Another paradise lost

Paradise is not everywhere but I was once told one can be created by an individual regardless of where he is and the conditions he is surrounded by. But what do you do when those conditions are way beyond your power to overcome, especially when they are almost taking your last ounce of strength?

What do you do when you were once in paradise and suddenly lose it, like the one John Milton talked about in his poem, Paradise Lost? In that epic poem, Milton presents Satan as an ambitious and proud being who defies his creator, the omnipotent God, and wages war on Heaven, only to be defeated and cast down.

I was at an art exhibition some days ago and what I saw shocked me. In the place highlighted by the artist, there was actually a non-existent paradise; yet one could have been created if not for the greed of Nigerian rulers whom the artist portrayed as ‘satans’ and ‘vermins’ that continue to feed on the sweat and blood of innocent Niger Deltans.

Sometime in the 1940s when the nationalist movement was in progress in Africa, many people were made to believe that political independence would usher in a new life, solve all social problems and provide everyone a better life. So much was promised by black leaders but only a handful was realised. Most post-independence economic plans were based on expansive democratic principles which included the promise of equal opportunities and fairness in the standard of living. These promises fired the imagination of the black people. Unfortunately, though, within a few of independence, those hopes were dashed and disillusionment set in. The current issues across Africa are some of the post-independence disillusionments which many African writers and artists have talked about.

And so, the works at the exhibition revealed another angry voice in the person of the artist, the same angry voice in the character of Zilayefa in Kaine Agary’s ‘Yellow Yellow’. While Agary uses words to capture the suffering of Niger Deltans, the artist decided to employ the powerful medium of photography. He presented with great pathos and commendable realism the multifaceted situation of the Niger Delta region through the kind of photographs on display. The fortunes of the old and the young in the region whose hopes to get qualitative education, roads, pipe borne water, electricity are eventually dashed by the nature of the Nigerian political, social and economic system.

The images were very detailed and convincing, an analysis of the causes of juvenile delinquency, prostitution and big-time as well as petty crime which have spurred the so-called Niger Delta militants. There was a great depth of presentation, realistic images, psychological understanding and awareness of the implications of the issues raised.

And for me, the heroes were not the dictators who occupy the seat of power in Aso Rock or other government houses, but the innocent old men and women, children and adolescents who were victims of the greed and selfishness characteristic of Nigerian rulers. Many of the children were raised with the hope of a better future, but a combination of corruption, unfairness, nepotism, and more ensures that their hopes remain unrealised.

The experience was thus a paradigm, not just for the Nigerian situation, but for Africa as a whole, where hordes of youths educated up to the school certificate standard or university level discovered that despite their qualifications, the socio-economic situation ensured they have to roam the streets unemployed for years. The effect of this is not just a tremendous waste of potential but a loss of faith in the value of education and ultimately life.

The artist tellingly presented the utter despair of the Niger Delta people who are suffering in the midst of plenty - the misery and degradation of having to live in an environment virtually destroyed by gas flaring and crude oil. Most farmlands which were sources of livelihood for most of the inhabitants had been eroded by crude oil. The squalor in which the people live was contrasted with the opulence of Nigerian leaders and managing directors of oil companies, who deny them the right to basic social amenities. Through a series of evocative images, the destructive effect of gas flaring was vividly portrayed. The image that got stuck on my mind was that of a mother with her child firmly strapped on her back, and yellowish flames oozing from the gas flare in the background. It was a representation of the predicament of the people. The photographs were political statements about the impact of political activities and decisions of the leaders on the life and feelings of the people. It was a display of the anger and sympathy for a people’s suffering.

Ibadan!

“E n le beun o!” meaning, how are you over there, is a popular way of greeting in Ibadan. It’s a greeting some people consider too ‘conk’ for them to grasp. And anyone who speaks in that tongue is usually laughed at. It’s however amazing that some smart advertisers have leveraged on this to promote their brands. Most billboards, particularly those advertising telecommunications companies, have one form of such greetings or the other.

Ibadan is a city I love for its quietness and slow pace of the lifestyle of its inhabitants, as nobody seems to be in a hurry in this ancient town. Little wonder why the cost of living is still low. It is probably one of the few towns in Nigeria where you can still take a trip in a taxi for N10! Fresh farm produce are sold in the market at cheap prices.

