WEST AFRICA REVIEW ISSN: 1525-4488 Issue 11 (2007)

Recorded in Leeds on May the 15th 2004

Tiziana Morosetti

T.M. I would like to start from the choice of English as a language for your plays. You always said to use it because you want to go beyond the boundaries; but you know of course that your plays are read not only by Nigerians, but also by a Western audience. Are you actually thinking about this audience when you write?

F.O. Not at all. In fact as I’ve said elsewhere, you know, I’ve always been surprised about it – or rather, I used to be, I’m no longer surprised now—but I used to be quite surprised, and pleased too, I must say, to find that my plays interested anybody at all outside Nigeria, because I never had such people, I mean those outside Nigeria, in mind at all when I started writing. I don’t think of foreign audiences at all when I am writing. Except of course later in my career, when it is a commissioned work, say by a theatre in the USA or the UK. And the only reason why I write in English is that it’s the national language of Nigeria. Nevertheless, I must point out to you that I personally don’t write only in English—say rather that I write mainly in English because, you know, I also write in Yoruba, my own mother tongue.

But I must say I am surprised you begin with this, because I thought this language question has become a tired one now with regard to African literature. I mean we have discussed it again and again over the past forty or fifty years, at almost every public forum, ad nauseam! However, I’ll take the pain to go over it again, since you have asked.

You see, a major part of the problems we have in my country, Nigeria, in fact perhaps the most formidable impediment to our development, is this ethnic division among us. Again and again, it has become very easy for a crook in the government to get away with his crimes, simply by defending himself with the ethnic shield. When you expose him, he quickly answers: “Ah, it’s because I’m not from your ethnic area, that’s why you’re after me!” And before you know it, he has rallied all his people to his side against you. In no time nobody will be talking of the crime again, or of the consequences to the nation; all everybody will be discussing now will be the right or wrong of ethnic prejudice! So you see? That’s why crime proliferates, why corruption and misgovernment continue to thrive.

I’ve always wanted therefore, because of all this, to operate above and outside the ethnic level, so that people can see that we are talking about national problems, which don’t belong to any ethnic group or any individual exclusively, but to the entire nation. The problems of poverty, for instance, or of injustice and oppression and so on, these are not ethnic problems, you know, but problems caused by the very fundamental flaws in the structure of the state. Problems that we all need to confront and eradicate! And so if we want to find a language that transcends all the ethnicities, it’s English. This English which, paradoxically, our former colonizers gave us, but which is the only language that unites us! This is why I use English, like most of my fellow writers. It may not be the ideal solution, but it’s even more dangerous, in our circumstances, to be labelled as an ethnic writer, a Yoruba writer, an Igbo writer or whatever. The writer who wants to be effective in his contribution to the development of our nation must take great care to be seen as a Nigerian writer, as a writer who talks about the problems common to all of us. In a nation of over three hundred different languages—for that’s how the British put us together—it is unfortunately through the medium of English you can do this, speak the general truth.

But, of course, having said this, the next problem one confronts is—what kind of English? Certainly not the one spoken in England or Wales! We have to try to fashion an English that’s Nigerian, that reflects our Nigerian habits, our environment, our culture. And for that, you can say that my generation has been fortunate, because before us, there have been the pioneers—you know, people like Chinua Achebe, Wole Soyinka, J.P. Clark-Bekederemo, and so on—who had discovered some varieties of English with a credible local flavour and a local accent, that we can follow and borrow from. And again, there is the fact that, over the years since Independence, some forty years now, English has become more Nigerianized, to the extent that you can say that it has become a Nigerian language in itself. Far more people speak English now than forty years ago, when all this debate began, millions of Nigerians who read and understand it! So, in that sense it can be correctly referred to as a Nigerian language.

T.M. Nonetheless, in your essay “The Place of Theatre”, collected with others in The Nostalgic Drum, you said that you wanted to make people aware of what is happening and in that sense theatre can become dangerous to the ruling class more than other forms of art. Now, if we consider that neocolonialism is a range of more influences coming from outside Nigeria, do you think that involving a Western audience might help the consciousness of the problem also on the Western side, so that something might be done here too?

