October 18, 2020


Professor Soyinka Writes a New Novel at 86

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By Kunle Ajibade

Wole Soyinka at 86 will publish a new novel titled ”Chronicles of the Happiest People on Earth” in November this year. News of the novel has been circulating secretively since Soyinka submitted the typescript to his publishers–BookCraft in Ibadan and Random House in New York– in June this year. Those who are close to the 1986 Nobel Laureate in Literature were expecting a new collection of poems which was in its final stage of editing, only for Soyinka to spring a big surprise with a novel of 524 pages in 23 chapters. Bankole Olayebi, who has been Soyinka’s publisher in Africa since 2016 is very excited about the novel. BookCraft has been rising gracefully to the challenge of publishing and distributing Soyinka’s distinctive books. Indeed, over the years, it has published more than 15 titles by Soyinka most of which are reader-friendly in their layout and packaging.

In his long and very productive career, Wole Soyinka has written many award-winning plays, highly lyrical poems, songs, political and cultural essays, five riveting memoirs, three full length satirical films, and only two high brow novels—”The Interpreters”(published in 1965 by Andre Deutch) and ”Season of Anomy”(published in 1973 by Rex Collings). ”Chronicles of the Happiest People on Earth” will be his third published novel.

According to Bankole Olayebi: ”Wole Soyinka proves with this novel that he has lost none of his story-telling chops! A narrative tour de force, this novel has got everything— friendship and betrayal; faith and treachery; hope and cynicism; murder; mayhem and no shortage of of drama, all set against the backdrop of contemporary Nigeria. As you would expect from a Soyinka’s work, it’s got plenty of colourful characters, profound insights, witty commentary, and the most elegant language! In Soyinka’s expert hands, the apparently disparate strands are woven together with a master story teller’s aplomb. ”Chronicles of the Happiest People on Earth” is a great and unputdownable read from start to finish.”

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Professor Wole Soyinka

Here are short excerpts from the novel:

Let this cup pass….

It had been a long siege, aided by many of whom the hostage himself had scant or no knowledge but, finally, yes indeed, it was sweet victory to be savoured by the long embattled spouse, Mrs Jaiyesola Badetona. This was the icing on the cake of victory that had already been celebrated in multiple events, all framed devotionally – even down to the sumptuous feasting and souvenirs, grateful offerings by a spouse for a most unexpected upturn in the career of her life partner. That hitherto intransigent spouse, scion of a royal house, had eventually succumbed to her entreaties – and not even grudgingly. On the appointed day, he would observe every schooled detail of his ransom, and with precision. He consented to visit the Apostle, Papa Davina for a spiritual consultation. Prince Badetona’s elevation, on his own estimation, had been no less than seismic. Thus he had not hesitated to slaughter the fatted cow – he did pride himself after all as a traditionalist, nothing to do with being a scion of a royal house – so, sacrifice was expected, and he was not averse to spreading the fat among friends, colleagues and well-wishers. In any case, he could not fail to have been infected by years of association with the Master Party Soul of his close circle – Duyole Pitan-Payne, engineer and acknowledged leader of their eccentric Gong of Four – but that blithe spirit was in a class all of his own. The prince even conceded a Thanksgiving service – it rid the home of a lingering tension between husband and wife. That feeling of domestic persecution however was product of a series of mishaps, strange happenings over and beyond the elastic limits of coincidence, and of such persistence that even he began to lose confidence and permit chinks in his cynic’s carapace.

To make matters worse, such untoward incidents had followed the good news almost like a structured cause-and-effect, commencing so close to his career elevation that he did begin to wonder if there was not indeed a maleficent linkage. Good luck attracting bad, either through some quirky law of Nature’s balance, call it karma, ying-yang or whatever, or simply – as promptly concluded by his wife and extended family – enemy action! Have you sought divine intercession? At the beginning, he lived up to his name – The Scoffer. He preferred to knuckle down to preparations for the assignment at hand and his new status in life.

Money he was prepared to spend for celebrations but balked at the idea of submitting himself to divine busybodies in his earthly failures, successes, both, or absence of any. After all, he had succeeded in keeping divinities at arms’ length throughout a humdrum career– in his view, more accurately described as – lack of spectacular recognition. He preferred it that way. It enabled him to indulge in his favourite hobby, which was simply – problem solving, especial of the statistical kind. He had been, and still remained a reticent mathematical genius. That had its compensations, its material perks. An internal auditor but – with unaudited earnings. He saw no reason to complain or jubilate. It was all – strictly business and, Badetona was genuinely possessed of a retiring temperament. Left to him, he would even have discarded his princely title but, that was now part of his existence, and it also had its advantages.

