that fecundly revolutionary English poet
warned  that  those  who do  not/cannot
create their own system must be prepared
to be enslaved by the system of others?
Africa  is  not  only  a continent  in  the
margin,  but  by  every  indication  she
appears  inexorably,  so fatally  pleased
to be there.

Just  consider  this:  apart  from  the
omnibus Noma Award which has come
to be through the generosity and vision
of a Japanese  publisher,  there was no
single  continental  literary  prize  of
substantial worth in Africa. This crucial
lack must be laid at the door of a monster
other  than  our  perennial  poverty.  Or
does one plead poverty in this regard in
a  continent  where  one  country
sometimes  squanders  several  million
dollars  on  hosting  of  a  continental
conference,  a  continent  where  a  sit-
tight  dictator  is  so  scandalously  rich
that  he  has  been  described  'walking
bank account in leopard skin hat?' No,
Africa's  failure  to 
institute  her  own
literary prizes was due to monumental
lack  of  vision  by African  rulers, their
proverbial hostility to images and ideas
of beauty, their rank philistinism, their
eternal satisfaction at being'movers and
shakers' of the margin. No, the African
strongman  would rather build a prison
for the writer than establish a prize for
his/her artistic accomplishment.

But let us go back to our argument about
foreign 'recognition' and the exogenous
determination  of  the value of  African
literature and art. There are many reasons
why we should not blame Africans who
thank  their prize-winning  compatriots
for  bringing 
'recognition'  to  the
continent. Africa has remained for many
centuries  a  victim  of  negation  and
absence. The accomplished writer from.
Africa is, therefore, regarded not just as
a voice, but also as an antidote, a veritable
medal  to  be  waved  in  the  face  of  a
humiliating  and  relentlessly  cynical
world,  a  proof  that  we  too  have  not
come to the gathering of the world with
empty hands. The book was a powerful
instrument  in  the  oppression  and
exploitation of the African; the book is
also seen by many Africans  today as a
weapon of liberation. So whether they
accept  that  mantle  or  not,  modern
African writers are regarded as warriors,
the literary messiahs of a silenced and
much-abused tribe.

To be sure and fair, foreign  prizes and
their attendant recognition have played-
a valuable diplomatic  role in the lives
and  struggles  of  African 
literary
ambassadors.  But  for  pressures  and
outcry  consequent  upon 
their
recognition  abroad,  Soyinka,  Ngugi,
Nawal  el  Saadawi,  Abdilatiff  Laabi,
Micere Mugo, Jack Mapanje, and many

others would probably  not have come
out alive from the dungeons of African
strongmen. The  1988 Commonwealth
Fiction  Prize came  as an  invigorating
poetic  justice  to  Festus  Iyayi,  a fine
Nigerian novel ist and leader of Nigeria's
Academic Staff  Union  of  Universities
(ASUU), who flew  to London  for the
prize  only  a  few  days  after  emerging
from  a  prolonged  and  gruesome
detention without charge, without trial.

So this essay  is  by  no means  another
vulgar  attack  on  foreign  prizes  and
awards.  It  has  nothing  against
recognition  provided  it  is  healthy,
genuine, and unpatronizing. The thrust
of its argument is that there is something
essentially universal about the genius of
human  creativity,  no  matter  what  its
provenance. No part of the world has a
right to lay a monopolistic claim to that
genius, and proceed to lay out parameters
any yardsticks for the artistic estate of
other  places.  The  world  is  a  wide,
miraculous mbari to which every people
bring  their  own  creation.  Let  no  one
play master in that gathering. Let no one
accept  to play  servant. Let  no canons
terrorise talents with arrogant booming.

Above all, Africa needs to discover her
own  name  without  making  other
continents anonymous; she needs to  find
her  own  centre  without  marginalising
other parts of the world. IGRI

A Celebration of West African  Writing 

TAI ADE FATO

Literature has come of age in West

Africa.  Trying to trace it back
to its very begining now would
be  a  futile  effort.  Oral  literature  has
always been a part of the people. This
art form had reached a very high level
before the art of writing ever came here.
What about the dance drama, the famous
griots among the Senegalese and several
others.

It is not surprising then that the British
Council organizers of the West African
Writers Exhibition had to state that the
exhibition covers only written literature
in  English  language  and  those  whose

r»vl*w

English  translations  are  available.
Another clause: only those currently in
print are included - asituation which the
brochure preface written by Dr. Stewart
Brown  of  the Centre of  West  African
Studies,  University  of  Birmingham
describes as 'One of the frustrations of
the present exhibition.'

He  also  acknowledges  the  lack  of
adequate representation of drama in the
exhibition  despite  its  being  'the  most
vibrant,  the most  fertile,  arguably  the
most effective medium of West African
literature in English over the last forty
years.' But that is drama in performance

rather  than  written.  Playwrights  have
been finding it more and more difficult
to get a publishers  for  their  scripts in
recent years.

Nevertheless  here  is  an  impressive
collection  ranging  from  Olaudah
Equiano's work first published in 1789
through  Negritude  and  other  colonial
era writings to the recent magic-realism
writings in the novel, short story, poetry
and  drama  genres  as  well  as  critical
works and essays. The works cover a
wide range of writers as well as well as
publishers. IGRI

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