To John Pepper Clark at 70

By

Hope Eghagha

IT is evening; night is still far away. So J.P, our dear J.P. of ''Night Rain'' and "Abiku'' fame still has a long, long road to travel. His poems and plays testify to the eloquence of his mighty pen, inspired by the uncertainties and actualities of the now decimated and troubled Niger Delta. For long before we could wear our underpants and before the plight of the milked region became headline news, the poet's roving eyes had caught the ambiguities and deprivations of the Niger Delta. As we know, "Night Rain" tells the story. The grey hairs are not seen. But they are there. He is still sprightful in movement, ably supported and companioned by the agile and ageless Mrs Ebun Clark. The memory is still sharp. His sarcasm is still fresh as of old. The gentle ironies in his spoken words, the glitter in the eyes. The Boat is not yet ready for him, to take him into the ancestral world. It should not come yet. For wisdom becomes richer from 70. Words take on new meanings, give fresh insights. So let it be with J.P!

 

At 70, J.P.'s pen still has the infinite capacity to capture the beauty of nature and the tyranny of the big trees in the forest of Nigeria. All for Oil and The Wives Revolt cry out loud in Clark's pantheon of poetic drama. So we must keep around and about this masquerade that steps out only when the moon is aglow. He is not Abiku, who must come and go as he pleases; he is, if anything, Ozidi, without a thirst for vengeance. He is not a casualty of undeclared wars, deleting persons like letters from a computer system. He carries with him a monument of poetic history and accomplishments. His poetic voice was heard, celebrated, and eulogised before a whole generation, our generation was born. Who are we to sing his praises

  • Who are we to make so bold
  • Yet we know that it is not the duty of a genius to sound his trumpet. So we the upcoming and perhaps ambitious ones must do so in celebration of poetic excellence.

    J. P. is seventy! So let us roll out the poems. Not drums. For the loud vulgarity of the politicians' drums create familiar emotions of despair, and sometimes infinite nausea. So poems and poetry it must be! Ibadan, which he immortalised in the literary world, has rolled out the words. We are grateful. That is how it should be. Excellence must be, can only be celebrated by those who appreciate it. So others too must roll out the poems, conferences, seminars, and drama productions. Let all others hear. Those ears sealed with wax should visit a doctor and purify their eardrums with 'goat huge enough for a cowrie to pass through its ears.'

    But his poems are a million years old. For we drank from the breasts of his poetic musings as infants in the world of poetry. His plays are a monument from the classical age of Nigeria. Song of a Goat, Ozidi, The Boat, Full Circle and The Masquerade, carry the fire of the ancient poetry in dramatic form. In other worlds, J. P. would be a Grand Commander of the Federal Republic. But our leaders say this national honour is reserved for only plundering Generals and their subservient, opportunistic cronies. Yes, those whose duty it is, like the elder Ozidi, to carry the burden of the land ferry the pot of the land into their pockets. Men who were political toddlers in name and history when J.P.'s splashed on world's pages! No wonder, J.P's roots are in the grooves of the Niger Delta, the nation's minority laboratory where oil is sucked, used and thrown back in the form of political insults and crumbs. Is that why the honour is far away

  • First contact with John Pepper Clark in secondary school days flashed images of a foreign writer. The name as an identity tag logged him to other worlds. As we know, people of the Delta give names with a tinge of the foreign! Early contact with Europeans accounts for this tradition. Later we came to know that John Pepper was neither a foreign poet nor did he pepper those who sat at poetry's table with him. The lines were a beauty to read! He was a son of the soil! Bekederemo became the localised identity. Bekederemo of the oily waters of the Niger Delta! Trader-merchant, husband of many wives! Father of many children and grandchildren! Grandfather of the Poet!

    Ozidi picks up the tools to avenge his father's death. Oreame is there to fortify him. The nation led by the scoundrel Ofe and his cabal have murdered a man of conscience, valour and truth. What will Orea do

  • What will Dikibo's wife do
  • What will Harry Marshall's wife do
  • See what they did to Bola Ige's wife! How will the widows confront the nest of killers
  • Orea has given birth to another Ozidi. The posthumous avenger Ozidi must scatter death among his father's enemies. What can Orea do to stop her son
  • Who will take vengeance on our behalf now that the state lies prostrate
  • What can Orukorere do to stop the leopard from pouncing on the goat
  • Who takes the mockery when Zifa sends Ebiere to the Masseur when we know that Zifa parades a weak organ
  • Tonye tills the soil that is not his, owing to Zifa's pride. Who will save us from leaders possessed with the demon of Zifa's pride
  • The big powers till the soil of the Niger Delta and take away the oil. Who takes the blame
  • We are all casualties of the war, so says J.P. 'The casualties are many, and a good number well/ Outside the scenes of ravage and wreck'. It is clearer now. Both the victor and the vanquished are casualties. In a sense, the Niger Delta people are the wives, and they are still in revolt; they will continue to be in revolt until the holders of power alter the economic equation. Even if a man appears as a masquerade, we must study his character before giving him a position of leadership. How can we extricate ourselves from the labyrinth created by the three powers
  • These are some of the mysteries of J.P's pen. And there are more. So let Clark clap on in the clatter of our life/ Let the balloon of time roll on/And let the wisdom of old age/ Carry forward the banner of truth. Let the taste of fresh palm wine flowing from a seventy-year old pen carry us into the river of life. Let time's grace be a soothing balm to the harsh realities of the Niger Delta. And change too. Let change come. Let more poets drink words of inspiration from the classics of our time, couched in poetic diction. Let all men who should be in battle abandon their wives and take a plunge into the fight.

    There will be no sudden returns, no reversals. Let the music play; let the plays be played by players in the field. Let the givers of national awards take note: This poet deserves a national award. For, the portrait of Nigeria is clearer in his works than in the minds of the Generals who have awarded themselves all the honours! Happy 70, Poet laureate par excellence! May the Almighty's Grace continue to shine on you!

 

May 2004