The question why we are here at all
On earth, in this of all systems, remains,
Despite the bright lights great guides
Have shed down the ages, one road
Leading all who walk it to a dead end.
JP Clark: “A Father’s Submission”
It still appears unreal, that JP can be gone. Even the tersely worded statement from his family about his departure only seemed to reinforce this impression of a chimeric, theatrical climax. Said the announcement: “The Clark-Fuludu Bekederemo family of Kiagbodo Town, Delta State, wishes to announce that Emeritus Professor of Literature and Renowned Writer, Prof. John Pepper Clark, has finally dropped his pen in the early hours of today, Tuesday, 13 October 2020. Prof J. P. Clark has paddled to the great beyond in comfort of his wife, children and siblings, around him…” That was it: brisk and breviloquent, like a passage from one of his recent drama or indeed, like some of the loveliest lines of his poetry.
It caught me, frankly, by surprise. But perhaps I should have known. He had after all been in the hospital for a while. In fact, the last time I called his number, it was his wife, Sister Ebun, who picked the phone. I had been expecting to hear his voice, with the usual teasing response with which he always greeted me—Yes, kò gbélé, kò gbónò? (That is, for those who don’t speak the language, The One Who Won’t Stay Still At Home Or Abroad”)—the nickname he had managed to pick up, not without some sense of triumph, from his smattering acquaintance with Yoruba and decided was most fitting for me. He couldn’t understand, he continually said, why or how I travelled so much, even though I reminded him that our travelling was a habit, an occupational hazard more or less, that we inherited from his generation of writers.
Sister Ebun had indeed told me that day of JP” s declining condition. But knowing the man, and the number of times in recent years that he had suffered a similar setback, I did not take the information with any trepidation. Indeed, I had come to the conclusion long ago that JP was an irrepressible spirit and survivor, assured that he would always recover and return home again in fine fettle, to come and regale us afterwards with mocking anecdotes about the “hereafter”. Besides, with his elder brothers still alive, though ailing, how could JP” s time not but be several years away yet?
All idle speculation now. Death the Inscrutable has again played us his unpredictable, superior hand. I have read the family’s announcement again and again, many times, but the loss remains something my mind will just not ingest. Nor am I consoled by the fact that, in his penultimate collection, Remains of a Tide, JP himself had told us: “…one day, /… news too will spread:/ [that] JP Clark, poet, dramatist and mascot / For old masters at home, is dead.” [“A Tree in a Grove”].
Out of modesty, and with his customary wry humour when discussing such things, he had also predicted that his transition will come with “no signs/ And comets seen blazing above, / Nor quakes below”. He desired to go quietly, without fanfare. And it seems that on this count at least his wishes have been served.
But the truth, really, is that it was not a good time to die. (But then when, exactly, is the time ever good for a loved one to go away?). The nation, remember, has been in the throes of a double affliction. First was the global pandemic covid-19 which has been on the rampage everywhere, and which, in a place like Lagos in particular, has necessitated an unfortunate, although largely ignored, general lock-down. Physical movements in and across public spaces were restricted, and a curfew imposed.
Furthermore, and perhaps more grievous, was the #EndSARS movement, an unprecedented mass revolt in our nation’s history, spearheaded by the youths, whose expansive reach and power the government could not control. Although powered mainly by the Internet, its arrowhead was located coincidentally at the Lekki toll gate, just about one kilometre away from the hospital where JP breathed his last, and about the same distance away, in another direction, from his Lagos apartment. This insurgence alone was sufficient to subsume the news of individual losses, however prominent.
Could it be said then that JP, ever so self-effacing and crowd-shy, had deliberately chosen his own moment, and in a perfect context too, to steal away unseen from the intrusive public?
He had also requested, [in “My Last Testament”], that he should be buried no later than three days from his death. But how could this wish be fulfilled in the peculiar circumstances—with the roads in and out of Lagos blocked by the protesters, and the whole nation at a virtual standstill?
