Proverbs, Textuality, and Nativism in African Literature Proverbs, Textuality, and Nativism in African Literature Proverbs, Textuality, and Nativism in African Literature   2 z '0- -z '0 '0 '0 '0 0 z w v. z '0- '0 .v  Copyright 1998 by thBoar of4 Regnts of thSato Florid All rights reere Co~pyright 1990 by t Boar o Regentsofhe bStte of Flida Pinted inthe Uited SttesofAmercaonad-frepaper All rights reservd Library tof Congress Cataloging-i,,-Publication Data AdOIeke AdOebO Provebs, textuality, and nativism in Afrcabiteraur / Adeleke Adeeko. Incldes bibliographia refrece atnd index. ISBN 0-9130-1562-6 Tal. paper) 609.996-4t21 97-40247 The Universty Pes o Florda is the schltarly publiig agutc fo the Stat UnieitybSystem ofF1orid, coprsed of FloridA & M Uix riu, loida 41,ut Untiversity, Florida Interntiona Uiversity, Floda State Uni triu Unix %o Centralblord,LnistyofForid, Ui ritof ONrthlolrid, U irixofiSou Florda and UnierityofWes Florda. Unierity PrsofCloida I5Northwest 15th Sltre Gainesvile, bL 32611 litp//erp.ned.ufl.edu/-pf Librruof Congret Cataloging-in-Puliation Datt Adeleke AdeM k Provebs, tetublty, and naivism in Africaiterature Adleike Ad6k,6 1nclude bibliogapia reeene ant index. ISBN 0-9130-1962-b (alk. pape) 1. Africa litratu-Historyad critcis.2.0 Proerb in literture. 3. Nato1a chrateritic, Africa. 4. African-Rac idetity. 1. Tile. The Uisiy Pressk of 0 Foia is tbscolarl publihig age for Mhe Stat Unieity Sytemuof luodacopiseduoflrdaA &MnIkix ri. lidaAlan University,CoiIn~~terntillUiveity0,FlodStteUni eu-tink n of CentralbFloda, Uniri-tyofFCia, University o NortbFlorida,CUnix uuitbof S 9 Clorida, adbbUerito MWestClord. UnivrstlpPes floida 15 Northwest 15th 9treet Gainesille, F1L 32611 http://nersp.nerdc.ufl.eu/-upf Copyright 1999 by tbe Board of Regenof theb Stt of Florda Printed An ot United Stteof Ameria onaid-free paper All tights utserud Libary f Ckgress Cataloging-iu-Pubicaion Dat Addl~ho Ad~ik6 Proverbs, teulity, and natiism An Africa ltertu / Adleke Adeeko Inldes bibliographicl rferece and index. ISBN 0-9130-1362-6 bl. paper) 1. Aficn ltertureu-Histyuand citliis. 2. Provebsi ltertiAu. 3.Ntionul charaterstics, Afrian. 4. Afins-Rac idenlly. 1.2Titl. Thu University Press of Florida isth scholary publihin agenx for tbe State Univeritl SytemofFlorbdacoprisd ofCloida Ah&M Uuieti-, lridaAanti UnieityFlorCid trna MItonlU iursty,lridSteI.nnkuity LdCr o Centraluoid, Univerity ofFloid, UvrstyofNortb FloridCUiurt o Sut Cloda and Unirit Alpf Wet Cloda. Uiverstity Prett of Florda Gaiuesill, FL 32611 http//ner p.nerdc.uft.u/-upf  Ingratitude to my parents, D. Ab6sde and E. Tdiwo, and the other Tdiwb, the one who is my wife. In gratitude to my parents, D. Absed and E. Tdiwo, and the other Tdhoh, the one who is my wife. In gratitude to my parents, D. Abssde and E. Tdiwo, and the other Tdiwo, the one who is my wife.   Contents Contents Contents Preface ix 1. My Signifier Is More Native than Yours: Issues in Making a Literature African 1 2. The Proverb Is the Horse of Words: Figuration and Consciousness in Nativist Tropes 28 3. Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts: Chinua Achebe's Arrow of God and Olidejo Okddiji's R/r: Rdn 50 4. Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story: Native Figures of History in Ayi Kwei Armah's Two Thousand Seasons 82 5. All That We Do Today Is Narrative Tomorrow: Picturing Reality in Ngkgi's Devil on the Cross 100 6. Figuration and the Limit of Local Knowledge: Os6fisan's "Proverbial Story" of Postindependence Fiction in Kolera Kolej 117 Conclusion: Plenty Words Do Not Fill Up a Basket 129 Notes 133 Bibliography 141 Index 153 Preface ix 1. My Signifier Is More Native than Yours: Issues in Making a Literature African 1 2. The Proverb Is the Horse of Words: Figuration and Consciousness in Nativist Tropes 28 3. Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts: Chinua Achebe's Arrow of God and OlAdejo Okediji's RdrdR n 50 4. Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story: Native Figures of History in Ayi Kwei Armah's Two Thousand Seasons 82 5. All That We Do Today Is Narrative Tomorrow: Picturing Reality in Ngugi's Devil on the Cross 100 6. Figuration and the Limit of Local Knowledge: Osofisan's "Proverbial Story" of Postindependence Fiction in Kolera Kolej 117 Conclusion: Plenty Words Do Not Fill Up a Basket 129 Notes 133 Bibliography 141 Index 153 Preface ix 1. My Signifier Is More Native than Yours: Issues in Making a Literature African 1 2. The Proverb Is the Horse of Words: Figuration and Consciousness in Nativist Tropes 28 3. Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts: Chinua Achebe's Arrow of God and Olidejo Okddiji's Rire Rdn 50 4. Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story: Native Figures of History in Ayi Kwei Armah's Two Thousand Seasons 82 5. All That We Do Today Is Narrative Tomorrow: Picturing Reality in Ngagi's Devil on the Cross 100 6. Figuration and the Limit of Local Knowledge: Osofisan's "Proverbial Story" of Postindependence Fiction in Kolera Kolej 117 Conclusion: Plenty Words Do Not Fill Up a Basket 129 Notes 133 Bibliography 141 Index 153   Preface Since 1962, the year of the now-famous Makerere African Writers' conference and also the year Heinemann Educational Books created its influential African Writers series, anglophone African literary criticism has been preoccupied with devising strategies for indigenizing the substance and language of its governing principles. All leading African writers and critics have participated in formulating the parameters for devising a metalanguage and a hermeneutic predisposition that will reflect the importance of indigenous forms to the definition, classifica- tion, and appreciation of African culture. The theoretical complexity of these nativist engagements in literary criticism is the central theme of this book. In the opening chapter, "My Signifier Is More Native than Yours," I divide the different philosophies of cultural and intellectual self-asser- tion in anglophone African literary criticism into three categories: clas- sical or thematic nativism, structuralist nativism, and linguistic nativism. Classical nativists take African literature to be that which, in the best traditions of what they argue is an irreducible African aesthetic, ad- dresses the everyday material concerns of the African reading public in readily accessible forms. Structuralist nativists think of an African lit- erature as that which has as its sources conventions and philosophies of representation derived from recognizably indigenous practices. The struc- turalists look for how to join precolonial narrative and interpretive forms to more modern techniques. In linguistic nativism, literatures are taken to be second-order language use defined and described by the material languages in which they are written. For the linguists, to be called African a body of works must be written in languages that are native to Africa. All of the nativist groups agree on the need for African culture producers to avoid any self-conscious artistry that might inhibit Preface Since 1962, the year of the now-famous Makerere African Writers' conference and also the year Heinemann Educational Books created its influential African Writers series, anglophone African literary criticism has been preoccupied with devising strategies for indigenizing the substance and language of its governing principles. All leading African writers and critics have participated in formulating the parameters for devising a metalanguage and a hermeneutic predisposition that will reflect the importance of indigenous forms to the definition, classifica- tion, and appreciation of African culture. The theoretical complexity of these nativist engagements in literary criticism is the central theme of this book. In the opening chapter, "My Signifier Is More Native than Yours," I divide the different philosophies of cultural and intellectual self-asser- tion in anglophone African literary criticism into three categories: clas- sical or thematic nativism, structuralist nativism, and linguistic nativism. Classical nativists take African literature to be that which, in the best traditions of what they argue is an irreducible African aesthetic, ad- dresses the everyday material concerns of the African reading public in readily accessible forms. Structuralist nativists think of an African lit- erature as that which has as its sources conventions and philosophies of representation derived from recognizably indigenous practices. The struc- turalists look for how to join precolonial narrative and interpretive forms to more modern techniques. In linguistic nativism, literatures are taken to be second-order language use defined and described by the material languages in which they are written. For the linguists, to be called African a body of works must be written in languages that are native to Africa. All of the nativist groups agree on the need for African culture producers to avoid any self-conscious artistry that might inhibit Preface Since 1962, the year of the now-famous Makerere African Writers' conference and also the year Heinemam Educational Books created its influential African Writers series, anglophone African literary criticism has been preoccupied with devising strategies for indigenizing the substance and language of its governing principles. All leading African writers and critics have participated in formulating the parameters for devising a metalanguage and a hermeneutic predisposition that will reflect the importance of indigenous forms to the definition, classifica- tion, and appreciation of African culture. The theoretical complexity of these nativist engagements in literary criticism is the central theme of this book. In the opening chapter, "My Signifier Is More Native than Yours," I divide the different philosophies of cultural and intellectual self-asser- tion in anglophone African literary criticism into three categories: clas- sical or thematic nativism, structuralist nativism, and linguistic nativism. Classical nativists take African literature to be that which, in the best traditions of what they argue is an irreducible African aesthetic, ad- dresses the everyday material concerns of the African reading public in readily accessible forms. Structuralist nativists think of an African lit- erature as that which has as its sources conventions and philosophies of representation derived from recognizably indigenous practices. The struc- turalists look for how to join precolonial narrative and interpretive forms to more modern techniques. In linguistic nativism, literatures are taken to be second-order language use defined and described by the material languages in which they are written. For the linguists, to be called African a body of works must be written in languages that are native to Africa. All of the nativist groups agree on the need for African culture producers to avoid any self-conscious artistry that might inhibit  the audience's understanding of either Africa's contributions to world civilization or the obstacles to development that the region faces. Africas colonized reality, the nativists insist, dictates that all high cultural prac- tices must repudiate worthless artistic narcissism. In the second chapter, "The Proverb Is the Horse of Words I set beside nativism's founding axioms a deconstructive analysis of the letters of Yoruba metafigural proverbs about narrative, interpretation, and proverbiality. I deduce from the metaproverbs that in the narrative traditions the relationship which obtains between the material text and its use is more complex than what is admitted in the nativist aesthetics of clear communication. In the last four chapters, I translate my interpretation of metatextual proverbs into a "practical" criticism by highlighting and analyzing figures of representation in various texts chosen from anglophone Afri- can and Yorubd literatures, these being the only African traditions in which I am literate. The "practical" criticism chapters discuss the sig- nificance of self-reflexive narrative and dramatic elements to the rhe- torical reading of Chinua Achebe's Arrow of God, Olddejo Ok6dijf's R/r/ Rin, Ayi Kwei Armah's Two Thousand Seasons, Ngfgi's Devil on the Cross, and Femi Osofisan's Kolera Kolej. The metafigural proverbs em- ployed for the discussion are "A messenger does not choose its mes- sage"; "Pniyan ti ydo so p6 lya badl6 lsjfe, kb ni i so 6 larin oja" (Whomsoever will expose the village chief's mother's witchcraft will not announce it in the marketplace); "K6 s6 hun to n be ti o nitan" (Nothing is which lacks a story); and "Gbogbo ohun ti a ba se 16ni itan ni 161a" (All that we do today is narrative tomorrow). In varying degrees of self-awareness, all the texts address the central disputes of nativism. I find in Achebe's novel the problems of material figuration overlooked in classical nativism's poetics of clear self-expla- nation. Hence, the discussion of the novel that Achebe once declared his own favorite work highlights the role that overt disputes about textual construction and interpretation play in the evolution of the narrative. Ok6dji's Yorbba play represents the "other" African litera- tures, the ones written in indigenous languages. But its inclusion in this book, as indicated by my analysis of the play's dramatization of the figural maneuvers of critical political theater, serves far more than a token appearance. Okediji's prominent play on the difficulties of figu- rative political expression shows that heeding the call of linguistic nativism will not automatically make representation an unproblematic the audience's understanding of either Africa's contributions to world civilization or the obstacles to development that the region faces. Africa's colonized reality, the nativists insist, dictates that all high cultural prac- tices must repudiate worthless artistic narcissism. In the second chapter, "The Proverb Is the Horse of W5 ords" I set beside nativism's founding axioms a deconstructive analysis of the letters of Yorubi metafigural proverbs about narrative, interpretation, and proverbiality. I deduce from the metaproverbs that in the narrative traditions the relationship which obtains between the material text and its use is more complex than what is admitted in the nativist aesthetics of clear communication. In the last four chapters, I translate my interpretation of metatextual proverbs into a "practical" criticism by highlighting and analyzing figures of representation in various texts chosen from anglophone Afri- can and Yorhba literatures, these being the only African traditions in which I am literate. The "practical" criticism chapters discuss the sig- nificance of self-reflexive narrative and dramatic elements to the rhe- torical reading of Chinua Achebe's A rrow of God, Oladejo Okediis R r Rhn, Ayi Kwei Armah's Two Thousand Seasons, Nghgi's Dci! on the Cross, and Fmi Osdfisan's Kolera Kolej. The metafigural proverbs em- ployed for the discussion are "A messenger does not choose its mes- sage"; " niyan ti y66 so p6 ryd baal lajed, kbon i so 6 1arin oja" (Whomsoever will expose the village chief's mother's w itchcraft will not announce it in the marketplace); "Ko so hun t6 ni be ti o nitan" (Nothing is which lacks a story); and "Gbogbo ohun t a ba se lon itan n 161a" (All that we do today is narrative tomorrow). In varying degrees of self-awareness, all the texts address the central disputes of nativism. I find in Achebe's novel the problems of material figuration overlooked in classical nativism's poetics of clear self-expla- nation. Hence, the discussion of the novel that Achebe once declared his own favorite work