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A Concrete Vision
Rita's Report from Kaduna
Na Gode, Umaru
Visit To Anambra State
Peace Corps Nigeria, 1990s
You Can't Break My Window Mister

A CONCRETE VISION

A Concrete Vision:  Oshogbo Art in the 1960s displays the works of the Mbari Mbayo artistic community of Oshogbo in the former Western Region of Nigeria.  In the ‘50s and ‘60s three Europeans, Ulli Beier, Georgina Beier, and Susanne Wenger, catalyzed the creation of this community.  Ms. Beier and Ms. Wenger were visual artists who mentored and encouraged Nigeria artists.  The show includes their work along with  nine of their earliest Nigerian protégés–-Jacob Afolabi, Akanji, Jimoh Buraimoh, Adebisi Fabunmi, Buraimoh Gbadamosi, Rufus Ogundele, Asiru Olatunde, Muraina Oyelami and Twins Seven-Seven.

The exhibit of two- and three-dimensional works, from ink on paper to resist-dyed cotton, and  from beads-tile-thread on canvas to yarn on board, presents a tremendous variety.    There is a lively spirit in each work whether it is oil on wood, crayon on paper, stone, aluminum, or even—alluded to by the show’s name—reinforced concrete.  The blend of  the traditional and the modern is fascinating.  The show continues through October 22.

For anyone interested in art Nigerian, no trip to Washington, is complete without a visit to this museum.  The museum typically has four to six simultaneous exhibits, and almost invariably one of them has a Nigeria focus.  The Smithsonian has the only U.S. museum devoted to the collection, exhibition, and study of African art.
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RITA'S REPORT FROM KADUNA

The physical moving is nothing in comparison to the psychological “moving out.”  The tension between Muslims and Christians is palpable.  Small incidents have been contained by the military, but as it withdraws incidents become more severe.

May 22 Christians in Narayi found a Christian dead of gunshot wounds. As they moved toward Muslim areas in Barnawaand they were met by armed youths.  Almost simultaneously, riots broke out in other parts of the city, mainly in Kaduna South. The military finally stopped the slaughter and destruction three days later.

One of the drivers who helps me out at times asked me if he could travel with me after the riot because he wanted to get out of town.  He had not been in Kaduna during the riots, and came back at the mayhem’s end.  His Christian uncle who lived on the edge of Sabon Tasha shielded many of the driver’s Muslim friends during the riot.

Before the most recent violence, those friends told the uncle that if anything started again, he would be a target so he should take refuge in their homes.  Unfortunately, his was the first house rioters came to and he was struck on the head with a machete. He was in a coma for a week before he died.

The young driver is now struggling with a dilemma.  His uncle and he had been friends with Muslims; they saved Muslim lives.  Now other Muslims have killed his uncle and make him their target. What does he do with his feelings?

There is a terrible desire for revenge. The hatred and division between the communities

has gone deep. And it is so distorted.  You see Muslims and Christians congratulate one another for surviving.  During the fighting they were concerned about one another!   Some unknown “other” is the enemy.  It is the classic conflict example of needing to reduce the “other” to the “enemy”, to one less than human.  Now the enemy is anyone of the other religion who is unknown.

There is so much trauma.  And nowhere for people to go to address it. In fact, everyone is somehow traumatized in this situation. You find yourself watching people pass on the street—if they glance in your direction, you wonder if they are marking your house as a possible target.

We live in a relatively safe area.  What of those who live in the marked areas?  What are they feeling?  How do they handle their feelings?  This is especially true for the men who feel that they have to defend their manhood by violence.  It is frightening to overhear conversations in which people brag about how many of “them” “we” killed.

Where are we in all this?  I wish I could clearly see. Right now there is a blood lust, and each incident makes it worse. 

Early in this whole Sharia question the Kaduna House of Assembly set up a committee to look into the advisability of introducing Sharia. The problem was that on the committee of 17 members, all were Muslim.  The Governor then set up a committee composed of equal members of each religion.  And, despite all the reports, the Governor himself did not say that Sharia would be introduced.

Now, considering all that has happened, the House of Assembly Committee gave its report saying that overwhelmingly the submissions from the majority of people of Kaduna State want Sharia. Of course, there is no ordinary Muslim who at this point can say it is not a good idea.  To object to introducing Sharia now would be tantamount to suicide in this political climate.  Most Christians would not even bother submitting an opinion to a solely Muslim committee.

All that is bad enough, but to release such a report, when there is still such tension in the city, is completely mind-boggling.  I wonder if the Assembly is living on another planet that it cannot see how such a report only heightens already extreme tensions.  Life cannot so easily be divided into clear-cut right and wrong. 