I read in a book some years ago that the name Ibadan was derived from Ìlú Ẹ̀bá-Ọ̀dàn, meaning the town at the junction of the savannah and the forest. At Nigeria’s independence in 1960, Ibadan was the largest and most populous city in Nigeria and the third in Africa after Cairo and Johannesburg. The city was the centre of administration of the old Western Region in the days of the British colonial rule, and parts of the city's ancient protective walls still stand to this day.
History has it that Ibadan came into existence in 1829, when Lagelu, the commander-in-chief of Ife and Yoruba's generalissimo, left Ile Ife with a handful of people from Ife, Oyo and Ijebu to found a new city, Eba Odan, which literally means 'between the forest and plains.'

From history also, we learnt the first city was destroyed due to an incident at a masquerade festival when a masquerade was accidentally disrobed and derisively mocked by women and children in an open marketplace. In Yorubaland, it was an abomination for women to look a masquerade in the eye because they were considered to be spirits of the dead forefathers who returned to the earth each year to bless their progeny. When the news reached Sango, the then Alaafin of Oyo, commanded that Eba Odan be destroyed for committing such an abominable act.

But Lagelu and some of his people survived the attack and fled to a nearby hill for sanctuary. On the hill, they survived by eating fruits and snails. Later, they cultivated the land and made corn and millet into pap meals known as Eko, which they ate with roasted snails. They improvised a bit by using the snail’s shell to drink the liquefied Eko. Lagelu and his people came down from the hill and founded another city called Eba'dan.

The new city instantly grew prosperous and became a commercial nerve centre. Shortly afterwards, Lagelu died, leaving behind a politically savvy people and a very stable community. The newly enthroned Olubadan made a friendly gesture to the Olowu of Owu by allowing Olowu to marry his only daughter, Nkan.

Coming from a war campaign one day, the raging Odo Oba (River Oba) would not allow Olowu and his army to cross until a human sacrifice was performed to appease the angry river. The chosen sacrifice was Nkan. The Olubadan was infuriated at hearing of Nkan's death; he sent an emissary to inform the Alafin of Oyo.

Yoruba kings and rulers such as Alake of Egba, Agura of Gbagura, Ooni of Ife, Awujale of Ijebu, and others formed a formidable coalition with Eba'dan against the powerful Olowu of Owu. After the defeat of Owu, many of the warriors that participated in the coalition refused to go back to their towns and cities, except the Ijebu warriors. They began attacking the neighbouring towns and hamlets, and also marauded across Eba'dan thereby making the indigenes fearful of them. Finally, they took over the political landscape of Eba'dan and changed its name to Ibadan, as we have come to know it today.

Ibadan was historically an Egba town. The Egba occupants were forced to leave the town and moved to present-day Abeokuta under the leadership of Sodeke, when the surge of Oyo refugees flocked into the towns as an aftermath of the fall of Oyo Kingdom.

Ibadan grew into an impressive and sprawling urban centre so much that by the end of 1829, Ibadan dominated the Yorùbá region militarily, politically and economically. The military sanctuary expanded even further when refugees began arriving in large numbers from northern Oyo following raids by Fulani warriors. After losing the northern portion of their region to the marauding Fulanis, many Oyo indigenes retreated deeper into the Ibadan environs.

What is sad today about this once beautiful city is that most of the relics are fast wasting away. Nobody seems to care about their dilapidating state. It’s really sad that these historic monuments are not taken care of.

Is FERMA coming alive?

You know what people?! I saw something on the Third Mainland Bridge few days ago I think I should share with you. I am sure many of you will agree with me that Federal Road Maintenance Agency (FERMA) mysteriously resurfaced when nearly everyone thought they were dead.
At least, for those people who passed through the Third Mainland Bridge last Wednesday, they will share my surprise.

What were they doing on the long bridge, you may ask? Well, I can tell you authoritatively that they were repairing the potholes on the bridge, after several accidents had occurred on the road. Since it’s becoming difficult for them to build new roads, it should be convenient for them to patch the potholes on our roads!

Well, this could call for some kind of excitement because I must confess that it’s been two years now since I have seen FERMA signpost on any road. I can recall that some years ago, road construction signs were commonplace. There was effort then to fix bad roads and it was also a time when the roads in places like Oshodi experienced a facelift.

FERMA has become faceless in the minds of most Nigerians such that no one seems to know the name of the minister in charge of roads? Dear readers, can you help? I need to consult Ikechukwu Eze, our Features Editor here. You can’t blame me, you see, because we have ministers who are inactive.

