Ozugbo, Ozugbo - a story by Jide Atta (Part 2 of 3 parts)

This bloody village! I am back to it. Twelve years it has been. 12 years! I know them, I know them all. Some watched me grow, others we grew up together. I hate them, all of them. I remember the taunts, the sneers. The bastard son of a harlot they called me. Well, the son of the harlot was back now, back to take his revenge. 

I always wondered why my mother never married any of those men. They came at all hours of the day, some were huge, some were short. I didn’t need to be told to go outside, as it was an excuse for me to roam the village and go play with other children. 

It was on one of those trips that I met Tiemo and Tamuno. I had wandered to the beach to watch the other children swim in the sea. I didn’t join them. I was scared of the water. I sat on the rack stack and watched the older ones dive in to the water to the squeals and laughter of the others. This was the rack stack that grew to be a makeshift jetty. The jetty on which I am standing today, after 12 years, and barking orders at the baggers! Everyone in the village knew Tiemo and to an extent Tamuno. There was this particular girl, Abigail, who always smiled at me and beckoned with her hand for me to come in to the water. I liked her. She was always kind to me whenever our paths crossed in the village or in the many playgrounds of the young. Tiemo was the village hero among the young ones in the Tekuni age group. I admired him and tried to get him to be my friend. He always ignored me and would throw his head away anytime I greeted him or laughed at a joke. Tamuno would always stand up to him and ask him to allow me to join in their play - to which he would refuse. With an aristocratic air he would arrogantly remind me of the need to go on a journey to find out my real father. 

‘’Of course’’, he would say, ‘’I don’t know where you will start because even the sea does not know’’.

This hurt, especially as it was done in the presence of Abigail. It hurt me so badly that I would just run away, crying and clutching my tattered overcoat that my mother had seized from one her visitors who refused to ‘settle’ her. To my small, naïve mind, I always wondered what ‘settle’ meant. 

‘Ozugbo Ozugbo! Bastard child’’, they would repeat constantly. I still remember the accompanying laughter and taunts of the other children escorting my every step as I ran. Somehow, somewhere in the taunts of the children, a voice would shout at them to stop it. It was the voice of Abigail. How I loved that voice. It was the only thing that kept me going back to the playgrounds. No taunt would deter me from seeing her play or hear her talk. 

As I ran home I concluded in my mind that I had to go and look for my father. If only to prove to that son of ‘okporokpo’ that I wasn’t a bastard as they called me. ‘Uncle wonda’ was still around. I could hear his voice as he talked to my mother. Her pearly laughter rang out from somewhere within our shack of discarded ‘chemical bags’. This was the big polythene bag used by oil companies to hold and transport chemicals for the drilling activity. 

Abigail, I would never forgive that bloody Tiemo for her death. I had left the village two years before. It was one of my mother’s visitors who told me about the army and encouraged me to join the army. He even bought me the forms. I went to Depot Nigerian Army for three months. It was hell on earth. I wonder how I survived that training time. I guess it was the tough times I had gone through before coming there. Well, I survived and after that I was deployed to Liberia. I thought of her throughout my stay in Liberia. Perhaps that is what kept me going. I had only one plan, to come back and ask for her hand in marriage. It was the right thing to do, the only thing to do. That bloody Tiemo stole her away from me and led her to her death. But I was back now, with more money and power than any of them could imagine. As the head of security for Alcove Oil operations in these parts, I could do to them anything I wanted; they were all under my boots. There were no rules of engagement or superior officers in the army to control me. Besides no one would ever believe them, it would be their word against Alcove Oil. 

‘I ask again, where Is Tiemo?’

I know you all know where he is, or at least one of you does. That one of you should tell me now. Tamuno where is your cousin Tiemo? I know you saw him three days ago. Tell me where he is and no one will get hurt.

(Click here to read the PART ONE)

Abuja Literary Society to hold national poetry competition - July 6 at the Transcorp Hilton; N100K for the grand prize winner; everyone is invited

ALS, in collaboration with The African Poet, announces the National Poetry Slam, Fri, 6th July 2012, @ the Transcorp Hilton Hotel, Abuja at 6pm. Minimum N100K prize for the winner! Pre-register free at: abujaliterarysociety@gmail.com, or TAPG fb page. See rules below.