The last thing that has happened—again a mind-boggling reality at this time—the government decides to add another 50% to the cost of petrol. People are angry, frustrated, fed-up. Today a nation-wide strike, and tomorrow???  We don't know who is living on another planet.

We watch—and we pray—and we hope that somehow sanity will replace the insanity which seems to have taken over so much here.  Remember all those you know with a prayer that they can see beyond the pain to a future that offers peace and growth. 
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NA GODE, UMARU

He often came when I was watering the neem trees.  He would always offer to carry the bucket for me and splash the water in the typical Nigerian way—a method that I never truly mastered.  He was tall, shy, a taciturn young man who came from a small village near the border with Cameroon. 

I was a “lecturer,” and none of the other “lecturers” actually worked with their hands, indoors or out-of-doors.  I was told that I should hire a garden boy to do the work.  I was told the sun was too hot for a bature.

He was a student in my English and geography classes.  He spent more time with me than the others did.  His primary school education in spoken and written English had been inadequate.  He was determined to catch up and be as proficient as the students from larger towns.  Unlike some of the other young men, he did not look at an American degree as being less worthy than one from a British university.  My American accent was not something he worried about, he just wanted to learn and I was willing to help. 

My cosley was close to the teacher training college gardens.  Living there made me feel like I belonged after being quartered for months in the enclave of spacious houses several miles from the commercial and residential section of  town where colonial civil servants had lived before independence. 

Every student had a plot that he cared for every day.  Since my house had no trees, no garden, no flowers, I often spent my time outside planting anything to add color to the drab landscape of the extreme savanna, the sahel.

At first, students working in their gardens would look over, stop their work, and come to offer to help.  I chatted with them, told them that I enjoyed working with my hands after a long day of mental work, and encouraged them to just talk to me about themselves.  The students would politely answer my questions but reveal little of their ambitions, their goals, their dreams.  They were either unable to open up to a foreigner, or simply did not have the English language skills to talk casually with me.

He never called me by my name, but always said “Sir.” 

During the first few months the students’ names were strange to me, but eventually I mastered them and enjoyed using both their first and last names instead of the traditional “Mister” which the British expatriate teachers used. 

Umaru Bubaram became the first visitor to my cosley, my home, in Maiduguri.

When I joined the Peace Corps in 1962, I was optimistic about what I could learn and what I could accomplish.  As an inexperienced, but trained, teacher, I was hopeful about what my classroom experiences would mean—not only to my students but to me.  Nearly forty years passed before I really understood the impact I had.

We shared many hours of private lessons improving his English.  I gladly lent my books to him.  He read them, asked questions about them, and faithfully returned them.  By the end of my tour in Nigeria, he had become more articulate and could speak and write English more fluently.

I had one letter from Umaru Bubaram after I left Nigeria in 1965.  He had taken a teaching position in a small village in Bornu Province—near Potiskum, his home.  After that, our lives went in separate directions and we lost touch. 

When I went to Nigeria for a visit in 1976, I made it to Maiduguri, but none of my former students or colleagues knew the whereabouts of Umaru Bubaram.  On rare occasions I would pull out photographs from Peace Corps days in Maiduguri and look at the serious faces of my former students.  I wondered what had become of Umaru.

Six months ago, I clicked on You’ve-Got-Mail and found a message captioned “Are you E. Walker?”  There was a photograph of me as a Peace Corps Volunteer in 1963.  Was I the E. Walker who had taught at Bornu Training College in Maiduguri in the 1960s?

“Yes!  The photograph is of me—but my name is Earl. 

The next day, I had a long, excited email from the daughter of Umaru Bubaram.  Her father had kept my photograph and told her stories about the college, and me, and the Peace Corps.  He insisted that I had been an important influence on his life.  After Umaru became a teacher, he went on to become a headmaster, a prison superintendent,  an important government official in Nigerian administrations, and steadily gained respect and trust from those he served. 

My long-ago student is, today, Alhaji Emir Umaru Bubaram, the Emir of Potiskum. 

In his picture today I still see the young man I tutored.  I see the pride and dignity that was there when he was a student.  His determination and conviction still show in his face and posture. 

We have exchanged letters.  Slowly we are learning about the lives we have led over the last 40 years.  His adult children have  earned university degrees.  He has many grandchildren. 

Umaru Bubaram infuses me with pride and reflected glory—the glory that comes from having students who make teaching a profession that truly is like no other. 

Na gode, Alhaji Emir Umaru,  Na gode.* 

(* Hausa for Thank you.)
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VISIT TO ANAMBRA STATE

Archbishop Retires
May 28, Archbishop on the Niger, Jonathan Onyemelukwe was honored with a retirement celebration.  Since I was there for his enthronement 25 years ago, it seemed only appropriate to be there for his retirement.

