And so Nigeria killed Festus Iyayi. . . .
He
was one of our very best: creative, energetic, dependable, and
forthright. We were there in 1980 (with the then young and irrepressible
Tunde Fatunde) when what we call ASUU (Academic Staff Union of
Universities) today was in its infancy. Iyayi served the Union
tirelessly and loyally, becoming its President in 1986, by popular
acclamation. I worked with Iyayi, and saw him at close quarters.
Fearless but fair, courageous but compassionate, demanding but decent,
Iyayi was a great leader and an even greater follower, the kind who
pressed on when others were seized by trepidation and despair. There is a
painful logic in the fact he met his death while on a vital errand for
our beloved ASUU.
Iyayi was a Balogun of the Barricades in our
struggle against military dictatorship and our battle for Human Rights.
He gave so generously, so valuably of himself and his inexhaustible
physical and mental resources. Like the great Nelson Mandela, he could
have said, without any fear of contradiction, that the struggle was his
life.
All these virtues informed every line he wrote, from
creative works to occasional interventions in the media. Art for Human
Sake; clear illumination of the past; sensitive appreciation of the
present; intelligent
apprehension and anticipation of the future: Iyayi
is a writer with the answerable vision. He chose his heroes very
carefully, very judiciously. He ridiculed tyrants out of their despotic
inclinations, challenged the unaccountably wealthy to show the source of
their loot; urged the pauperized and the marginalized to interrogate
the grounds for their plight instead of merely collapsing under its
weight. Iyayi's blood boiled at the sight of injustice. Whenever he
raised his voice it was to denounce the monsters that make progress
impossible by laying us low. Iyayi challenged, then redefined our
concept of heroism, for he knew that many of those propped up as heroes
are nothing short of heinous villains; that many of our so-called giants
are smaller than ants. His novel on the Nigerian civil war is never
ambiguous as to who the real heroes of that war are, and where to look
for the villains.
For many of his readers,
Violence remains
his all-time classic. In this unforgettable novel, Iyayi invites us to a
Fanonian aetiology of violence, its actuation, and awful ramifications.
In this heart-rendering story, we meet a millionaire who never labours
for his money but uses it to take advantage of the moneyless; we meet
young people so desperate, so poor – no, impoverished – that they are
forced to sell their very blood for money for the very basic essentials
of life. We encounter the uncommon courage and stoicism of the poor and
lowly and the callous bestiality of the rich and powerful. In the annals
of African fiction, only Ousmane Sembene’s
God’s Bit of Wood and Ngugi wa Thion’go’s
Petals of Blood have
dissected Africa’s social reality in such gripping detail and with such
committed panache. I love all Iyayi’s works with a passion, but for me,
Violence remains for him what
Things Fall Apart is for Chinua Achebe: a magnificent story ennobled by unforced lyricism and spontaneous narrativity.
Violence
marked a new accent in Nigerian fiction when it appeared in the late
1970’s. In many ways, it is the harbinger for the likes of E.E.Sule’s
Sterile Sky published about three decades later
.
Personally, to encounter Festus was to get ready to fall in love with
him. Natural. Unabashedly, unapologetically natural. Humorous and always
loaded with funny anecdotes, Festus took the sting out of the scorpion
of the Nigerian jungle by laughing and helping others to laugh at its
countless foibles. Victim of incarceration, unwarranted sack,
vilification, and other abuses, he was always ready to forge ahead.
Utterly disenchanted with Nigeria’s present, he never lost hope in her
future. Festus was a comrade who was also a friend, a fellow-traveller
and a brother.
And so Nigeria killed Iyayi. Nigeria, that
dragon which feeds so insatiably upon the most precious of its own eggs.
We lost a gallant fighter and great patriot. Terrible. Unspeakably
terrible. Behold the terrifying irony: the patriot who labored so
tirelessly to rid his country of violence has become a victim of her
egregious violence.
Yet another chapter in our running saga of waste. . . .
Adieu, brave comrade. Nigeria’s wasters are still here, Awaiting Court-Marshall.
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