RULES FOR SLAM POETS
1. Poems can be on any subject and in any style.
2. Each poem must be an original piece written and performed by the author.
3. No props.
4. No costumes.
5. Performances are timed and should not exceed 3 minutes; the last round may be 2 minutes.
6. No musical instruments (leave the drum set home) or pre-recorded music.
7. Each poem may only be used once during the competition.
8. Poets prepare 3 poems in case they move to the 2nd and final rounds.

RULES FOR SLAM JUDGES
1. Judges are selected at random from the audience (no experience needed); they’re given score cards.
2. Five judges are used and each is asked to leave his/her personal bias at home.
3. Judges are asked to rate 50% on performance (presentation) AND 50% on content of the poem (was it well-written, did it make sense - doesn't matter if you agreed with the content).
4. Scores are from 0 (lowest) to 10 (highest), using decimals to reduce the chance of ties - (“0 infinity” is not a number, honest)
5. At the same time, judges hold up one score (e.g.: 5.6, 8.7, 9.8, 10.0) when asked by the Slam Master.
6. The Slam Master then announces the poet's scores from each judge out loud. An average is arrived at by totaling the poet’s score and dividing by 5.
7. Where there’s a dispute at any time during the Slam, the Slam Master’s ruling is final. No appeals, except to the Slam Master, are allowed.

RULES FOR SM & TIME KEEPERS
1. Slam Master ballots to decide order of presentation.
2. Time Keeper(s) deduct 0.1 point for every sec of exceeded time.
3. Time Keeper(s) announce, through the Slam Master, any exceeded time and the deduction after the judges have raised and announced their scores. The penalty is then deducted from the total score.
4. The bottom 1-3 contestants are eliminated (NOT killed o!) in each round.
5. The winner of the final round is announced last – first announce the 2nd Runner up, 1st Runner Up, then the Slam Champion.

RULES FOR AUDIENCE
1. Slam is fun, bear that in mind.
2. Applaud or boo any judge whose score you do not agree with.
3. Show your appreciation of the performance poetry – you are permitted to roll on the ground, jump to high heavens, scream your head off or cry bitterly (perhaps after hearing a brilliant poem you have been trying to write yourself for 10 years!). As you rejoice or weep, remember ALS will NOT be responsible for any destruction of venue property.
4. Volunteer to judge.
5. Where there’s a dispute at any time during the Slam, the Slam Master’s ruling is final.No appeals, except to the Slam Master, are allowed. That’s why he is the Master of the Slam!


Ken Ike

(ASHOKAFellow) Slam Master
abujaliterarysociety@gmail.com

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ABOUT ALS

ALS meets every 1st Friday of the month at Transcorp Hilton Hotel, 7p.m; Second Friday @ Silverbird Entertainment Centre Abuja 7pm, Third Friday @ Salamander Cafe, Abuja.

BookJam holds every Last Friday of the month at Silverbird Entertainment Centre Abuja 6pm

Abuja Poetry Slam (performance Poetry competition) holds in March, June, September, and the Grand Slam will be in December. 

Special Guest writers will normally feature at the First Friday readings @ the Hilton. Special workshops, retreats and exchanges are part of our programmes. 

ALS can help you with manuscript editing ,organise a book presentation, marketing or special literary nights/events.

FMI, SMS: Chinelo: 08067958680; Ken: 0803-155-2555; or Victor: 0803-311-7246.

Oginigba - a story by Jide Atta

Jide Atta, at the Abuja Literary Society
reading held on May 25, 2012, Silverbird  
Entertainment Centre, Abuja, Nigeria.
Photo by Araceli

Oginigba 

-a story by Jide Atta

They came at dawn. I should know. I was awake gathering my nets and preparing to go out on the days fishing trip when I heard the noise. I heard them before I saw them. There were lots of them. They were jumping out of the gunboats before the boats even reached the shore. I turned and ran. There was only one thought in my head, my grandmother, and my cousin Ebi. 

I knew who they were, I had seen them before. The whole village had seen them before. But they normally didn’t come this way. Normally it would be the helicopters, then the trucks. There were never any boats, and they were never this many of them. Something was different this time, I could sense it.