When Ogunlewe was the minister of works and housing, we all knew him. Oby Ezekwesili, Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala were names Nigerians got to know through the offices they held as ministers. They were very active, hence their presence in people’s consciousness.

Presently, I’m sure not many people can name the ministers of finance, petroleum, agriculture, power and steel, among others. The very few ones who are currently visible are: Dora Akunyili, Sam Egwu, Ojo Maduekwe, ministers of information, education and foreign affairs, respectively.
In fact, this was a test many of us failed one day in the newsroom when our deputy editor, Charles Ike-Okoh asked one afternoon. No one could say the names of the ministers he asked for. The answer to this is not far fetched, as the ministers have not been doing much to make a mark in the minds of Nigerians, newsmen inclusive.

Now, back to FERMA and the bad roads in the country. Journeying on Lagos/Ibadan Expressway is no longer a jolly one, even going through some federal roads within the Lagos metropolis can really be an excruciating task. The long stretch of road between the old toll gate and Iwo Road in Ibadan is in a horrible state. It’s really sad that such road still existed in a country where there is a minister for works and housing! Perhaps, he does not travel on some of these roads because if he does, he would have been forced to do something about them. A day journey is enough to leave him with back pains, or a disjointed hip to know how much it affects the health of those who travel through them almost on a daily basis.
For long, Nigerians have bore this suffering in silence, as we daily contend with most of the bad roads across the Lagos metropolis that had become increasingly dangerous and unsafe over the years. Now, we no longer think our silence is golden as we have resorted to speaking out loudly about our plight.

Likewise, Lagosians are worrying over the continued neglect of the roads, especially those who ply the Iyana-Ipaja-Oshodi, Iyana-Ipaja-Ikotun routes, which are in dire need of total rehabilitation. They lament that the poor state of the roads, marked by wide potholes, has brought untold hardship to road users just as precious man hours are lost on daily basis journeying through these roads in traffic logjam.

The claim by the state government has always been that most of the roads are under the authority of the Federal Government, that is, those considered as federal roads. The Federal Government should therefore be responsive to the yearnings of the masses and rise up to the occasion by fixing the roads in the general interest of the public.

The rain traveller

On the morning of last Wednesday, I was in a hurry to get to the office. I peeped out of my window to do a mini weather forecast since the Island had been overtaken by flood in the last two days. I could see in the distance from where I stood on the terrace that the clouds were gathering, a sign it would be a rainy morning.

I hurriedly carried my handbag and laptop with the hope of beating the coming rain. Alas, I was wrong, before I descended the stairs, it had started drizzling. Defying the trickling rain, I trudged on. I had to get to the office early to wrap up the production for the magazine, Business Life.

On a day like this, taking the car to the office was an option. Driving to the office on a rainy day in Lagos ? Uhn, uhn, tufia-kwa, nba! It’s not a feat I would dare to try! And true to my prediction, a heavy downpour began shortly after I got to Eko Hotel roundabout. The cabs I tried to wave down said emphatic “no” even before I could tell them my destination. For them, Festac was a no-go area because of the rain. And so, my last resort was to get on a danfo.
By the time I got to CMS, the rain was pouring in torrent and the ever busy CMS bridge was deserted, there were only three buses parked on the far right of the bridge. I got on one them heading towards Mile 2, with my umbrella dripping water. Other passengers and I, who were in the bus before me had to wait for the bus to get filled.

The bus driver was shouting at the top of his voice and also making signal with his fingers to the few passengers who walked by in the rain, his destination. His voice, which had become hoarse, was drowned by the sound of the rain. After waiting for some minutes, a young man with ransack fastened on his back was soaked to his pant by the October rain.

He took a seat next to a woman who was not soaked. The uneasiness on the woman’s face was too glaring, as she was trying to avoid getting wet. She moved close to the bus panel in a bid to leave an ample space between herself and the wet man. She was wrong, by the time the fourth person sat down (who was equally drenched), she had to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with the wet man.

As the heat in the bus became unbearable, I could not help but pray the bus moves on time, as the windows were shut. There was no fresh air in spite of the cold weather. Eventually, the engine roared to life as the bus got filled; and we embarked on our journey to Mile 2. After journeying for a few metres, we ran into a traffic gridlock on Apongbon Bridge . There was an accident involving three BRT buses and a car. We were in the traffic for hours.