Jaiyesola however saw it differently. The position lacked public recognition. A prince without a throne – it would not be the turn of his royal line for another century. And then, despite the streak of genius that he had exhibited all the way from schooldays and into public service, in her own parlance – nothing to show for it. She looked at his close circle of associates, some of them members of the prestigious Motor Boat Club of Ikoyi, or the Lagos Island Indigenes Club, Freemasons and Rosicrucians, and felt that Badetona was short-changed in social entitlements. The title of Internal Auditor sounded in her ears like a life sentence in solitary confinement on a diet of garri and water. So she took her case to God, albeit without her husband’s knowledge. Who was to tell her that it was not a wife’s duty to boost her spouse to greater heights?

Then commenced a series of omens. Prayers answered, and in such generous helping, Badetona began to encounter a flurry of mishaps that moved, in her view, beyond mere coincidence. First, his customised computer crashed. That was unprecedented. Next, he stubbed his toe against a protruding table leg – the left toe! – it was one of those ultra- modernistic designs that catered more to sensation than sense. Was it a coincidence that she had terrible dreams that same night? It did not take too long afterwards before the newly appointed Chief Executive Director locked himself out of doors, having left his key wallet in the office. Jaiyeola had also traveled for her Christian pilgrimage, undertaken two weeks after her return from accompanying her Moslem friend to Saudi Arabia for the lesser Hajj – both were followers of the ministry of Papa Davina’s Ekumenika. His phone battery also chose that night to run down – ah yes, the long-distance call from Jaiye in Hebron, with a protracted argument on why she should not fill her suitcase with holy water from River Jordan where her spiritual journey had next directed her feet.

The Scoffer slept that night on the back seat of his SUV, locked in the garage. He had returned late from yet another party in his honour, and his mildly groggy condition – he was a moderate drinker – wasted no time in sending him off to sleep. Opening the garage door for some fresh air the following morning, he heard a scrabbling in the top jamb of the door. Before he could look up to investigate, a scaly creature dropped, landed on the balding middle patch of his head, its thin claws instantly trapped in the surrounding tufts of foliage. Bade’s first thought was – snake! Next, scorpion.

He leapt out under imminent heart failure, uncertain how to deal with what he could not see, collided with the housemaid who was just reporting for duty. She took to her heels screaming for help against the intruder before she realised who it was. The mystery squatter seized on the confusion to escape, thus finally identified for what it was – a lizard. The maid would later narrate ‘the scariest moment of my life’ to Mrs Badetona on her return from pilgrimage.

Confronted with her report, Bade roared with delight and added it to her list of portents. His last contribution, a mere week earlier, was the black cat he had found sitting on his car bonnet as he stepped out of the supermarket. He relished the rapidly changing registers on her face, especially when he went into details over the one-sided confrontation. The cat refused to budge even after he had started his car and begun to inch forward – my dear, that cat, I swear, kept staring at me through the windscreen as if to complain she had been looking forward to the ride. I had to stop and engage the security guard to help shove it off, so I could drive off.

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Wole Soyinka’s new novel

Were all these little more than an occult build-up towards the piece de resistance that was yet to come? That momentous day considerately awaited his wife’s return from pilgrimage, so that news reached her within minutes of the occurrence. In Badetona’s own words – this one shook me to my binary heels! While Jaiyeola rubbed her hands heavenwards on receiving the news, giving further thanks that she had indeed made that year’s pilgrimage a dual purpose voyage of devotion – Thanksgiving and Protection – the prince found himself compelled to admit that something appeared to have gone loose since his elevation. All the euphoria of advancement evaporated with the horror that unfolded at the bus stop along Ikorodu Road, just before the Maryland overpass. And he had been caught within that event only because he, recently moved from a humdrum desk to head a brand new glamorous parastatal, Chief Executive Director on the rare Level 17 etc. etc. – known nation-wide as the Super Permanent Secretary scale – had chosen to queue at that bus stop like any common worker, awaiting a ride to his housing estate. He could have phoned a taxi company or flagged down one of the ubiquitous keke napep, the Indian import tricycle taxi. He opted instead for the commuter.

Badetona, one of the most ‘live and let live’, self-adjusting humans one could hope to encounter in a field of reversals, felt tickled by the notion of himself, a prince and super-sec, doing a little slumming, mixing with local, yet distanced commuters whom he normally viewed through the tinted windows of his air-conditioned, albeit battered SUV. Never in his life could he have envisaged the consequence of that crackpot decision as he stood in line. For once, the hardened Scoffer was forced to revise his calculations on the law of probabilities.

