“The Africans” (PDF)

ACT 1: THE ARRIVAL Inside of car driving on dusty road at increasing speed. The driver, searching through static for a radio signal, stumbles on a channel. Voice on radio: …next year may come to claim the pride of place as a watershed event of the global cry of the oppressed—again wielding the force of Western depoliticization and dehistoricization of other historical emblems of radical resistance. Think about it: Che Guevara is already dead in the jungles of Bolivia, Frantz Fanon died of leukemia in a Washington hospital, Nelson Mandela is imprisoned on Robben Island, and of course, Ghana’s Kwame Nkrumah was deposed in a military coup. Biafra is still engulfed by a civil war. And CIA-sponsored military Juntas are running amok in Latin America. Martin Luther King could very well be assassinated in Memphis just like Malcom X was killed in Harlem’s Audubon Ballroom. But perhaps the most striking incident of all in 1968 could be… Hamisi: He loves to hear the sound of his own voice! [Laughing.] Radio stops, and car noises continue. Narrator: Hamisi had left home in his car at the end of the first day of Eid. It had been hectically Joyous with the feasts of Mombasa. But Hamisi was in a hurry to get back to Nairobi, where he was starting a new job as the editor in chief of BBC East Africa, so he had decided to travel at night. Car noises continue. Narrator: As Hamisi approached a village with a rest stop, he remembered he had promised his family he would stop for a cup of tea. But by now Hamisi was more impatient than ever. Watch alarm goes off. Hamisi: [Yawns.] Aaah, it’s teatime! I should stop [yawning]. No! No, I should push it. If I don’t keep rolling, I’m gonna get home late. I would be too sleepy on my first day—No! Let’s see what this German engine can do. 1 Car accelerates. Narrator: Hamisi had a way of quickly dismissing any doubts. So he did not stop to rest and instead carried on. It was about seven miles from that village when something started to go wrong with his car. A popping sound, followed by leaking air. Hamisi: Allah! Not a puncture please! Narrator: With the car still in motion, Hamisi opened his door slightly to peep out into the moonlight. Was it a puncture? There was a sharp jolt from his intuition. Hamisi: Watch out! [Echoes.] Narrator: Hamisi turned to look ahead. His car had veered into the middle of the road, and coming directly at him was a dazzling light. Allah! Was it a train? As Hamisi tried to regain control of the car, his door was thrown wide open. The train seemed to be tilting. Hamisi’s car was taking a sharp swerve. To his horror, Hamisi suddenly found himself somersaulting through the air. Hamisi: [Screaming.] Narrator: There was a big crash. Hamisi saw the moon falling. Or was it the massive light of the train? God! It was both—the moon, half covered by the shadow of the train engine—both falling towards him from the skies. Hamisi: [Screaming.] Eerie electronic music begins. Narrator: He gave a loud shout and tried to roll away from them. But there seemed to be thousands of chains now pinning him down. He stretched out his arm to push away the moon and the huge engine falling towards him. Then there was a blinding flash as if the moon had exploded into a 2 thousand pieces. Then that ghastly pain in his head as total darkness engulfed him. But was it the moon? Was it a train? Or was it his car? Eerie electronic music continues. Poet: Watchman for the watchword at Heavensgate; out of the depths my cry: give ear and hearken… The stars have departed, the sky in monocle surveys the worldunder. The stars have departed, and I—where am I? Eerie music continues in background. Narrator: Hamisi dragged himself up from the ground. He was dazed and confused. That one-eyed monster which had suddenly appeared from nowhere and descended upon him had just as readily disappeared into thin air. Hamisi could barely stand as he tried to comprehend the nature of his new environment. Abiranja: Ah ha! There you are, Hamisi. Narrator: Bewildered, Hamisi turned round to see where the voice had come from. He saw two figures approaching him, neither of whom looked in the least familiar. They, too—though clearly fellow Africans—had this confusing appearance of both newness and timelessness. But they were not old. If their clothing was anything to go by, they must have been the same age for at least a thousand years. They both wore curious smiles. Abiranja: My name is Abiranja. This is Salisha. We’ve been expecting you. [Echoes.] Hamisi: Huh? What? Where am I? German engine… the light… teatime… Aaaaah! [Screaming.] 