Such an occurrence is not uncommon whenever it rains in Lagos . As if that was not enough, our bus broke down at the foot of a bridge. As the driver tried to revive the engine after several attempts, the engine came back to life. We have not moved a few yards when it broke down again, right in the middle of the highway. This time, the engine failed to respond and we all became impatient with the man’s fruitless attempts to kick start the bus.

We got off the bus to stand on the sidewalk. Several vehicles sped past, splashing water on us. I held on tight to my umbrella which was at the risk of being blown away by the strong wind. We were all at our wits end, as there was no hope of getting another bus. The rain was pouring heavily and it was unfortunate that it was at this its intensity increased.

Suddenly, an empty bus appeared from nowhere with the conductor shouting its destination, Mile 2. Excitedly, we jumped on board. We were completely overtaken by water as we approached Point Road , and saw several vehicles stuck in the flood. Commuters who could not get on any commercial vehicle made their journey on foot. With their trousers rolled up, they waded through the dirty brownish water. Discarded bottles of water, old shoes, and all kinds of nylon floated in the pool. It was horrible!

The journey for most drivers became the survival of the fittest; vehicles without good engines were nowhere. Apapa was free of traffic, but too flooded. It was pitiable how people had to swim their way out of the huge water unmindful of what was underneath. The potholes were deep. They fell into them and with determination and courage they moved on. As workers have to get to work, it was no joke at all. Any one who passed through Apapa last Wednesday would understand how much Lagosians are suffering.

As I write this, some of my colleagues are just getting to the office at 7.30 p.m. They had been in traffic. It was a horrible day. In unison, we cry for good drainage system, good roads so that when it rains, we all won’t have to suffer as travellers in the rain!

A generation of female potters

Pottery in Nigeria has for centuries been the exclusive preserve of the womenfolk. Even in modern times, they live in a closed society that protects their craft secrets, taught only to those born into the hereditary profession of potters, writes FUNKE ADETUTU

Alhaja, as she is fondly called by her relatives and co-workers, is supervising the last set of women working on a set of Ikoko Amu, a huge water storage vessel. In this part of the state, Ikoko Amu, is essential to daily life, especially in rural areas like this where there is irregular supply of pipe borne water. Hence, when water comes as it does bi-weekly, those with large families have to store water in large storage vessels till the next ‘season’ it comes. And so, this hot noontime, Alhaja hurriedly encourages the workers to put finishing touches to the sets of Ikoko Amu they have been working on in the last few days. Customers are waiting!

Alhaja is a sturdy 60-year-old woman who has shrunken with age and hard work. The fold of overlapping flesh on her fore head is puckered in a furrow as she presses her forefinger on the moist clay pot. She is the family head of Ile Dada (Dada Compound), where virtually, all the females are potters.

Normally, they do not welcome strangers. They live in a closed society that
protects their craft secrets. They believe that if they share their craft, the
ancestors who taught them might not approve. Pottery is their only means of
livelihood and the processes are traditionally taught only to those born into
the hereditary profession of potters.

The Dada Compound demonstrates and explains the construction of huge Ikoko Amu, from digging and working the clay to the dramatic open field firing of more than a thousand perfectly symmetrical water vessels made without a potter's wheel. The women and girls, ages five to 65, work at their profession from dawn to dusk, year-round. Because of rapidly changing conditions in the country, the infatuation with modern technology and plastics, Odia Ofeimun, astute poet and literary critic fears these skills could pass away, and become victims of Western technology and notions of progress.

Three hundred kilometres north of Ogbomoso town lay the primordial town of Ilorin, Kwara State. It’s a rather traditional place, like many other communities in south-west Nigeria. This region is although not very wealthy, because most of its inhabitants are peasants who thrive on craft, farming and petty trading. The landscape is incredibly beautiful here: green, fertile, hilly, and all you will find more are groups of people tilling the ground or hawking their farm produce in the hot October sun.

Women potters are many in the city of Ilorin. They must have thought it odd that a male was a potter. Yoruba culture traditionally has been gender specific, regarding work, insisting that women perform tasks associated with hearth and home and that men perform tasks outside the home. When questioned, master-potter Alhaja says she is not aware that men are potters in Northern Nigeria where pottery is also common. She believes custom and tradition call women to pottery, yet couldn't think of any specific restrictions against men becoming potters. “The question had never come up,” she observes.