Badetona followed a pragmatic mode of existence that left him very much attached to his ancient, creaky but still serviceable SUV. A mere two days after his wife’s return from Saudi – he lost that argument, her excess luggage bulged with outsize sachets of certified holy water from the River Jordan, plus other objects of veneration from the tourist arc of holy sites – his long-suffering vehicle broke down along Ikorodu Road just before the turn-off for Gbagada heading for Oworonsoki. It took the form of a multilayered, cracked china rattle that he had never heard before, as if a box of domestic discards was being sorted for a jumble sale.

He sighed, irritated that this should happen on a day when he happened to be at the wheel himself, having granted his driver a three day leave of absence to travel out to a village for the prelude ceremonies to a betrothal. His driver was taking a brand new wife. Bade manhandled the car into the slip road – fortunately traffic was light. The loafing area boys emerged from nowhere, as usual, to lend a hand. His mind turned, by long habit, to predicting how his wife would read this new interruption in routine and he smiled at the cleverness of a response that was already under formulation – well now, you’ve just returned from Jerusalem with a full bag of good luck pouches, talismans and reliquaries. You received predictions and prescriptions from the Senegalese marabout who scalped you and and your Moslem friend in Saudi for nearly half your shopping budget. How come there was no prediction of the impending crack-up of my vehicle engine. Definitely first round to him! And he was prepared for her retort – why should it take a marabout to repeat what I’ve been shouting all these years? Abandon that junk heap and get something befitting your position!

That was the moment he would deliver his coup de grace. Before she could enjoy the vindicated smirk of a long enduring wife, he would slam his hand on his thigh and silence her with his welcome surprise: ‘Quite right dear – let’s go. I was only awaiting your return to help me choose our new car. Ready? Too bad the new status vehicle decided not to wait. Worse, what followed totally wiped out any carefully rehearsed banter, witty repartees and silly teases, all ingredients to a married life that did not lack for genuine bonding and affection.

Bade truthfully regarded himself a lucky husband. It did not take long for an itinerant mechanic to appear – this tribe seemed to know just when disaster struck – or perhaps they operated a roving network, an urbanised bush telegraph. As always, they beat the state’s tow truck to the involuntary traffic obstruction.

A quick inspection, and the expert confirmed what he had already sensed – the engine was ‘knocked’, the affliction terminal. The private enterprise locally constructed tow truck was already in place, even before the professional verdict was delivered. Bade emptied the car of his brief-case and other contents, surrendered the car keys, crossed the road to the sleek bus stop, one of a series of implants whose sprouting had begun visibly to lift the body tone and morale of daily commuters. He took his place at the end of the queue, silently relishing his brief, voluntary demotion in social status.

His sigh exuded relief that this was the last week in his old office. He was in a relaxed, all-accommodative frame of mind when an event played out right in front of him, one that knocked out all mental rehearsals for a domestic playful interlude from the compulsive operations of his statistical mind. As he settled into position at the tail-end of that long queue, a man came up with a flattish object under his armpit, muttered an ‘Excuse me’ but also simultaneously shoved him aside. He whipped off the brown paper wrapping, and out flashed a machete. Badetona heard him utter a violent curse in some unfamiliar language, he heard a swish, and with that single stroke, lopped off the man’s head. The head fell against the reinforced plastic rain-guard that curved half-way from the roof of the bus shelter. It bounced off the ground, while the trunk sprayed him, as it fell, in a red, thick, viscous fluid, just like an errant lawn sprinkler. Ignoring the pandemonium that ensued, the assailant fastidiously wiped the machete on the clothing of the prostrate trunk, calmly restored it to its improvised paper scabbard.

A car drew up, again as if on a signal, the rear door flew open. In what some transfixed witnesses experienced as a coordinated slow and accelerated motion all at the same time – the vehicle swallowed the killer and zoomed off weaving sleekly through the Ikorodu road traffic, heading east towards the town of that name. A few moments for the prince to absorb what he had just witnessed and then, without further thought, he shook off his paralysis like the other commuters, took irrationally to his heels, stopping only when he had rounded the first corner and felt safe from the immediate rampage of indiscriminate head cropping which, all involuntary witnesses felt certain, would logically follow.

Such a blatant flash of lunacy did not seem destined to be a one-off act. Even those who had no idea what had happened did not wait to be enlightened – the screams carried their own unambiguous message – run! They galvanised even the slow-witted into one concerted response – follow the trail of panic wherever it led, with a few variations to throw off the contaminating scent of blood.