highlights the role that overt disputes about textual construction and interpretation play in the evolution of the narrative. Okfdiji's Yorubd play represents the "other" African litera- tures, the ones written in indigenous languages. But its inclusion in this book, as indicated by my analysis of the play's dramatization of the figural maneuvers of critical political theater, serves far more than a token appearance. Okddiji's prominent play on the difficulties of figu- rative political expression shows that heeding the call of linguistic nativism will not automatically make representation an unproblematic the audience's understanding of either Africa's contributions to world civilization or the obstacles to development that the region faces. Africa's colonized reality, the nativists insist, dictates that all high cultural prac- tices must repudiate worthless artistic narcissism. In the second chapter, "The Proverb Is the Horse of Words," I set beside nativism's founding axioms a deconstructive analysis of the letters of Yoruba metafigural proverbs about narrative, interpretation, and proverbiality. I deduce from the metaproverbs that in the narrative traditions the relationship which obtains between the material text and its use is more complex than what is admitted in the nativist aesthetics of clear communication. In the last four chapters, I translate my interpretation of metatextual proverbs into a "practical" criticism by highlighting and analyzing figures of representation in various texts chosen from anglophone Afri- can and Yorubd literatures, these being the only African traditions in which I am literate. The "practical" criticism chapters discuss the sig- nificance of self-reflexive narrative and dramatic elements to the rhe- torical reading of Chinua Achebe's Arror' of God, Olddej Okediji's R/r/ Run, Ayi Kwei Armah's Two Thousand Seasons, Nggi's Deil n the Cross, and Fmi Os6fisan's Kolera Kolej. The metafigural proverbs em- ployed for the discussion are "A messenger does not choose its mes- sage"; "Eniyan ti yo so pe iya bddtf lajfe, ko or i so 6 laarin oja' (Whomsoever will expose the village chief's mother's witchcraft will not announce it in the marketplace); "K6 s6 hun t6 nn be ti o nitan" (Nothing is which lacks a story); and "Gbogbo ohun If a ba se lonii ithn ni1 6a" (All that we do today is narrative tomorrow). In varying degrees of self-awareness, all the texts address the central disputes of nativism. I find in Achebe's novel the problems of material figuration overlooked in classical nativism's poetics of clear self-expla- nation. Hence, the discussion of the novel that Achebe once declared his own favorite work highlights the role that overt disputes about textual construction and interpretation play in the evolution of the narrative. Okediji's Yorhbi play represents the "other" African litera- tures, the ones written in indigenous languages. But its inclusion in this book, as indicated by my analysis of the play's dramatization of the figural maneuvers of critical political theater, serves far more than a token appearance. Ok6dijf's prominent play on the difficulties of figu- rative political expression shows that heeding the call of linguistic nativism will not automatically make representation an unproblematic  affair in African literature. My analysis of Ayi Kwei Armah's Two Thousand Seasons, a text that appears to have heeded the literary and critical ideologies of relevance predominant in nativism, concentrates on the importance of the novel's metafictional simulation of a nativist history. The novel's self-conscious marking of the constructive charac- ter of fiction foregrounds the dependence of an "engaged" history on narrative conventions. Ngigi's Devil on the Cross fits this book's theme because the novel's prominently allegorical representation illustrates, perhaps unintentionally, the difficulties rhetorical structures can create for the delivery of thematic motivation in nativist fiction. Os6fisan's Kolera Kolej, the subject of the last chapter, makes a sad comedy of nativism's rhetoric by satirizing both the fictional critique of the postindependence nation-state and the dominant rhetorical apparatus of the narratives of disillusionment in which such critiques are typi- cally conducted. This book mainly explores, through a deconstructive appropriation of metaproverbs, the material role of figuration in representation. Its critical reading of what may be called Yornbs proverbial principles of figuration into and against nativist aesthetics should not be taken as a repudiation of either the nativist motivation in criticism or its rhetoric of difference. Indeed, it is assumed throughout the book that nativism is the founding principle of African literary criticism and that nativism's predominant language of difference is necessitated by its theme, which requires that African literary criticism should emphasize the relevance of indigenous forms to the description of contemporary cultural ele- ments. I would like to thank the following individuals and institutions for their assistance during the educational and work experiences that led to the writing of this book. For lIfe, that is, the Obiflmi Awd16w University, I thank R6po Sek6ni. Without him and his wife, Blnke, Florida would not have been. At the University of Florida, I got to know Oldbiyi Yii, whose instructions in "classical" Yoruhb were very useful for the conception of this project. Also at Florida, Paul Kotey, Haig Der-Houssikan, Alistair Duckworth, Jack Perlette, and Dan Cottom were lifesavers. Words cannot fully express my gratitude to JohnLeav'ey. At the University of Colorado at Boulder, David Simpson chose to make a colleague of himself. The IMPART fund of the University of Colorado supported me for one summer. Tejdml1 OlAniyan of the Preface xi affair in African literature. My analysis of Ayi Kwei Armah's Two Thousand Seasons, a text that appears to have heeded the literary and critical ideologies of relevance predominant in nativism, concentrates on the importance of the novel's metafictional simulation of a nativist history. The novel's self-conscious marking of the constructive charac- ter of fiction foregrounds the dependence of an "engaged" history on narrative conventions. Nglgi's Devil on the Cross fits this book's theme because the novel's prominently allegorical representation illustrates, perhaps unintentionally, the difficulties rhetorical structures can create for the delivery of thematic motivation in nativist fiction. Osofisan's Kolera Kolej, the subject of the last chapter, makes a sad comedy of nativism's rhetoric by satirizing both the fictional critique of the postindependence nation-state and the dominant rhetorical apparatus of the narratives of disillusionment in which such critiques are typi- cally conducted. This book mainly explores, through a deconstructive appropriation of metaproverbs, the material role of figuration in representation. Its critical reading of what may be called Yorubi proverbial principles of figuration into and against nativist aesthetics should not be taken as a repudiation of either the nativist motivation in criticism or its rhetoric of difference. Indeed, it is assumed throughout the book that nativism is the founding principle of African literary criticism and that nativism's predominant language of difference is necessitated by its theme, which requires that African literary criticism should emphasize the relevance of indigenous forms to the description of contemporary cultural ele- ments. I would like to thank the following individuals and institutions for their assistance during the educational and work experiences that led to the writing of this book. For Ife, that is, the Oblffmi Aw616wo University, I thank R6ph Sek6ni. Without him and his wife, Banki, Florida would not have been. At the University of Florida, I got to know Olibiyii Yali, whose instructions in "classical" Yorbba were very useful for the conception of this project. Also at Florida, Paul Kotey, Haig Der-Houssikan, Alistair Duckworth, Jack Perlette, and Dan Cottom were lifesavers. Words cannot fully express my gratitude to John Leavey. At the University of Colorado at Boulder, David Simpson chose to make a colleague of himself. The IMPART fund of the University of Colorado supported me for one summer. Tejnm6lA Oliniyan of the Preface xi affair in African literature. My analysis of Ayi Kwei Armah's Two Thousand Seasons, a text that appears to have heeded the literary and critical ideologies of relevance predominant in nativism, concentrates on the importance of the novel's metafictional simulation of a nativist history. The novel's self-conscious marking of the constructive charac- ter of fiction foregrounds the dependence of an "engaged" history on narrative conventions. Ngagi's Devil on the Cross fits this book's theme because the novel's prominently allegorical representation illustrates, perhaps unintentionally, the difficulties rhetorical structures can create for the delivery of thematic motivation in nativist fiction. Os6fisan's Kolera Kolej, the subject of the last chapter, makes a sad comedy of nativism's rhetoric by satirizing both the fictional critique of the postindependence nation-state and the dominant rhetorical apparatus of the narratives of disillusionment in which such critiques are typi- cally conducted. This book mainly explores, through a deconstructive appropriation of metaproverbs, the material role of figuration in representation. Its critical reading of what may be called Yorhbn proverbial principles of figuration into and against nativist aesthetics should not be taken as a repudiation of either the nativist motivation in criticism or its rhetoric of difference. Indeed, it is assumed throughout the book that nativism is the founding principle of African literary criticism and that nativism's predominant language of difference is necessitated by its theme, which requires that African literary criticism should emphasize the relevance of indigenous forms to the description of contemporary cultural ele- ments. I would like to thank the following individuals and institutions for their assistance during the educational and work experiences that led to the writing of this book. For Ife, that is, the Oblfimi Awol6w University, I thank R6pS Sek6ni. Without him and his wife, Bank6, Florida would not have been. At the University of Florida, I got to know Qldbiyi Yli, whose instructions in "classical" Yorubd were very useful for the conception of this project. Also at Florida, Paul Kotey, Haig Der-Houssikan, Alistair Duckworth, Jack Perlette, and Dan Cottom were lifesavers. Words cannot fully express my gratitude to John Leavey. At the University of Colorado at Boulder, David Simpson chose to make a colleague of himself. The IMPART fund of the University of Colorado supported me for one summer. Tejdm61d Olnifyan of the  University of Virginia read the entire manuscript and gate friendly advice on how to pursue the work. So did Adeniyi Coker (then at the University of Wyoming), now of Eastern Illinois University. The pres- ence of Taye, Tiyh, Bolajf, and Dimiji, my immediate family in the United States, made it imperative that the work be completed. The Board of Governors and the University of Calgary graciously granted the permission to use an early version of a section of chapter 3 that was first published as "Contests of Text and Context in Chinua Achebe's Arrow of God" in ARIEL: A Review of International Eng:!;-t Literature 23/2 (April 1992): 7-22. University of Virginia read the entire manuscript and gave friendly advice on how to pursue the work. So did Addniyi Coker (then at the University of Wyoming), now of Eastern Illinois University. The pres- ence of Tiy6, TayQ, Bolaji, and Dimeji, my immediate family in the United States, made it imperative that the work be completed. The Board of Governors and the University of Calgary graciously granted the permission to use an early version of a section of chapter 3 that was first published as "Contests of Text and Context in Chinua Achebe's Arrow of God" in ARIEL: A Review of International English Literature 23/2 (April 1992): 7-22. University of Virginia read the entire manuscript and gae friendly advice on how to pursue the work. So did Adeniyi Coker (then at the University of Wyoming), now of Eastern Illinois University. The pres- ence of Tdy6, Tdyd, Bldji, and Dimeji, my immediate family in the United States, made it imperative that the work be completed. The Board of Governors and the University of Calgary graciously granted the permission to use an early version of a section of chapter 3 that was first published as "Contests of Text and Context in Chinua Achebe's Arrow of God" in ARIEL: A Review of International English Literature 23/2 (April 1992): 7-22.  1 1 1 My Signifier Is More Native than Yours Issues in Making a Literature African Enu eni la fi ko me je [We use our own mouth to reject that which we will not eat]. Yorhbd proverb In June 1962, Ezekiel Mphahlele coordinated the "Conference of Afri- can Writers of English Literature" at Uganda's Makerere University. The meeting was sponsored by bodies as diverse as the Congress for Cultural Freedom in the United States, the Mbari Writers' Club in Nigeria, and Makerere's own extra-mural department and gathered in one location all the voices already made popular by Black Orpheus in Lagos, the members of the Mbari artists' clubs in Osogbo and Ibadan in Nigeria, and the budding writers in Ghana, Kenya, and Uganda. Present were Chinua Achebe, Wole Soyinka, J. P. Clark Bekederemo (then J. P. Clark), Ngagi wa Thiong'o (who was then called James Ngugi), Chris- topher Okigbo, and Bloke Modisane. The meeting, to which Transition magazine (then the leading purveyor of cultural trends in English- speaking Africa) ascribed the invention of African literary criticism, was so selective in its literary tastes as to exclude Amos Tutboli and expansive enough in its conception of Africa as to invite Saunders Redding and Langston Hughes from the United States. The writers met to assess the achievements of anglographic African literature and plot newer courses away from the then-dominant antico- lonial subjects that were believed to have been overtaken by events. By that year, virtually all of the British holdings in Africa were either My Signifier Is More Native than Yours Issues in Making a Literature African Enu eni la fi ko m6 je [We use our own mouth to reject that which we will not eat]. Yoruba proverb In June 1962, Ezekiel Mphahlele coordinated the "Conference of Afri- can Writers of English Literature" at Uganda's Makerere University. The meeting was sponsored by bodies as diverse as the Congress for Cultural Freedom in the United States, the Mbari Writers' Club in Nigeria, and Makerere's own extra-mural department and gathered in one location all the voices already made popular by Black Orpheus in Lagos, the members of the Mbari artists' clubs in Osogbo and ibadan in Nigeria, and the budding writers in Ghana, Kenya, and Uganda. Present were Chinua Achebe, Wole Soyinka, J. P. Clark Bekederemo (then J. P. Clark), Ngugt wa Thiong'o (who was then called James Ngugi), Chris- topher Okigbo, and Bloke Modisane. The meeting, to which Transition magazine (then the leading purveyor of cultural trends in English- speaking Africa) ascribed the invention of African literary criticism, was so selective in its literary tastes as to exclude Amos TutiolA and expansive enough in its conception of Africa as to invite Saunders Redding and Langston Hughes from the United States. The writers met to assess the achievements of anglographic African literature and plot newer courses away from the then-dominant antico- lonial subjects that were believed to have been overtaken by events. By that year, virtually all of the British holdings in Africa were either My Signifier Is More Native than Yours Issues in Making a Literature African Enu eni la fi ko m6 je [We use our own mouth to reject that which we will not eat]. Yorcnbd proverb In June 1962, Ezekiel Mphahlele coordinated the "Conference of Afri- can Writers of English Literature" at Uganda's Makerere University. The meeting was sponsored by bodies as diverse as the Congress for Cultural Freedom in the United States, the Mbari Writers' Club in Nigeria, and Makerere's own extra-mural department and gathered in one location all the voices already made popular by Black Orpheus in Lagos, the members of the Mbari artists' clubs in Osogbo and Ibadhn in Nigeria, and the budding writers in Ghana, Kenya, and Uganda. Present were Chinua Achebe, Wole Soyinka, J. P. Clark Bekederemo (then J. P. Clark), Ngfgi wa Thiong'o (who was then called James Ngugi), Chris- topher Okigbo, and Bloke Modisane. The meeting, to which Transition magazine (then the leading purveyor of cultural trends in English- speaking Africa) ascribed the invention of African literary criticism, was so selective in its literary tastes as to exclude Amos Tutholi and expansive enough in its conception of Africa as to invite Saunders Redding and Langston Hughes from the United States. The writers met to assess the achievements of anglographic African literature and plot newer courses away from the then-dominant antico- lonial subjects that were believed to have been overtaken by events. By that year, virtually all of the British holdings in Africa were either  2 Chapter ] independent or on the verge of "self-government." The writers felt that colonialism was in its death throes, that newer societies were emerging, and that a matching cultural agenda must be formulated. 