Jonathan
and His Dollar Desperations: Deconstructing Niyi Osundare’s ‘The Emperor and
the Dollar (T)Rain’
Niyi Osundare is a distinguished professor of English, a
prolific poet in whose hands poetry fires more than Avtomat Kalashnikova- AK-47.
‘The Emperor and the Dollar (T)Rain’ is one of the most
recent of his poetic vituperations. The poem is divided in to two parts, each
part containing five (5) six-line stanzas making 60 lines in all.
This poem, at the risk of restraining arts, is a
satirical expose of the last minute desperate effort of Nigeria’s president,
Goodluck Jonathan, with his ‘train’, to bribe the traditional rulers so that he
can be returned re-elected in the March 28 Presidential election. Read the news
report here: ‘Jonathan Rains Dollar on South-West Obas. www.punchng.com/news/jonathan-rains-dollar-on-south-west-obas/’
The first part of the poem deals with the desperate
effort of an emperor who doles out dollar to the obas and obis seeking in
return from them something worthwhile. The poet persona leaves out not the
emperor’s wife, the empress. While the emperor is on the dollar raining
mission, his empress is taking care of the womenfolk with ‘her cache of gold’.
In the second part, the persona comes out of his poetic
shell and makes it unequivocal that Nigeria is the target of his poetic
outburst. He affirms that, ‘In the house called Nigeria, Corruption has a room’.
The emperor, his ministers, the pastors, etc. are all involved in all sorts of
political misdeeds capable of steering the ship of a country aground.
With this latest masterpiece, Osundare rhythmically
captures the current political situation in Nigeria. Some of the poetic
instruments deployed are; metaphor, alliteration, repetition, sarcasm, simile,
etc. These shall be critically explored to bring out the beauty and expatiate
exegetically the content of the poem.
Emperor
Goodluck Jonathan, DSM: the Dollar Spraying Machine
With a fitting visual imagery couched with effective
repetition, the poet presents the picture of the desperate Nigeria president
who ‘hits the streets’ spraying dollars on the traditional rulers to gain their
loyalty in the March 28 presidential election. Using cacophonic series of
alliterative phrases, one could, without blur, picture the president and his
train running from the obis to the obas with a ‘cargo of cash,’ ‘lustful loot,’
and ‘sparkling sterling’. For Emperor Jonathan, the poet asserts, what democratic
governance means is to:
Bribe the Pastors,
bribe the Thugs
Pound and
plunder the national treasury…
And to successfully
return for the second term:
Press the flesh,
pull the polls
Rake in the
gains of your hard-bought treachery
Empress
Patience Jonathan: the Nigerian Mrs Malaprop
The poet persona spares not the empress’s wife, madam
‘Peace’, who throws stone. See this: 2015 Elections: Patience Jonathan on the
Rampage, www.dailytrust.com.ng/sunday/index.php/politics/19829-2015-elections-patience-jonathan-on-the-rampage.
Apart from being exposed as an accomplice in his husband’s plundering of the
national treasury, the persona, with a dexterous blend of sarcasm and
alliteration, makes reference to the embarrassing (linguistic) display by Nigeria’s
first lady—who ironically refers to the great
Wole Soyinka as an embarrassment. Read the story here: ‘Soyinka, an
Embarrassment- Patience Jonathan’. www.punchng.com/news/soyinka-an-embarrassment-patience-jonathan/
Visualise the poetic portrait of Madam Patience
Jonathan in the following lines:
With her cache
of gold for the womenfolk
Every word is a
Malaprop Moment.
Does anyone remember
the hilarious Mrs Malaprop in The Rivals,
a comedy of manners play by Richard Brinsley Sheridan? Madam Patience seems to
be her Nigerian representation!
‘The
Royal Grovelling that Greeks the Gift’; Forget Not the Actions of Your
Ancestors
While the rain of dollar is falling, it’s disastrous that
some of the traditional rulers, without asking necessary questions, hurriedly
brings out their basins to have their shares of the presidential dollar rain.
Very unfortunate! This only brings to memory the collaborative role of their
forefathers in one of the most dehumanising trade in the world history; slave
trade. (Read this: ‘African Traditional Rulers And The Slave Trade’.www.nigeriavillagesquare.com/articles/guest-articles/African-traditional-rulers-and-the-slave-trade.html.) Their ancestors sold out their subjects to
slavery in exchange for material things like gins, mirrors, gun powder etc. and
now, they are also bent on repeting the sad history, selling their people to
the vote-buying emperor in exchange for dollar. Obviously, ‘there is nothing
beyond purchase/in the land of venal crawlers’.
