The remains of former Academic Staff Union of Universities (ASUU) president Prof Festus Iyayi, who died last month in a car crash, will be buried this weekend. In this tribute, one of his proteges, Evelyn Osagie says he will be remembered for his legacy of nurturing young talents.
Last weekend was a moment of mind-drifting for me. Something strange happened as I was listening to James Blunt’sYou Are Beautiful at home.
The room was dark. The television was switched off. The fan was at its highest. I was alone.
I had a glass of currant juice with a blend of Angostura Aromatic Bitters in one hand and Osasu Ekpen Isibor’s MAMFE: This time tomorrow in the other. I had finished reading the novel which I had read 10 times over. Even though it’s an unedited copy, it never seizes to captivate me and reestablish the ‘writer as a prophet’.
Interestingly, this time, the protagonist who died trying to change society, blended well with the life and times of former President of the Academic Staff Union of Universities (ASUU), the late Prof Festus Iyayi.
Ironically, it paints a picture of the red sun setting on an eagle in the sky, fighting hard to stop it from setting.
And just as the thought hit me, Blunt’s words: “Goodbye my lover, goodbye my friend…You have been the one…You have been the one for me…change my life and change my goals…” that was still playing jolted me back to life.
Alhough it was not planned, all of a sudden, the book and the song held different meaning – one that stripped me naked, emotionally.
I fought back tears and struggled hard not to remember. But like torrents gushing through the floodgates, the scenes from the past came drifting by. I picked my pen and paper. With Blunt’s words: “I am a dreamer …and when I wake…You can’t break my spirit …” in the background, I reminisced.
I remember Benin. I remember the red-coloured earth of creative vibrations that has inspired creative minds for decades. I remember the cultural allusions that marked the words and works of great minds…minds like the late Iyayi.
That Iyayi that gave focus to our dreams and essences while directing our creative compasses on the right paths. That Iyayi that criticised us with the strong voice of an activist and spoke soft words of encouragement – that became food for thought to many – to strengthen our voices. That Iyayi that was the ‘financier of many creative dreams and ideas’. That Iyayi who discovered my true essence when my dreams and voice had not yet found expression in the public space.
Iyayi was not just a great man, he was one who had eyes for greatness. He saw and nurtured greatness in many, especially the young. He knew the importance of raising foot soldiers who would carry on the struggle in the future. Anyone who knew him would agree that did not believe in making too much noise, but finances many creative ideas of the young.
It is sad that one now talks of the ‘legend of struggle’in past tense. Sadder still is the fact that a man that had cultivated many creative talents for decades was taken so violently by the claws of death the way he was. His death speaks of a sad story of that nation that tears its own to shreds.
As the legend would be laid to rest this weekend, I remember Benin…that land where creative pulsations call out to you from every junction. I remember the University of Benin (UNIBEN) and the arty tremors of those years. One cannot but remember the role Iyayi played for decades in nurturing many young talents there, especially those at Creative Writers Workshop (CWW), an organisation, spanning three decades that has cultivated scores of great minds after being established in the 70s by four brilliant minds: Isibor, the late Dafe Onojovho, Ohi Alegbe and Ba’abila Mutia (who were then students).
Although Iyayi was not one of the founders, this lecturer of Business Administration, left his imprint on the lives and talents of many that passed through it as the association grew.
I remember Esther (now Mrs Ogude), a former CWW Co-ordinator, taking me to his office at Ugbowo Road after I took over as co-ordinator from Kolawole Azeez. As a member, I had heard past co-ordinators speak so fondly of this patron that has stayed committed to the cause of promoting creative writing in the young. Esther stops at no chance to praise-sing him. “Don’t be afraid of his looks, he is really nice,” she had warned.
I remember him, sitting and staring at me without a word, and me, feeling as if I was on a hot seat.
“What do you write?” He asked.
“I write everything: prose, drama, essays, poetry, articles…”
“What do you enjoy writing?” he asked, cutting short my attempt to please. That was the Iyayi I remember – no long talk, no pretence, apt and straight to the point. That began a bubbly marriage of wits that would later help define my creative essence and path.
Through Iyayi, I understood the unwritten mentorship code that runs in CWW: how a coordinator gets to mentor and inspire the one immediately after his/her tenure. And while complaining about lack of sponsors for creative ideas, then, he said ‘financial misery’ is a virus plaguing writers’ associations everywhere, “one must find creative ways to overcoming it”.
I remember him, after reading my poetry collection saying: “Guard this jealously. Don’t stop here; keep writing until you find your voice. We all have to find it.”
To him, we were not just students but great voices and future foot soldiers. His words gave one a feel of being part of the change – as if one had already become a voice and in the frontline of advocacy.