1. T. Ngugi observed, in words that suggest a sense of relief, that unlike similar meetings held in 1956 and 1959, "the whole conference was almost quiet on such things as colonialism, imperialism, and other isms" (7). But politics caught up with the writers at the very first session, titled "What Is African Literature?" The session set out to delimit a self- conscious literary community whose membership would be selected on the strength of a demonstrable liking for an apolitical literary lan- guage and an ability to capture the individual's existential pains. When questions about whether the adjective African or the noun literature should head the definition criteria, the conference struggled for an- swers. The writers discovered in their disagreements that the funda- mental terms of their gathering, Africa and literature, care dense politi- cal connotations. The writers were surprised by unanswerable questions on how to turn a geopolitical space into a literary province, how to define African rhetoric, and how to identify an African writer. In "The African Writer and the English Language," Chinua Achebe recollects the questions as, "Was it literature produced in Africa or about Africa? Could African literature be on any subject, or must it have an African theme? Should it embrace the whole continent or south of the Sahara, or just Black Africa? And then the question of language. Should it be in the indigenous African languages or should it include Arabic, English. French, Portuguese, Afrikaans, etc.?" (55). Bloke Modisane, a South African at the conference, remembered that Christopher Okigbo intro- duced the question "Is African literature the body of literature written by Africans of African descent, or is it any literature written on and about Africa? Who is an African writer?" (5). The first session of the writers' conference called up questions about how anglophone African literary criticism could be used to develop a set of criteria that will reflect the cultural peculiarities of the world dealt with in the primary texts. The cultural and theoretical significance of the conference's unan- swered questions is the major topic of this chapter. But before I link the controversies generated by the impasse of the first session at Makerere to the creation of the nativist impulse in anglophone African literary criticism, I want to describe first the immediate critical fire set off by the meeting. Understanding the emotions-the emotions are usually mis- 2 Chapter 1 independent or on the verge of "self-government." The writers felt that colonialism was in its death throes, that newer societies ss ere emerging. and that a matching cultural agenda must be formulated. 1. T. \gugi observed, in words that suggest a sense of relief, that unlike similar meetings held in 1956 and 1959, "the whole conference was almost quiet on such things as colonialism, imperialism, and other isms" (7). But politics caught up with the writers at the very first session, titled "What Is African Literature?" The session set out to delimit a self- conscious literary community whose membership would be selected on the strength of a demonstrable liking for an apolitical literary lan- guage and an ability to capture the individual's existential pains. When questions about whether the adjective African or the noun literature should head the definition criteria, the conference struggled for an- swers. The writers discovered in their disagreements that the funda- mental terms of their gathering, Africa and literature, carry dense politi- cal connotations. The writers were surprised by unanswerable questions on how to turn a geopolitical space into a literary province, how to define African rhetoric, and how to identify an African r riter. In "The African Writer and the English Language," Chinua Achebe recollect, the questions as, "Was it literature produced in Africa or ab out Africa? Could African literature be on any subject, or must it have an African theme? Should it embrace the whole continent or south of the Sahara, or just Black Africa? And then the question of language. Should it be in the indigenous African languages or should it include Arabic, English. French, Portuguese, Afrikaans, etc.?" (55). Bloke Modisane, a South African at the conference, remembered that Christopher Okigbo intro- duced the question "Is African literature the body of literature written by Africans of African descent, or is it any literature written on and about Africa? Who is an African writer?" (5). The first session of the writers' conference called up questions about how anglophone African literary criticism could be used to develop a set of criteria that will reflect the cultural peculiarities of the world dealt with in the primary texts. The cultural and theoretical significance of the conference's unan- swered questions is the major topic of this chapter. But before I link the controversies generated by the impasse of the first session at Makerere to the creation of the nativist impulse in anglophone African literary criticism, I want to describe first the immediate critical fire set off by the meeting. Understanding the emotions-the emotions are usually mis- 2 Chapter 1 independent or on the verge of "self-government." The writers felt that colonialism was in its death throes, that newer societies were emerging, and that a matching cultural agenda must be formulated. j. T. Ngugi observed, in words that suggest a sense of relief, that unlike similar meetings held in 1956 and 1959, "the whole conference was almost quiet on such things as colonialism, imperialism, and other isms" (7). But politics caught up with the writers at the very first session, titled "What Is African Literature?" The session set out to delimit a self- conscious literary community whose membership would be selected on the strength of a demonstrable liking for an apolitical literary lan- guage and an ability to capture the individual's existential pains. When questions about whether the adjective African or the noun literature should head the definition criteria, the conference struggled for an- swers. The writers discovered in their disagreements that the funda- mental terms of their gathering, Africa and literaatre, carry dense politi- cal connotations. The writers were surprised by unanswerable questions on how to turn a geopolitical space into a literary province, how to define African rhetoric, and how to identify an African writer. In "The African Writer and the English Language," Chinua Achebe recollects the questions as, "Was it literature produced in Africa or about Africa? Could African literature be on any subject, or must it have an African theme? Should it embrace the whole continent or south of the Sahara, or just Black Africa? And then the question of language. Should it be in the indigenous African languages or should it include Arabic, English, French, Portuguese, Afrikaans, etc.?" (55). Bloke Modisane, a South African at the conference, remembered that Christopher Okigbo intro- duced the question "Is African literature the body of literature written by Africans of African descent, or is it any literature written on and about Africa? Who is an African writer?" (5). The first session of the writers' conference called up questions about how anglophone African literary criticism could be used to develop a set of criteria that will reflect the cultural peculiarities of the world dealt with in the primary texts. The cultural and theoretical significance of the conference's unan- swered questions is the major topic of this chapter. But before I link the controversies generated by the impasse of the first session at Makerere to the creation of the nativist impulse in anglophone African literary criticism, I want to describe first the immediate critical fire set off by the meeting. Understanding the emotions-the emotions are usually mis-  My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 3 represented as the "language" question-provoked by the decisions made, and not made, at the conference is necessary for analyzing the creation of contemporary anglophone African literary criticism. Obianjuwa Wali, the critic and politician, was the first to respond to the report that the writers who met at Makerere resolved to keep writing in "national" languages and conceptualizing themes in "eth- nic" languages. Wali disagreed with the resolution that urged the writers to reconcile the oxymoron of "African writing in English," which he indicted as a capitulation to the ills of colonialism. He described the resolution as a cultural accommodation of the political conquests that produced the peculiar condition in which a writer's language of "being" conflicts with that of his or her "existence." The colonial powers would have succeeded far beyond their own designs if, as the conference resolved, postindependence African culture should surrender to the dominance of Europeanforns, privilege transliterative language, demonstrate a commitment to the deeper exploration of the individual's psyche, and neglect the overt political dimensions of literary conventions. Wali believed that "the whole uncritical accep- tance of English and French as the inevitable medium for educated African writing, is misdirected, and has no chance of advancing Afri- can literature and culture .. . [and] until these writers and their western midwives accept the fact that any true African literature must be written in African languages, they would be merely pursuing a dead end, which can only lead to sterility, uncreativity, and frustra- tion" (14; emphasis added). The pressing problem facing high culture in postindependence Africa, Wali believed, was not the rejection of Negritude's racialized (i.e., politicized) aesthetics but how to divine the character of nationalist cultural politics. That, ie thought, was the issue the Makerere conference formulated and, unfortunately, side- stepped at its opening session. Perhaps the most significant part of Wali's rebuttal of the writers' consensus is that his language departed from routine nationalist rheto- ric. He proposed no unquantifiable reasons for why African languages can bear African themes better than other languages. He showed no preference for particular ideologies. Instead, he recommended native languages as most able to bear the African imagination for just one very practical reason: they possess a vast archive of readily useful popular conventions. Vigorous traditions, Wali said, employ commonly avail- able forms in the semiotic repertoire of their ideal audiences. Therefore, My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 3 represented as the "language" question-provoked by the decisions made, and not made, at the conference is necessary for analyzing the creation of contemporary anglophone African literary criticism. Obianjuwa Wali, the critic and politician, was the first to respond to the report that the writers who met at Makerere resolved to keep writing in "national" languages and conceptualizing themes in "eth- nic" languages. Wali disagreed with the resolution that urged the writers to reconcile the oxymoron of "African writing in English," which he indicted as a capitulation to the ills of colonialism. He described the resolution as a cultural accommodation of the political conquests that produced the peculiar condition in which a writer's language of "being" conflicts with that of his or her "existence." The colonial powers would have succeeded far beyond their own designs if, as the conference resolved, postindependence African culture should surrender to the dominance of Europeanforms, privilege transliterative language, demonstrate a commitment to the deeper exploration of the individual's psyche, and neglect the overt political dimensions of literary conventions. Wali believed that "the whole uncritical accep- tance of English and French as the inevitable medium for educated African writing, is misdirected, and has no chance of advancing Afri- can literature and culture . . . [and] until these writers and their western midwives accept the fact that any true African literature must be written in African languages, they would be merely pursuing a dead end, which can only lead to sterility, uncreativity, and frustra- tion" (14; emphasis added). The pressing problem facing high culture in postindependence Africa, Wali believed, was not the rejection of Nfgritude's racialized (i.e., politicized) aesthetics but how to divine the character of nationalist cultural politics. That, he thought, was the issue the Makerere conference formulated and, unfortunately, side- stepped at its opening session. Perhaps the most significant part of Wali's rebuttal of the writers' consensus is that his language departed from routine nationalist rheto- ric. He proposed no unquantifiable reasons for why African languages can bear African themes better than other languages. He showed no preference for particular ideologies. Instead, he recommended native languages as most able to bear the African imagination for just one very practical reason: they possess a vast archive of readily useful popular conventions. Vigorous traditions, Wali said, employ commonly avail- able forms in the semiotic repertoire of their ideal audiences. Therefore, My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 3 represented as the "language" question-provoked by the decisions made, and not made, at the conference is necessary for analyzing the creation of contemporary anglophone African literary criticism. Obianjuwa Wali, the critic and politician, was the first to respond to the report that the writers who met at Makerere resolved to keep writing in "national" languages and conceptualizing themes in "eth- nic" languages. Wali disagreed