sickle-cell anaemia. Utter nonsense. Taye came out as the one among them holding the knife brought it down on the boy’s forehead, making a deep cut. He watched quietly as the man did the same thing on each of the boy’s thighs. Taye saw that each time he made the cut, he warned the boy in a grave voice never to return to the world of the living if he knew he was not ready to become part of them. Otherwise, and if he would not stop running, the man added, Moyosore should expect further brutalizing treatment when

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next he visited. The boy’s father could not help but wince in pain as the middle toe on his son’s right foot was ripped off and flung into the fire burning gently beside the men. Then, as he saw the rest of the body wrapped up and dumped into the shallow grave, something told him that he might need to give Ajani’s words further thought.

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———— º Three Poems SITUATION VACANCY Wanted: a mature resilient and enterprising countryman to fill the post of a patriot. Must be of sober habits, able to wait ages in the sun for diesel and petrol still on its way from the Middle East; while the fat presidential motorcade daily dodges ditches and trenches along the cities’ highways, eating away the country’s lean fuel reserves. Should not be discontented with shortage of Forex, and uninterrupted water and power cuts; Must be a self-starter and innovative; those with demonstrable skills of suffering in silence will have an added advantage. ”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

NICK TEMBO

366 Handwritten applications clearly stating evidence of being hardened to combative leadership tactics should be sent to: The Chief of Corruption, Office of Political Marginalization Responsible for Nepotism and Threats Repressive Media Laws Section, 64 Pillage of National Coffers Crescent Off Democracy Road Land of Zombies.

A DEATH Somewhere on a darkling plain midnight children crouch in prayer telling tales of strife in the pulsing heart at the continent’s tip; dusk finds them saying their rosary, as rabid youth cadets brandish rusty metal and knobkerries keenly monitoring those outside the dirty pale of power; they intermittently interrupt tremulous petitions lined up by the sinned who drown in loud and ceaseless Tumbuka, Chewa, Lhomwe to exorcize this ailing nation of the senescent shit drip-dropping from this debris of democracy. Today, memories from painful yesteryears return and fears from misty tomorrows loom large over the battered of the earth as they behold score upon score of political whores bare their democratically vampiric teeth in a cold and lonely night.

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BLIND DECISION (Composed after unrest) Sneered at, jeered at, Pushed to the wall, Ego bruised. We heard him vow His hollow soul Would not rest Until his battered image Was restored. Except, The waters he puddles in Are what we’d agreed He should stay clear of. He now divides his time Between his office chair And the courts. 12.10.12

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Up Jumped a Jumbie Robert Wyndham Nicholls, The Jumbies’ Playing Ground: Old World Influences on Afro-Creole Masquerades in the Eastern Caribbean, foreword by John Nunley (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2012), xx & 293 pages. I S B N 978-1-61703-611-8 (hb); 978-1-61703-612-5 (e-book).

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primarily with the masquerade in Barbados and the anglophone Leeward Islands of the Caribbean (Anguilla, Antigua, Barbuda. Montserrat, St. Kitts–Nevis, the U S Virgin Islands). The ‘masquerade’ is to be understood generally in a sense that, although anthropologically vital and with a long tradition, is marked in the O E D and Shorter Oxford as obsolete: namely, as an individual performer (with or without an assistant or handler, and acting predominantly as a ‘one-person show’ or in a like ensemble) dressed up, body and head, in natural fibres or man-made fabrics that mimic animal forms. It is therefore a phenomenon to be distinguished both from the European sense of a masked and costumed ball (though masks are worn) and from the processional and Bakhtinian carnivalesque familiar from Trinidadian mas’ or its cognates in Rio de Janeiro or New Orleans (though dancing and processional movement can be central to the masquerade, too, along with carnivalesque inversion). The masquerade as individual performer in the zoomorphic sense indicated above is, too, a natural type of ritual expression in West Africa, on whose traditions Nicholls draws copiously. Readers holding to a eurocentric perspective may have a knee-jerk understanding of ‘Old World’ as referring to Europe, which is not invalid, as the author also instructively adduces originary and cognate European phenomena such as mumming; but Africa, too, is to be understood as an ‘Old World’ catchment area. The ‘Mocko Jumbie’ of the main title may be familiar HIS BOOK CONCERNS ITSELF

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to many from tourist brochures, National Geographic photo-essays, blogs, and documentary films as stilt-walking figures, but it is not made clear at the outset that Mocko Jumbie masquerades are stilt-walkers; the reason for stilts is given (14), but somewhat indirectly. The first discrete description of them as stilt-walkers comes much later (pp. 56–57), and Nicholls seems to commit himself to this fully only from p. 106 onwards. The many other masquerade traditions that jostle for attention distract somewhat from the Mocko Jumbie type. Many of the illustrative photos in the colour insert do not feature stiltwalkers; elsewhere Nicholls makes a point of indicating that stilt-walking in West African precursors forms only part of the masquerade traditions of the Igbo, which nation constituted a later contribution to New World African rituals, after the preeminent catchment traditions of Upper Guinea. The term ‘Mocko Jumbie’ appears, then, to be flagged by Nicholls in his main title as an arresting and colourful ‘generic’ or, perhaps, metonym for a very broad range of masquerade figures going by other names (Mother Hubbard, John Bull, etc., and types outside the Eastern Caribbean such as the frequently but intermittently discussed Jankunu /Jonkonnu/John Canoe). It is noteworthy that the Mocko Jumbie, because of the plethora of descriptive detail and quotation from historical sources and contemporary informants, tends to bob up at intervals out of this rich mass of information on comparative masking phenomena in Africa, Europe, the Caribbean, and the Americas at large. Perhaps the author, enthusiastically immersed as he is in his material, takes some things for granted. Be that as it may, the opening of Chapter 1 makes it clear how the genesis of Nicholls’ interest in masquerade performance was his arthistorical engagement with a specific masquerading culture in Nigeria; it starts at the root, and is rooted in aesthetics and in what he calls “whole theater” (7). John Nunley’s foreword provides a lucid and lively breakdown of the main features of the Middle Passage for the potentially uninitiated general reader, and, with its personal touches, such as Nunley’s direct experience of Carnival, intimates the persisting relevance of ritual celebration in the contemporary Caribbean – without any tiresome spilling of the beans that could easily have preempted the exciting panoply unfolded by Nicholls in the pages that follow. Apart from the author’s own extensive fieldwork in the Caribbean, Suriname, and West Africa, the stock of direct informants (performers and scholars), in West Africa, the Caribbean, the U S A , the U K , and Northern Europe, is staggering. Apart from the list (Appendix I, p. 242) of Nicholls’ informants in the Virgin Islands (fifty-five persons), the author acknowledges the direct assis-