F.O. As I said, I really did not care about Western audiences. I only wrote for my own audience. I will not have to change my technique, and will continue to write for my people. Because the lesson seems to be that the more local you are, the more international you become; that the more you deal with your own particular problems in your locality, the more you are able to interest others elsewhere, and even in the coming generations. For now that I look at the past masters, I’ve come to understand that they too were dealing with the real, concrete problems of their own society at their time. Shakespeare did that but continues to hypnotise us, even today; so did the Greeks... certainly they were not thinking of us, yet see how their work continues to endure! So you don’t really have to strain yourself and try to write for everybody in the universe; those who do that, who try to please everyone, invariably end up producing insipid works that do not endure.

T.M. Coming to the plays in fact, I was struck by Aringindin and the Nightwatchmen. I really consider it important, and reading it I was brought back to some of my previous interest in theatre. My first research in the subject was about British theatre, namely Auden and Isherwood, and I could find similarities between them, above all in the atmosphere of the scene in your play when the policewoman is represented in a satire on stage. So, I thought I might compare the two, and what happened in British theatre during the 30s, which was a period of absolute dictatorships for Europe, and what is being done in Nigeria. Do you think that comparison might be possible?

F.O. It is always possible, such comparisons. Because tyranny is always the same everywhere, whatever the époque. But I confess that I wasn’t thinking of anywhere outside Africa when I wrote the play, or even outside Nigeria. It was what was happening in Nigeria at the time that I tried to represent in the play. It’s interesting that you can see echoes elsewhere, that you can find the same practices, the same politics. Yes, all dictatorships tend to operate through the same structures, and with the same warped values.

T.M. At the end of the play one finds a sentence saying “End of play for now”. This is quite interesting, because in the interviews collected in Excursions on Drama and Literature everyone seems to believe that you lost some of your first strength in the later plays, and become softer in describing social problems. As far as I’m concerned, it is not like that, as in many of your plays you still point out the main problems and the need to change the society. But what were you referring to exactly in that sentence? A possible revenge that common people might have?

F.O. I don’t know which version of the play you have, but I have in fact written a new ending to that play. Aringindin now has a new ending, which I wrote with the coming of democracy. But that is happening all the time, you know! History is always changing, everything’s contingent, there is never any end really, everything keeps shifting. I have always had problems with critics who are locked into a rigid, unbending view of history, whose minds have been frozen by ideology, and have stopped being human beings and turned instead into parrots and marionettes. But that is where the artist has his triumph in the end over ideologues and thugs.

T.M. Ok. Coming to what you said in “Literacy and the Domestication of an Opiate” as for what you define as ‘escapist literature’, I would actually like you to clarify that concept. You say that escapist literature is somehow ‘socially irresponsible’, because its final aim is pure entertainment only. But I believe that if one considers escapist literature mainly a frame which can disguise more important meanings, that could be not just mindlessly entertaining but could also affect society dangerously. So, do you think your judgement could be somehow undervaluing the power of this literature?

F.O. If I said that, it was an exaggeration. But you mustn’t take things out of context. Perhaps it had a polemical aim, an answer to a provocation, meant to fight somebody! But such a statement would obviously be an exaggeration. I agree entirely with you that it depends on how one uses escapist literature—you know, adventure, literature for children, and so on—helps to develop reading habits, to nurture the love of reading. Escapist literature is good to read, but as long as we don’t forget that it’s still escapist literature.

T.M. So you don’t think it could be a frame for hiding more important meanings?

F.O. Well, I can’t argue with that. Beacuse, you know, you can use the form to do serious things. For instance, the detective novel, which is very popular; most of the people who write detective novels have no social message but just want to entertain. But you can use the form and give it a social meaning; you can use it as a form and make it serious—as I have in fact done. Have you read The Inspector and the Hero for instance? That is a detective story, which I was commissioned to write. But in doing it, I decided to use it for other meanings—specifically, to fight corruption. And I think it worked, there were thirteen episodes of the series, some of which I’ve since adapted for the stage because of their popularity. So I agree basically with you, but what I mean is that the form by itself won’t do that, except the author himself comes to it with a deliberate ideological consciousness. No form is ever neutral after all; only the author may be naïve or innocent. But the use of the popular form in every genre, that is the very basis of my aesthetics. In the plays you will see how I am constantly reaching out for the popular indigenous forms, using things like popular songs and melodies, borrowing the tunes sometimes in order to change the lyrics, put in my own words. Popular form can be, should in fact be, an instrument for positive advocacy.