with the resolution that urged the writers to reconcile the oxymoron of "African writing in English," which he indicted as a capitulation to the ills of colonialism. He described the resolution as a cultural accommodation of the political conquests that produced the peculiar condition in which a writer's language of "being" conflicts with that of his or her "existence." The colonial powers would have succeeded far beyond their own designs if, as the conference resolved, postindependence African culture should surrender to the dominance of Europeanforms, privilege transliterative language, demonstrate a commitment to the deeper exploration of the individual's psyche, and neglect the overt political dimensions of literary conventions. Wali believed that "the whole uncritical accep- tance of English and French as the inevitable medium for educated African writing, is misdirected, and has no chance of advancing Afri- can literature and culture .. . [and] until these writers and their western midwives accept the fact that any true African literature must be written in African languages, they would be merely pursuing a dead end, which can only lead to sterility, uncreativity, and frustra- tion" (14; emphasis added). The pressing problem facing high culture in postindependence Africa, Wali believed, was not the rejection of Negritude's racialized (i.e., politicized) aesthetics but how to divine the character of nationalist cultural politics. That, he thought, was the issue the Makerere conference formulated and, unfortunately, side- stepped at its opening session. Perhaps the most significant part of Wali's rebuttal of the writers' consensus is that his language departed from routine nationalist rheto- ric. He proposed no unquantifiable reasons for why African languages can bear African themes better than other languages. He showed no preference for particular ideologies. Instead, he recommended native languages as most able to bear the African imagination for just one very practical reason: they possess a vast archive of readily useful popular conventions. Vigorous traditions, Wali said, employ commonly avail- able forms in the semiotic repertoire of their ideal audiences. Therefore,  4 Chapter 1 be stressed, an African tradition must be readilv accessible to "the ordinary local audience with little or no education in the conentional European manner" (14; emphasis added). As if by default, the charged responses drawn by Wali's condemnation of the Makerere resolutions turned the little gathering into a cultural landmark.' Wali raised large questions about the role of political will on intellectual and cultural changes, the practical significance of material languages, and which cultural variables (material language and/or conventions) are most critical to the formation of a decolonized, postindependence culture. Questions asked around the Makerere debate prefigured what later developed into full-blown theories about how to determine the relative value of the oral, ethnic, and folk traditions to the conceptualization of modern, national, and largely literate postindependence cultures. The advocates of deliberately nativized material instruments of knowing proposed, as Wali did, that any genuinely African cultural practice must seek organic origins in the precolonial, oral, and folk forms. Less idealistic others, like the writers who met at Makerere, hold that the precolonial traditions have served their historical purpose, and the supposed certainties buried in them supported old orders that have succumbed to newer formations. Effective modern' African instruments of knowing and reflection must measure accurately and reflect with high fidelity. For example, Ezekiel Mphahlele, the spokesman for the Makerere meeting, admitted that Wali's call for a more determinate politicization of formal choices in postindependence African culture is right because the history of colonial disengagement demonstrates that anticolonial writing in European languages was effective partly be- cause the chosen languages of creation were readily understood by the conquerors. But, Mphahlele added, because the European languages are now national, and arguably not un-African, they serve different purposes in the postindependence nation state. The now national forms and languages will make transethnic communication possible and po- litical and cultural stability feasible. In what has grown to be a very influential article, Kwame Anthony Appiah summarizes as nativism the visceral rhetoric often used in the "nationalist" theses of the side that favors founding an African cultural and intellectual identity on the advancement of oral and precolonial traditions. Appiah says, Both the complaints against defilement by alien traditions in alien tongue and the defenses of them as a practical necessity ... seem 4 Chapter 1 he stressed, an African tradition must be readily accessible to "the ordinary local audience with little or no education in the comentiona European manner" (14; emphasis added). As if by default, the charged responses drawn by Wali's condemnation of the Makerere resolutions turned the little gathering into a cultural landmark.' Wati raised large questions about the role of political will on intellectual and cultural changes, the practical significance of material languages, and which cultural variables (material language and/or conventions) are most critical to the formation of a decolonized, postindependence culture. Questions asked around the Makerere debate prefigured what later developed into full-blown theories about how to determine the relative value of the oral, ethnic, and folk traditions to the conceptualization of modern, national, and largely literate postindependence cultures. The advocates of deliberately nativized material instruments of knowing proposed, as Wali did, that any genuinely African cultural practice must seek organic origins in the precolonial, oral, and folk forms. Less idealistic others, like the writers who met at Makerere, hold that the precolonial traditions have served their historical purpose, and the supposed certainties buried in them supported old orders that have succumbed to newer formations. Effective modern' African instruments of knowing and reflection must measure accurately and reflect with high fidelity. For example, Ezekiel Mphahlele, the spokesman for the Makerere meeting, admitted that Wali's call for a more determinate politicization of formal choices in postindependence African culture is right because the history of colonial disengagement demonstrates that anticolonial writing in European languages was effective partly be- cause the chosen languages of creation were readily understood by the conquerors. But, Mphahlele added, because the European languages are now national, and arguably not un-African, they serve different purposes in the postindependence nation state. The now national forms and languages will make transethnic communication possible and po- litical and cultural stability feasible. In what has grown to be a very influential article, Kwame Anthony Appiah summarizes as nativism the visceral rhetoric often used in the "nationalist" theses of the side that favors founding an African cultural and intellectual identity on the advancement of oral and precolonial traditions. Appiah says, Both the complaints against defilement by alien traditions in alien tongue and the defenses of them as a practical necessity . .. seem 4 Chapter 1 he stressed, an African tradition must be readily accessible to "the ordinary local audience with little or no education in the conentionl European manner" (14; emphasis added). As if by default, the charged responses drawn by Wali's condemnation of the Makerere resolutions turned the little gathering into a cultural landmark.' Wali raised large questions about the role of political will on intellectual and cultural changes, the practical significance of material languages, and which cultural variables (material language and/or conventions) are most critical to the formation of a decolonized, postindependence culture. Questions asked around the Makerere debate prefigured what later developed into full-blown theories about how to determine the relative value of the oral, ethnic, and folk traditions to the conceptualization of modern, national, and largely literate postindependence cultures. The advocates of deliberately nativized material instruments of knowing proposed, as Wali did, that any genuinely African cultural practice must seek organic origins in the precolonial, oral, and folk forms. Less idealistic others, like the writers who met at Makerere, hold that the precolonial traditions have served their historical purpose, and the supposed certainties buried in them supported old orders that have succumbed to newer formations. Effective modern' African instruments of knowing and reflection must measure accurately and reflect with high fidelity. For example, Ezekiel Mphahlele, the spokesman for the Makerere meeting, admitted that Wali's call for a more determinate politicization of formal choices in postindependence African culture is right because the history of colonial disengagement demonstrates that anticolonial writing in European languages was effective partly be- cause the chosen languages of creation were readily understood by the conquerors. But, Mphahlele added, because the European languages are now national, and arguably not un-African, they serve different purposes in the postindependence nation state. The now national forms and languages will make transethnic communication possible and po- litical and cultural stability feasible. In what has grown to be a very influential article, Krvame Anthony Appiah summarizes as nativism the visceral rhetoric often used in the "nationalist" theses of the side that favors founding an African cultural and intellectual identity on the advancement of oral and precolonial traditions. Appiah says, Both the complaints against defilement by alien traditions in alien tongue and the defenses of them as a practical necessity ... seem  My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 5 often to reduce to a dispute between a sentimental Herderian conception of Africa's languages and traditions as expressive of the collective essence of a pristine traditional community, on the one hand, and, on the other, a positivistic conception of European languages and disciplines as mere tools; tools that can be cleansed of the accompanying imperialist-and more specifically, racist- modes of thought. The former view is often at the heart of what we can call "nativism": the claim that true African independence requires a literature of one's own. Echoing the debate in nineteenth-century Russia between "Westerners" and "Slavophiles," the debate in Africa presents itself as an opposition between "universalism" and "particularism," the latter defining itself, above all else, by its opposition of the former. But there are only two players in this game: us, inside; them, outside. That is all there is to it. ("Topolo- gies of Nativism," 56) This summary, of course, caricatures the sincere altercations in- volved in the ciphering of an effective scheme for cultural and intellec- tual discourse in Africa after colonization. It excludes the "moderate" middle represented, for example, by writers like Ezekiel Mphahlele, Gabriel Okara, and, to some degree, the very influential African Marx- ist community. The "nationalist" or "traditionalist" voices, the promot- ers of the folk, the oral, and the rural, did not dictate the governing assumptions of how best to privilege the native perspective, as Appiah's statement suggests. In an essay published about a decade before Appiah's, Emmanuel Obiechina argued that the adversarial (anticolonial) context in which the humanities developed in Africa is largely responsible for both the activist orientation of the dominant thinking and the nativist orienta- tion of the language. According to Obiechina, Cultural nativism, or that aspect of it called literary nationalism, is so fundamentally universal a phenomenon in unequal social situ- ations such as that engendered by colonialism that its inevitability hardly deserves an argument. . . . Whether this nativism or cul- tural affirmation finds expression in psycho-political terms such as the African Personality or in the literary ideology of Nfgritude its cultural implications are obvious. There is a fundamental as- sumption that the African has had a civilization which is distinct My Signifier Is More Native than Yours often to reduce to a dispute between a sentimental Herderian conception of Africa's languages and traditions as expressive of the collective essence of a pristine traditional community, on the one hand, and, on the other, a positivistic conception of European languages and disciplines as mere tools; tools that can be cleansed of the accompanying imperialist-and more specifically, racist- modes of thought. The former view is often at the heart of what we can call "nativism": the claim that true African independence requires a literature of one's own. Echoing the debate in nineteenth-century Russia between "Westerners" and "Slavophiles," the debate in Africa presents itself as an opposition between "universalism" and "particularism," the latter defining itself, above all else, by its opposition of the former. But there are only two players in this game: us, inside; them, outside. That is all there is to it. ("Topolo- gies of Nativism," 56) This summary, of course, caricatures the sincere altercations in- volved in the ciphering of an effective scheme for cultural and intellec- tual discourse in Africa after colonization. It excludes the "moderate" middle represented, for example, by writers like Ezekiel Mphahlele, Gabriel Okara, and, to some degree, the very influential African Marx- ist community. The "nationalist" or "traditionalist" voices, the promot- ers of the folk, the oral, and the rural, did not dictate the governing assumptions of how best to privilege the native perspective, as Appiah's statement suggests. In an essay published about a decade before Appiah's, Emmanuel Obiechina argued that the adversarial (anticolonial) context in which the humanities developed in Africa is largely responsible for both the activist orientation of the dominant thinking and the nativist orienta- tion of the language. According to Obiechina, Cultural nativism, or that aspect of it called literary nationalism, is so fundamentally universal a phenomenon in unequal social situ- ations such as that engendered by colonialism that its inevitability hardly deserves an argument. . . . Whether this nativism or cul- tural affirmation finds expression in psycho-political terms such as the African Personality or in the literary ideology of Nfgritude its cultural implications are obvious. There is a fundamental as- sumption that the African has had a civilization which is distinct My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 5 often to reduce to a dispute between a sentimental Herderian conception of Africa's languages and traditions as expressive of the collective essence of a pristine traditional community, on the one hand, and, on the other, a positivistic conception of European languages and disciplines as mere tools; tools that can be cleansed of the accompanying imperialist-and more specifically, racist- modes of thought. The former view is often at the heart of what we can call "nativism": the claim that true African independence requires a literature of one's own. Echoing the debate in nineteenth-century Russia between "Westerners" and "Slavophiles," the debate in Africa presents itself as an