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tance and advice of some 112 people, many of them scholars of note. Names familiar to me from my own reading include George Tyson, Arnold Highfield, Kenneth Bilby, Ivor Miller, Douglas Chambers, Edgar Lake, Velma Pollard, Lenox Honychurch, Hollis “Chalkdust” Liverpool, Joan Fayer, Dannabang Kuwabong, Mybe Cham, Babatunde Lawal, Ode Ogede, Olabayo Olaniyi, John Nunley, Judith Bettelheim, and Robert Farris Thompson. The research was supported by the initiative Folklore Studies in a Multicultural World, sponsored by the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation. There can be few challenges in the field of New World syncretism more forbidding than that confronting Nicholls in his groundbreaking study, and his task prompts some general reflection. The aetiology, provenance, genealogy, transfer, merging, and metamorphosis involved in the movement of cultural relics and remnants to the New World invite the forensic spirit but often demand simultaneous expertise in manifold disciplines. Sometimes patterns and structures can be detected that allow African and European strands to be separated out and their D N A quantified – perhaps least problematically in music and the ‘traditional’ visual arts. Where religious expression and ritual are paramount as in self-identifying cults (vodun, santería, Orisha, candomblé, umbanda), there is often more ambiguity about the valency of any European elements that have been absorbed into performance. And where the social performative harnesses all of the senses and a multiplicity of arts and artifices, as in New World Carnival, there are usually so many vertiginous entanglings of the African and the European, so many New World transmogrifications, that any ‘scientific race for the genome’ must yield to relatively helpless fascination at the bounty of the human spirit. To traduce both Isaiah Berlin and A.A. Milne: dealing with phenomena of African provenance in the Americas will cast the researcher as either a hedgehog (knowing One Big Thing) or a fox (knowing many things). Whereby it is probably ultimately impossible to wear just one of these two skins, as most foxy researchers also dream the dream of having a Unified Field Theory. Africa-based syncretisms in the Americas are, as we know, embedded in community group interaction. This explains why, for example, even today’s gentrified Harlem displays a level of vital street-level community that would be unthinkable in the ethnically pullulating zones of most other New York boroughs, overcast as they are by individualist anomie. There are, of course, exceptions to the rule of community, such as the blind itinerant blues singer of the Black-Belt South, but that is not a matter of self-imposed isolation (save

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in matters of genius and style). Even at the level of small-group performance in ‘primitive’ music (jook joint, jug band), community response is an essential ingredient. It is the communalism of ritual that co-determines the sheer complexity of New World syncretisms, where their organic interlinkages and enmeshings so often defeat taxonomic analysis. Is capoeira a dance, a martial arts routine, or a musical form? In Brazilian religion, where is the dividing line between candomblé and umbanda? One can go crazy trying to see candombe in Uruguay/Argentina as music or dance or religious ritual or drumming or a festival performance (individual competitive groups) or a recurring urban civic spectacle. There are scholars who endeavour to hold everything together in a nucleated grand scheme, such as Roger Bastide, Melville J. Herskovits, and Fernando Ortiz, but even here the grand scheme is but one option (e.g., Ortiz’s transculturation theory) and the same scholar will plunge foxily and repeatedly into representative aspects of Afro-New World expression (e.g., Ortiz’s numerous painstaking micro-analyses of Cuban musical and cultic forms). Investigation is a form of synecdoche / metonymy, the part illuminating or helping to explain the elusive whole. David Evans, Paul Oliver, or Bill Ferris examine one micro-regional blues form, one blues-text topos (though you get answers from them about the One Big Thing, too). The same applies to Jean Price–Mars on Haitian narrative folklore, Alfred Métraux, Maya Deren, and Zora Neale Hurston on vodun, Gordon Rohlehr on calypso (behind this a colossal storehouse of knowledge about Carnival costume, steelband, topical poetics, myth and folklore, the anthropology of human interaction, the aesthetics of verbal and musical expression). What all this amounts to at its best is ‘thick description’ – of people and peoples who bring with them the scraps and integuments of their culture. Accordingly, Nicholls early on offers a masterly summary of the manifold groups, both white (British, Dutch, Danish; voluntary, indentured, convict, indentured yet practically enslaved) and black (a near-endless list of nations, chiefly from the Upper Guinea coast, predominantly enslaved but, surprisingly, also voluntary in the early twentieth century), that peopled the Caribbean, before, during, and after the establishing of the plantation economies. The decks cleared regarding masquerade’s ancestry, Nicholls next tackles the aesthetics of masquerading. He steers clear of Bakhtin’s notion of the carnivalesque in the sense of the subversive world-turned-upside down, mainly because of its association (largely irrelevant to his purposes) with Old World Carnival, and uses instead the notion of ‘inversion’ – which for me is essentially the same procedure. Old World Lenten-type Carnival can’t be shaken off completely,

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though, as a number of what seem to be radically un-European costumings and maskings in the region under study nevertheless have ‘Christian’ traces clinging to them. And in stressing that the masquerade is “multivoiced” “whole theater combining other arts” (4), Nicholls is perforce adhering to a central Bakhtinian concept. I get the impression that the author is throughout endeavouring to be even-handed in his analyses, to ensure that no performative analogues escape his comparative net, but that the ‘animal’ is the central locus. This comes through in his lapidary and enlightening distinction (48– 50), when discussing ‘inversion’, between ‘dressing up’ (the sort of grand costuming as mythological, literary, historical, and political figures familiar to us from Trinidadian mas’ and the Zulu dancers of New Orleans Mardi Gras) and ‘dressing down’ in the ‘shaggy’ style (as bull, bear, donkey, or more bizarre and alien forms). Unless I’m mistaken, it is ‘dressing down’ towards the chthonic (but also, in the stilt-walking variant, upwards towards aspirational triumph and defiance) that is the ground-tenor of Nicholls’ discourse. There is a fascinating and detailed disquisition on costumes and masks, these displaying a variety that is hard to keep under descriptive control – e.g., masking for shock and surprise, for anonymity, for gender-bending, whitening to mock buckra (but also as a trace of the West African symbolism of spirits or purification), wire-mesh masks and animal skulls, but not the fixed, stable animal masks of West Africa (too challenging for plantation masters’ taste). Equally thick descriptively is the treatment of musical instruments, including drum, percussion, fife, and simple string families, whereby, in the perambulatory masquerade tradition of the Eastern Caribbean, such instruments had to be highly portable, unlike, say, the ritual drums of West Africa or the Bamboula of Congo Square. Although they are essential elements, rhythm, songs, and dances receive comparatively little coverage, perhaps because they are not strong differentiae and are shared by so many other Afro-New World performative phenomena. Chapter 3 treats social aspects of masquerading – ostensibly in the anglophone Eastern Caribbean, but a considerable amount of space is devoted to traditions historically operative in the French Caribbean and Jamaica. Subtopics here include masquerade formations (from individual to large group), the determination of formations (rivalry between neighbourhoods; lineage or gender determinants), and their organization and supervision; the seasonality of masquerades (Christmas, New Year, Three King’s Day, Easter, Whitsun, Crop Over, May Day); and the ‘logistics’ of masquerading (Nicholls’ term for