The Ogbena is another compound in Ilorin where there are women who specialise in the production of lidded soup bowls, called Isasun. It is used in rural areas for cooking over an open fire. Both the Ikoko Amu and the Isasun are produced with hand-building skills alone. This sweltering afternoon, Abibatu Koleosho is at work, her back is soaked in sweat. The brownish wrapper she tied around her body makes the beads of sweat visible. The perspiration is beading at her neck cape, then slipping down in quicksilver rivulets to rest on her already sodden waistband. Abibat belongs to a lineage of female potters. Her great-grandmother was a potter. “My mother was doing this job before she fell ill some months ago,” she says as she turns her face away from the smoke rising from the open fire. “I had to take over from her although I have been working with her before then. I used to work with my grandmother in the upper part of our compound before she died.”

Abibat has also initiated her 12-year-old daughter, a primary six pupil at a local primary school into the craft. “I don’t think I will do another job,” says Ajoke, in Yoruba, the local language. “My grandmother taught me how to make clay. She is still alive, although she is ill. She told us it is an exclusive preserve of our family, a secret we cannot share with outsiders. I will also teach my children when I grow up.” She has just finished working on a dark coloured ‘Isasun’ which she puts next to the ones her mother had done in the hot October sun to dry.

The largest community of potters in Nigeria is called Ebu Dada, located on the outskirts of Ilorin. The community consists only of Yoruba women who are hereditary full time professional potters. Here, a green ware water vessel is in the process of final construction. When fired, it will weigh some 125 lbs. The wedging task is in no way enormous for their slim frame. Their strength and stamina came from wedging clay every day since childhood. As potters, they performed amazing feats of endurance and strength. I offered to give some helping hand, immediately they understood I was not a potter because while I gave the helping hand tilling their clay, it was obvious it was such an excruciating task, of course, I was unable to keep up with them!
Pottery in Nigeria has for centuries been the exclusive preserve of the womenfolk. Pottery, in all Nigerian traditional cultures is used for utilitarian purposes such as cooking and especially for water storage. Some tribes and cultures also use pots as religious symbols, hence the intricate ornamentation that is typical of such items.

“Among some people in the north, for instance, women make pots for use at home, while men make the special pots to be used for ceremonial processions. Both make fragile, thin walled African pottery pots, which they make use of in varied ways,” explains Bola Durosanwo, a lecturer of Fine and Applied Arts at Yaba College of Technology, Lagos. “As when making baskets, women normally use a coil method, rolling long strips of clay into coils, which they then stack to make the pot. They sometimes shape a pot by stacking the clay pieces around a mould. Men also make use of moulds, but they create their pots from flat blocks of clay instead of coils of clay. The Igbo tribe of Nigeria have traditionally dressed both house hold and ceremonial African pottery pots with grooves, and raised designs.”

Historically, Ladi Kwali, who died in 1983, was Nigeria’s best known female potter. She left a rich legacy of her work and a school of ‘students’ who picked up from where she left at the Abuja Pottery Training Centre. She grew up in a family in which the womenfolk made pots for a living.
The Abuja Pottery Training Centre, which Kwali headed before she died, was established 1950 by an English potter, Michael Cardew, who was sent to the Abuja area by the then colonial government, ostensibly to ‘improve’ the quality of local work. But he found himself, for the next 15 years, in a symbiotic working relationship with local potters, in which he taught and was taught by potters like Ladi Kwali. While Cardew introduced wheels and kilns to the centre, he also learnt about traditional firing methods and ornamentation. Kwali on the other hand, was initially reluctant to adapt to the wheel, preferring the spiral coil method of building pots. She however, discovered she had a natural flair for the wheel.

Over the next decade, her ornamentation skills became more sophisticated, and probably because of improved firing methods, she had the opportunity to exhibit her work in Europe in 1958, ‘59 and 1962. Her pottery was also displayed during Nigeria’s independence celebrations in 1960. But the local women in Ilorin are not as lucky as Kwali. They are not celebrated, yet their works are rare masterpieces.

In Osogbo, Daramola Adekunbi is a graduate of civil engineering from the Esa Oke Polytechnic. She was not born into the potter’s lineage, yet she had been drawn to the craft of pottery since her undergraduate days. Now, she works as a foreman at the Industrial Development Centre, Osogbo. “I love working with clay,” she says, displaying both hands already smeared with clay. I can’t really explain what drew me to it but I love it. There is this aura - the smell of wet mud gives this unusual feeling which I can’t explain.”