opposition between "universalism" and "particularism," the latter defining itself, above all else, by its opposition of the former. But there are only two players in this game: us, inside; them, outside. That is all there is to it. ("Topolo- gies of Nativism," 56) This summary, of course, caricatures the sincere altercations in- volved in the ciphering of an effective scheme for cultural and intellec- tual discourse in Africa after colonization. It excludes the "moderate" middle represented, for example, by writers like Ezekiel Mphahlele, Gabriel Okara, and, to some degree, the very influential African Marx- ist community. The "nationalist" or "traditionalist" voices, the promot- ers of the folk, the oral, and the rural, did not dictate the governing assumptions of how best to privilege the native perspective, as Appiah's statement suggests. In an essay published about a decade before Appiah's, Emmanuel Obiechina argued that the adversarial (anticolonial) context in which the humanities developed in Africa is largely responsible for both the activist orientation of the dominant thinking and the nativist orienta- tion of the language. According to Obiechina, Cultural nativism, or that aspect of it called literary nationalism, is so fundamentally universal a phenomenon in unequal social situ- ations such as that engendered by colonialism that its inevitability hardly deserves an argument. . . . Whether this nativism or cul- tural affirmation finds expression in psycho-political terms such as the African Personality or in the literary ideology of Negritude its cultural implications are obvious. There is a fundamental as- sumption that the African has had a civilization which is distinct  6 Chapter 1 from all other civilizations and which distinguishes him from all other human beings. ("Cultural Nationalism," 26) For Obiechina, the intellectual rhetoric of indigenization with which various Africans branded their visions of an independent society is a generative category because it has enabled the development of diverse models of cultural and intellectual reconstruction for postcolonial Af- rica. Generally, the articulation of nativism-including the nationalists'- involves predominantly secular registers that include but are not lim- ited to sociolinguistics, historical and cultural materialism, classifica- tory biology, development economics, and sociology. The nativization polarities are also present in the social sciences, in which the character and the relevance of the informal to the formal, the unorganized to the organized, and the rural to the urban sectors remain important ques- tions. Even the "natural" sciences-ethnobotanav and ethnopharma- cology are two good examples-sometimes get involved in the kinds of questions Wali's essay provoked. Gender studies have also not been able to avoid the fray. For example, Ifi Amadiume's approach to Afri- can feminism in Male Daughters (1987) seems to be driven by the nativ- ist impulse. She says that while she was planning the research for her book she "decided it was best to go home and, with the help of Nnobi people themselves, write our owon social history, especially from the women's point of view." In Nnobi, her "right to ask questions, act as a spokeswoman and make recommendations for change and improve- ment" is assured (9-10; emphasis added).' In literary criticism alone, the methods of charting the native waos of knowing has been conceptualized in so many ways that grouping them under three headings as I do below only begins to reflect their intrica- cies. The first group, that which I call thematic or classical nativism, asks for the foregrounding of local and public subject matter, the rejec- tion of tendentious universalism in critical standards, and the develop- ment of an aesthetic that privileges translucent communication. Classi- cal nativism claims inspiration from an Africanized aesthetic theory of "use" and "relevance." The second group, which I name structuralist or speculative nativism, proposes idealistic interpretations of the formal dimensions of "traditional" theater, fiction, and poetry upon which contemporary practices ought to be based. Unlike the thematists, the structuralists do not use "tradition" to disavow dense and solipsistic 6 Chapter 0 from all other civilizations and which distinguishes him from all other human beings. ("Cultural Nationalism," 26) For Obiechina, the intellectual rhetoric of indigenization with sohich various Africans branded their visions of an independent society is a generative category because it has enabled the development of diverse models of cultural and intellectual reconstruction for postcolonial Ar- rica,. Generally, the articulation of nativism--including the nationalist'- involves predominantly secular registers that include but are not lim- ited to sociolinguistics, historical and cultural materialism, classifica- tory biology, development economics, and sociology. The nativization polarities are also present in the social sciences, in which the character and the relevance of the informal to the formal, the unorganized to the organized, and the rural to the urban sectors remain important ques- tions. Even the "natural" sciences-ethnobotany' and ethnopharma- cology are two good examples-sometimes get involved in the kinds of questions Wali's essay provoked. Gender studies have also not been able to avoid the fray. For example, Ifi Amadiume's approach to Afri- can feminism in Male Daughters (1987) seems to be driven by the nativ- ist impulse. She says that while she was planning the research for her book she "decided it was best to go home and, with the help of Nnobi people themselves, write our own social history, especially from the women's point of view." In Nnobi, her "right to ask questions, act as a spokeswoman and make recommendations for change and improve- ment" is assured (9-10; emphasis added)' In literary criticism alone, the methods of charting the native ways of knowing has been conceptualized in so many ways that grouping them under three headings as I do below only begins to reflect their intrica- cies. The first group, that which I call thematic or classical nativism, asks for the foregrounding of local and public subject matter, the rejec- tion of tendentious universalism in critical standards, and the develop- ment of an aesthetic that privileges translucent communication. Classi- cal nativism claims inspiration from an Africanized aesthetic theory of "use" and "relevance." The second group, which I name structuralist or speculative nativism, proposes idealistic interpretations of the formal dimensions of "traditional" theater, fiction, and poetry upon which contemporary practices ought to be based. Unlike the thematists, the structuralists do not use "tradition" to disavow dense and solipsistic 6 Chapter 1 from all other civilizations and which distinguishes him from all other human beings. ("Cultural Nationalism," 26) For Obiechina, the intellectual rhetoric of indigenization with which various Africans branded their visions of an independent society is a generative category because it has enabled the development of diverse models of cultural and intellectual reconstruction for postcolonial Af- rica. Generally, the articulation of nativism-including the nationalists- involves predominantly secular registers that include but are not lim- ited to sociolinguistics, historical and cultural materialism, classifica- tory biology, development economics, and sociology. The natirization polarities are also present in the social sciences, in which the character and the relevance of the informal to the formal, the unorganized to the organized, and the rural to the urban sectors remain important ques- tions. Even the "natural" sciences-ethnobotany' and ethnopharma- cology are two good examples-sometimes get involved in the kinds of questions Wali's essay provoked. Gender studies have also not been able to avoid the fray. For example, Ifi Amadiume's approach to Afri- can feminism in Male Daughters (1987) seems to be driven by the nativ- ist impulse. She says that while she was planning the research for her book she "decided it was best to go home and, with the help of Nnobi people themselves, write our own social history, especially from the women's point of view." In Nnobi, her "right to ask questions, act as a spokeswoman and make recommendations for change and improve- ment" is assured (9-10; emphasis added). In literary criticism alone, the methods of charting the native ways of knowing has been conceptualized in so many ways that grouping them under three headings as I do below only begins to reflect their intrica- cies. The first group, that which I call thematic or classical nativism, asks for the foregrounding of local and public subject matter, the rejec- tion of tendentious universalism in critical standards, and the develop- ment of an aesthetic that privileges translucent communication. Classi- cal nativism claims inspiration from an Africanized aesthetic theory of "use" and "relevance." The second group, which I name structuralist or speculative nativism, proposes idealistic interpretations of the formal dimensions of "traditional" theater, fiction, and poetry upon which contemporary practices ought to be based. Unlike the thematists, the structuralists do not use "tradition" to disavow dense and solipsistic  My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 7 arts. The third group, the one I call linguistic or artifact nativism, demands a radical translation of all arts that aspire to be called African into indigenous languages and cultural conventions. Decolonized Afri- can culture, according to the linguistic nativists, must free itself from European languages and cultivate the native tongues in order for liber- ating educational and pedagogic theories to flower fully. None of the three groups deviates significantly from a functionalist aesthetics. Even the linguists and the structuralists, who both settle definition param- eters around language and form, affirm that an African aesthetic must bear direct relevance to the everyday. fIa lewa [Civil Conduct Is the Ultimate Beauty]: Classical Nativism and Cultural Independence Classical nativists from nationalists to dialecticians teach that "useful- ness" is the fundamental African aesthetic principle. They argue that precolonial African poets, storytellers, and ritual actors who constitute the African "classical" tradition did not sing solely for sheer excitation but also for conducting practical affairs like counseling, nighttime en- tertainment, and official record keeping. Liturgies, divination chants, and ritual conventions are all expressed in poetically intense forms. The precolonial traditions show amply, as the Yornbi proverb wit lew [civil conduct is the ultimate beauty] implies, that effective stylization anticipates usefulness.a As Ngigi puts it, "Song, dance, and music were an integral part of a community's wrestling with its environment, part and parcel of the needs and aspirations of the ordinary man." No African society, he continues, allowed "the cult of the artist with its bohemian priests along the banks of Seine and Thames" (Homecoming, 6). Odun Balogun invokes this view of African arts in his nativization of the signs of latent modernism in the experimental styles of Tutuol, Osofisan, and Omotoso. "Our oral literature," he says, "sees the artist not as an alienated individual but as an integrated, balanced, commu- nal being who creates purposeful art in clear, understandable terms" (59). Even Georg Gugelberger's anthology Marxiset and African Litera- ture uses the central theme of classical nativism as a focus of organiza- tion. Gugelbeger declares in the introduction to the collection that "in Africa prior to colonization, art functioned and communicated" (2). These claims about tradition notwithstanding, the thematic and rhe- torical emphases in Chinua Achebe's influential post-Makerere criti- cism reveal important clues about the historical specificity of the evolu- My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 7 arts. The third group, the one I call linguistic or artifact nativism, demands a radical translation of all arts that aspire to be called African into indigenous languages and cultural conventions. Decolonized Afri- can culture, according to the linguistic nativists, must free itself from European languages and cultivate the native tongues in order for liber- ating educational and pedagogic theories to flower fully. None of the three groups deviates significantly from a functionalist aesthetics. Even the linguists and the structuralists, who both settle definition param- eters around language and form, affirm that an African aesthetic must bear direct relevance to the everyday. iwa lewa [Civil Conduct Is the Ultimate Beauty]: Classical Nativism and Cultural Independence Classical nativists from nationalists to dialecticians teach that "useful- ness" is the fundamental African aesthetic principle. They argue that precolonial African poets, storytellers, and ritual actors who constitute the African "classical" tradition did not sing solely for sheer excitation but also for conducting practical affairs like counseling, nighttime en- tertainment, and official record keeping. Liturgies, divination chants, and ritual conventions are all expressed in poetically intense forms. The precolonial traditions show amply, as the Yoriba proverb lwa lewd [civil conduct is the ultimate beauty implies, that effective stylization anticipates usefulness. As Ngugi puts it, "Song, dance, and music were an integral part of a community's wrestling with its environment, part and parcel of the needs and aspirations of the ordinary man." No African society, he continues, allowed "the cult of the artist with its bohemian priests along the banks of Seine and Thames" (Homecoming, 6). Odun Balogun invokes this view of African arts in his nativization of the signs of latent modernism in the experimental styles of TutuolA, Osofisan, and Omotoso. "Our oral literature," he says, "sees the artist not as an alienated individual but as an integrated, balanced, commu- nal being who creates purposeful art in clear, understandable terms" (59). Even Georg Gugelberger's anthology Marxism and African Litera- ture uses the central theme of classical nativism as a focus of organiza- tion. Gugelbeger declares in the introduction to the collection that "in Africa prior to colonization, art functioned and communicated" (2). These claims about tradition notwithstanding, the thematic and rhe- torical emphases in Chinua Achebe's influential post-Makerere criti- cism reveal important clues about the historical specificity of the evolu- My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 7 arts. The third group, the one I call linguistic or artifact nativism, demands a radical translation of all arts that aspire to be called African into indigenous languages and cultural conventions. Decolonized Afri- can culture, according to the linguistic nativists, must free itself from European languages and cultivate the native tongues in order for liber- ating educational and pedagogic theories to flower fully. None of the three groups deviates significantly from a functionalist aesthetics. Even the linguists and the structuralists, who both settle definition param- eters around language and form, affirm that an African aesthetic must bear direct relevance to the everyday. iwa lewa [Civil Conduct Is the Ultimate Beauty]: Classical Nativism and Cultural Independence Classical nativists from nationalists to dialecticians teach that "useful- ness" is the fundamental African aesthetic principle. They argue