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class and status factors involved). Mammon and God get a look-in as well: how are masquerades, with their music and dance associations, financed (allowances, earnings, gift-giving, seasonal rewards, and, latterly, sponsorship)? The chapter ends with a longish, speculative section on spirituality, the upshot of which (filtered largely through Kenneth Bilby and Kamau Brathwaite) is that the African religious functions of masquerading became concealed (but not banished) in the New World under a self-protective patina of secularism. The second half of the book can only be reviewed schematically here. The jumping back and forth among many masquerade traditions that characterized the first half is replaced by clear, resolute taxonomies, beginning in the Eastern Caribbean proper and then moving on (backwards, as it were) to the various traditions found in Africa, thence to European traditions, and closing with a comparative summary. In the Eastern Caribbean section, the first type discussed is the titular Mocko Jumbie. Although the preceding text is saturated with the presence of zoomorphic ‘shaggy’ masquerades, Nicholls’ description of the Mocko Jumbie here indicates that the costuming (fabric-based) and masking are largely ‘human’ (and often female, as in Carnival traditions), though there have been recent signs of re-africanization such as the use of raffia and kente cloth. There follow the ‘bush masquerade’ or raffia bear, a creolized blend of African and (mainly) European traditions; the bull, with highly conjectural provenience (sometimes the John Canoe outside the Eastern Caribbean, normally characterized by the ‘house’ form – a miniature dwelling or ship worn on the head – was instead horned; the bull was ritually present in West Africa and in Europe, and even the English ‘John Bull’ adds its mite to further complexify the issue); and donkey and horse masquerades. The Sensay and Pitchy Patchy masquerades (like the Pierrot Grenade of Trinidad Carnival) are cartwheeling figures festooned with coloured ribbons and sometimes raffia, and there are conjectural connections with British mummers and the engungun masquerades of Nigeria, as well as a reverse borrowing of the British tradition by the Mandinka of Senegambia. There are several discrete traditions of masquerade in Montserrat, St. Kitts–Nevis, and Antigua, including apotropaic whip-cracking, queens, (Scottish) Highlanders, feathered Indians, and clowns (usually masked, sometimes horned). Cross-dressing is frequent, as are exclusively female pageants (particularly the Mother Hubbard routines), and there are labour-reflective traditions such as the Cane Cutter masquerade of the Virgin Islands. The chapter ends with a survey of British traditions among Caribbean people of African descent, including tea meetings, the allegorical Giant Despair staging in Nevis, borrowed from John Bun-

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yan, the biblical David and Goliath, and the ‘mummies’ of St. Kitts–Nevis derived from the British mummers’ hero-combat plays. The chapter on African masquerades is extremely valuable and an expert distillation of extensive research by both Africanists and scholars such as Judith Bettelheim who, committed Caribbeanists, have like Nicholls gone on the hunt for African precursors of New World forms. A survey of regional masquerade types is followed by instructive exploration of generic performances such as horse masquerades and stilt-walking (one implication of the latter analysis being that Mocko Jumbie performers in the Eastern Caribbean stand higher by a multiple than their West African forebears). Two purposes of African masquerades to which Nicholls devote attention are those of social initiation and religious celebration, ritual aspects that have, as a consequence of slave-trade fragmentation of nation communities, largely fallen away in the Caribbean. Equally valuable, and for the hitherto unconversant reader enlightening and full of wondrous information, is Nicholls’ wide-ranging chapter on masquerade prototypes in Western Europe (with a coda on European mumming survivals in North Carolina, Virginia, and Newfoundland). Covered here are such more expectable phenomena as mumming and such profoundly atavistic ‘defamiliarizing’ and zoomorphic types as bush masquerades (using straw, raffia, and leaves), horned masquerades (bull, ox, stag, goat), and horse masquerades (various kinds of hobbyhorse). Functions of social regulation are discussed, particularly with regard to children’s behaviour, as are functions of spirituality (harvest customs, straw effigies, fertility symbolism, divination, good-luck bestowal). A chapter on “Old World–New World Comparisons” serves to tidy up all of this preceding material and to resolve some of the questions that might have been raised in the reader’s mind. In opening his book with a fairly topsyturvy mélange of New World traditions and then setting out African and European performance types with only brief intermittent interconnections being offered, Nicholls may well have adopted a cunning approach designed to keep the reader alert and on his or her toes, joining in the hunt in D I Y fashion. But now the author emerges, as it were, to offer confirmation or disabusement of any assumptions the reader may have been entertaining. Nicholls begins by considering spiritual factors – given the fact that Eastern Caribbean performance types have hitherto been treated under the mantle of secularization, this may come as a surprise, but actually shouldn’t, as there are manifold folk-encodings of spirituality in these masquerades, at least histori-

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cally, if not in today’s desuetude. Phenomena include the propitiation of jumbee spirits, the intercalation of masquerade with annual-cycle rituals, and anonymization via costuming to impersonate spirits. These all have ‘Old World’ counterparts, and the same applies to the secular realm, whether this involve face-blackening, processional ‘quêtes’ and perambulations to link up with villagers and to exact remuneration (echoes of Halloween and First Footing), whipping, straw scapegoats, the zoomorphic attachment of cow’s tails, guardian sweepers (to clear the way or dispel bad spirits), and the licence of misrule. Social regulation through grotesquerie and ritualized threat (including representations of Death, ghosts, or the Devil) or public ridicule via caricature (as in the Saturnalia of plantation times) also played its role in all of the regions covered. Some minor criticisms must, unfortunately, be expressed, chiefly pertaining to copy-editing and to text-coherence. John Nunley’s “old friend, Raoul Patin” (“Foreword,” xiv) is surely Raoul Pantin. The supposition of “duel provenance” (12) would ring truer if spelt less pugnaciously. Because the practices and nomenclature are so dizzyingly varied, sometimes affinities are mentioned that are intriguing but – without further on-the-spot exploration – perhaps factitious in the eyes of the reader (e.g., the English-derived semantics of ‘Mocko /mock’ and the Spanish mocou ‘spirit/ghost’, 13–14, or the connection between the Mocko Jumbie and West African ‘Mumbo Jumbo’, 15). The inside-out clothing as protection against spirits (13) is not linked up with ‘inversion’ generally, as discussed elsewhere. In the account of mirrors as adornment (15), the fact that these were European trading imports to slavecoast Africa is not noted. The otherwise unspecified ‘Shaggy Bear’ (9) pursues children at Christmas; later (11), Barbados is said to have “a Shaggy Bear (bush masquerade),” then, in a separate discussion of “abstraction” on the same page (11), “a bush masquerade such as the Shaggy Bear resembles nothing less than a mobile haystack.” On p. 9, Dominica has “a raffia bear.” Further, “expediency” accounts for the African, European, and Caribbean use of materials such as raffia and straw (17) in masquerades, and these are “Straw Bears” (Europe) or the “Caribbean Shaggy Bear” and, in St. Thomas, “Koka the Bear.” One would think that there might be a more streamlined, less amnesiac way of presenting such features. Nicholls uses the term “therianthrope” (16) once, but the discourse is otherwise short on any socio-anthropological or structuralist terminology – e.g., theriomorphism, zoomorphism, apotropaism – that might have served to help get an ordering, taxonomic handle on the congeries of phenomena mentioned.

