Can I get political for a moment?
Ordinarily I like to play with words but, once in a blue moon, a revelation hits me hard and I have no choice but to take my thoughts seriously. Such was the case when a director encouraged me to write down an incredible rant I gave on the so-called third-world stereotype of "corruption".
Beginning in April, Nigeria held a historic round of elections and it was expected to be free and fair for the very first-time. Unfortunately, the result of the presidential election sparked fatal riots and an emergency curfew forced the show times of the widely-anticipated musical FELA! to be pushed backed. But, what it also did was bring the issue of corruption back to the world stage, particularly in the 50th year of Nigeria's independence from Great Britain.
In light of this event, I couldn't help but think of this excerpt (my rant) from Memoirs. It includes a legend that a family member told me and, as debatable as it might be, it has stuck with me when thinking about the logistics of the transatlantic slave trade, a form of corruption before there was ever a third-world face for it. It also includes a cameo from a photo exhibit first curated at NYU titled Africans in Europe. The exhibit has very poignant images of Africans immigrating to Europe in both dignified and undignified ways.
And so, I present you with another excerpt from Memoirs of an Oyibo/ Acata: unrevised and left just as I wrote it back in September of 2010.
Plus, the "Choristers" are back!
(Person sits with black etchings on her face looking through photos from the exhibit titled “Africans in Europe”. Each one falls to the floor.)
Person speaks:
The transatlantic slave trade is still continuing. Only this time Africans are not being forcibly removed…well, wait a minute. Yes, they are. Because of the economic pressure they’re under in their native countries, they’re washing up on the shores of France and Italy in makeshift boats, crying “Please, take me. Don’t let us sink into the water!” Begging for help from the same people that colonized them. How did we go from that to that (points to photos on the floor)? (Beat.)
Do you wanna know where these marks came from? No one knows for sure but, have you heard the story of Olaudah Equiano? Olaudah was kidnapped as a little boy from Nigeria and smuggled into the transatlantic slave trade. (Must have been the time when traders got tired of trading and resorted to stealing. It was much easier.) Miraculously, Olaudah lived to write a book about his story, but, unfortunately, his story wasn’t the only one of its kind. You see, legend has it that MANY children were kidnapped from West Africa during the slave trade and so what some Africans started to do was mark their newborn babies with symbols that specifically identified their families, their village, and/or their ethnic group so that NO ONE could say that that wasn’t their child to claim. 200 years later, grown people are walking around with scars on their faces. Some subtle. Some deeeeeeep. Because of a kidnapping spree called the transatlantic slave trade. We don’t trade slaves anymore. We trade corruption.
Not too long ago, there was a special that aired on a major network television station exposing what has become known as the Nigerian scam. In it the reporter (an American man of Caucasian descent), was riding through the streets of Lagos, Nigeria’s former capital, revealing the broken infrastructure from which these scams originated and calling it a “disgrace of a city”. A disgrace. Well, how did that happen? The reporter was merely passing through, yet passing judgment when he hadn’t lived there! He did not take the time to research - then explain - why, why the people living there had to function in a city like that.
What happens to a dream deferred? In Internet cafes, young men with genius minds, quick hands, engineering degrees, and no jobs type for hours on end to make a living out of creating Internet scams. 419. The Nigerian government’s code for fraud. Now, what is the American code for greed?
Because on the other side of the ocean…over HERE…some Americans sit in their homes and offices with hungry minds, lazy hands, psychology degrees and too many jobs responding to e-mails stating that someone has DIED. (Beat) And they jump up and say, “YES! YES! YES! I’ll take that inheritance.” Even if the story isn’t true! So, who are you? What are YOU, America? To eagerly send money in order to receive money that is. Not. Yours. The corruption works both ways.
(Chorus of Experienced African Dancers enter.)
First chorister: Nawaooooo. I did not know acatas can talk like this. Henh? Oyibo? (Laughs) So you are now seeing dat you ah Yoruba? I’m beginning to like you now. Good for you! (Laughs) Oyibo? Look at me. At least I now know you are not an acata. Oyibo, yes. Acata, no mo. (Laughs) Yes! It is evident that you have the spirit of a Yoruba…but the rhythm of a white man. My daughter you must still learn how to dance.
Second chorister (drily): And speak Yoruba.
First chorister: Yes! You must learn. Don’t let this country trick you, oh. My sister, what is it the American people say? When de SHEET hits de FAN (she repeats this same phrase in Yoruba) it is DEN… you will KNOW…dat… you. AH. a. Nigerian.
Second chorister: Hmm (with loud hand clap/wiping) Yes, ohhhh. Hmmm.
First chorister: Anyway…my daughter you have tried.
(The Chorus exits.)