Badetona launched his limbs full stretch, heading for nowhere, everywhere, simply as far as his reasonably athletic legs could take him – he was an irregular weekend jogger, and never was the state sponsored jog-for-your-life campaign, and in accelerated tempo, more patriotically vindicated. He stopped only at the entry of the new supermarket just after Charley Boy’s domain, stopped to look back for only the second time that morning. Still unsure of what he should do, he ran inside, vaulted the exit turnstile and disappeared into a room whose half open door was marked: STAFF ONLY. He inhaled, exhaled, and inhaled to some inner dictated rhythm.

Safely ensconced in the safety of his home that evening, the event shared in all blood-soaked detail through a still shaky voice, wife and neighbours in attendance, the conclusion was inevitable, based on the unanswerable question: Why you? Ask yourself, why you? Of all the millions of people in Lagos, why you? Why did you have to be the one standing behind that victim, a total stranger! Normally you would be with your driver – how come you happen to be driving yourself today of all days? Why did you decide to take a bus when you could afford a taxi? What brought you there, at that very moment of his decapitation – you think it simply happened to happen? It was plain reading. The untoward had become too frequent of recent. All voices counseled a visit to the healing ministries – any one would do – but the clamour was near uniformly for – Apostle Davina.

When Jaiyeola summoned the maid to recount to sympathising visitors – for the tenth time at least – the lizard episode, all alternative or oppositional theories crumbled, the sequential logic was unanswerable. The garage lizard! It had landed on his princely head. A head had been cut off in front of him. Whose head did he think was primed to follow? No, no, no, did he have to be so literal? No one was suggesting it was a sign that he would also lose his head but, definitely, someone was after his, Bade’s head, in some form or the other. That was the message. If he failed to see that, to understand the generous warnings of Providence, it was pride, false pride, and what do they say goeth before a fall? Pride.

And who was the proud one? Answer: the stiff-necked Scoffer. If there had been an invasion of clan and long forgotten family branches after his promotion, news of his ‘narrow escape’ unleashed even more powerful waves of prayer counter-attacks. The palace sent a delegation, headed by a babalawo. Long forgotten relations who had recently surfaced to share in the bounty of service elevation returned in force, and they came with a supplementary canticle: it happened because you failed to see the divine intervention in your life! Worse still, how do you know there isn’t an even more glorious future ahead, one that however requires you to do this or that to consolidate your present preferment? There are deadlines in these matters. You miss the deadline and everything is reversed – it’s downward from then on. Only a few among the blessed few can pierce through the mystic veil and reveal all this to you.

If Badetona’s nerves had been shattered by the event itself, instigating nightmares that terrified his wife, then moved to infect her to a degree that even she began to have them in her own right, the swarms of intercessors soon completed the rout. Could there possibly be something in what they preached? Reconsiderations of allied experiences that he once instinctively waved off as comic incidents, began to nibble at the edges of cause-and-effect, or worse – chain reaction. And there was something else that even the wife did not know – the chickens were coming home to roost. Behind the calm, reassuring façade, Badetona was a much troubled man. Vague hints of storms ahead had accumulated lately, and these were not psychic storms. His pragmatic mind continued to string the seemingly mismatched pieces together – it all seemed extravagant, but he had begun to consider a grim possibility: the beheading – the time, the place, his presence, the victim – that none of these was an accident.

It mattered little from whichever direction it came, the prince admitted, he needed help. The saying among his people came to mind: that the man is first to see the snake but the woman who kills it – who cares, as long as the snake is killed! So, who was this man anyway? What powers did he exert to hold so many in thrall? No disaster, no exceptional event, no routine happening but he had ‘predicted’ it in his end-of-year prophesy – an annual ritual that laid out all divinely premeditated events destined for fulfillment during the year ahead. Whatever was not fulfilled had some rational explanation – including fulfillment itself, but not quite in the literal way the uninitiated could understand. Outside pressure could be shut out, ignored. When complemented by the silent protest and muffled sighs of a spouse across the breakfast, lunch or dinner table, it became a burden. Each long-suffering sigh spoke daggers of rebuke – there were malignant, diabolical forces at work, it was evident time for spiritual delivery. I know you have nothing against psychiatrists – so, why don’t you look at it as that kind of therapy? Every day, millions of your peers wake up across the world, look at their calendar to see when next they are due for a turn on the couch – even when they feel absolutely on top of the world. So, take the plunge. Treat the visit as merely marking a watershed in your career – anything wrong with that?