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In Chapter 1’s run-up phase, the pronounced absence of any clear lines of comparison and contrast may well be (as suggested above) by auctorial design – Nicholls holding up glinting fragments of traditions from widely distant places and times in a glass retort of liquid prose and shaking it all up repeatedly so that the scintillae glance off each other kaleidoscopically. The swirl of juggling liquid evinces broken, shifting conceptual currents – evolutionary parallelism, expediency, and diffusion in costuming; the performative nature of the playing ground – with abrupt non-transitions from Caribbean to West African to Northern European phenomena, and with somewhat irritating non-standard orthography (most notably the capitalizing of “Creolization”), and solipsistic, unclarified mention of otherwise crucial terms (e.g., “myal,” 21, not explained until pp. 100ff.) and wodges of important and interesting material that is introduced in a vague frame (e.g., “Jonkonnu,” 19–20), then treated later (“John Canoe,” 41ff.) as though for the first time. After this carping and nitpicking, what is left to say? Nicholls’ book is still a marvellous cornucopia, a true illustration of the rewards of Geertzian ‘thick description’, of staking out a limited but coherent cultural territory (the Eastern Caribbean) in order to reveal patiently and systematically the manifold heritages and family resemblances, in today’s time and in history, that lie behind that territory, the Caribbean more broadly, at least other parts of the Americas more broadly still, and the reaches, past and present, of West Africa and Western Europe. The reader will still have to put in his or her own legwork to be alert to, and to sort out, precisely which phenomena are alive today and which are evidence from the deeper past, but this engagement will be well worthwhile.

Destructive Deluge Niyi Osundare, City Without People: The Katrina Poems (Boston M A : Black Widow Press, 2011), 137 pages. I S B N 978-0-9837079-1-2.

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that Osundare presents in City Without People begins to expand from the book’s cover, designed by Kerrie Kemperman. From here the reader is ushered into those simplex–complex manoeuverings that have come to delineate Osundare’s ‘songs of the marketplace’. With the word “City” forlornly floating in the upper part of the cover, “Without” (right in the middle of) dark, soft, and sober New Orleans and the HE UNIVERSE OF MEANINGS

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“People” appearing below – seemingly submerged in the yawning mouth of the hungry waters – there is an overall image of destructive deluge that is invoked in the broken calligraphy of these title keywords. The reader is struck by these graphic meanings before anything else. Divided into five sections, the volume progresses sequentially as a poetic narrative of the different phases of Hurricane Katrina in which the poet and his wife almost lost their lives. Titled “Water, Water!. . . ,” the first section boldly stresses the book’s thematic filiations with Coleridge’s “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” which has a similar line. Importantly, this section chronicles how the disaster started but also remarkably foreshadows the stylistic strategies and the nature of accessible, prose-like language that Osundare favours throughout this book. The three lines from the second stanza of the first poem, “The Lake Came to My House,” lend credence to this: Then, the pit pat pit pat bing bang bing Of the hooves of the trampling rain My shuddering roof, my wounded house. (13)

These three lines present the reader with, respectively, onomatopoeia, anthropomorphism, and pathetic fallacy, all carried over into the second section of the book – “After the Flood.” This section dwells on the post-Katrina scars and how these amplify the political dimensions of the tragedy. The main statement that Osundare makes in this section is that New Orleans is a forgotten city on the map of American government attention. In “This Time Last Year,” particularly, this subject-matter seems to reach a climax: All because the levees broke At the faintest hint of Katrina’s stroke The footless wall that government built Collapsed apace with the foulest guilt They sent men and women to the farthest moon For elusive gift and fairy boon All over the globe their troops are found But here at home our woes abound. (33)

What is implied in the above is complex and multilayered. For instance, while, with the use of the deictic “they,”, Osundare sets up a picture of the wide gap that exists between the American government and New Orleanians, he uses “home,” by contrast, to demonstrate his final acceptance of exile as another home.

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Neither of these themes is carried over into the third section, “The Language of Pain,” which has a slightly different focus. Unlike the second section, which narrates the communal, the third – unfortunately the least convincing part of this book – deals more with the poet’s personal pains after the hurricane. Many of the eleven poems feel superfluous because thematically static. “The Weeping Book,” “Mares of Night,” “Losses (1),” “Losses (2),” “With the Nib of a Borrowed Pen,” “Lesson,” “Katrina Taught Me,” “Solace,” and “Katrina Snapshots” do little more than convey the poet’s lament at his lost books. One can see the logic of this overall narrowing of focus from the broadly communal to the personal, but weeding out some of this rather obsessive repetition would have greatly improved this book. The fourth section, “Katrina Will Not Have the Last Word,” however, brilliantly overcomes this challenge. One thing that may interest the reader here is the poet’s engagement with Yorùbá oral poetry that seems to have been missing in previous parts. The reason for this engagement may not be far-fetched; in this section are ‘thank you songs’ which the poet uses both to reminisce about and appreciate the people who came to his rescue during the disaster. The wealth of human compassion that is the focus of this part of the book is aptly summarized in the Yorùbá title of the poem “Enia Laso Mi” – glossed by the poet as “people are my clothes.” But the same reason that this section makes its creative mark is why it picks up some shortcomings. One of such is that all Yorùbá vowels in this section, and of course in the rest of this book, appear without tonal marks and dots where normally appropriate. Even a Yorùbá reader will be left at the mercy of the glossary for clues as to the meanings of some of the Yorùbá words and expressions used. The fifth section, “Afterword,” comes without the infelicities to be observed in other sections. There are only two poems here and they achieve their harmony by a wonderful use of alliteration. In a way, the sound of “footless floodwalls, the dirt and dust” in “This City Will not Die” is overtaken by the “juice, jive, and jolly jazz” in “New Orleans Is.” This deft deployment of alliteration is refreshing, in that it works well to heighten the intensity of hope expressed in this closing section. Beyond its occasional disappointments, then, City Without People is definitely a compelling volume of poetry. While it will be of interest to the wider audience of modern African poetry and contemporary Southern American poetry, literary scholars working on ecocritical and exilic studies will also find it particularly rewarding. — TOSIN GBOGI