{Note: fortunately, the presidential rain of dollar could not get
him the second term, thanks to the emerging enlightened Nigerian masses}
Sadly though, out of the deep respect the persona has for
tradition, he declares that:
The royal
grovelling that greeks the gift
Is way beyond my
plebeian telling
Yet,
before the ‘royal grovelling’ brings back the autocratic acts of their
forefathers, is it not the high time they got disrobed of the toga of traditional
reverence?
Corruption:
a ‘drug-defying malaria’ Afflicting Nigeria
Using an apposite simile of the pandemic disease,
malaria, the poet persona captures the distressing rate of corruption in
Nigeria. Sitting atop the heaps of this corruption is none other than the
emperor himself who in his characteristic ‘litany of lies’ redefines corruption
as ‘mere instances of stealing’. Read Jonathan’s conception of corruption here www.naij.com/66357.html and his
wife’s definition here www.premiumtimesng.com/news/headlines/178501-what-do-you-call-corruption-patience-jonathan-explains.html.
Every institution in Nigeria—government, media, religion, etc. — is fully garbed
in corruption toga. While ‘The Minister looted the Treasury….His/her Pastor praised
the Lord…’ Read this: ‘A Critical Look At Cotemporary Nigerian
Christianity’.www.academicexcellencesociety.com/critical_look_at_contemporary_nigerian_christianity.html.
Naira, the Nigerian currency is now
useless. The economy is crushed and yet we are the number one economy in
Africa. Do people even care to ask why the emperor himself favoured Dollar
instead of his own Naira in his vote buying campaign? Very soon—if we haven’t
already—we will make another record: the largest importer of dollar in the
world! Read Femi Falana’s essay ‘Dollarization Of The Nigerian Economy’ here: www.saharareporters.com/2015/03/27/dollarization-nigeria-economy-femi-falana
From the emperor and his empress to the ministers,
pastors, and the brainwashed thugs, Niyi Osundare in ‘The Emperor and the
Dollar (T)Rain’, captures, satirically, the wretched condition of ‘A sick, sad
country…’ called Nigeria.
Nurudeen Lawal
Listening to the Postcolonial Singer in Tejumola
Olaniyan’s Arrest the Music:
Fela and His Rebel Art and Politics
The seriousness with which scholars of African popular
non-literary cultures have approached the music of Fela Anikulapo Kuti reaches
its high point in Tejumola Olaniyan’s Arrest
the Music because this is the first book that locates the meaning of Fela’s life, art, and politics
within the larger intellectual milieu whose contours the musician himself helped
to shape. The book also stands out for its adamant refusal to accept on face
value the many received truisms, many of them self proclaimed, about Fela; his
patently radical political statements, for example, are shown to lack ideological
coherence or philosophical depth. To the question why is Fela important, Olaniyan
responds that the body of work captured the essence of the “postcolonial incredible” (2) in ways no other
African popular musician did. Fela became the force he was because he read the Nigerian
postindependence situation very accurately and transmitted his observations in
musical and verbal idioms most suitable for comprehending them. In all pitches possible
and at every performance forum presented to him, Fela never missed the chance
to articulate that which in the African postcolony “cannot be believed; that
which is too improbable, astonishing, and extraordinary to be believed” (2). All thinking
Africans listened to, sang along, and wondered with Fela about the sheer
illogicality of how things could have been so wrong. Indeed, without the sustained
musical attention, lyrical and percussive, that Fela paid to the senseless
incongruities of life in the African postcolony, he would not have made much
sense to many people, especially given his relentless willful violations of middle
class, Western educated, social norms.
