Not My Business – Niyi Osundare

POET’S PROFILE

Osundare

Today, I review my favourite Nigerian poet, Niyi Osundare, whose works strike the same cords with me as Kwesi Brew of Ghana.

He was born in 1947 in Ikere-Ekiti, Ekiti State, Nigeria. He is a prolific poet, dramatist and literary critic with degrees from the University of Ibadan (BA), the University of Leeds (MA) and York University, Canada (PhD, 1979). Previously professor (from 1989) and Head of English (1993–1997) at the University of Ibadan, he became professor of English at the University of New Orleans in 1997. He has a lovely wife Kimi and 3 children, two girls, one deaf, and a son who still lives in Nigeria. His deaf daughter is the real reason Osundare is settled in the United States. She could not go to school in Nigeria so they found a school in the U.S. for her and so Osundare could be closer to her they moved with her.

Osundare believes that there is no choice for the African poet but to be political. He has accused and protested against generations of corrupt Nigerian leaders and this poem following is a testament to his bluntness. He doesn’t hide his statement behind humour or wit. He conjures the intended feeling with the straightest words. Not My Business was written in accusation of the murderous dictatorship of Gen. Sanni Abacha from 1993 to 1998.

NOT MY BUSINESS

They picked Akanni up one morning
Beat him soft like clay
And stuffed him down the belly
Of a waiting jeep.

What business of mine is it
So long they don’t take the yam
From my savouring mouth?

They came one night
Booted the whole house awake
And dragged Danladi out,
Then off to a lengthy absence.

What business of mine is it
So long they don’t take the yam
From my savouring mouth?

Chinwe went to work one day
Only to find her job was gone:
No query, no warning, no probe –
Just one neat sack for a stainless record.

What business of mine is it
So long they don’t take the yam
From my savouring mouth?

And then one evening
As I sat down to eat my yam
A knock on the door froze my hungry hand.

The jeep was waiting on my bewildered lawn
Waiting, waiting in its usual silence.

REVIEW
This poem ends poignantly. From the beginning, Osundare is a commentator. A passive viewer who cares little or in fact, has little power to change what he sees. And what he sees is not pleasant.
A man is taken early morning, beaten and then driven away in a jeep.

Osundare is not bothered, supposedly. Once his yam still reaches his mouth, there is no need.

The next time, it happens at night! A man’s house is terrorised awake and he is dragged away, not to be heard from anymore for a long time. Osundare sings his chorus once again: what business of his is it if nobody has asked him.

Slowly, line by line, we see the decadence that characterised the brutal Abacha regime. Rather than tell us global and general stories of how people suffered during the period, Osundare marches with his pen into homes and draws out stories of individuals he names as Akanni and Danladi. By this deed, he puts a human, everyday face on the people so that we can identify with the terrors of people who bear our names and do our everyday tasks. Every time it happens around him and he reports it, Osundare is telling us that it is marching towards him and it won’t be long before we don’t hear from him again; not long before his poem will cease!

So imagine that Chinwe has also lost her job with no explanation. This is representative enough and tells of what could have been happening all across God’s own Nigeria! It is so common and widespread that it happens to your neighbours. Some serious mischief was afoot in Nigeria and in a time that writing poetry was censored, it was guts that made Osundare an icon. He said later that no dictator could be his friend!

In the last two stanzas, see someone come knocking on his door as he sits to eat his yam! His time has come and the jeep waits for him on “my bewildered lawn”, to a future uncertain. Why is the lawn bewildered though? Osundare should have expected this long ago. Maybe, that’s why he wrote us this piece. Beautiful poem by all standards.