3 Salisha: It’s okay! Hamisi: Don’t! Don’t come near me! Don’t come near me! Salisha: There, there. Hamisi: [Groans.] I should have… I should have stopped the car! My sister is gonna be angry! My Job! I am gonna be late for my job! My car must be ruined! The stupid radio distracted me! Abiranja: Fret not, Hamisi. All will be explained. Come. Come on. You can just stay here. Hamisi: Here? I don’t have time for this. I start a new job tomorrow. Where is my car? My… Abiranja: Everything will be clear at your new home. It’s getting dark. Hamisi: I’m not going anywhere with you! [Begins to sob.] Abiranja and Salisha begin whistling a lullaby. Hamisi: [Crying.] How do you know that song? I haven’t heard it since I was… Abiranja: …a mere boy on your mother’s lap. Hamisi: Yeah, she would sing me to sleep when I refused to go to bed. It worked every time. I was such a hard-headed boy. Salisha: We know. There is a lot that we know. Come with us now. We promise you that your questions will be answered. Whistling continues, now accompanied by instruments, while Hamisi continues to cry. Narrator: Hamisi followed the pair as night fell. Abiranja: You must still be worrying about all of this: why this place looks so unfamiliar to you, 4 how you came to be here, and why your surroundings wear a veil of strange timelessness. In fact, the explanation is quite simple, but I suggest that you wait to hear it until after you’ve had food and rest. Whistling stops, but instruments continue to play the melody of lullaby softly. Hamisi: Anyway, I can hardly think. My head is killing me. Narrator: Hamisi allows himself to be cradled as he did in his mother’s warm embrace. He drifts off into a peaceful slumber. He sleeps for hours, days, mere seconds—for in this realm, time no longer bows to the constraints of linear measurements. It is infinite and all-knowing. It is formless and fully fleshed, for Hamisi is in After-Africa. Narrator: He wakes to catch the eye of Salisha, who watches over him dutifully. Locked in her gaze, Hamisi recognizes the strange and familiar entity before him. Salisha: Ah, you had a good rest. Hamisi: Well, I didn’t think I would, but I actually did. Salisha: I am delighted to hear. Hamisi: It’s strange though. Where exactly did you say you were from? Salisha: Where I am is where I belong. Hamisi: I could have sworn that… No, no way, it cannot be. Background melody fades out. Narrator: Yes. Yes. Yes! Hamisi remembered that extraordinary night, seemingly a lifetime ago. It started unassumingly as a literary night at the BBC Africa Service in London, where Hamisi was working. His versatility had made his voice become well known across the globe. 5 That week Hamisi was tasked with interviewing Miss Aisha Bemedi, a Nigerian literary critic, about a new collection of poems by Christopher Okigbo, whom some critics were already proclaiming to be the most gifted poet in the English language to have come out of Africa. Aisha herself was the only Northern Nigerian of any gender to have an MA in English, and Hamisi was quite flattered to be interviewing her. And when she turned up at Bush House, Hamisi emerged a minute later with one of his captivating smiles, an arm extended out in a warm welcome. Voice on radio: You are tuned to the General Overseas Service, BBC. [Echoes.] Hamisi: Miss Bemedi, I am delighted you could come. Salisha (now as Bemedi): I am an admirer of Okigbo’s work. Hamisi: What is Okigbo like? Have you met him? Salisha: Well, Okigbo took a degree in classics at Ibadan University, where I also studied. And like myself, he has published in the Transition and Black Orpheus magazines. Hamisi: You know, all along I had expected that politics would be interfering in my interview with you, Miss Bemedi. At home in Kenya, we follow news about your country which reports that there are political parties organized on the basis of regional and tribal affiliations. Would you mind if I briefly explain to the listeners the current Nigerian political situation? Salisha: No, please go ahead. Hamisi: Oh, in all honesty, I was hoping that you would object, because I am obviously not most suitably placed to summarize the complex situation of an entire nation that is not even my own. Salisha: Hmm. The heart of the matter is: Nigerian political life is organized on the basis of regional and tribal lines.

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