Fela’s mediation of the “postcolonial incredible,” in musical idioms that
always punctuate a call to dance with a call to listen, to act, and to
transcend imposes a difficult burden on his audience. The call in “Noise for Vendor Mouth” takes the form of a
shout, the mock complaint in “Lady” is set to a heavy “funky rhythm,” the rumination in “Water E No Get Enemy” is wrapped in
contemplative horns and vocal, the“sprightly drums and other percussion” in “Shuffering and Shmiling” raise the heart’s pulse and lift the feet
as its words prick the brain, the endearing “exuberant horns” of “Eko Ile” evoke sweet images of the
home. Belaboring the audience, in my reading of Olaniyan, secures the other platform
on which Fela’s importance rests. Fela not only identifies the regime of the incredible
in postcolonial Africa; he also rebukes the condition with an obvious relish
that cannot but convince his listeners that this is an“interregnum” that will definitely
pass. He betrays the hidden“vulnerabilities” of African postcolonial
anomie with tongue wagging lyrics and suggests in fist clenching themes how they
will be supplanted. In record after record, the constantly grave critique of
the songs always insinuates (and sometimes yodels) the return of a savory norm;
at the end of the savage percussion of the song “Zombie” rises the calm pitch of a
saxophone riff that bespeaks a dawn.
The perspicacity of Fela’s observations and the
audacious way he proclaims them are precisely the reasons his Yoruba speaking
fans called him abàmì èdá, or the incredible creature. But we need to distinguish that epithet
formulated by overawed admirers from the sober contextualization Arrest the Music does. Olaniyan’s reading of Fela aligns
the musician’s genius with the tendency Emmanuel Obiechina has identified in African
fiction as the poetics of disillusionment which shows the African ruling
classes at work doing their self serving inept best to misappropriate the
fruits of independence. The recognition and analysis of Fela’s vision of the
inevitability of a better tomorrow, provided the practice and theory of
trenchant critique continues, also corresponds very well to the type of
cultural advocacy which the Ghanaian novelist, Ayi Kwei Armah, makes in Two Thousand Seasons. Fela, like Armah, simultaneously
declaims Africa’s loss of “the way” and signposts the recovery of the same, refusing “to be mere mirrors to
annihilation” (Armah xiii).
Whether he is a struggling “‘apolitical’ avant-pop hipster”who hung on to jazz
tenaciously or the brash and self-confident “Afrobeat moralist,” the city is Fela’s forte. There Fela
locates, unlike fellow nationalists to whom the essence of African being
resides uncontaminated in the village, the most vibrant spot in the symbolic
geography of African postcolonial life. The city harbors the most outrageous episodes
of gargantuan abnormalities; if order is to begin to prevail, it will start
there. In the African metropolis, Fela notes, mass transit buses operate as if
the owners have the official permission to make more room for standing passengers
than for seated passengers and still charge both groups the same price. In
Lagos specifically, motor drivers act as if traffic signs mean the exact
opposite of what they instruct: “Turn Right” is normally taken to mean
make a left turn. But despite its maddening chaos, Fela always sings of a homey
Lagos (literally so in Fela’s endearing Yoruba term, Èkó Ilé) as a difficult place
whose irresistible charms cannot be spurned by any right thinking person. Good
or bad, the city seems to be home!
At any rate, the hope of betterment subsists still.
People who suffer and smile on the cramped city buses will one day, if they
listen carefully to Fela’s lyrics, realize that their condition
can be remedied if they move in certain political directions. When those
Lagosians who bleach their black faces heed Fela’s admonition and live
comfortably with the skin into which they were born, the crowded bus might be less
smelly. When Fela sings about “go slow” or traffic jam, the city
lover’s regret shows both in the dragged out words and in the deep voiced
inflection. In the excoriation of the shocking stupidities of the overseas
trained African postcolonial intellectuals, bureaucrats, and technocrats no trace
of malice can be detected. Even when the objects of ridicule are named evil
agents of transnational corporations and their collaborating perpetrators of
misrule, the scorn is aimed at the witless acts of self hatred and not the individuals.
Although Fela might have believed, Olaniyan notes, that he stopped singing
amorous songs after his discovery of Afrobeat highmindedness (29), his
tenacious optimism indicates that he never ceased singing about love; he only
refined the art and channeled all his affection towards Lagos, his symbol of
the African motherland.