It all fitted in neatly, a statistical punctuation mark on the wobbly spreadsheet. Finally, the beleaguered man decided that he needed badly to be delivered from delivery. If that was guaranteed by a call on the devil in his lordly lair, maybe it was time he donned the cloak of veneration. He threw up his hands in surrender – all right dear, I shall go. The man intrigues me. Read: #EndSARS: How a woman’s campaign led to sack of top gov’t official »‘Chronicles of the Happiest People on EarthProfessor Wole SoyinkaLEAVE A COMMENTRelated Post

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February 25, 2017

Bayo Adebowale,the accomplished African Novelist and Poet will on Saturday,4th March 2017 be honoured with the prestigeous Chieftaincy title of ONIGEGE ARA OF IGBO-ELERIN by the Igbo-Elerin Council of Baales. This is a well-deserved honour coming from the Literary Icon’s kith and kin….
What a feat!
Congratulations, author of The Virgin, Out Of His Mind,Lonely Days, A New Life, Talent, African Melody, Oriki,Village Harvest, and A Night of Incantations!

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November 11, 2013



about the prize

⁠council members⁠ ⁠trustees⁠ ⁠patrons⁠ ⁠supporters⁠ ⁠how to donate⁠













Unpublished work is not eligible for the Caine Prize.

Submissions should be made by publishers only.

Only one story per author will be considered in any one year.

Submissions should specify which African country the author comes from.

We require 6 copies of the work in its originally published version.

If the work is published in a book or journal, we would like to receive at least one copy of the book / journal and five photocopies; but particularly where several stories are submitted from one anthology we would like if possible to receive six copies of the book / journal itself.

If the work is published online, we would like to receive six photocopies.

Only fictional work is eligible.

Please note that works which do not conform to the criteria will not be considered for the prize. Please do not waste your own time and postage by sending in material which is unsuitable. Works not eligible for entry include stories for children, factual writing, plays, biography, works shorter than 3000 words and unpublished work. If you are not sure whether your work is eligible, please email us for advice.


Publishers should post six hard copies of the story for consideration to:

Lizzy Attree
The Caine Prize for African Writing
The Menier Gallery
Menier Chocolate Factory
51 Southwark Street
London SE1 1RU

Entries should be accompanied by a letter from the publisher conveying a short CV or brief biography of the writer, and specifying which African country the writer comes from.


The Prize is awarded to a short story by an African writer published in English, whether in Africa or elsewhere. Indicative length is between 3000 and 10,000 words.

“An African writer” is taken to mean someone who was born in Africa, or who is a national of an African country, or whose parents are African.

There is a cash prize of £10,000 for the winning author and a travel award for each of the short-listed candidates (up to five in all). The shortlisted candidates will also receive a Prize of £500.

For practical reasons, unpublished work and work in other languages is not eligible. Works translated into English from other languages are not excluded, provided they have been published in translation, and should such a work win, a proportion of the prize would be awarded to the translator.

The award is made in July each year, the deadline for submissions being 31 January. Works received after that date will be put forward to the next year’s prize. The short-list is selected from work originally published in the five years preceding the submissions deadline and not previously considered for a Caine Prize. The deadline for the next prize is 31 January 2014; works must have been published between 1 February 2009 and the closing date.

In general it is unwise to delay the submission of entries until shortly before the deadline: postal and delivery hiccups can easily result in material arriving too late. It is far better to submit material a few weeks in advance.

NB: There is no application form. Submissions should be made by publishers, in the form of six original published copies of the work for consideration. If published in a magazine or journal we will accept one original copy plus five photocopies, but would prefer six original copies. These should be sent to the address below.

We are happy to take submissions from internet magazines, but must insist that we receive six hard copies of these, as of other submissions. Also it is important that internet entries be carefully edited: past judges have not viewed favourably entries containing typos and other errors.

The judges will consider only one work per writer in any one year, and only short stories are eligible.

Every effort is made to publicise the work of the short-listed authors through the broadcast as well as the printed media.

Winning and short-listed authors will be invited to participate in writers’ workshops in Africa, London and elsewhere as resources permit.

The publisher agrees that by submitting an entry to the Caine Prize, that if the story is shortlisted, permission to reproduce the story in the annual Caine Prize anthology is given with the consent of the author.

For further information, please contact Lizzy Attree at The Caine Prize for African Writing and Jenny Casswell at Raitt Orr and Associates (details below).

For further information please contact:

Jenny Casswell
Raitt Orr & Associates Ltd
CAN Mezzanine
49-51 East Road
Old Street
London N1 6AH

Tel: 020 7250 8288
Mob: 07557 807532

Lizzy Attree
The Caine Prize for African Writing
The Menier Gallery
Menier Chocolate Factory
51 Southwark Street
London SE1 1RU