I was close to our home when the gunshots began.

What was going on this time? What had we done wrong this time? How come our small village of mostly fishermen and palm wine tappers had to bear the brunt of the so-called struggle for our freedom? And then it struck me! Tiemo! This invasion must have had something to do with his surprise arrival three days ago. He looked haggard with long, dirty and unkempt dada.

Tiemo, my cousin, who caused the most pain to my grandmother. Youthful, handsome Tiemo who the old folks said brought bad luck to his parents. His mother died while giving birth to him and, a week later, his father surprisingly fell from a palm tree. As a little boy, he was always the leader of the gang, dictating what prank to pull and on whom.

There was this particular incident when we were given the beating of our lives, courtesy another Tiemo prank. Tiemo had become fascinated with the village shrine and on the eve of the ashi festival decided we should relocate the totem. Yes, I was terrified but I was excited about being able to touch that totem we only saw in public during the festival, but which we had been seeing during our regular trips to spy on the shrine. We took the totem, when the chief priest went into his shack with Pa Willy’s new wife. They always went into that shack three four times daily. Tiemo had one time gotten close enough to peep into the shack and came back giggling, refusing to tell us what he saw, insisting that we were still kids. 

We hid the totem in Olotu’s hut. He was the village drunk, and we were sure no one would suspect our involvement. 

We were wrong. 

I had always heard that palm wine tappers saw everything and knew everyone’s secret. Well, we had no idea that Papa Preye saw us, followed us to Olotu’s house and went to tell our grandmother. We didn’t know why we were beaten that way by mama. We didn’t think it could possibly have had anything to do with the totem. Mama is a very strong woman. With one hand she held on to Tiemo and me, and with the other administered continuous series of slaps with such dexterity that, if Ikopu the village drummer had seen her, he would have turned the colour of rotten fish with envy. 

That was the Tiemo I grew up with, at least until Abigail. I wonder how or when he saw her, but that was Tiemo. It was said that he had eaten a dog’s legs, because he was always up and about. Something about him changed. He began to pay a little more attention to himself. He even started combing his hair! This was Tiemo who always wanted to have dada like Majek Fashek the musician. 

Everyone in the village knew them, Tiemo and Abigail, always walking hand in hand everywhere they went. She changed Tiemo, made him less of a prankster. She also separated him from me and the rest of the gang, and I resented her for it. I and Tiemo were brothers. Who was this girl with whom he would rather spend time with than hang with us?

Then it happened. 

No one claims to know how it started. But we knew that suddenly oil – black and smelly like when palm kennel fell in dying fire – was leaking from the pipelines that ran behind the village school toilet and from the stand below our rickety makeshift jetty. That jetty is over fifty years old. The oil company had promised to build one since over forty years ago, before I was born. It was the immigration point from our village. Everybody that came and went from the village by sea had to go through it. Legend has it that after the oil company that laid the pipeline had built a rack stack for the pipes that they used, people converted it to a meeting place for discussing happenings between the workers and fishermen. One by one, each would bring a frond of palm or any piece of driftwood or metal pipe remnant and connect to the stack against the rack. The rack kept getting higher as the tide gradually ate below it and took residence deeper and deeper along the shoreline. I always wondered how one could walk for almost a mile out in to the sea and the water would only be chest deep at most. For us, we would use it as a diving place. Our tiny feet scrambling up and then, posing like Eupele, our African Games champion from the village, we would dive into the sea amidst squeals of laughter from the smaller kids who would only watch with admiration. That is how it became the commanding point for the leader of the pack that arrived in boats that day. 

People could not fish, could not farm, and nothing could be done. Emissaries were sent to the oil company, but weeks later, the oil was still leaking. The fishermen and the farmers decided to go to the company’s camp to protest and get them to do something about the leaking oil. I went with them that day. I was excited. My life had been boring without Tiemo but here was a chance to get some fun. 

When mama heard that I was with the protesters at the oil company camp, she sent Tiemo to come and drag me home. As usual, Abigail followed him. 

The oil company camp looks very different from the rest of our village, barbed wire fences, floodlights, well cut grasses, paved roads. I overhead one of the men from the village saying this was how America looked like. We all believed him. Even the smell of the place was different from the one that came all the time from the water just over the copse of palm trees and washed our village. The man said that they sprayed perfume in the air all the time and that the gods loved to sit just on the other side of the fence in the European quarter. I dreamt of America. 