Fela’s wicked humor and his rhetoric of
ironic familiarization sweetens his harsh criticisms and makes his cataloged abominations
easier to follow. One of his earlier songs about Lagos says:
Bi mo ba wa moto ni London
o/ Even if I drove in London
Ma tun sese wa ko tiwa
nile/ I would have to learn to drive anew when I return home Bi o ba wa moto ni
New Yorku o/ Even if I drove in New York
Wa tun sese wa ko tiwa
nile/ You would have to learn to drive anew when I return home
Tori Turn Raiti l’Eko o, la’ju e/
Because “Turn Right in Lagos, open your eyes
Turn Leefu lori o . . ./
Turn Left it really is
Tiwa tun yato si tiyin o
se e ngbo o/ Ours is different from yours, you hear
Ka to tun sese so tawon
obinrin wa/ Let’s not even talk about our women
Ledi ni won o. They’re Ladies
Except for the gratuitous snide remark about “ladylike”Lagos women, the
contrarian nature of things in Lagos—like that of the postcolonial nation in
general about which he sings in “Opposite People”—evokes bemusement and not tragedy.
Lagos is home, the chorus insists, its oddness notwithstanding. Pronouncing “Turn Right,” “Turn Left,” and “New York” with the epenthetic
vowels characteristic of Lagos pidgin English makes the words sound as if the peculiarities
observed nationalize road sign rules. The articulation also renders believable
the singer’s declaration of undying love for Lagos.
Fela’s unsurpassed understanding of which
direction the wind of culture is blowing in post-independence Nigeria, Olaniyan
shows, accounts for his sustained commercial success. In the dwindling numbers
of the high society that defined taste in the concluding years of direct
colonialism Fela noted correctly that the historical circumstances that sustained
the prominence of Highlife music were fading. The teeming children of the newly
empowered elite, in defiance of the genteel tastes of their parents, were
raising themselves on African American popular music and not jazz, Fela’s preferred high art
style. To tap into the trending developments, Fela rechanneled his energies and
invented a genre that blends the tastes competing for superiority, fusing “indigenous Yoruba rhythms
and declamatory chants, highlife, jazz, and the funky soul of James Brown” (32). That concoction,
which he christened Afrobeat, found an eager audience among diverse taste
strata that include the urban working classes, college educated youths, and
curious holdovers from the Highlife generation. Olaniyan periodizes the
transformations in Fela’s intellect, politics, and art into
distinct musical styles and matching ideologies; the Afrobeat moralist that
most Fela admirers know developed out of the Highlife journeyman, and the“’apolitical avant-pop
hustler’” who favored jazz. In other words, the radical Fela did not
drop out of the heavens, nor was he born with iconoclasm in his genes. In order
to explain contradictions of Fela’s avowed radical nativist politics
and his shallow understanding of critical African cultural history,
particularly as it concerns women, Olaniyan also suggests we need not look too
far beyond the musician’s circumstances, part of which are
created by Fela. The book’s analysis of the well calibrated use
of non-musical elements—photography, jacket illustration, costumes,
and even marijuana consumption—in the packaging and delivery of the
records isolates for the reader’s understanding Fela’s acute awareness of music
as a commodity. The artist successfully stages for his public the aura of a
selfless ideologue by shoehorning the musical and non-musical into one
unrelenting mode of criticizing the norm. By reading within and against the
grain of Fela’s rhetorical self and product fashioning, Olaniyan’s study outlines some new
methodologies for understanding African popular expressive cultures.
After having spoken of the distinguished
innovativeness of this work, the very little room left uncovered by Olaniyan’s comprehensiveness ought
to be remarked upon. This reader wants to know, for instance, why the Afrobeat
moralist’s imagination never strayed out of the city. Fela “quotes”extensively from the life
of those who do not live in cities in his early highlife-jazz incarnations. “Water E No Get Enemy,” for example, consists
entirely of an elaboration on a Yorùbá proverbial saying
repeated many times in the song’s refrain, and “Alujonjonkijon” is based on the sung chorus
of a folktale. Except in few and scattered saxophone and keyboard reproductions
which listeners not familiar with Yorùbá lore will not be able to
decode, the quoting acts gradually disappeared in the Afrobeat moralist
records. The ostensibly nativist Afrobeat’s poignant lack of
interest in the African “interior” is even more pronounced
in Fela’s cultivated avoidance of native instrumentation. It may be true, as
Olaniyan argues, that Fela replaced the “talking drum” traditions of the Yoruba
with the prominent mimetic use of horns in many songs. But the African
percussive ensemble is far more varied than mimeticism. As jùjú and fújì musicians have shown many
times over, the so-called talking drum does more than respond to the verbal
call in Yorùbá drumming ensemble. I want to suggest that Fela’s eschewing the interior
of Africa—the laboring peasant figure and native instrumentation being two examples—reflects the shallowness
of his understanding of modern African modes of being. Like the scriptocentric
many on the African“classical” left, Fela was not at home with artifactual nativism probably because he
did not know, and probably did not try to learn, the workings of these “pagan” artifacts which, in the
mindset of an alákòwé (the literate) like Fela, belong to the ará òkè (the upland hick) . On a
larger continental scale, it ought to be noted, it was not until Ngugi wa
Thiong’o’s famous break with English language in 1977 that the possibility began
to occur to the African left that artifactual nativism is not necessarily
reactionary and that behavioral nativism could be linked to progressive politicking.