Tel: 020 7378 6234

Tweets by @CainePrize


July 25, 2012

Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Ngugi laments dying African indigenous languages
Ngugi laments dying African indigenous languages
July 24, 2012 by Segun Olugbile 6 Comments
Popular author, Prof. Ngugi Wa Thiong’o, has lamented the rate at which Africans are abandoning their indigenous languages for foreign languages, saying this trend is tantamount to self-enslavement.
Wa Thiong’o said this on Monday while speaking at the second edition of the Read Africa initiative of the United Bank for Africa Foundation to promote reading culture among pupils in Lagos.
According to him, most Africans are neglecting their indigenous languages in preference for foreign languages, noting that this trend was dangerous for the sustenance of Africans and their traditions.
He noted that Africans who have the mastery of other people’s languages at the expense of their own indigenous languages have subjected themselves to “second slavery.”
The Kenyan writer, who teaches at Yale University, added that those who were proficient in their indigenous languages and added mastery of other foreign languages had truly empowered themselves.
The writer of the popular Weep Not Child, warned Africans against killing their indigenous languages, noting that the consequences of this would be too much to bear.
“For me, enslavement is when you know all the languages of the world but you don’t know your own language. Empowerment is when you know your own language and you add other languages to it. We should promote our languages. We should encourage our children to speak our own language,” he said.
The author, who was accompanied to the formal inauguration of the second edition of the Read Africa by his 17-year-old son, Thiongo Ngugi, said he stopped writing in English Language about 10 years ago, to spearhead this campaign.
“I stopped writing in English Language 10 years ago because Africa is our base and we must not lose our base and our indigenous languages. Since then I have been writing in Nkiyu language and I later do translation myself or I look for somebody to do it for me,” he said.
Addressing the audience including pupils and top officials of UBA led by the Group Managing Director, Mr. Phillip Odoza, the writer called for the development of young African writers.
He, however, told the pupils that they should cultivate a robust reading culture if they hoped to become good writers.
“Reading is an integral part of imagination and without reading your imagination will shrink. It’s like food, when you don’t eat, your body will shrink and when you don’t feed your spirit with religious books, your moral value will shrink,” he said.
Wa Thiong’o, who said he wrote his first two books within his first two years in college, urged the students to start writing now.
“See yourself as a person first before you see yourself as a student and don’t think you are too small to write, start now,” he said.
Earlier, the Chief Executive Officer of the UBA Foundation, Miss Ijeoma Azo, had explained that the foundation would distribute Wa Thinog’o’s Weep Not Child freely to all secondary school pupils across Africa to promote reading.

Read 168 times

Tope July 24, 2012 at 3:53 am
When i was in secondary school we were told not to speak yoruba in school or we will pay a fine of 10 naira, but as for me i spoke yoruba and when taking to my class teacher because i refuse to pay i will tell her jokely that does the chinese speak english in school or does italy speak yoruba or english in school and she will just laugh and realise me.
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Chidi July 24, 2012 at 5:14 am
And this applies also to going back to the only assurance of our daily bread – farming! Remember the age old song: Iwe kiko, lai si oko (ati ada), ko i pe o!
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Albert July 24, 2012 at 5:30 am
Yes it is very good to speak our native language
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Bamigboye Ilesanmi T. July 24, 2012 at 10:24 am
it is gud to preserve our native language, Africa is our father land not foreign country, let’s embrace our language b/4 wil think of official lang.
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Kingsley Fergie July 24, 2012 at 9:08 pm
An excellent Author with a well designed and narrated food-for-thought,very useful 4 some of us who are not married yet
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Kingsley Fergie July 24, 2012 at 9:10 pm
I am proud of James Ngugi Wa Thiongo,i read his book in my JSS3 Literature Days,where I charactered Njoroge in d school play,always close a Mwihaki;Weep Not Child,Weep Not,My Darling,With these kisses let me remove ur tears,d ravening clouds shall not yet overflow ,they shall not yet possess the sky;Nigeria must copy from this advice,not as our children do these days,by going 2 cosmopolitan cities,and 4getting their very roots dat made them.Of Course,Europeanization,Civilization,has made d afrocentric man nuts,bt its a food -for-thought especially for some of us who are not married,yet!
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Yeye Akilimali Funua Olade July 25, 2012 at 11:56 am