The celebration began with a mini-motorcade from the archbishop’s house to the cathedral led by the Boys’ Brigade on foot. The half-hour procession into the Cathedral included Knights of St. Christopher, Lady Knights, diocesan clergy and their wives, archdeacons, legal potentates, and church choirs.

Jonathan was honored for many achievements, including rebuilding Iyi-enu Hospital after the Biafran War and completing the Cathedral on the Niger.

Views on Sharia
The harsh view of Sharia by Christian Ibos is that imposing Sharia is a deliberate provocation by Northerners unwilling to give up control of what they regard as “their country.”

In the view of others, Sharia is a legitimate expression of religious freedom by states in the new democracy. 

This Muslim legal code has long resolved Nigeria’s northern Muslim family matters. No one objected, and non-Muslims were not affected.  But in 1999 Muslim fundamentalist Alhaji Sani Yerima was elected Governor of Zamfara State with a  campaign to impose Sharia on all.  He gained support among the disenfranchised poor with the slogan, “Sharia, Our Pride, Their Fear.”    

Now in force for civil and criminal cases in Zamfara State, Sharia punishment is meted out and reported with favor by the local press.  

March 22, “notorious cow thief” Baba Bello Karegarke Jagendi was given a simple meal of millet and milk, led outside the Islamic court in Talata-Mafara, Zamfara State, to a one-doctor hospital.  Next, “Kare-Garke, or ranch raider,” as he is known locally, received an injection “so that he would not feel the blinding pain of the electric saw and his right hand was amputated at the wrist.”  Jagendi stole a cow worth $100.

Human rights activists hoped to make Jagendi a symbol and were prepared to sue the government on his behalf.  But Jagendi was secluded following the amputation and refused legal action when he resurfaced.

The federal government has kept hands off Sharia. Vice President Alhaji Atiku Abubakar said in a BBC interview   “Zamfara State has constitutional power to do what it feels like within its jurisdiction…the Sharia it introduced was for the state, not federal government.” 

We heard that many Ibos living in the North are frightened and moving.  Clem’s cousin Edwin has lived in Kaduna for at least 25 years, but has put his house on the market and wants to move to Owerri.  Clem’s sister Nebechi who teaches in Kaduna is trying to move to Lagos.

Sokoto State imposed Sharia on May 29 the one-year anniversary of the establishment of the democratic government in Nigeria. On May 30, This Day newspaper  featured article under the title Sharia: The Fire Within.  The writer concluded that, “For now Sharia poses [a more] potent threat to the survival of the Obasanjo government and, indeed, the Nigerian State than even the most volatile Niger-Delta region or the big joke people call MASSOB.”

MASSOB—A Joke?
We heard little about MASSOB while in Nigeria.  Ralph Uwazuruike leader of MASSOB (Movement for the Actualization of the Sovereign State of Biafra) and other MASSOB activists  were arrested in Aba May 20 after sdeclaring the re-establishment of Biafra. 

In reaction, the Governor said “I was elected the governor of Anambra State to develop Anambra State.  I am not going to be distracted from the mandate of the people.”  Vanguard newspaper said the Ohaneze Ndigbo (meaning the ordinary people and the king) do not support an independent Biafra.

A former House of Assembly member from Imo State said MASSOB is not really intent on re-establishing the Biafran government but is saying  enough is enough regarding the poor treatment of Ibos.
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PEACE CORPS NIGERIA 1990s

I love Nigeria with such a passion!  My Peace Corps experience was less about the health program in which I worked than about the relationships I shared with Nigerians

While the language instructors were excellent, I learned more talking with college students where we were trained, and the children where I eventually lived.  I enjoyed the challenge of learning to understand the dynamics of the culture and its nuances.  I had to learn the implications of meeting with women alone, or with children in their primary or secondary schools.  I had to be humble to receive the acceptance of male community leaders and have credibility with them.

Into my second year in Awe, I found myself looking at my brown skin wishing I were deep ebony.  Nigerians viewed me as white, yet as an Hispanic, I’ve always identified myself as brown.  I learned to speak Hausa fairly well.  I loved the people—Fulani, Tiv, Alago—the food, the rhythmic drumming, babies on mommies’ backs, the incredibly bright stars at night, the smells that wavered everywhere.  I loved the sound of a cock crowing at dawn, the sight of Fulani cattle herded and directed by a stoic, proud boy, and strange-looking dogs that ran free with goats and chickens in the villages. Life was incredibly sensual and titillating.  I was frustrated to realize that I could never be, truly, a part of this pattern of life of which I was so fond.

At the market each fifth day, children would fall over each other to follow me in awe or curiosity, calling bature (stranger).  Yet I felt a part of that place.  Perhaps it was because I was the only volunteer in the area.  Perhaps I lost my own identity.  But I didn't lose the core that lies within each of us.  I overlaid who I had been with a much-loved, new experience.  I felt one with the people.