that precolonial African poets, storytellers, and ritual actors who constitute the African "classical" tradition did not sing solely for sheer excitation but also for conducting practical affairs like counseling, nighttime en- tertainment, and official record keeping. Liturgies, divination chants, and ritual conventions are all expressed in poetically intense forms. The precolonial traditions show amply, as the Yorb proverb iwa lewad [civil conduct is the ultimate beauty] implies, that effective stylization anticipates usefulnessa As NgOgi puts it, "Song, dance, and music were an integral part of a community's wrestling with its environment, part and parcel of the needs and aspirations of the ordinary man." No African society, he continues, allowed "the cult of the artist with its bohemian priests along the banks of Seine and Thames" (Homecoming, 6). Odun Balogun invokes this view of African arts in his nativization of the signs of latent modernism in the experimental styles of Tutuald, Osofisan, and Omotoso. "Our oral literature," he says, "sees the artist not as an alienated individual but as an integrated, balanced, commu- nal being who creates purposeful art in clear, understandable terms" (59). Even Georg Gugelberger's anthology Marxism and African Litera- ture uses the central theme of classical nativism as a focus of organiza- tion. Gugelbeger declares in the introduction to the collection that "in Africa prior to colonization, art functioned and communicated" (2). These claims about tradition notwithstanding, the thematic and rhe- torical emphases in Chinua Achebe's influential post-Makerere criti- cism reveal important clues about the historical specificity of the evolu-  8 Chapter 1 tion of classical nativism's governing tenets in African postcolonial criticism. Three of Achebe's essays, "The Novelist as Teacher" (1962), "Colonialist Criticism" (1975), and "The Truth of Fiction" (1978) to- gether suggest that classical nativism developed in anglophone African literary criticism as a defense of realism against critical judgments de- rived from the modernist tenet tart pour t'art. The essays suggest that the privileging of function over form in classical nativism developed as a resistance to severe critical judgments that considered the realist aesthetic and political engagements of early anglophone African fiction to be shockingly unmodern and unsophisticated. Achebe's writing shows that the functionalist aesthetics promoted in classical nativism is designed to oppose European modernist evaluation that speaks as if its criteria apply universally. In the early post-Makerere years, Achebe defended the translucent realism' of his novels and others like them in unsure and apologetic tones. Toward the end of the 1960s, probably under the influence of Black Aesthetic affirmations in the United States, explicit rhetoric of indigenization began to appear in his commentaries. By the mid-1970s, Achebe's Africanization of realism had become more confident, more anecdotal, and full of traditional illustrations. Towards the end of the decade, at which time thematic nativism had grown into a core theme in cultural nationalism and a "third world" theory of the arts, the language of Achebe's comments on African literature's nativist "un- modernism" turned remarkably philosophical. "The Novelist as Teacher," the earliest of the three essays I am using to illustrate the evolution of classical nativism, summarizes the reasons why the budding African tradition for which Achebe spoke was unable to replicate the historically European aesthetic indulgences then mas- querading as modernism. Achebe said that Africa's grim colonial legacy made it imperative that the African writer should join other citizens in nation building in ways that cannot unquestioningly follow the Euro- pean conventions on the artist's behaviors and commitments. The Afri- can reading public, for historical reasons, expects its literature to par- ticipate fully in the construction of a new country out of the colonial cultural ruins. The specifically African literature, in that historical con- text, has to declare its commitment to a non-European (that is, non- modernist) outlook on culture, artifacts, and history. Two reactions from actual readers-one from a Ghanaian female schoolteacher who was worried about the implications of Achebe's 8 Chapter 1 tion of classical nativism's governing tenets in African postcolonial criticism. Three of Achebe's essays, "The Novelist as Teacher" (1962), "Colonialist Criticism" (1975), and "The Truth of Fiction" (1978) to- gether suggest that classical nativism developed in anglophone African literary criticism as a defense of realism against critical judgments de- rived from the modernist tenet I'art pour 'art. The essays suggest that the privileging of function over form in classical nativism developed as a resistance to severe critical judgments that considered the realist aesthetic and political engagements of early anglophone African fiction to be shockingly unmodern and unsophisticated. Achebe's writing shows that the functionalist aesthetics promoted in classical nativism is designed to oppose European modernist evaluation that speaks as if its criteria apply universally. In the early post-Makerere years, Achebe defended the translucent realism' of his novels and others like them in unsure and apologetic tones. Toward the end of the 1960s, probably under the influence of Black Aesthetic affirmations in the United States, explicit rhetoric of indigenization began to appear in his commentaries. By the mid-1970s, Achebe's Africanization of realism had become more confident, more anecdotal, and full of traditional illustrations. Towards the end of the decade, at which time thematic nativism had grown into a core theme in cultural nationalism and a "third world" theory of the arts, the language of Achebe's comments on African literature's nativist "un- modernism" turned remarkably philosophical. "The Novelist as Teacher," the earliest of the three essays I am using to illustrate the evolution of classical nativism, summarizes the reasons why the budding African tradition for which Achebe spoke was unable to replicate the historically European aesthetic indulgences then mas- querading as modernism. Achebe said that Africa's grim colonial legacy made it imperative that the African writer should join other citizens in nation building in ways that cannot unquestioningly follow the Euro- pean conventions on the artist's behaviors and commitments. The Afri- can reading public, for historical reasons, expects its literature to par- ticipate fully in the construction of a new country out of the colonial cultural ruins. The specifically African literature, in that historical con- text, has to declare its commitment to a non-European (that is, non- modernist) outlook on culture, artifacts, and history. Two reactions from actual readers-one from a Ghanaian female schoolteacher who was worried about the implications of Achebe's 8 Chapter 1 tion of classical nativism's governing tenets in African postcolonial criticism. Three of Achebe's essays, "The Novelist as Teacher" (1962), "Colonialist Criticism" (1975), and "The Truth of Fiction" (1978) to- gether suggest that classical nativism developed in anglophone African literary criticism as a defense of realism against critical judgments de- rived from the modernist tenet l'art pour l'art. The essays suggest that the privileging of function over form in classical nativism developed as a resistance to severe critical judgments that considered the realist aesthetic and political engagements of early anglophone African fiction to be shockingly unmodern and unsophisticated. Achebe's writing shows that the functionalist aesthetics promoted in classical nativism is designed to oppose European modernist evaluation that speaks as if its criteria apply universally. In the early post-Makerere years, Achebe defended the translucent realism' of his novels and others like them in unsure and apologetic tones. Toward the end of the 1960s, probably under the influence of Black Aesthetic affirmations in the United States, explicit rhetoric of indigenization began to appear in his commentaries. By the mid-1970s, Achebe's Africanization of realism had become more confident, more anecdotal, and full of traditional illustrations. Towards the end of the decade, at which time thematic nativism had grown into a core theme in cultural nationalism and a "third world" theory of the arts, the language of Achebe's comments on African literature's nativist "un- modernism" turned remarkably philosophical. "The Novelist as Teacher," the earliest of the three essays I am using to illustrate the evolution of classical nativism, summarizes the reasons why the budding African tradition for which Achebe spoke was unable to replicate the historically European aesthetic indulgences then mas- querading as modernism. Achebe said that Africa's grim colonial legacy made it imperative that the African writer should join other citizens in nation building in ways that cannot unquestioningly follosw the Euro- pean conventions on the artist's behaviors and commitments. The Afri- can reading public, for historical reasons, expects its literature to par- ticipate fully in the construction of a new country out of the colonial cultural ruins. The specifically African literature, in that historical con- text, has to declare its commitment to a non-European (that is, non- modernist) outlook on culture, artifacts, and history. Two reactions from actual readers-one from a Ghanaian female schoolteacher who was worried about the implications of Achebe's  My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 9 textual silences in one of his novels and another from a Nigerian school- boy who was uncertain about the poetic worth of the local environ- ment-exemplified for Achebe why African writing must privilege clearheaded and accessible forms. The readers' letters confirmed for Achebe that the African writer cannot afford not to teach the reading audience that the contemporary African social predicament results from a knowable historical process. History demands that the African writer should be clear in the way he/she tells a young reader that "the palm-tree is a fit subject for poetry." History demands of the African artist who seeks to undo the mental shackles forged by colonialism- the kind that will make a young schoolkid wonder at all if the palm tree is a fit subject for poetry-to "look back and try and find out where we went wrong, where the rain began to beat us" (44). In this early essay, Achebe did not justify his cultural self-restitution theme with any indigenist philosophy. Instead, he offered his fiction- which poetized local fauna and flora, the harmattan and the palm tree-as an example of a little effort toward national rehabilitation. Fictions like his, Achebe said, were no different from political science, engineering, the physical sciences, and philosophy. "Nationalist" writ- ing, in that essay, was not an essentially African form but an appropri- ate cultural response to history. Like "African Personality" "African Democracy," "African Socialism," and Negritude, "earnest" (realist) prose fiction is a form of historical restorative: "They are all props we have fashioned at different times to help us get on our feet again. Once we are up, we shan't need any of them any more" (44; emphasis added). This is why, Achebe concluded, that a reception of his novels as teaching devices will satisfy him. In a somewhat apologetic tone he said, "Perhaps what I write is applied art as distinct from pure. But who cares?" (45). The paragraphs that lead to this conclusion suggest that Achebe might have cared but for overpowering historical exigencies. The unsure question with which Achebe closed "The Novelist as Teacher" turned into strong affirmations in later comments. For ex- ample, in one passage that links "Colonialist Criticism" to the earlier commentaries, he said, "I hold, however, and have held from the very moment I began to write, that earnestness is appropriate to my situa- tion. Why? I suppose because I have a deep-seated need to alter things within that situation, to find for myself a little more room than has been allowed me in the world. I realize how pompous or even frightening this must sound to delicate sensibilities, but I can't help it" (14). Achebe My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 9 textual silences in one of his novels and another from a Nigerian school- boy who was uncertain about the poetic worth of the local environ- ment-exemplified for Achebe why African writing must privilege clearheaded and accessible forms. The readers' letters confirmed for Achebe that the African writer cannot afford not to teach the reading audience that the contemporary African social predicament results from a knowable historical process. History demands that the African writer should be clear in the way he/she tells a young reader that "the palm-tree is a fit subject for poetry." History demands of the African artist who seeks to undo the mental shackles forged by colonialism- the kind that will make a young schoolkid wonder at all if the palm tree is a fit subject for poetry-to "look back and try and find out where we went wrong, where the rain began to beat us" (44). In this early essay, Achebe did not justify his cultural self-restitution theme with any indigenist philosophy. Instead, he offered his fiction- which poetized local fauna and flora, the harmattan and the palm tree-as an example of a little effort toward national rehabilitation. Fictions like his, Achebe said, were no different from political science, engineering, the physical sciences, and philosophy. "Nationalist" writ- ing, in that essay, was not an essentially African form but an appropri- ate cultural response to history. Like "African Personality," "African Democracy," "African Socialism," and Negritude, "earnest" (realist) prose fiction is a form of historical restorative: "They are all props we have fashioned at different times to help us get on our feet again. Once we are up, we shan't need any of them any more" (44; emphasis added). This is why, Achebe concluded, that a reception of his novels as teaching devices will satisfy him. In a somewhat apologetic tone he said, "Perhaps what I write is applied art as distinct from pure. But who cares?" (45). The paragraphs that lead to this conclusion suggest that Achebe might have cared but for overpowering historical exigencies. The unsure question with which Achebe closed "The Novelist as Teacher" turned into strong affirmations in later comments. For ex- ample, in one passage that links "Colonialist Criticism" to the earlier commentaries, he said, "I hold, however, and have held from the very moment I began to write, that earnestness is appropriate to my situa- tion. Why? I suppose because I have a deep-seated need to alter things within that situation, to find for myself a little more room than has been allowed me in the world. I realize how pompous or even frightening this must sound to delicate sensibilities, but I can't help it" (14). Achebe My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 9 textual silences in one of his novels and another from a Nigerian school- boy who was uncertain about the poetic worth of the local environ- ment-exemplified for Achebe why African writing must privilege clearheaded and accessible forms. The readers' letters confirmed for Achebe that the African writer cannot afford not to teach the reading audience that the contemporary African social predicament results from a knowable historical process. History