Nigeria: I Prefer Indigenous Literatures – Wa Thiong’o
By Yemi Adebisi, 15 January 2011
Lagos — Ngugi Wa Thiong’o is distinguished professor of English and Comparative Literature and director of the International Centre for Writing and Translation at the University of California at Irvine. A Kenyan writer of Gikuyu descent, Ngugi is the author of various novels such as Weep Not Child (1964), The River Between (1965), A Grain of Wheat (1967) and Petals of Blood (1977). In 1980, Ngugi published the first modern novel ever written in Gikuyu called Devil on the Cross. Ngugi’s critical works include Homecoming (1972), Detained: A Writer’s Prison Diary (1981), Decolonizing the Mind (1986) and Moving the Center (1993). As a novelist, playwright and critical thinker, Ngugi has dealt with the concerns most affecting his native Kenya including issues of colonialism, nationalism and post-colonialism.
He has severally recommended to African writers to develop indigenous literature. His claim is that African writers need to write in African language in order to project her rich culture to the whole world. No wonder he prefers to read literatures written in his local language, Gikuyu.
In his response to what his thoughts are about contemporary fiction in Kenya and the more recent texts in Gikuyu that have had an impact on him, he said, “There are several writers who now write in Gikuyu. Ms. Waithira Mbuthia is very prolific. But so is Gitahi Gititi, now a professor of English, but writing in Gikuyu. Mwangi Mutahi is another who has published three novels in Gikuyu. There is also Gatua wa Mbugua, a poet and a scientist. He has just completed and successfully defended a scientific thesis written entirely in Gikuyu for the Department of Crop Science at Cornell. There are many more. Most of these writers are contributors to the Gikuyu language journal, Mutiiri, originally based at New York University, but now at the University of California Irvine.”
During the late 70’s, his commitment to art and community led him to form communal theatre groups in villages, which showcased some of his most indicting plays. These works portrayed the political corruption of post-colonial life in Kenya and the people’s struggle to define an identity despite years of harsh political and social transitions. In 1977, Ngugi was arrested for his involvement with the communal theatres. While in prison, Ngugi reflected on the urgency in forming a truly African literature and at the same time wrote Devil on the Cross on prison- issued toilet paper. He subsequently would abandon English for his native Gikuyu for all his future novels. After being released from prison, Ngugi lost a university position and his family suffered from constant harassment. In 1982, Ngugi left Kenya and has been in exile ever since. Ngugi Wa Thiong’o is the recipient of numerous awards including the Paul Robeson Award for Artistic Excellence, Political Conscience and Integrity (1992); Gwendolyn Brooks Center Contributors Award for Significant Contribution to the Black Literary Arts (1994); Fonlon-Nichols Prize (1996); and the Distinguished Africanist Award by the New York African Studies Association (1996).


December 2, 2011



Friday, December 2, 2011
Literary Map of Africa home page Clickable Map of Africa
Christine Ajayi’s professional teaching experience is reflected in her interest in developing Nigerian pre-children’s reading and learning skills. Her many children’s stories are designed to meet that objective.
Gender: Female
Country Information: Nigeria

Primary Works
Selected Reference and Critical Works
Web Sites
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Ade, Our Naughty Little Brother Onibonoje, 1974
The Old Story Teller Onibonoje, 1975
Allie’s Bicycle Macmillan, 1982
Emeka and His Dog Macmillan, 1982
The Book of Animal Riddles Macmillan, 1982
Tinu’s Doll Macmillan, 1982

Web Sites

Contemporary Africa Database



August 4, 2010


Wednesday, August 4, 2010

The New African Talking Drum – A Poem by Tony Marinho

By Tony Marinho Published July 11, 2010

The dreaded new African talking drum

Drums damaging every eardrum

Day, night, its message, a bush fire,

Consuming village to presidential villa

It talks in all 340 tribal tongues

Drumming into dreams, destroying sleep and lungs.

But no one dances in the noisy polluting heat

Of the new African talking drum beat

President to prostitute

Restaurant to research institute

Police to petrol station

Right across the darkened nation

It drums a dirge, mourning

From dusk to dawning,

www – the world wide waking,

As power dies again, again, and again.

Nigeria requires a 100,000Mw revolution in energy

Making every city an electri-City.

To be truly ‘I fine pass my neighbour’

Silence the new African talking drum – the generator.

– Tony Marinho

‘I fine pass my neighbour’ is colloquial for a small family size generator



The many sided coin and other stories

Bobo learns to fly

Deadly cargo!

The Epidemic

Introducing: The Manopause Man Aka Mr Man O. Pause and the Manopause (Strategies for Communication in Southern Afr)

The victim




June 26, 2010


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One of the author’s works was adapted into a Tunde Kelani Film, ‘The Narrow Path ’ Photo: AKINTAYO
The writings of a village man
By Akintayo Abodunrin
June 20, 2010 01:16AM
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Novelist Bayo Adebowale dabbled into poetry some years ago with ‘Village Harvest’, a collection of poems. He has since published ‘A Night of Incantations and Other Poems’ and ‘African Melody’.

“There is no strict demarcation between prose and poetry,” he states while explaining why he took up poetry. “If you are writing prose and poetry, you are virtually writing on the same plane; using almost the same diction. So, poetry can be prosaic and prose can be poetic. If I want to express my ideas in a compact form, I dabble into poetry but if I want to expand what I’m writing, I dabble into prose.”