Adekunbi unlike her counterparts decides not to seek for employment in the big cities like Lagos and Abuja; instead, she makes a living from selling fired clay and tutoring students who come to the development centre for training in pottery.

However, Adekunbi unlike the Ilorin potters, says she will not force any of her children to take to pottery. “They have a choice to decide on what to do. I was not born into pottery myself hence I will not force. Pottery is just a vocation I love and which I am currently practising.
To this end, Terracotta pots produced by these women are used in daily life by the majority of the Nigerian rural population. They may be cheap to make and very cheap to replace, yet these women see it as a calling, a craft to be practised by generations yet unborn.

For Wole

Two weeks ago, I did a piece titled ‘The Tarzan Monologues,’ where I talked about my visit to Terra Kulture, including the exchange between Wole Oguntokun, producer Theatre@Terra and the audience, when he introduced the play for October.

And so, last week Sunday was the premier of the famous play, and our dear Wole was there. “I was surfing the internet when I read Funke’s article,” he told the audience, why Tarzan was the question she raised. But my Tarzan is not a white man as she wrote in the article. They are black men.”

It was a hilarious experience for me to hear men talk about their pains and frustrations, dreams and aspirations. They talked about both serious and unserious issues, those unexpected matters that bother them.

The fact that the society has placed so much on the man because of his masculinity is one of the issues raised in the play. The first monologue titled: E get as e be, by Kanayo Okani, points out all the other monologues in the right direction as it states pointedly salient problems faced by a poor man, a man struggling to survive.

A man without money is regarded as an outcast among friends and families, as he cannot contribute anything logical to important discussions because he is penniless, according to some Nigerians. Hence, he stylishly excuses himself from taking on responsibilities such as settling the bills at home, funding his father’s funeral rite or even getting a birthday or valentine gift for his girlfriend. “If you wan waka with pride,” says Okani, “scarcitygo make your hand fall.”
In one of the monologues, O.C Ukeje narrated his experience (I’m sure it’s not a personal one) about erectile - dysfunction, premature ejaculation, sexual-weakness or impotency, as some of the issues bothering men. There are men who suffer from these sexual problems.
He said it was the desire of all men to indulge in sexual feelings and acts, and it was a natural state of mind to feel this way and naturally make love and produce other life form. Hence, the inability to do this takes away the man’s ego.

It also has psychological effect on the man who often feels inferior to his peers on one hand, while he lacks the confidence to talk to a woman on the other. Such an experience could be really devastating.

Paul Alomona’s monologue on The First Time was quite touching. “I was 13, Aunty was 32,” he said as he began his narration, “She called me after my parents had gone to work. She told me: ‘hold me, touch me, hold me close, don’t let go. The embrace went on for two years until Aunty travelled. Now, whenever I am with my girlfriend, it’s Aunty’s image I see with her words: ‘touch me here, touch me there, hold me close, don’t let go.’”

It may sound funny, but it is true that some women do indulge in such act.
And of course, Kunle Ayoola’s monologue on Me, My Girl, Her Pastor and the Church was funny. It brings to bare the influence of pastors on the members of their congregation, the fact that a woman needs her pastor’s approval for the right man.

“I have a problem, I want to marry. However, my girl said before I could marry her I have to pass a test. The test is an outside one which is important to her. I must be scrutinised by her pastor! A woman needs validation from her pastor, friends, families, hairdresser and dance instructor.”

Closely related to Kunle’s narration was Bimbo Manuel’s, on a man dating a woman who is 30 years younger than him. “If a girl is old enough to vote, is she not old enough to choose a life partner?” he asked, “they will give you an evil eye if your partner is 20 and your 50. But there is no law that says a man must not choose a partner that is 4, 10, 30, 40 years younger.”
The play was quite interesting and it feels good to know that men like women have issues to deal with. But in spite of the differences, there should be a common ground for both sexes to resolve these differences. The key word, if you ask me, is tolerance.

The ability to overlook and forgive one another, no matter how bad, is the wisdom needed. It is about seeing one another as humans and not as male and female. To an extent, I like Wole’s objectivity with script and the fact that at the end, he states categorically that men who rape women are beasts!