There were armed men at the gate who refused us entry and ordered us to turn back. Some of the village men started turning away. Was this why I had come? To be turned away like a leper? I wanted some excitement; I wanted to smell a bit of America a bit longer. So I picked up a stone and threw at the guards, then they started shooting. 

I was shocked, and filled with fear. I started running. I hadn’t run too far when the shooting stopped. I turned and I froze at what my eyes beheld! I saw Tiemo covered in blood, screaming. He was sitting on the ground holding Abigail as she lay covered in a pool of blood. I walked in trepidation towards him and stopped. All around, men of the village were wailing, some were injured, most looked dead. Was it guilt, was it cowardice, what was it? I couldn’t tell, but I couldn’t bear the sight either. I turned and ran.

That was ten years ago. 

Tiemo disappeared after then and we never saw or heard from him until three days ago. Of course we had heard some stories. We had all heard of Commander T. 

As I got to the house, the soldiers were there already, and they were pushing mama, Ebi and everybody from their houses to the village square. I joined the line and walked there with them. 

A man who seemed to be in command was pacing angrily as we got to the square. He spoke into a radio briefly then picked a megaphone, turned and faced us all. Where is Tiemo? 

I froze! 

(To be continued)

Editor's Note: Jide Atta is a strategy consultant with bias in operations. He has been a member of the Abuja Literary Society for years where he has anchored many of its programs. He has a life long mission to mentor creativity in all forms.

Book reading at the Abuja Literary Society

Every last Friday of the month, the Abuja Literary Society hosts an event called BookJam@Silverbird, in collaboration with Silverbird Lifestyle and anchored by Jide Attah, co-host of the Abuja Poetry Slam.

The BookJam consists of book reading, book signing, musical presentation, raffle draw, and discussion by guest writers. Also there is usually a special poetry performance by some of Abuja’s poetry champions. On 25th May 2012, BookJam featured Unoma Azuah (a US college professor), Abubakar Ibrahim (a journalist), and Hajo Isa (a lawyer).

Ken Ike, a poet, journalist, literary activist and Slam Master of the Abuja Literary Society, sent the following brief biography of the guest writers:

HAJO ISA
author of Shadow Fall, a poetry collection

HAJO ISA (author of Shadow Fall, a poetry collection)

Born and bred in Zuru, Kebbi State, Hajara Isa is lawyer and staff of the Supreme Court of Nigeria, Abuja. She graduated from the Faculty of Law, Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria, in 2004. As a secondary school student of the Federal Government College, Jos, Hajo, as she’s fondly called took particular interest in poetry. She had been fascinated with words from a young age and her parents actively encouraged her. Moving to Abuja after NYSC, she became an active member of the Abuja Literary Society. She would read her poetry at every reading and patiently noted the peer review of her writing, making sure she wrote the comments down. In later readings, she would read the amended version of the same works and it was interesting seeing her evolution from her quaint, uncertain early writings to her later poetic flourish; becoming a mature poet filled with the poise and confidence of a writer who has finally found her voice. Recently, she has dabbled into prose, beginning with short story writing. She enjoys African prose the most, finding them “very rich in culture and passion; they have influenced my appreciation and dedication to the art of poetry and short fiction writing.” Hajo, writes best when she’s inspired and says, “I find art to be my best muse; I find it in music, reading a good book, being outdoors surrounded by nature, beauty in living and animate objects or art. Inspiration for me is very erratic so I try my best to incorporate creative hobbies in my life.” Hajo aspires to serve on the legal bench some day.