demands that the African writer should be clear in the way he/she tells a young reader that "the palm-tree is a fit subject for poetry." History demands of the African artist who seeks to undo the mental shackles forged by colonialism- the kind that will make a young schoolkid wonder at all if the palm tree is a fit subject for poetry-to "look back and try and find out where we went wrong, where the rain began to beat us" (44). In this early essay, Achebe did not justify his cultural self-restitution theme with any indigenist philosophy. Instead, he offered his fiction- which poetized local fauna and flora, the harmattan and the palm tree-as an example of a little effort toward national rehabilitation. Fictions like his, Achebe said, were no different from political science, engineering, the physical sciences, and philosophy. "Nationalist" writ- ing, in that essay, was not an essentially African form but an appropri- ate cultural response to history. Like "African Personality," "African Democracy," "African Socialism," and Nfgritude, "earnest" (realist) prose fiction is a form of historical restorative: "They are all props we have fashioned at different times to help us get on our feet again. Once we are up, we shan't need any of them any more" (44; emphasis added). This is why, Achebe concluded, that a reception of his novels as teaching devices will satisfy him. In a somewhat apologetic tone he said, "Perhaps what I write is applied art as distinct from pure. But who cares?" (45). The paragraphs that lead to this conclusion suggest that Achebe might have cared but for overpowering historical exigencies. The unsure question with which Achebe closed "The Novelist as Teacher" turned into strong affirmations in later comments. For ex- ample, in one passage that links "Colonialist Criticism" to the earlier commentaries, he said, "I hold, however, and have held from the very moment I began to write, that earnestness is appropriate to my situa- tion. Why? I suppose because I have a deep-seated need to alter things within that situation, to find for myself a little more room than has been allowed me in the world. I realize how pompous or even frightening this must sound to delicate sensibilities, but I can't help it" (14). Achebe  10 Chapter 1 Africanized a few paragraphs later that "deep-seated" urge that was formulated as a timely response in "The Novelist as Teacher": "Our writers, responding to something in themselves and acting also zcithin the traditional concept of an artist's role in society-using his art to control his environment-have addressed themselves to some of these matters in their art" (15; emphasis added). Here, the defense of an "unmodern" outlook in fiction writing takes on a culturalist tone; what is expressed earlier as a historical response is now stated as a cultural reflex act. In "Africa and Her Writers," a lecture he gave at Harvard two years before "Colonialist Criticism," he said that "our ancestors created their myths and legends and told their stories for a human purpose (includ- ing, no doubt, the excitation of wonder and pure delight); they made their sculptures in wood and terra cotta, stone and bronze to serve the needs of their times. Their artists lived and moved and had their being in society, and created their works for the good of that society" (19). Sometime between the writing of "The Novelist as Teacher" and "Colonialist Criticism," the historicized apologies for "applied art" evolved into a culturalist defense of artistic "earnestness." Both essays, of course, seek no truce with pretentiously universalist definitions of "good" writing; both chide colonialists who condemn conscientious realist portraits of African pasts but salivate over the sorriest quasi- modernist bastardization of the same. In the two essays, Achebe identi- fied the dominant tendencies in African writing as signifiers of histori- cally necessary thematic concerns and stylistic predispositions. In his December 1978 University of Ifi convocation lecture, "The Truth of Fiction," Achebe rendered in more philosophical language his views on the general problems of cultural recuperation, the appropria- tion of nonliterate traditions, and the creation of a regional identity within global languages. He translated the specific problems of defini- tion in African literary criticism into the less regionalized idioms of knowledge and existence. In that essay, Achebe presented useful arts not as a specifically African practice but as an ingredient of cognition. He described fiction in very broad and faintly poststructuralist terms as a method of plumbing the divide between essence and existence. In an almost deconstructive manner, Achebe portrayed the usefulness of a narrative as the methodical imposition of meaningful patterns on chaos. Fiction, Achebe said, is "something we know does not exist but which helps us to make sense of, and move in, the world." Achebe argued that because the conventions of refashioning existing knowledge and of 10 Chapter 1 Africanized a few paragraphs later that "deep-seated" urge that was formulated as a timely response in "The Novelist as Teacher": "Our writers, responding to something in themselves and acting also ithin the traditional concept of an artist's role in society-using his art to control his environment-have addressed themselves to some of these matters in their art" (15; emphasis added). Here, the defense of an "unmodern"' outlook in fiction writing takes on a culturalist tone; what is expressed earlier as a historical response is now stated as a cultural reflex act. In "Africa and Her Writers," a lecture he gave at Harvard tvo vears before "Colonialist Criticism," he said that "our ancestors created their myths and legends and told their stories for a human purpose (includ- ing, no doubt, the excitation of wonder and pure delight); they made their sculptures in wood and terra cotta, stone and bronze to serve the needs of their times. Their artists lived and moved and had their being in society, and created their works for the good of that societv" (19). Sometime between the writing of "The Novelist as Teacher" and "Colonialist Criticism," the historicized apologies for "applied art" evolved into a culturalist defense of artistic "earnestness." Both essays, of course, seek no truce with pretentiously universalist definitions of "good" writing; both chide colonialists who condemn conscientious realist portraits of African pasts but salivate over the sorriest quasi- modernist bastardization of the same. In the two essays, Achebe identi- fied the dominant tendencies in African writing as signifiers of histori- cally necessary thematic concerns and stylistic predispositions. In his December 1978 University of Ife convocation lecture, "The Truth of Fiction," Achebe rendered in more philosophical language his views on the general problems of cultural recuperation, the appropria- tion of nonliterate traditions, and the creation of a regional identity within global languages. He translated the specific problems of defini- tion in African literary criticism into the less regionalized idioms of knowledge and existence. In that essay, Achebe presented useful arts not as a specifically African practice but as an ingredient of cognition. He described fiction in very broad and faintly possttructuralist terms as a method of plumbing the divide between essence and existence. In an almost deconstructive manner, Achebe portrayed the usefulness of a narrative as the methodical imposition of meaningful patterns on chaos. Fiction, Achebe said, is "something we know does not exist but w'hich helps us to make sense of, and move in, the world." Achebe argued that because the conventions of refashioning existing knowledge and of 10 Chapter 1 Africanized a few paragraphs later that "deep-seated" urge that was formulated as a timely response in "The Novelist as Teacher": "Our writers, responding to something in themselves and acting also t'ithin the traditional concept of an artist's role in society-using his art to control his environment-have addressed themselves to some of these matters in their art" (15; emphasis added). Here, the defense of an "unmodern" outlook in fiction writing takes on a culturalist tone; what is expressed earlier as a historical response is now stated as a cultural reflex act. In "Africa and Her Writers," a lecture he gave at Harvard two years before "Colonialist Criticism," he said that "our ancestors created their myths and legends and told their stories for a human purpose (includ- ing, no doubt, the excitation of wonder and pure delight); they made their sculptures in wood and terra cotta, stone and bronze to serve the needs of their times. Their artists lived and moved and had their being in society, and created their works for the good of that society" (19). Sometime between the writing of "The Novelist as Teacher" and "Colonialist Criticism," the historicized apologies for "applied art" evolved into a culturalist defense of artistic "earnestness." Both essays, of course, seek no truce with pretentiously universalist definitions of "good" writing; both chide colonialists who condemn conscientious realist portraits of African pasts but salivate over the sorriest quasi- modernist bastardization of the same. In the two essays, Achebe identi- fied the dominant tendencies in African writing as signifiers of histori- cally necessary thematic concerns and stylistic predispositions. In his December 1978 University of Ife convocation lecture, "The Truth of Fiction," Achebe rendered in more philosophical language his views on the general problems of cultural recuperation, the appropria- tion of nonliterate traditions, and the creation of a regional identity within global languages. He translated the specific problems of defini- tion in African literary criticism into the less regionalized idioms of knowledge and existence. In that essay, Achebe presented useful arts not as a specifically African practice but as an ingredient of cognition. He described fiction in very broad and faintly poststructuralist terms as a method of plumbing the divide between essence and existence. In an almost deconstructive manner, Achebe portrayed the usefulness of a narrative as the methodical imposition of meaningful patterns on chaos. Fiction, Achebe said, is "something we know does not exist but which helps us to make sense of, and move in, the world." Achebe argued that because the conventions of refashioning existing knowledge and of  My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 11 allotting significance to ordinarily random acts underlie human com- munication and the production of truth, all communicable knowledge, historical and cultural, uses basic fictive processes. Useful art is a basic human characteristic, not a mere "ethnic" response to history nor a tendency that Africa implants in its creative citizens. Achebe's critical temperament is not fully poststructuralist. So, he continued in the Iff lecture, the "fictions" humans invent to bridge the gap between essence and existence are not evenly useful. He advised, therefore, that malignant fiction-racist ideology, for example-be dis- tinguished from beneficent fiction-embodied in tropical medicine, for example. One denies its debts to inventive mechanisms, and the other humbly confesses that its proffered knowledge is a structured effort to apprehend a reality. Beneficent fiction like tropical medicine is guarded in its pronouncements and methods. Malignant fiction like racism pre- tends to a complete ignorance of its methods and the "base-lessness" of its foundation. The self-conscious and self-critical good "fiction" has an in-built evaluating system with which it gauges how well it is able to rehabilitate the condition that initialized it. Beneficent fiction flaunts its constitutive parts, nurtures skepticism (but not cynicism), and is delib- erately tentative. When beneficent, truthful fiction acknowledges the "fictionality" of truth. Malignant fiction, in contrast, pretends not to know that it is merely an "effort to create . . . a different order of reality." It tells itself that it has removed the gap between knowledge and being. Instead of whispering "Let us pretend," malignant fiction yells "This is real." Achebe's critical writing shows that classical nativism's privileging of local concerns in less elaborately contrived forms, when beneficent, is founded on philosophical and historical reasons. Achebe never of- fered a compendium of appropriately African subject matter, or an accompanying African rhetoric, because his intention in all the essays appears to be a restatement of the values of locally useful arts and not the rediscovery of a positive African outlook. His nativism asks for the perpetuation of a historical precolonial ethos that discriminated be- tween the arts of "a person with whose words something can be done or one else who, if he tells you to stand, you know you must immedi- ately flee."' Although Achebe does not clarify whether the former gets positive attention because of his felicitous use of language, because he possesses good ideas, or because he combines both, it is clear from his writing that a self-aware defense of local concerns in unadorned real- My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 11 allotting significance to ordinarily random acts underlie human com- munication and the production of truth, all communicable knowledge, historical and cultural, uses basic fictive processes. Useful art is a basic human characteristic, not a mere "ethnic" response to history nor a tendency that Africa implants in its creative citizens. Achebe's critical temperament is not fully poststructuralist. So, he continued in the Ife lecture, the "fictions" humans invent to bridge the gap between essence and existence are not evenly useful. He advised, therefore, that malignant fiction-racist ideology, for example-be dis- tinguished from beneficent fiction-embodied in tropical medicine, for example. One denies its debts to inventive mechanisms, and the other humbly confesses that its proffered knowledge is a structured effort to apprehend a reality. Beneficent fiction like tropical medicine is guarded in its pronouncements and methods. Malignant fiction like racism pre- tends to a complete ignorance of its methods and the "base-lessness" of its foundation. The self-conscious and self-critical good "fiction" has an in-built evaluating system with which it gauges how well it is able to rehabilitate the condition that initialized it. Beneficent fiction flaunts its constitutive parts, nurtures skepticism (but not cynicism), and is delib- erately tentative. When beneficent, truthful fiction acknowledges the "fictionality" of truth. Malignant fiction, in contrast, pretends not to know that it is merely an "effort to create . . . a different order of reality." It tells itself that it has removed the gap between knowledge and being. Instead of whispering "Let us pretend," malignant fiction yells "This is real." Achebe's critical writing shows that classical nativism's privileging of local concerns in less elaborately contrived forms, when beneficent, is founded on philosophical and historical reasons. Achebe never of- fered a compendium of appropriately African subject matter, or an accompanying African rhetoric, because his intention in all the essays appears to be a restatement of the values of locally useful arts and not the rediscovery of a positive African outlook. His nativism asks for the perpetuation of a historical precolonial ethos that discriminated be- tween the arts of "a person with whose words something can be done or one else who, if he tells you to