T.M. Still on Aringindin, I find that this play may work well not only with Nigerian people and history, but also in general with the present situation. Towards the end, the ‘Kancillor’ says that after all what he and Aringindin himself have done [taken the power with force and deceit] is not just wrong if we consider that the people themselves had asked to be ruled as they had fear of the robbers. So, they preferred taking the risk and putting the policemen in complete charge of the situation. Well, I personally find it very representative of what is happening now. Neocolonialism is building its strength exactly on this sort of fear, because if one is really frightened, he can easily accept a war on terror or whatever, and in general any manifestation of strong power. How do you think literature can deal with this feeling of fear, and with the urgence of the very present?

F.O. Well, I said that what I’ve done is to show the audience what happens in such situations of panic. They see the danger facing them, and hopefully, the people learn from it. Nobody can freely decide to live under a dictatorship except through the lack of adequate knowledge. So in this play, we have at least been shown, that this is the possibility, this is what we are doing, this will be the consequence. So we have to take a decision, we have to decide wether we want to invite a dictatorship down upon ourselves or do all we need to do to avoid it. I don’t think the writer can do more than this, that is, provide for us the vision of our possibilities in the past, the present, and the future. The concrete action after that is ours, that of every individual in the society. All a playwright can do is present the true picture of life around us, in as forceful and appealing manner as he can, calling upon the immense powers of his imagination, and map out the possible roads ahead of us, and the rest is ours to go and decide.

T.M. As for the play Who’s Afraid of Solarin?, which you based on Gogol’s General Inspector, I would like to know how it has been received by the audience. You know that Gogol had to face harsh reactions to his play, since people seemed not to like the fact that he had put on show all the defects of Russian bureaucracy. Has the Nigerian audience well accepted, on the other hand, your Solarin?

F.O. Yes, it has been a very popular play, you know, very popular. Fortunately I have not been the subject of any persecution because of it, perhaps owing to the complex nature of the Nigerian society and politics. You will be surprised to learn that sometimes on the radio or television, and on cassette tapes sold on the streets especially, there will be even more acerbic criticisms of the government and its agents than mine in this play! Yes, it is true that some of the authors will have to disappear into hiding for a while, at least till thing cool down, but by and large, the satiric tradition is well established in Nigeria. So Solarin has had no problem finding an enthusiastic audience.

T.M. Another question related to the plays. Which is the place of love in your work? It seems to mean very often sacrifice; for example, the protagonist of Morountodun is left by the Marshal who has to leave her to continue the fighting, while Omele in Esu and the Vagabond Minstrels decides to give everything up in order to help the lepers. So it seems that love is actually committed to collective health first, rather than the individual?

F.O. Yes, there are all kinds of love, personal love, love for community, love for sex, many kinds of love. Sometimes it is not love for yourself that is needed, and sometimes you have to choose. The fact that Morountodun is left behind doesn’t mean that love is not there, it’s just that Marshal and his men are human—like you and me—and they still have to carry on their obligations at a time their communities are besieged. Should he, because of love, shirk his duties at such a perilous moment? Or should we say that because he is fighting, he cannot fall in love? No! Men fight but they fall in love too, and vice versa. If we are lucky, there is no conflict. But sometimes we all have to take a decision, between our duty to the state or the community, and that to ourself. It’s not always an easy choice.

T.M. Do you agree on the statement made by Sandra Richards in her Ancient Songs Set Ablaze, in which she says that—although you give women an important rôle in your plays—the scene of Morountodun in which the protagonist is given a new name by the Marshal diminishes the revolutionary impact of your play?

F.O. No, if I had believed that I wouldn’t have written the way it is. I don’t believe that, but it’s interesting the way she reacts to that passage . . .

