By Olukorede Yishau
He has a middle name neither his educational nor birth certificates show. But, when you read his writings, the middle name screams at you: Wordsmith. The man many of us call Sam Omatseye should actually be fully addressed as Sam Wordsmith Omatseye. If you are in doubt, read his poems, his plays, his novels, his essays, and then his journalism, and you will agree this boss of mine knows his ways around words. He contextualises words with so much licence that their meanings mount pedestals and quit the ordinary realm. The best way to capture it is to say this man who just turned sixty is a Maradona with words. He dribbles words with exciting skills.
Omatseye, however, does not dribble his way far from controversies. In fact, controversies excite him and bring out his poetic best.
Since meeting him over 13 years ago, I have not missed his presence once he is near me because he easily joins discussions and voices his opinions. It is left to you to agree or disagree with his often caustic views.
Since meeting him over 13 years ago, I have seen and heard of his many small miracles in the lives of many, some his junior colleagues and others students whose fees he paid.
Since meeting him over 13 years ago, he has shown up for me a number of times, even though I do not consider myself that close to him.
Omatseye’s second novel, ‘My Name is Okoro’, is one of those books you read and they leave you with lessons you and the society can do a lot with. The descriptive first paragraph promises to soak you in. The paragraph has blood, dust, sweat and all the violent imageries they often conjure in the mind. And there is the promise of a saucy story, whose end can be complicated. There are also hints of pain and death.
The elegance of the language added to my determination to read it to the end. I smiled at expressions such as: “The warrior about his loins would have found rest in Nneka”; “He shot when she was not looking”; “It took about seven months into their sojourn in Umunze before Okoro unlocked his dam”; “He let himself loose in the curves and dips of Clara’s body”.
There are many civil war novels, including Chimamanda Adichie’s ‘Half of a Yellow Sun’, which has been made into a movie of the same title. But, there is something different about Omatseye’s civil war novel. Yes, like the others, it is violence-filled. What is different is what I see as a protest in the book. It is from a minority’s point of view. Instances abound in it of efforts to properly situate the feelings of the minorities of the South. And the clincher, for me, is the use of a name that cuts across the divides to tell this amazing story of love in a time of war.
This book hammers on the Niger Delta question, which the Nigerian state has been unable to answer. At best, we are patching it. Evidence of the minority concerns abounds in this book. At a point, Okoro is forced to ask: “Why do the newspapers keep writing about Igbo pogrom when they killed everyone who was a southerner except the Yorubas?”
And in chapter five, a woman from the South, who had come to the North in search of her son, says: “Ukwanis are not Igbos… The animals are killing everyone.”
She goes further: “Ukwanis can understand Igbo language but they can distinguish who is speaking Ukwani and who is speaking Igbo. The Igbos know who is speaking Ukwani as distinct from who is speaking Igbo.”
And this from Okoro himself: “But is it not worse when the language is not even close but seems to sound the same but is not Yoruba or Hausa? For instance, the Anang and Ibibio.”
Chief Subomi, who hid Okoro in his Kaduna house after he escaped Lieutenant Abdullahi’s bullets, adds: “They were not spared. They were lumped together with the Igbos in the slaughter.”
The book’s unforgettable shots should remain with us like precious pearls. One is that we cannot sweep away the minority question. Two, we should ditch idealism and face the realities of our time. There is also a vital lesson for those who believe with violence, they can get the Niger Delta its due. Okoro’s wife spoke about the futility of war. Here it is: “That (time-wasting) is the meaning of this war. People died, families destroyed and cities on their knees. We have returned to where we started without all the things we started with.”
Beneath the protest in the book lies the story of passion, love, and lust in a time of war. This fascinated me. I was thrilled by what it means to be human in wartime Igboland rived by man’s inhumanity to man. Okoro finds Clara and with time, the warriors in his loins exhibit his prowess. Again and again, even when they try to stop, failure defeats them. The brute called Lieutenant Abdullahi also falls in love with Nneka and for love, he surrenders almost all.
Omatseye’s latest drama, ‘Obito’, is filled with people behaving badly. They call white black and want us to see white as black. And they blame it on tradition and culture. In this offering, Omatseye resurrects a number of ill-behaved people from his imaginative graveyard. They hide under the king’s son’s supposed graduation ceremony to cover their lies.
Ordinarily, the bone of contention looks simple: a king dies. But for these guys, it becomes complicated and confusing. Chiefs devise means to keep the truth in detention. We meet interesting characters, such as Chief Nikoro, Toritse and Alero, the reporter, whose quest for truth helps shine light on what many will love to remain dark.
One very interesting thing about this 96-page drama is laid out in the prologue where Nikoro is told by a native doctor never to lie to his son as a way of atoning for the death of a son he had outside wedlock. “If things get complicated, show him the way to the truth,” the native doctor instructs.
In ‘Obito’, Omatseye’s mastery of language is on display. My favourite line in the book is “the truth of culture and tradition”. I laughed out loud when I read this line. This is what Donald Trump will describe as alternative truth. There are many other fine expressions that will see an average reader turning the pages until the end where the reporter returns to Lagos after completing her task of establishing that the king is truly dead and not on any imaginary trip. I also like the blend of prose and poetry in the dialogues.
My final take: Now that he is sixty years young Sam Wordsmith Oritsetimeyin Omatseye will sure still tantalise us with more literary and journalism offerings. Happy 60th birthday, boss and my prayers for you are that the sixth floor will favour you more and pave way for the actualisation of your dreams. And thanks for that unforgettable moment you stood up for me when it mattered despite the fact that we had no prior discussion on the matter. I will always remember!
• Yishau is a newspaper columnist and author of ‘In The Name of Our Father’and’Vaults of Secrets’