My closest girlfriend, Saphee Moh’d Adams, and I would sit on a mat under a beautiful umbrella tree in her compound till late at night when all other life was down to sleep. We sipped Bournvita, and chatted about life. 

We were so open and honest with each other.  Although we operated from very different inner perspectives, we deeply accepted, yes loved, each other.  Saphee was shy, the second wife to her husband.  I had been married before and was not ashamed to express myself.  We would find ways to open our hearts to each other until, finally,  I would kick-start my babur and ride cross town, back home through an eerily quiet scene. 

Living in Nigeria was a beautiful experience.  I saw more than the poverty, more than the corruption.  For me Nigeria remains the incredible relationships made and continue.

Editor’s Note:  The author served in Nigeria 01, the first Peace Corps group to return to Nigeria in the 1990s after a hiatus of 25 years
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YOU CAN'T BREAK MY WINDOW MISTER  

At a mid-80s Peace Corps reunion in Washington, D.C., I met up with David again after some 20-odd years.  I hadn’t seen him since a Free Biafra/Committee of Returned Volunteers in 1969.  He mentioned his music.  Like everyone else I knew, I had seen and used his film Give Me A Riddle, so I was interested.  A week later he sent me a 45 RPM with Jack on the A side.  In 1986 Jack helped me transition my career back to freelance consulting as I wore out the little 45 playing it every morning, steeling myself for the lone life ahead.   A piece of Jack:

Jack is true as the day is long
an honest man in his hooves
he don’t tell lies he just takes what
little the lord bestows you
and folds it under his cap
flap your innocent angel wings
hosannas sing
it don’t mean nothing to Jack

so say your prayers if you must do
keep those beads in spin
but when he crooks his finger
just give him your
watch and wait by the window
fold your hands in your lap
he take everything his hand can hold
but your heart your soul
but won’t take none of your crap
cause it don’t mean nothing to Jack

Beyond that 45, one of my life treasures is a 1987 cassette of Volume Four (of five), entitled Everything.  The songs on it all have complex orchestrations with multiple tracks, David on leads with harmony vocals, reeds, drums of all kinds, pedal steel guitars, cello, harmonica, etc.  Professionally recorded.  But as you can tell from Jack above, how tuneful they are!  And some really, really swing, hosannas sing, in a mighty big way. I whistle them when I am out riding my Spanish pony. Accessible.

The songs grew from David’s richly poetic lyrics, often written for his friends.  They’re filled with heroes, outlaws and mavericks, death and danger, lovely and lonely women, weird strangers, ramblin’, horizons and away places, blues and aloneness, portraits of old friends and one about a magical saloon:

. . . the place just made me feel at home so
it’s kind of hard to explain
unless you’ve spent a night in old Ibadan
at the West End Café

Studying his lyrics now, I see how David melded his old yen for cowboy honky-tonkin’ music with the Western-romantic-grail-questing of the Peace Corps (which quest few of us abandon).  From Under the Baobab:

when the bastards wear you down
and your love life’s all undone
when you feel like skipping town
with a suitcase and a gun
when you’re beat to your soul
wend your way down to the riverside
where the waters roll
sit you down under the baobab
where the hippos play. . . .

Hippo Rob will pull you through
make you see the world anew
so dry your tears and tie your shoe
Hippo Rob will pull you through

Such merry music was a family affair. David’s brother Peter Schickele tells listeners of his Public Radio series Schickele Mix  about how he and David started with weirdly funny family musicales which later grew into his satirical classical music and the character of P.D.Q. Bach.  (David was also a serious viola player.)  Here’s David’s maverick self in You Can’t Break My Window, Mister:

you can’t break my window mister with a BB gun
the clouds will beat you to the draw
they’re drawn with fingers finer than your trigger’s ever known
you’ll need a wrecker’s ball

you can’t break my window mister cause it’s painted on the wall
you can’t break my window mister cause it’s made too strong
its glass is spun of songs that echo round in Hildy’s eyes
clear songs of longing hiding in these
desert skies
I feel the wind a-scraping on my
stubble chin
the clouds they change like Hamlet’s whale you gotta
stare down the valley, till it lets you
till it lets you in
you need only heed the call
you can’t break my window mister cause it’s painted on the wall

And lastly, from Sophie Sleeps:

The moon wears black pajamas
with buttons made of stars
moonbeams stroll the avenues
strumming cheap guitars
so turn down the lamplight
now is the hour

Sophie’s sleeping . . . .

Last November phone calls and e-mails asked, “Did you know David Schickele just died?”  Damn!  But we do got his songs.  David’s sleeping.

All lyrics copyrighted by David Schickele and reprinted with permission.

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