An interesting feature of ‘A Nights of Incantations’ is its exposition on incantations, an aspect of Yoruba tradition. The poet highlights malevolent, benevolent and propitiatory incantations in the work and explains his action.

“All the three are aspects of our culture and tradition. When you are angry and you think you have an enemy, you can recite incantation that will bring down God’s anger on him.

“In the same token, if you find yourself in a difficult situation and you want to escape, you can recite incantations that will save you. When you burn roots and leaves of trees to cure yourself, you propitiate with them and you recite special incantations for that.”

He adds that the collection has sections on curses, desperation, voting and protest because, “It’s part of the culture of the people to curse. If you feel wronged by your detractor or your foe, you can curse him. When you curse, it’s a general phenomenon, not just in Africa but in other parts of the world. When you say may the devil take you, may you go into perdition or things like that in anger, it’s part of the culture. It is common to find people cursing their enemies. Those who have caused harm or brought unhappiness into their life.”

But is it Christ-like to curse?

“Don’t you think that even in the holy Bible we have things like that? Why is Jerusalem cursed? ‘If I forget Jerusalem, let my right hand forget its cunning.’ Have you forgotten ‘woe unto you that betray the son of man? All these woe are curses in the Bible, they are reflected in Christian liturgy so you cannot say these things are not evident in the Holy Bible. Even in churches you curse the enemy. You bring fire down upon your enemy. May the enemy be consumed by the fire of the Holy Ghost. I have gone to services in churches where they devoted a large part of their prayer to cursing the enemy. ”

The Virgin

‘The Virgin’ published in 1985 is Adebowale’s first novel and arguably his most popular. Two villages go to war over Awero, the major character who loses her virginity contrary to tradition. Though virginity appears somewhat trifle for villages to war over, the former Deputy Rector, The Polytechnic, Ibadan, insists that “The cause of the matrimonial problems of nowadays can be traced to virginity. The lack of trust in your wife, the suspicion the wife has of the husband can be traced to virginity. If your wife did not come to your house as a virgin, it will continue to haunt you throughout your matrimonial life. But if you met your wife a virgin, you will have implicit trust and confidence in her that if she can keep herself like that, I should trust her to a large extent. Mistrust and suspicion can be traced to virginity so it is relevant even nowadays.”

He also discloses how the novel was first adapted into the short film, ‘The White Handkerchief’, and later the feature film, ‘The Narrow Path’, by Tunde Kelani’s Mainframe Productions.

“It was Tunde Kelani who came to tell me that they are interested in the story. He told me what will change and what will remain. He told me the title will change and that the ending would also change because in the novel, Awero did not commit suicide but she did in the film. He said the impact will not be felt by viewers if she walks away. If she commits suicide, they will know that there is a good reason for war.”

The self-confessed writing addict who took up the art in 1963 also reveals what made him adopt the tack he did in ‘Out of His Mind’, his second novel. “It’s not everything that you tell your wife in real life. It’s not that you want to harm her but out of consideration for her flexible mind. You say instead of disturbing my wife, let me get over it. I can always tell her later. It’s the same with Alamu. They were newly married and he didn’t want anything that will upset the lady, hoping that sooner or later he would sort the problem. In any case, if he divulged the secret to the wife, there would be no story to tell again. The suspense will not be there again.”

Starting out

“I started with short stories and I have over 100 published short stories. It might interest you to note that my novels are adapted from my short stories. ‘The Virgin’ is from a short story ‘The Wedding Day’. I expanded another short story, ‘Burden of a Secret’ into ‘Out Of His Mind’. It’s the same with the short story ‘Lonely Days’ and the novel also so titled. I have been expanding on my short stories.

“Right now, I’m on another one, ‘Beyond Control’ and it is also adapted from one of my short stories titled ‘Tanko’s Exit’. There is not much difference in the technique of writing short stories and novels because they are all prose so I find it convenient. It is only that you have to be more compact, straight to the point in short stories whereas in the novel you have the liberty to expand and to explain certain process.”

Inspiration and influences

Adebowale was inspired to write by reading literary works. “I started telling myself this is something I could do too. I began by criticising the works of writers I read, and then I started writing.” Though the works of authors including Edgar Allan Poe, Ernest Hemingway, Alex Dumas, Charles Dickens, Chinua Achebe and Cyprian Ekwensi among others influenced him, his primary influence, “is my background as a village man.”

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reader comments (1)

Posted by Olajide on Jun 25 2010
Having been taught by Dr Adebowale while I was at The Polytechnic, Ibadan I believe he has the prowess as exemplified in his novel. He is a man to celebrated always.

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