ABUBAKAR IBRAHIM
author of The Whispering Trees,
a short story collection

ABUBAKAR IBRAHIM (author of The Whispering Trees, a short story collection)

Abubakar Adam Ibrahim has been fascinated with writing since he was a boy, which was what motivated him to dump the sciences and study Mass Communications at the University of Jos. He has dabbled into poetry and plays but is more at home with prose. He won the BBC African Performance Prize in 2007 and the ANA Plateau/Amatu Braide Prize for Prose the following year. He also emerged runner-up in the ANA Plateau Poetry Prize. He is a fellow of the British Council Radiophonics creative writing workshop and has been selected for the Fidelity Bank Creative Writing Workshop as well as the Caine Prize for African Writing workshop (2012) – which he could not attend because of the Nigeria-South Africa Yellow fever row. His radio drama, A Bull Man’s Story which fetched him the BBC African performance Prize in 2007 was highly commended by the judges for the writer’s ‘ability to enter the minds of his character’. He published his first novel, The Quest for Nina, was published in 2009 and several of his works have appeared online and in literary journals. Abubakar was educated at the University of Jos, Nigeria, where he obtained a degree in Mass Communication.

UNOMA NGUEMO AZUAH
author of Edible Bones, a novel

UNOMA NGUEMO AZUAH (author of Edible Bones, a novel)
Unoma Nguemo Azuah is a college professor in the US. She got her first degree at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka, where she edited the English Department literary journal—The Muse – and received awards as the Best Creative Writing Student for two consecutive years: 1992 and 1993. Her other awards include the Hellman/Hammett Award, the Urban Spectrum Award, the Leonard Trawick Award and the Association of Nigerian Authors/NDDC Flora Nwapa Award for her debut novel Sky-high Flames and the Aidoo-Snyder Award for her latest novel, Edible Bones. Her collection of short stories, The Length of Light, reflects the predicament of everyday choices in life. The enigmatic gap between ordinary people and their dreams is dramatized in scenes that reveal severed roots, patriarchal intrusions, socio-economic impositions, inhuman cultural values, and hostility. Unoma has conducted writing workshops and seminars in some major cities in Nigeria, US and Canada. For instance, she has conducted writing workshops for incarcerated mothers and women in prison as a way of creating outlets for their expressions. Part of her focus in such workshops is to assist women in channelling their energy into literary expressions as a way of freeing their spirits in spite of their physical imprisonment. She is also involved with "The Griot Collective," a poetry group that organizes workshops and readings for adults and high school students in the West Tennessee area. Her contributions to this group earned her the Griot Hero Award in 2006. In the same year, she received The Best Faculty Award at Lane College for her outstanding teaching, research and service to the college community.

Institut Français hosts literary festival, children's day, drama workshop and more...

The Institut Français in Nigeria invited the general public to “A Vous de Lire” (For You to Read), an annual celebration of books and readings, held on the 24th to the 26th of May, 2012, at the French Institute (a.k.a French Cultural Centre) in Abuja.

In collaboration with the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA) - Abuja Chapter, The Abuja Literary Society, Cassava Republic Press and Arojah Royal Theatre, the Institut Français presented three days of literary-themed events for the whole family, with the aim of promoting a love of reading and writing in Nigeria.

In celebration of Children’s Day, the Institute also hosted a special series of programmes for children on the 24th and 25th of May. The events culminated on Saturday 26th May in a drama workshop for invited schools at the Institute and a representation by the French School of Abuja of some scenes from the French play ‘l’Avare’ by the famous classic author Molière.

For youngsters, there was also a Children’s Fair hosted by Cassava Republic Press on Saturday, 26th May, at shop, No. 62b in the Arts and Crafts Village, Opposite the Abuja Sheraton from 12 noon to 6pm

The French Institute is located at 52, Libreville Street, Off Aminu Kano Crescent, Wuse II, Abuja (behind M. Biggs).

A note from ALS

Great News! The Abuja Literary Society (ALS) has just concluded a collaboration deal with Silverbird Entertainment Centre.

With the deal, ALS will commence weekly or bi-monthly reading sessions, presentations, meet-the-author sessions, Abuja Book Club meetings, etc at Nigeria's finest and world-class mall.

This continues ALS tradition of having world-class venues for the comfort of the literati and the attraction of more people to the sharing of contemporary literary culture and a meeting of people of ideas.

Kudos to Silverbird, the largest and most successful entertainment and lifestyle company in Nigeria!

ALS has largely succeeded in the original mission of generating a literary lifestyle/ culture in Abuja and continues to sustain that culture in collaboration with partners such as Transcorp Hilton, British Council, Signature Gallery, and now, Silverbird.

Watch out for more information and calendar....

- Ken Ike

Abuja