Ngugi repudiated the church, stopped calling himself James and found wisdom in
material Gikuyu verbal aesthetics; musically, Fela never left the church,
although he dropped his “Christian” name.
One notable result of Fela’s rejection of the musical
practices of the African hinterland could be seen in his successful rebuff, as
Olaniyan correctly observes, of the panegyric impulse that dominates modern
musical genres derived from Yoruba traditions. But Olaniyan did not account for
the fact that the praise singers did not leave Fela alone and freely borrowed
musical arrangements and lyrical directions from him. Indeed, the trademark “busy instrumentation” (29) that defines Fela’s most popular dance
records filtered down to àpàlà, the normally leisurely genre
in Yorùbá language popular music. Olaniyan notes that Haruna Ishola, an àpàlà maestro, once advised his
fans to discountenance the mad motions that Fela’s music induces in dancers. But this is not the only kind of
reaction Fela provoked. The rise and popular acceptance of the Afrobeat
moralist made it possible for Orlando Owoh to sing a passionate praise for
ganja. After Fela, Omowura and Adeolu Akisanya, like Fela’s one time employer and
Highlife superstar, Victor Olaiya, sang against skin bleaching. Even Haruna
Ishola, the anti-Fela, embraced Fela’s humor in his own criticism of skin
bleachers whom he called “sóòyòyò adìyẹ abólọ́rùn” or blistered skin
chickens. Just like Fela in “JJD”, Adeolu Akisanya
ridiculed the Western educated man who has lost his ways through miseducation.
The praise singing Ayinla Omowura, who drew followers from
the same urban lumpen that Fela courted, reinvented àpàlà music by borrowing Fela’s “sprightly drumming”. Omowura also took a
trope or two from Fela’s style of irreverent lyrics. No
Yoruba language musician will, before the emergence of the Afrobeat moralist,
direct invectives at his detractors with the stark vulgarities Ayinla Omowura used
against those who started the rumors of his being kidnapped. After asking which
“ears have ever heard of
the Olumo rock being stolen,” Omowura curses the rumor mongers,
saying: “It is your mothers that will all be kidnapped!” In this song, Omowura
turns himself into an immoveable ancestral rock and, in a very “un-Yoruba,” but definitely Fela,
style directly curses out other people’s mothers! Omowura lived out the Fela
script in one more critical way by adopting a matronymy, “Wura’s Child,” for his public last name.
Of course, Wura being the musician’s mother’s name, “omo Wura” (Wura’s child) is the colloquial
reference those in the Yoruba section of the Nigerian interior would have
called Ayinla the singer. However, the normative thing to do is to change into
the family’s patronymy in public forum, especially official documents. Ayinla’s refusal to change his
full public appellation from the matricentric colloquialism of “Ayinla-who-is-Wura’s-child” is a radical public
gesture which Fela himself never accomplished in spite of his avowed love for
his mother. We know that Fela refashioned himself by rejecting his “slave” name, Ransome; however,
he never repudiated the idea of patronymy to the extent that the unschooled
Ayinla Omowura did. The African interior is not that closed up towards
progress, after all.
I want to close these remarks occasioned by Olaniyan’s study of Fela with a
word on what is shaping up to be the most enduring impact of Fela on the
intellectual understanding of contemporary African condition. The signs are
emerging that the generation that grew up on Fela’s music is beginning to
take charge of things in Africa as taste makers and delineators of how African
affairs should be understood intellectually. For illustration, I will use only Anglophone
novel writing in Nigeria. Chris Abani’s 2004 best seller, Graceland, is about the misadventures of
a slum dwelling Nigerian young dancer for whom the soul-deadening and utterly
blighted material circumstances of his society are relieved only by his love
for the music of Elvis Presley who, like Fela, is another incredible. The
physical and aesthetic response to music saved that young protagonist whom the
cauldron of existence in postcolonial Nigeria would have dissolved completely.