The Tarzan Monologues

Some weeks ago, John Osadolor, our news editor here at BusinessDay, accused me of having too much fun 'going out' on weekends. He believes covering a beat like mine means 'over enjoyment.' However, what he considered 'going out' was not going out in the real sense of it. I go out to work and not for pleasure as he thought. Going to watch stage plays on Sundays at Terra Kulture or Muson Centre or any other place, depending on the venue chosen by the organisers, may not be fun at all unlike what John thought. Instead of having fun like other members of the audience, I tend to be more attentive thinking within myself how the actions of the characters affect the development of the plot.

I don't just go there to sit and laugh, but it's more of an intellectual work, one that requires doing a critical analysis of what is unfolding on stage. Hence, I cannot watch the play with the ordinary eye of someone who went there to enjoy herself. But I have no choice but to have an eye for a critical analysis of the play. Well, you may want to agree with John that, that is just one occasion when socialising and having fun were all in a day's work for me since journalists do not have weekends - every day is work!

And so, like most Sunday afternoons, I am clad in my 'Sunday's best' on my way to Terra Kulture as usual to watch a stage play. As is his custom, when a play is about to start, Wole Oguntokun, producer, Theatre@Terra, stands in front of the audience to introduce the play.
Just few weeks ago, he started off by introducing the play staging for the month of October, The Tarzan Monologues, a male version of the famous Vagina Monologues. For me, there is nothing wrong in Wole coming up with his own version of the play, since he was discriminated against by the all female crew of the last edition of the play, which he directed and co-wrote the script.
"The women said they did not want a male directing their play," he explained, and this gave birth to the idea of The Tarzan Monologues.

"Why Tarzan?" asked a woman in the audience. "Why Tarzan?" echoed Wole. "Well, Tarzan was a white man who lived in the jungle. We want to show that men also have a story to tell. Women have been talking; we also want men to talk. The characters will talk about many issues, issues bothering men too."

"Men talk about politics," another woman in the audience noted. "No, they don't talk about politics," denied Wole. "Men talk about their kids, about a landlord knocking at the door. I live in a room with a woman who worries about what to wear every morning. Men don't worry about what to wear. Men don't worry when they are not invited to a party, but women do."
Wole's position begs for question and I believe, dear readers, you will agree with me, because making such a general statement about women is not totally right. Not all women worry about such mundane issues. For instance, I don't worry about such things. I don't even like parties.
Besides, there are men who also worry about not being invited to parties and what to wear. The fact that Wole does not worry about such issues does not mean some men don't worry about them and vice versa. I still insist that life is not about gender discrimination, but about people who inhabit it. Our preferences for things differ from person to person.

Am not a feminist, but if I want to do a feminist analysis of Wole's intention given the play's title, then, it will be instructive to do an analysis of the character, Tarzan. Tarzan was actually a fictional character created by Edgar Rice Burroughs, and it first appeared in the novel Tarzan of the Apes. Tarzan was an archetypal feral child raised in the African jungle by gorillas, who later returned to civilisation only to largely reject it and return to the wild as a heroic adventurer.
In Tarzan, Burroughs created an extreme example of a hero figure largely unalloyed with character flaws or faults. He was described as being Caucasian, extremely athletic, tall, handsome, and tanned, with grey eyes and black hair. Emotionally, he was courageous, loyal and steady, intelligent and learns new languages easily.

He was presented as behaving ethically, at least by Burroughs' definitions, in most situations, except when seeking vengeance under the motivation of grief, as when his ape mother Kala was killed in Tarzan of the Apes, or when he believed Jane had been murdered in Tarzan the Untamed.

He was deeply in love with his wife and totally devoted to her and in numerous situations where other women expressed their attraction to him, Tarzan, politely but firmly declined their attentions.
When presented with a situation where a weaker individual or party was being preyed upon by a stronger foe, Tarzan invariably took the side of the weaker party. In dealing with other men, Tarzan was firm and forceful. With male friends, he was reserved but deeply loyal and generous. As a host he was likewise generous and gracious, and as a leader he commanded devoted loyalty.
Based on the above analysis, would it be right to say that all men possess the character of Tarzan, at least, that is what Wole wants us to believe when he titled the play The Tarzan Monologues.

Anyway, I will keep my fingers crossed to see if the stories of Kunle of Rooftop MC, Bob Manuel-Udoku and Denrele, who would feature in the play, be interesting enough to deserve such title.