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B OOKS R ECEIVED

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Lizelle Bisschoff & Stefanie Van de Peer, ed. Art and Trauma in Africa: Representations of Reconciliation in Music, Visual Arts, Literature and Film, foreword by Jacqueline Maingard (London & New York: I.B. Tauris, 2013), xxxiv & 325 pages. I S B N 978-1-84885-692-9 (hb). (Lizelle Bisschoff & Stefanie Van de Peer, “Introduction: Representing the Unrepresentable”; Albert O. Oikelome, “Hip Hop Lyrics as Tool for Conflict Resolution in the Niger Delta”; Stefanie Alisch & Nadine Siegert, “Grooving on Broken: Dancing War Trauma in Angolan Kuduro”; Moulay Driss El Maarouf, “Local Arts versus Global Terrorism: The Manifestations of Trauma and Modes of Reconciliation in Moroccan Music Festivals”; Amy Schwartzott, “ Transforming Arms into Ploughshares: Weapons that Destroy and Heal in Mozambican Urban Art”; Sarah Longair, “Unlocking the Doors of Number Four Prison: Curating the Violent Past in Contemporary South Africa”; Frank Möller & Rafiki Ubaldo, “Imaging Life after Death: Photography and the 1994 Genocide in Rwanda”; Tobias Robert Klein, “‘It was a terrible time to be alive’: Narrative Reconciliation in Contemporary West African Fiction”; Robyn Leslie, “Truth Will Set You Free: Implications of a Creative Narrative for the ‘Official’ Discourse of the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission”; John Masterson, “Re-fathoming the Dark of Heartness: Contrapuntal Representations of the Rwandan Genocide”; Lizelle Bisschoff, “Reconciling the African Nation: Fanta Regina Nacro’s La Nuit de la Vérité”; Stefanie Van de Peer, “Closed Windows onto Morocco’s Past: Leila Kilani’s Our Forbidden Places”; Chérie Rivers, “Beyond ‘Victimology’: Generating Agency through Film in Eastern Democratic Republic of the Congo”; Cara Moyer–Duncan, “Truth, Reconciliation and Cinema: Reflections on South Africa’s Recent Past in Ubuntu’s Wounds and Homecoming.”)

Ellen Grünkemeier, Breaking the Silence: South African Representations of H I V / A I D S (Woodbridge & Rochester N Y : James Currey, 2013), viii & 243 pages. I S B N 978-1-84701-070-4 (hb) (Introduction – Mapping the Terrain: The South African H I V / A I D S Epidemic – H I V / A I D S as a Taboo Topic: A Culture of Silence – Imagery (Symbols; Metaphors) – Myths (The Origins of H I V / A I D S ; Healing H I V / A I D S ) – Literary Genres (Life Writing; Teenage Fiction).)

Brenda Cooper, A New Generation of African Writers: Migration, Material Culture & Language (hb 2008; Woodbridge & Rochester N Y : James Currey,

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pb 2013), x & 182 pages. I S B N 978-1-84701-507-5 (hb); 978-1-84701-0766 (pb). (Introduction; Multiple Worlds, Material Culture & Language – Virtual Objects & Parallel Universes: Biyi Bandele’s The Street – Everyday Objects & Translation: Leila Aboulela’s The Translator & Coloured Lights – Possessions, Science & Power: Jamal Mahjoub’s The Carrier – Words, Things & Subjectivity: Moses Isegawa’s Abysinnian Chronicles – Breaking Gods & Petals of Purple: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Purple Hibiscus – An Abnormal Ordinary: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Half of a Yellow Sun – Conclusion: The Rifle is not a Penis.)

Grant Hamilton, ed. Reading Marechera (Woodbridge & Rochester N Y : James Currey, 2013), xi & 196 pages. I S B N 978-1-84701-062-9 (pb). (Grant Hamilton, “Introduction: Marechera & the Outside”; Tinashe Mushakavanhu, “A Brotherhood of Misfits: The Literary Anarchism of Dambudzo Marechera & Percy Bysshe Shelley”; Anias Mutekwa, “Blowing People’s Minds: Anarchist Thought in Dambudzo Marechera’s Mindblast”; Anna–Leena Toivanen, “Grotesque Intimacies: Embodiment & the Spirit of Violence in ‘House of Hunger’; Grant Hamilton, “Tracing the Stain in Marechera’s ‘House of Hunger’ ” ; Bill Ashcroft, “Menippean Marechera”; David Huddart, “Black, But Not Fanon: Reading The Black Insider”; Mark P. Williams, “The Avant-Garde Power of Black Sunlight: Radical Recontextualizations of Marechera from Darious James to China Miéville”; Madhlozi Moyo, “Classical Allusion in Marechera’s Prose Works”; Memory Chirere, “Revisiting ‘The Servants’ Ball’ ” ; Eddie Tay, “Marechera, the Tree-Poem-Artifact.”)

Matthias Krings & Onookome Okome, ed. Global Nollywood: The Transnational Dimensions of an African Video Film Industry (Bloomington & Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2013), x & 371 pages. I S B N 978 0 255 00923 4 (hb); 978-0-253-00935-7 (pb); 978-0-253-00942-5 (e-book). (Matthias Krings and Onookome Okome, Nollywood and Its Diaspora: An Introduction”; Alessandro Jedlowski, “From Nollywood to Nollyworld: Processes of Transnationalization in the Nigerian Video Film Industry”; Jyoti Mistry and Jordache A. Ellapen, “Nollywood’s Transportability: The Politics and Economics of Video Films as Cultural Products”; Jonathan Haynes, “The Nollywood Diaspora: A Nigerian Video Genre”; Sophie Samyn, “Nollywood Made in Europe”; Claudia Hoffmann, “Made in America: Urban Immigrant Spaces in Transnational Nollywood Films”; Onookome Okome, “Reversing the Filmic Gaze: Comedy and the Critique of the Postcolony in Osuofia in London”; Paul Ugor, “Nollywood and Postcolonial Predicaments: Transnationalism, Gender, and the Commoditization of Desire in Glamour Girls”; Heike Becker, “Nollywood in Urban Southern Africa: Nigerian Video Films and Their Audiences in Cape Town and Windhoek”; Katrien Pype, “Religion, Migration, and Media Aesthetics: Notes on the Circulation and

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Reception of Nigerian Films in Kinshasa”; Jane Bryce, “ ‘ African Movies’ in Barbados: Proximate Experiences of Fear and Desire”; Giovanna Santanera, “Consuming Nollywood in Turin, Italy”; Babson Ajibade, “Nigerian Videos and Their Imagined Western Audiences: The Limits of Nollywood’s Transnationality”; Abdalla Uba Adamu, “Transgressing Boundaries: Reinterpretation of Nollywood Films in Muslim Northern Nigeria”; Matthias Krings, “Karishika with Kiswahili Flavor: A Nollywood Film Retold by a Tanzanian Video Narrator”; Claudia Böhme, “Bloody Bricolages: Traces of Nollywood in Tanzanian Video Films.”)