The author of Graceland himself
claimed to have suffered from the knuckle spikes of Nigerian political life
that Fela chronicled so unforgettably in his music. Indeed, Abani pays homage to
Fela’s precedent setting artistic response to tyranny in the title of this
collection of poems about prison experience, Kalakuta Republic. Abani’s book and Fela’s famed residence are both
eponymous with a notorious cell at the old Nigerian police headquarters in
Lagos.
Perhaps the best index of the presence of Fela—and an attestation to the
correctness of Olaniyan’s evaluation of his work as
monumental embodiments of the postcolonial incredible—in the intellectual
unconscious of Nigerian life today, is to be found in Chimamanda Adichie’s novel about the
agonistes of the will to live freely in spite of the murderous designs of the
African postcolonial potentate. With her gripping depiction of the tyranny that
governs intimacy in Eugene Achike’s household, Adichie reiterates the
extent of the “postcolonial incredible” which Fela chronicles memorably in
his songs: the benevolent father is a heartless disciplinarian, the public
philanthropist rules his wife and children with a maniacal tyranny, the man
honored by his people as Omelora, “the one who does for his people,” detests, and never misses
a chance to punish, his father’s free choice of religion, the
financier of free speech advocacies and agitations for democratic governance
will not countenance his own father’s free choice of religion! Although
he operates mainly in the civil society, Eugene Achike resembles very closely
the potentates Fela criticizes all the time in his songs.
Fela’s Afrobeat moralist—and optimistic—outlook on the“postcolonial incredible” is amply present in Adichie’s novel. In Purple Hibiscus, the mind boggling
antinomies and oddities of life in the Nigerian postcolony are presented as events
that shall pass ultimately. After all, the homely tyrant is poisoned by his
meek, long suffering wife! The Afrobeat impulse of the novel is most obvious in
the literal references to Fela’s music. In Eugene Achike’s house, Fela is unknown,
and only the Catholic hymnal reigns. But Achike’s tyrannized children have
a cousin, Amaka, who knows Fela inside out. Amaka’s family lives on campus
at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka, the island of reasoned democratic dissent
within the novel’s sea of public and private despotism. After a visit during which Amaka
infects her cousin with her love for Fela—and other “culturally conscious” “indigenous musicians” like Osadebe and Onyeka
Onwenu—Kambili begins to imagine the possibilities of life beyond her father’s severe manhandling of
her mind and body.
Amaka, the novel’s agent of proper cultural
education and political reawakening, is, like Fela, sharp witted and states her
opinion fearlessly. Amaka learns from her mother, just as Fela is believed to
have imbibed his iconoclasm from his own mother, that “’Defiance is like marijuana—it is not a bad thing when
it is used right’” (144). Amaka remains a devout Catholic but refuses to make
herself available for the holy sacrament of confirmation because she would not adopt
an “English name” for the rite. She asks
the very liberal Father Amadi, the family friend they all love deeply: “What the church is saying
that only an English name will make your confirmation valid. ‘Chiamaka’ says God is beautiful. ‘Chima’ says God knows best, ‘Chiebuka’ says God is the greatest.
Don’t they all glorify God as
much as‘Paul,” and ‘Peter” and ‘Simon’” (272)? Listening to such Fela-like sacrilegious statements
and observing acts of defiance at close range gradually began to influence Kambili’s view of the world. The
emergence of this new person shows when one day Kambili is caught “singing along” Fela with Amaka (247).
Her growing freedom to think and act independently is further marked later in
the story on her return from a trip to Nsukka when she reports herself to have “laughed loudly above Fela’s stringent singing.” She finally learns, among
other things, that “Nsukka [the university] could free something deep inside your belly that would
rise up to your throat and come out as a freedom song. As laughter” (299).
When Fela proclaimed that “music is the weapon of the
future,” many critics probably dismissed the declaration as an exaggeration. In
Olaniyan’s book we have a clear outline of how to begin to understand the
relationship of popular music to the practices of enlightening cultural and
political critique in postcolonial Africa.
No comments:
Post a Comment