But the Clarks did not descend from the legendary Ambekederemo of the Old Delta creeks for nothing. Their forbear had risen through grit and inflexible will to become the richest trading partner of the British in the early years of the last century, and they the heirs were not going to be defeated by the challenge of burying their brother according to his wishes. With JP’ s eldest brother, the formidable PANDEF leader Chief Edwin at the helm of affairs, they swung into what could only be described as a saga of human and material mobilization, commanding resources from family, friends, and others in both the private and public sectors. In less than 24 hours—they had no other option if they were to meet the deceased’s request—they conscripted different modes of transportation—from speed boat to helicopter to airplane to road hearse and ferry boat—and moved the body and its accompanying cortege from that Lekki jetty to a VI helipad, and then on to Ikeja Murtala airport, to Asaba, to the Kiagbodo slip, and finally to the Funama promontory. And so, almost incredibly, a half-hour to the time he had given as deadline, JP’ s body was lowered into the space he himself had prepared for his final resting place.
One of the points I am trying to stress in all this narrative, I hope you have noticed, was the convenient absence of a large crowd to see him off, all in keeping with his predilection for isolation and quietude. With the one exception, however, of the people’s brief intercession once the train arrived in Kiagbodo, and the news spread rapidly that it was his hearse arriving home for its last repose. At that point, an impromptu, uncontrollable carnival broke out. The local youths and elite, despite being unprepared and even though it was night already, refused to let the body pass without according it the customary, traditional rites of honour. And it was only after repeated appeals and cajoling that they finally allowed the body onto the boat to Funama, to allow the burial to be carried out before midnight!
JP must have been delighted by all this. But I am not. Everything seemed to have gone well, in conformance with his wishes. According to his nephew, Ambassador Igali, who was present at the ceremony, JP was buried “without any ceremonies, air or formalities. No big family meetings, no jittery government burial committees [or] protocol officers, no visiting dignitaries and delegations, no open air church services, nor big displays of boat regattas nor big aquatic masquerade displays which he himself had so well depicted in both drama and poetry, and not even cannon shots heralding the departure of a champion? None!”
Well, I personally disagree with this procedure. It is certainly one of the occasions, in my opinion, when the living should not have pandered to the wishes of the departed. JP’s request should have been ignored.
I mean, just think of it. In what other period of our history have we been so desperate for positive role models in our country? Everywhere you turn nowadays, the loudest ovation being lavished on scoundrels. In both the traditional and the modern electronic media, the conspicuous figures whom we celebrate, and encourage our youths to emulate, are the charlatans and the harlots, the pimps and parasites and vampires of our upside-down world. The possession of money and its ostentatious display, together with the promotion of a callous and barbarous ideology, have become the overriding cult of contemporary life. We cannot continue along this wasting path and hope to build a happy society.
Every opportunity we have therefore to present an alternative paradigm to the nation and to our youths is, to me, utterly priceless. Clark’s funeral should have been such a valuable occasion, but has been sadly wasted. His life, emblematic as it was of the positive virtues we admire and require—humility and talent, creativity and compassion, humour and integrity—should have been clamorously celebrated. There should have been highly publicised productions of his plays, public readings of his poetry, nation-wide seminars on the place and significance of literature and the intellectual life, and so on.
But we chose to humour him and so, buried him without fanfare. The consolation is that his works are still with us, and will be forever. They will continue to speak to us, whether we like it or not. They will also be waiting to serve, whenever we choose at last to grow wise and embark on the much-needed retrieval of our regenerative powers.
-Femi Osofisan is a renowned playwright. He is currently Professor Emeritus of Theatre Arts at the University of Ibadan, Nigeria. He was also a Distinguished Professor of Performing Arts at the Kwara State University, Malete. Osofisan was at a time the General Manager of the Nigeria National Theatre and a winner of the Nigeria National Merit Award (NNMA).