Kenneth W. Harrow, Trash: African Cinema From Below (Bloomington & Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2013), xiv & 327 pages. I S B N 9780-253-00744-5 (hb); 978-0-253-00751-3 (pb); 978-0-253-00757-5 (ebook). (Introduction: Bataille, Stam, and Locations of Trash – Rancière: Aesthetics, Its Mésententes and Discontents – The Out-of-Place Scene of Trash – Globalization’s Dumping Ground: The Case of Trafigura – Agency and the Mosquito: Mitchell and Chakrabarty – Trashy Women: Karmen Gei, l’Oiseau Rebelle – Trashy Women, Fallen Men: Fanta Nacro’s ‘Puk Nini’ and La Nuit de la vérité – Abderrahmane Sissako’s Bamako and the Image: Trash in Its Materiality – The Counter-Archive for a New Postcolonial Order: O Heroi and Daratt – Nollywood and Its Masks. Fela, Osuofia in London, and Butler’s Assujetissement – Trash’s Last Leaves: Nollywood, Nollywood, Nollywood.)

Fritz H. Pointer, African Oral Epic Poetry: Praising the Deeds of a Mythic Hero, with a translation of The Epic of Kambili (as recited by Seydou Camara, the griot), Translated from Mande into English by Charles S. Bird, with Mamadou Koita and Bourama Soumaoro, foreword by Daniel Kunene (Lewiston N Y , Queenstown, Ontario & Lampeter, Wales, 2013), xii & 304 pages. I S B N -13: 978-0-7734-4087-6 (hb); I S B N -10: 0-7734-4087-9 (pb). Reuben Makayiko Chirambo & J.K.S. Makokha, ed. Reading Contemporary African Literature: Critical Perspectives, foreword by Moradewun Adejunmobi (Internationale Forschungen zur allgemeinen und vergleichenden Literaturwissenschaft I F A V L 163; Amsterdam & New York: Rodopi, 2013), 443 pages. I S B N 978-90-420-3675-8 (hb); 978-94-012-0937-3 (e-book). (Stella Borg Barthet, “‘English Does Not Kill’: Writing Lives in the Language of the ‘Other’ ” ; Sarala Krishnamurthy, “A Stylistic Analysis of the Story Element in Ngugi’s A Grain of Wheat”; Tewodros Gebre, “Mahilet: A Laboratory of Stylistic Experimentation”; Cheela Chilala, “Through the Male Eyes: Gendered Styles in Contemporary Zambian Fiction”; Nick Mdika Tembo, “Politics and Stylistics of Female (Re)Presentation in James Ng’ombe’s Sugarcane with Salt”; Marita Wenzel: Telling Lives: Myth, Metaphor and Metafiction in Zakes Mda’s Cion”; J.K.S. Makokha, “Politics and Poetics of Characterization in M.G. Vassanji’s The Book of

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Secrets”; Stephanie Cox, “The Invisible Twin: Visibility and Identity in Marie– Thérèse Humbert’s À l’autre bout de moi”; Kofi Owusu, “Thematic Design and Stylistic Patterns in Cameron Duodu’s The Gab Boys”; Abiodun Adeniji, “ ‘ We Can Redream this World and Make the Dream Real’: The Utopian Quest in Ben Okri’s Primary Myths”; Maurice Taonezvi Vambe, “Orality and the Emergence of Disrupted Narrative Voices in Charles Samupindi’s Pawns”; Flora Veit–Wild, “ ‘ Zimbolicious’: Shona-English Stylistics in Lyrics and Literature”; Reuben Makayiko Chirambo, “Repression and Beyond: Ideological Commitment and Style in Jack Mapanje’s and Steve Chimombo’s Poetry”; Leonard Acquah, “Oguaa Aban and Cape Coast Castle: Same Edifice, Different Metaphors in the Poetry of Gaddiel Acquaah and Kwadwo Opuku-Agyemang”; Gloria M.T. Emezue, “Self and Nature: The Cean Dialogues”; Sonja Altnöder, “Transitions in South African Urban Poetry: The City of Johannesburg in Three Poems of the Apartheid Period”; Chris Wasike, “Verbal Fluidities and Masculine Anxieties of the Glocal Urban Imaginary in Kenyan Genge Rap”; Kizitus Mpoche, “Language Use and Identity Negotiation in Cameroonian Drama”; Marisa Keuris, “Afrikaans and Afrikaner Nationalism in Deon Opperman’s Donkerland”; Richard Boon, “ ‘ Neither Peace Nor War’: The Role of Theatre in Re-Imagining the New Eritrea.”)

J.K.S. Makokha, Ogone John Obiero & Russell West–Pavlov, ed. Style in African Literature: Essays on Literary Stylistics and Narrative Styles, foreword by Chin Ce (Internationale Forschungen zur allgemeinen und vergleichenden Literaturwissenschaft I F A V L 154; Amsterdam & New York: Rodopi, 2012), 444 pages. I S B N 978-90-420-3476-1 (hb); 978-94-0120755-3 (e-book). (Russell West–Pavlov & J.K.S. Makokha, “Introduction: Linguistic (Re)turn and Craft in Contemporary African Literature”; Daria Tunca, “Towards a Stylistic Model for Analysing Anglophone African Literatures: Preliminary Epistemological Considerations and a Case Study”; Adesola Olateju, “Current Issues and Trends in African Verbal Stylistics: The Yoruba Example”; K.M. Mathews, “Nnu Ego on the Verge of Feminist Consciousness: Feminist Stylistics and Buchi Emecheta’s The Joys of Motherhood”; Martina Kopf, “Narratives of a Wounded Time: Yvonne Vera’s Poetics of Trauma”; Russell West–Pavlov, “Speaking the Unspeakable in Iweala and Kourourma: The Trauma of Child Soldiers, Literary Stylistics and Story Telling”; Adeyemi Adegoju, “Autobiographical Memory and Identity Construction in Tayo Olafioye’s Grandma’s Sun”; Shawkat M. Toorawa, “Carl de Souza’s La maison qui marchait vers le large and the Multicultural Mauritian City”; Adeyemi Daramola, “A Stylistic Study of Metaphors in Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart”; Iwu Ikwubuzo, “Stylistic Features of Igbo Riddles”; Mikhail Gromov, “On Stylistic Trends in Modern Swahili Poetry”; Michael Wainaina, “New Wine in Old Wineskins: Stylistic Provisions of Orature’s Call and Response for Contemporary Discourses in Gikuyu Popular Music”; James Odhiambo Ogone & Ogone John Obiero, “Activistic Understones in the Music of Women: A Psychoanalytic and