I remember him talk of the writer as a conscience of society, more like a gatekeeper and how the writer must fight to protect that ‘conscience’. I didn’t understand then but the reality of his words is now constantly before me.
He not only introduced me to past co-ordinators but to great literary minds even after I had graduated. I remember Iyayi talking about the sorry state of the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA) in Benin, which Prof Diri Teilanyo and others had tried so hard to resuscitate with activist poet Nnimmo Bassey offering it a space at his Uselu office. Those were the years I was initiated into the literary-fold outside UNIBEN. Then, not writing meant not breathing.
I remember him calling me up that morning in 2007 to come to his office, saying a surprise was waiting for me. I remeber him talking passionately about his friends, who were themselves revolutionaries in their own rights – Odia Ofeimun and Kunle Ajibade – whom he made me read about.
“Bring your collection,” he had said. “Although I don’t write poetry but I know someone who does and could tell you a thing or two about writing poetry.”
That evening I met Ofeimun and Ajibade for the first time and we talked poetry. He knew Ofeimun’s Benin Woman was one of my favourite poems and Ajibade’s story had touched me. Perhaps, he thought that meeting them in person, before leaving Benin in search of greener pasture, was the best way to keep my pen focused on the things that mattered most.
I remember it was also the day I was in his house and met his wife for the first time. I remember how it felt as one his guests, meeting, sitting and eating with these great minds. It felt more like sitting with the United States President, yeah! That was the feel I got then. I remember telling myself, “Evelyn, this is truly the beginning of great things to come”.
I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to talk on till eternity with them but ended up leaving reluctantly very late that night. I remember smiling all the way home and thinking Ofeimun and Ajibade would probably not remember me after that day, but it didn’t matter because I was going to cherish that moment for life.
I remember him being impressed with my idea of performance poetry as a means of giving expression to my voice, and encouraging me to work on spectacle and rendition. I remember Iyayi encouraging me to send my poems be published in newspapers, saying it was a good avenue to test my voice. They were later published in The Guardian newspaper and eventually caught the attention of some editors, especially that of the strong force behind CORA, Jahman Anikulapo, who gave my poetic voice a space of expression. That too is a story for another day.
But when it was time for me to leave Benin for greener pastures, I remember the fatherly role Iyayi played then.
I remember November 12 in Niger State – the day he died. The sun set rather too early that Tuesday. Everything was set for the intellectual cum literary feast that was part of activities marking Niger State Governor Dr Mu’azu Babangida Aliyu’s birthday. But nothing prepared the scholars, writers, politicians and students at Justice Idris Legbo Kutigi Hall in Minna, the Niger State capital, for what was to come.
The presence of two governors and a former Head of State and the intellectual tussle involving the gown, the pen and the power-brokers on the role of writers in galvanising the creative zest of the young for nation-building, added spice to the event.
Rivers State Governor Rotimi Amaechi had fired the intellectuals to wake up to their responsibility. Dr Abubakar Saddique of Ahmadu Bello University had replied him, saying writing and intellectual brilliance are not enough to salvage the country, but visionary leadership with a sense of integrity.
The atmosphere was charged , when, suddenly, Dr Amanze Akpuda mounted the podium and said: “Festus Iyayi is dead!” The statement seemed to melt the tension, giving way to a suffocating silence. “He died on his way to Kano for ASUU meeting…It is a miracle that creative writing takes place in this country with the hassles that writers are constantly faced with…”
As my mind processed the words, something snapped within me; my pen fell from my hand. My feet collapsed beneath me. I held my chest and let out a deep but silent cry. I did not care whether the action would cause a scene. That I had attracted the attention of a group of students close by, who were laughing at the “dramatic art”, as one put it, did not bother me.
To them, it was perhaps the death of another man faraway. To many, he was a radical, an extremist, but to me, I had lost a mentor, patron and friend. And I was not alone in my grief, scholars and writers wore long faces as they engaged in intellectual discourse.
“All these for what,” I had asked. “Before now, writers and critics have been talking are they (the leaders) listening?”
I have been grieving since then while a friend kept pushing me to write something as a way of get over it. And as I wrote down my thought, I discovered he was right: I remember the Director of Niger State Book Agency, Baba Mohammed Dzukogi, saying Iyayi is not dead. “Our comforts is in the fact that he is alive in us. We won’t stop talking.”
“As I dropped my pen to rest with Blunt’s words: “Goodbye my lover, goodbye my friend…you have been the one…you have been the one for me…as you move on remember me…us”, fading into the air, I rose in salute to the Eagle of the resistance…whose legacies live on.
On behalf of past and present coordinators and members of CWW in UNIBEN and all those you have inspired for decades, “rest well Eagle of Ugbegun!