T.M. Two more questions. Do you think it might be possible to compare Western and Nigerian literature as far as concerns the rôle of the intellectual in society? I mean that if I look at the situation of the Western, and more precisely Italian writer, it seems to me that he has lost some of his power, in the sense that democracy has deprived him of a certain authority in the very moment he obtains the freedom of speech. Do you think that democracy can actually diminish his rôle, while on the other hand political crises and censorship paradoxically help the writer to keep that rôle?

F.O. Yes, freedom can diminish the rôle of the intellectual unless one is vigilant at all times. One can decide to accept or not accept the compromise democracy brings. Of course, one is always tempted all the time, but you have to make the choice, temptation is always there. It’s you who will make the difference, depending on how strongly you believe in what you’re doing. Sadly many are not prepared for this, they are too easily corrupted, they too easily change their roles. I’ve always said that we need to look at all our radicals more closely, and ask questions. When somebody is shouting about the government, saying, “This is not good, that’s not right, this man is corrupt”, fine! The next thing to do, to me, is to ask him what are his own alternative plans. For quite often, you know, you may discover that the man is shouting not because he sees anything wrong but simply because he’s not the one profiting from what is going on! So if he comes to power, nothing will change, other than the names of the profiteers! Business will simply continue as usual! This is the problem with democracy, that it makes you either complacent, or complicit with contemporary power. A time or a regime without censorship demands even greater vigilance, even greater eloquence and courage of the artists and intellectuals for the defence of human freedom than oppressive times. But it is not always that we realize it.

T.M. Last question. What do you think about personal commitment, beyond the literary one? In one of your interviews you said you don’t actually agree with the choice made by Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o to be banned and always persecuted. So, what do you think of the choice made by Wole Soyinka? And could you describe your first impressions to the news of Ken Saro-Wiwa’s death?

F.O. I don’t want to sound so smug, as if I am belittling anyone, especially those who, like Soyinka and Ngugi, have shown immense courage, made painful sacrifices, and suffered untold privations in the perennial struggle of our countries for social justice and equity. All I meant was that I believe that all contributions are valid in a struggle, even those we may regard as insignificant. Too often we tend to valorise only the headline-making events, the noisy exiles, the extraordinary confrontations. But as Brecht once asked, “Alexander conquered Rome… were there no cooks in his army?” There are always, side by side with the big figures, the ordinary folks who are making their own sacrifices silently and unseen, and who sometimes have to undergo even more horrendous punishments, that the media do not unfortunately report. These folks make contributions which we tend to just pass over, but which are in fact vital to victory. So that, what I am saying in fact is that, behind every successful hero, there are a thousand fighters, who deserve not to be forgotten, especially later, when the struggle is won. I fear that it is always the cult of the hero that leads to dictatorships subsequently, in the hour of freedom. We need to be careful therefore how we worship individuals, even while acknowledging their impressive feats. And indeed heroes should not be only those who are good in combat, but also who have the talents for building, constructing, planning, or in the area of management, and so on. As for Ngugi, faced with persecution and perhaps possible liquidation in Kenya, how else would he have survived except by fleeing into exile? So please understand me. What I mean is that I would have been happier if he had not had to take that decision, for it is my view that he would have made greater contributions from inside Kenya, than he has been able to do from without. This is saying that I respect the choice of the other playwrights after him, who undoubtedly learnt from his experience, and went for other options. It was my own option too, remember, the determination to use all kinds of tactics that were possible, short of compromising my beliefs, to remain within Nigeria and do my work there, until it was absolutely impossible for me to do so. It seemed to me an obligation, at a time the military was doing all it could to chase all intellectuals out of the country and erase all the voices of dissent, that some of us had to remain, not only to deny them that satisfaction, but to keep the candle of hope alive for the younger ones following us. Both Ngugi and Soyinka, as far as I am concerned, had made one choice which was crucial to the struggle, and also assured for us the much-needed international support in our fight against dictatorship. They won in the end because, as they themselves will be the first to acknowledge, there was also an active though covert struggle going among the ordinary citizens. That is why Saro-Wiwa lives on today, in the Movement of the Ogoni People, as well as in several other voices across the nation.

Citation Format:

Tiziana Morosetti. “Interview With FèmiỌsỌfian” West Africa Review: Issue 11, 2007.

Copyright © 2007 Africa Resource Center, Inc.