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Stylistic Reading of Agnes Mbuta Dhiang’s Othuwowa gi Chuo”; Agnes Anette Hoffmann, “Chronotopes of the (Post-)Colonial Condition in Otjiherero Praise Poetry”; Bright Molande, “Metapoesis and ‘the Art of Chameleons’ in Steve Chimombo’s Poetry”; Naomi Nkealah, “Female Sexuality under the Male Gaze: Reading Style and Ideology in Bole Butake’s The Rape of Michelle”; Chris Wasike, “Figurations of ‘troubled motherland’ and Feminization of the Ugandan Nation in John Ruganda’s Plays”; Victor Yankah, “Language and Meaning in Efo Mawugbe’s In the Chest of a Woman”; Ibrahim Esan Olaosun, “Incantation as Discourse: A Discourse-Stylistic Study of the Confrontational Scene in Ola Rotimi’s The Gods are Not to Blame.”)

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Performing Wisdom D O M I N I C A D I P I O is an associate professor of literature and film at Makerere University and coordinator of the folklore project in the South. In 2012– 13 she was a Fulbright fellow in the U S A , researching theoretical issues in African folktales. Her research embraces the African novel and film, folktales, gender, and the media, and she has published widely in these areas, with a book forthcoming titled “Gender Terrains in African Cinema.” Among the films she has directed are Abused Ignorance: The Plight of the African Child, Crafting the Bamasaba, A Meal to Forget, and The Green Dream. L E N E M. J O H A N N E S S E N is Professor in American Literature and Culture in the Department of Foreign Languages, University of Bergen. Her teaching and research focus on topics in American studies, Chicano studies, postcolonial studies, revolving around a general interest in aesthetic manifestations and negotiations of the in-between and the ‘en-route’. Johannessen has published several articles and books in these areas, among them Threshold Time: Passage of Crisis in Chicano Literature (2008) and Horizons of Enchantment: Essays in the American Imaginary (2011). D A N S O N S Y L V E S T E R K A H Y A N A teaches East African literature and poetry in the Department of Literature, Makerere University. He is currently completing his doctoral studies at Stellenbosch University, South Africa. W O T S U N A K H A M A L W A is an associate professor and senior researcher in Social Anthropology and Religion at Makerere University. He holds an M A / S T L from C U E A and a B.Phil from Urbaniana University, Rome. Current research interests include the interface between anthropology and religion, traditional healing methods, and H I V / A I D S , and music and dance as therapy. S U S A N N A L U G W A K I G U L I is a poet and Senior Lecturer in the Department of Literature at Makerere University. She holds the degrees of M A (Make”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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rere), M.Litt. in literary linguistics (Strathclyde), and PhD (Leeds). Her research interests fall mainly in the area of oral poetry, popular song, and performance theory. A B A S I K I Y I M B A is an Associate Professor in the Department of Literature and Deputy Dean of the Faculty of Arts at Makerere University. He holds a B A in literature and language from Makerere University, an M.Litt in literary linguistics from the University of Strathclyde, and a PhD in literature from the University of Dar es Salaam. His current research interests are in the areas of African oral literature, children’s literature, and gender in literature, and he has published in these areas. C I N D Y E . M A G A R A is a filmmaker and Lecturer in film studies and literature in English in the School of Languages, Literature and Communication, Makerere University. A A R O N M U S H E N G Y E Z I is currently Head of the Department of Journalism and Communications at Makerere University. He holds an M A from Makerere University and a PhD from the University of Connecticut. His current research focuses on Ugandan oral literature for children. His most recent publication is Oral Literature for Children: Rethinking Orality, Literacy, Performance, and Documentation Practices (2013). E D G A R N A B U T A N Y I is an Assistant Lecturer in the Department of Literature, Makerere University, Kampala. His research and teaching interests are in folklore, literary theory, communication, and children’s literature. He is currently a PhD student in the Department of English, Stellenbosch University, South Africa, with the doctoral research project “Representations of Troubled Childhoods in Post-1990 African Fiction in English.” S A I D A H N A M A Y A N J A is a teacher by profession and doctoral student of literature. Her research interest is in performance and folktales of the Baganda, especially with regard to the relationship between the performer and the audience. S T U A R T S I L L A R S is Professor of English Literature, University of Bergen, and works largely in the area of literature and the visual arts. He is the project coordinator in Bergen. I S A A C T I B A S I I M A is a teacher by profession and a doctoral student of literature. His research interest is in the oral praise poetry of the Batoro, referred to as ‘Ebihaiso’ (‘to praise’). He is interested in understanding what different forms of power exist among the Batoro, their perception of heroism, and how

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praise poetry acts as a means of constructing the reality of the Toro kingdom and Toro community. L I L L I A N B U K A A Y I T I B A S I I M A is currently a teaching assistant in the Department of Literature and finalizing her M A research in text and performance in Soga oral tales under the supervision of Dr Ernest Okello-Ogwang. Her current research interests mainly fall in the area of oral tales and performance. G U L E R E W A M B I holds an M A in Literature from Makerere University and a Master’s in management of development from the University of Turin. He has worked as a part-time lecturer in the Department of Literature at Makerere University, where he is also a doctoral student. His current research interest is in riddles and riddle discourse in Busoga.

Marketplace R O T I M I A G B A N A holds a B A (Hons.) in English from the Department of

English and Literary Studies, Kogi State University, Anyigba, Nigeria. He is presently undergoing his one-year mandatory National Youth Service. S O P H I A I . A K H U E M O K H A N teaches in the Department of English and Lite-

rature, Faculty of Arts, University of Benin, Benin City, Nigeria. A Y O D E L E B A M I D E L E is a senior lecturer and current Head, Department of

English and Literary Studies, Kogi State University, Anyigba, Nigeria. He is the author of The African Novel in the Context of Combat Poetics: Selected Works of Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Sembène Ousmane and Festus Iyayi (2011) and Society, Destiny and Man: Chinua Achebe and Thomas Hardy in Perspective (2011). His research interests are in the areas of the African novel, literary theory and criticism, and African oral literature. I G N A T I U S C H U K W U M A H is a senior lecturer in the English and Literary

Studies Department, Federal University, Wukari, Taraba State, Nigeria with research interests centering on Northrop Frye’s and Paul Ricœur’s theories and African and African American literatures. He has published in African Literature Today, the Indian Review of World Literature in English, the Romanian Journal of English Studies, and many other journals. T O S I N G B O G I is a doctoral student in Linguistics at Tulane University, New

Orleans.

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O M O L O L A L A D E L E holds a PhD degree in African literature. She is currently

a senior lecturer in the Department of English, Lagos State University, Nigeria. Her research interests over the last two decades have covered a wide range of issues on the identities and sexualities of African women within feminist, gender, and postcolonial theoretical matrices. Her particular focus is on the literature produced by African women both on the continent and in the diaspora. She is widely published in reputable local and international journals. B R I G H T M O L A N D E is a senior lecturer in literature and Dean of Humanities at

the University of Malawi. Formerly a Commonwealth Scholar holding an M A in postcolonial studies, Molande is also a former Head of the English Department at the University of Malawi. He earned his PhD from the University of Essex with a thesis titled “Postcolonial Tragic Vision in Steve Chimombo’s Writing.” Molande is also a published poet (Seasons), with a second collection, Tragic Songs and Other Poems, forthcoming. He teaches literary theory, African literature, and creative writing. R O B E R T N A T H A N is a Vanier Canada Graduate Scholar in African History at

Dalhousie University (Halifax, Nova Scotia). His work has recently appeared in the Journal of African Cultural Studies, the University of Toronto Quarterly, and the International Journal. U Z O E C H I N W A G B A R A has B A and M A degrees in English, and an MSc in

human resource management from the University of Wales (Greenwich School of Management), where he is currently lecturing and completing his doctoral studies in responsible business and corporate social responsibility (C S R ). He is an academic, Africanist, consultant, and author of three books, including Polluted Landscape (2002) and Leading Sustainability in Nigeria: Problems, Processes and Prospects (2013). Author of over seventy papers in reputable peer-reviewed international journals, he is on the editorial board of the Journal of Sustainable Development in Africa, Africana, and Lumina. His book Fire in Paradise is forthcoming (2014). H . O B Y O K O L O C H A teaches in the Department of English and Literature,

Faculty of Arts, University of Benin, Benin City, Nigeria. W U M I R A J I is an associate professor in the Department of Dramatic Arts,

Obafemi Awolowo University, Ilé-Ifè, Nigeria. He has been an Alexander von Humboldt research fellow at the University of Bayreuth and the Technical University of Dresden and a Visiting Professor at Johann Wolfgang von Goethe University, Frankfurt am Main, and has also served as a visiting re-

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search fellow at Växjä University, Sweden and at Cambridge University. He is the author of Long Dreams in Short Chapters: Essays in African Literary, Cultural and Political Criticisms (2009). N I C K T E M B O is a lecturer in oral literature and African literature in the

Department of English, Faculty of Humanities, Ajayi Crowther University, Ÿyº, Ÿyº State, Nigeria. His works focus on extricating and encouraging the hidden tendency of man to correct social ills through his intrinsic embedded goodness in pursuit of an egalitarian society where all will be free and independent. His research and teaching fields encompass African prose, poetry, and drama, creative writing, general oral literature, and African oral literature.

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E DITORIAL B OARD G ORDON C OLLIER , Im Wiesgarten 9, 35463 Fernwald, G ERMANY Email: [email protected] G EOFFREY V. D AVIS , Johanniterstraße 13, 52064 Aachen, G ERMANY Email: [email protected] C HRISTINE M ATZKE , Englische Literaturwissenschaft, Nürnbergerstr. 38, Haus 4, Universität Bayreuth, 95440 Bayreuth, G ERMANY Email: [email protected] A DEREMI R AJI –O YELADE [pen-name R EMI R AJI ], Department of English, Faculty of Arts, University of Ìbàdàn, Ìbàdàn 200284, N IGERIA Email: [email protected] F RANK S CHULZE –E NGLER , de Ridder Weg 2, 65929 Frankfurt, G ERMANY Email: [email protected] W ANJIKU WA N GUGI , Helsinki, F INLAND Email: [email protected] ] 1. S UBMISSIONS . All prospective contributions (articles, creative writing, reports, reviews) and proposals for edited critical collections, as digital files, should be sent as EMAIL ATTACHMENTS to A L L of the above-named members of the Editorial Board. Preference is for Word for Windows; IMPORTANT – remove all automatic formatting). 2. B ASIC GUIDELINES FOR INITIAL SUBMISSIONS . Use underlining, NOT italics. Include a list of Works Cited. With essays in periodicals and books, include full page-span; with periodicals, include volume and issue number; with translations, include name of translator, the title in the original language, and the date of publication of the original. Use any previous Matatu issue as a ”Performing Wisdom: Proverbial Lore in Modern Ugandan Society, ed. Dominica Dipio & Stuart Sillars (Matatu 42; Amsterdam & New York N Y : Rodopi, 2013).

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model for Works Cited, following all of the in-house conventions indicated there. Do NOT use in-text short references. All texts cited or quoted from must be footnoted – include all relevant data (full first and last name of author or editor, title and subtitle, place of publication and publisher; date of first publication and date of edition used). 3. P LEASE N OTE : If the above instructions for basic presentation in 1 and 2 are not followed in essays submitted, the Technical Editor reserves the right either (a) to reject submissions upon receipt or (b) to refuse to accept submissions for consideration until they conform. 4. A BSTRACT AND B IOSKETCH . An abstract of the essay (70–200 words) must be included, along with a brief biosketch for inclusion in the Notes on Contributors (see examples above). 5. S TYLESHEET . Should manuscripts, after being accepted for publication, need to be re-submitted on grounds of presentation or layout, the Editors will send contributors a detailed stylesheet. 6. B OOK R EVIEWS . Publishers should email Geoffrey V. Davis (see above) attaching details of books that they would like to have reviewed; names and full mailing addresses of appropriate reviewers will then be sent, so that the books can be forwarded. 7. C REATIVE WRITING . Poetry, fiction, and playscripts will, as in the past, be sought out by the Editors of Matatu and the Advisory Board, but African writers are, of course, encouraged to submit material for consideration on their own account. 8. T HEMES AND TOPICS . Essays on all aspects of African and Afro-Caribbean literature and culture are welcome, as well as reports and interviews on topics of pressing and current concern (many of which can find a place in the occasional “Marketplace” section of Matatu).