stand, you know you must immedi- ately flee."' Although Achebe does not clarify whether the former gets positive attention because of his felicitous use of language, because he possesses good ideas, or because he combines both, it is clear from his writing that a self-aware defense of local concerns in unadorned real- My Signifier Is More Native than Yours II allotting significance to ordinarily random acts underlie human com- munication and the production of truth, all communicable knowledge, historical and cultural, uses basic fictive processes. Useful art is a basic human characteristic, not a mere "ethnic" response to history nor a tendency that Africa implants in its creative citizens. Achebe's critical temperament is not fully poststructuralist. So, he continued in the Ifb lecture, the "fictions" humans invent to bridge the gap between essence and existence are not evenly useful. He advised, therefore, that malignant fiction-racist ideology, for example-be dis- tinguished from beneficent fiction-embodied in tropical medicine, for example. One denies its debts to inventive mechanisms, and the other humbly confesses that its proffered knowledge is a structured effort to apprehend a reality. Beneficent fiction like tropical medicine is guarded in its pronouncements and methods. Malignant fiction like racism pre- tends to a complete ignorance of its methods and the "base-lessness" of its foundation. The self-conscious and self-critical good "fiction" has an in-built evaluating system with which it gauges how well it is able to rehabilitate the condition that initialized it. Beneficent fiction flaunts its constitutive parts, nurtures skepticism (but not cynicism), and is delib- erately tentative. When beneficent, truthful fiction acknowledges the "fictionality" of truth. Malignant fiction, in contrast, pretends not to know that it is merely an "effort to create ... a different order of reality." It tells itself that it has removed the gap between knowledge and being. Instead of whispering "Let us pretend," malignant fiction yells "This is real." Achebe's critical writing shows that classical nativism's privileging of local concerns in less elaborately contrived forms, when beneficent, is founded on philosophical and historical reasons. Achebe never of- fered a compendium of appropriately African subject matter, or an accompanying African rhetoric, because his intention in all the essays appears to be a restatement of the values of locally useful arts and not the rediscovery of a positive African outlook. His nativism asks for the perpetuation of a historical precolonial ethos that discriminated be- tween the arts of "a person with whose words something can be done or one else who, if he tells you to stand, you know you must immedi- ately flee."' Although Achebe does not clarify whether the former gets positive attention because of his felicitous use of language, because he possesses good ideas, or because he combines both, it is clear from his writing that a self-aware defense of local concerns in unadorned real-  12 Chapter I ism should not harm ironists, artistic innovators, and political dissent- ers. Nativism, for him, is a critical element in the cultural promotion of communal "good purpose." Classical nativism finds its most vocal expression in Towrd the Decolonization of African Literature. By naming their critiques of modern- ist evaluations of African writing "colonialist" interpretation, Chinweizu, Jemie, and Madubuike apparently want to appropriate the underlying principles of Achebe's usage of that term. The authors of Toward the Decolonization of African Literature, like Achebe in "Colonialist Criti- cism," regard the unsympathetic evaluation of "un-modernity" in mod- ern African writing as blatant Eurocentrism. They also assert, as if emulating Achebe, that the oral traditions constitute a common cul- tural and intellectual pool that is vast and deep enough to sustain contemporary African writing. Their aspiration notwithstanding, the inveterate and mildly "malignant" rhetoric of Toward the Decolonization of African Literature trivializes Achebe's generalizations and, to my mind, betrays the spirit of his expansive interpretation of the precolonial cultures. The book's authors, unlike Achebe, whose ideas they seek to amplify, specify what they deem to be a practical rhetoric for the welding of precolonial (oral) and modem (literate) traditions. In defense of the nativist impulse, Toward the Decolonization ofAfrican Literature rejects innovative but unpopular forms, "priratist" senti- ments, cliched expressions and attitudes, vague or unrealistic situa- tions, and incongruence of thought and feeling. The book recommends lyrical speech, musical rhythm, mellifluousness, and other voice- dependent styles. It also advises the cultivation of intense emotions, sweeping vision, and concrete imagery. The authors ignore orature coded in dense, esoteric, and elusive idioms. They exclude in advance the use of what they call "muddy" language and de-Africanize writers who prefer such language regardless of the thematic relevance of their work to contemporary questions. In the peculiar reading of precolonial (oral) traditions proposed by Chinweizu, Jemie, and Madubuike, the truly African writer cannot "preoccupy himself with his puny ego" (252). Their African writer cannot indulge in self-conscious figuration.' The name which the authors of Toward the Decolonization of African Literature give their envisaged school of criticism reveals the contradic- tions and problems faced in converting the broad principles of classical nativism into a positive rhetoric. In an obviously proud imitation of the 12 Chapter 1 ism should not harm ironists, artistic innovators, and political dissent- ers. Nativism, for him, is a critical element in the cultural promotion of communal "good purpose." Classical nativism finds its most vocal expression in Tocarl the Decolonization of African Literature. By naming their critiques of modern- ist evaluations of African writing "colonialist" interpretation, Chinweizu, Jemie, and Madubuike apparently want to appropriate the underlying principles of Achebe's usage of that term. The authors of Tow'ard the Decolonization of African Literature, like Achebe in "Colonialist Criti- cism," regard the unsympathetic evaluation of "un-modernity" in mod- ern African writing as blatant Eurocentrism. They also assert, as if emulating Achebe, that the oral traditions constitute a common cul- tural and intellectual pool that is vast and deep enough to sustain contemporary African writing. Their aspiration notwithstanding, the inveterate and mildly "malignant" rhetoric of Toward the Decolonization of African Literature trivializes Achebe's generalizations and, to my mind, betrays the spirit of his expansive interpretation of the precolonial cultures. The book's authors, unlike Achebe, whose ideas they seek to amplify, specify what they deem to be a practical rhetoric for the welding of precolonial (oral) and modern (literate) traditions. In defense of the nativist impulse, Toward the Decolonization of African Literature rejects innovative but unpopular forms, "privatist" senti- ments, cliched expressions and attitudes, vague or unrealistic situa- tions, and incongruence of thought and feeling. The book recommends lyrical speech, musical rhythm, mellifluousness, and other voice- dependent styles. It also advises the cultivation of intense emotions, sweeping vision, and concrete imagery. The authors ignore orature coded in dense, esoteric, and elusive idioms. They exclude in advance the use of what they call "muddy" language and de-Africanize writers who prefer such language regardless of the thematic relevance of their work to contemporary questions. In the peculiar reading of precolonial (oral) traditions proposed by Chinweizu, Jemie, and Madubuike, the truly African writer cannot "preoccupy himself with his puny ego" (252). Their African writer cannot indulge in self-conscious figuration' The name which the authors of Toward the Decolonization of African Literature give their envisaged school of criticism reveals the contradic- tions and problems faced in converting the broad principles of classical nativism into a positive rhetoric. In an obviously proud imitation of the 12 Chapter 1 ism should not harm ironists, artistic innovators, and political dissent- ers. Nativism, for him, is a critical element in the cultural promotion of communal "good purpose." Classical nativism finds its most vocal expression in Toward the Decolonization of African Literature. By naming their critiques of modern- ist evaluations of African writing "colonialist" interpretation, Chim eizu, Jemie, and Madubuike apparently want to appropriate the underlying principles of Achebe's usage of that term. The authors of Toward the Decolonization of African Literature, like Achebe in "Colonialist Criti- cism," regard the unsympathetic evaluation of "un-modernity" in mod- ern African writing as blatant Eurocentrism. They also assert, as if emulating Achebe, that the oral traditions constitute a common cul- tural and intellectual pool that is vast and deep enough to sustain contemporary African writing. Their aspiration notwithstanding, the inveterate and mildly "malignant" rhetoric of Toward the Decolonization of African Literature trivializes Achebe's generalizations and, to my mind, betrays the spirit of his expansive interpretation of the precolonial cultures. The book's authors, unlike Achebe, whose ideas they seek to amplify, specify what they deem to be a practical rhetoric for the welding of precolonial (oral) and modern (literate) traditions. In defense of the nativist impulse, Toward the Decolonization t'A.frica Literature rejects innovative but unpopular forms, "privatist" senti- ments, cliched expressions and attitudes, vague or unrealistic situa- tions, and incongruence of thought and feeling. The book recommends lyrical speech, musical rhythm, mellifluousness, and other voice- dependent styles. It also advises the cultivation of intense emotions, sweeping vision, and concrete imagery. The authors ignore rature coded in dense, esoteric, and elusive idioms. They exclude in advance the use of what they call "muddy" language and de-Africanize writers who prefer such language regardless of the thematic relevance of their work to contemporary questions. In the peculiar reading of precolonial (oral) traditions proposed by Chinweizu, Jemie, and Madubuike, the truly African writer cannot "preoccupy himself with his puny ego" (252). Their African writer cannot indulge in self-conscious figuration: The name which the authors of Toward the Decolonization of Arican Literature give their envisaged school of criticism reveals the contradic- tions and problems faced in converting the broad principles of classical nativism into a positive rhetoric. In an obviously proud imitation of the  My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 13 behaviors of the operators of a class of mass-transit buses in urban southwestern Nigeria, the critics style themselves bi)lkdja (come down and let us fight), the outraged touts of the "passenger lorries of African literature." In Lagos, the touts are actually called gmo ita, literally "the outside child" or "the homeless fellow," and not bilgkdja, which is the name given to the trucks and buses. Both terms imply "untraditional" effrontery enabled by urban alienation and anonymity. The authors' substitution of blfk'ldja for the more correct omg ita gives away what I believe to be the militant classical nativist's dilemma. The militant nativist admires the brash bravery and the outspokenness of the urban tout, but his interest is only in the speech style. As two well-known characters in African fiction demonstrate, one cannot at once be like the youthful and traditional Okonkwo in Achebe's Things Fall Apart and the foulmouthed bus conductor in Armah's The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born. The two men live in different worlds. Modern critics live in a world that is even more different from the ones occupied by the characters. Rarely is the nativist trained in divination arts, priestly roles, and even public spectacular poetry. Rarer still is the nativist scholar who practices these arts directly. All that a self-aware nativist critic can do, as Achebe's literary criticism indicates, is to devise general principles based on an interpretation of second-order infor- mation. The incontrovertible truths of classical nativism, that African cultures did not begin with European contacts and that modern writ- ers should locate their inspiration in their traditional predecessors, sound less anxious whenever the theorist states explicitly that the arts of the diviners, the hunters' guilds, and the priesthood are forms that are being appropriated for a localist foundation of the emergent postindependence culture. The most persuasive sections of Toward the Decolonization of African Literature bear out that fact. The most creative sections of the book, like the one that embeds Amos Tutol&'s fiction in the "world view" of his novels, pinpoint the peculiar enlightenment potential of classical na- tivism. The Tutold section rescues the stories from the overzealous misreading that sees in Tutboli a preternatural instinct for modernism. The authors of Toward the Decolonization of African Literature demon- strate that Tutiola's narratives subsist on a philosophically distinct concept of time, space, and person and on a story-telling tradition formed in an unmodernist milieu. My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 13 behaviors of the operators of a class of mass-transit buses in urban southwestern Nigeria, the critics style themselves blekdja (come down and let us fight), the outraged touts of the "passenger lorries of African literature." In Lagos, the touts are actually called omg ita, literally "the outside child" or "the homeless fellow," and not blgkdja, which is the name given to the trucks and buses. Both terms imply "untraditional" effrontery enabled by urban alienation and anonymity. The authors' substitution of bolkkdja for the more correct pmp ita gives away what I believe to be the militant classical nativist's dilemma. The militant nativist admires the brash bravery and the outspokenness of the urban tout, but his interest is only in the speech style. As two well-known characters in African fiction demonstrate, one cannot at once be like the youthful and traditional Okonkwo in Achebe's Things Fall Apart and the foulmouthed bus conductor in Armah's The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born. The two men live in different worlds. Modern critics live in a world that is even more different from the ones occupied by the characters. Rarely is the nativist trained in divination arts, priestly roles, and even public spectacular poetry. Rarer still is the nativist scholar who practices these arts directly. All that a self-aware nativist critic can do, as Achebe's literary criticism indicates, is to devise general principles based on an interpretation of second-order infor- mation. The incontrovertible truths of classical nativism, that African cultures did not begin with European contacts and that modern writ- ers should locate their inspiration in their traditional predecessors, sound less anxious whenever the theorist states explicitly that the arts of the diviners, the hunters' guilds, and the priesthood are forms that are being appropriated for a localist foundation of the emergent postindependence culture. The most persuasive sections of Toward the Decolonization of African Literature bear out that fact. The most creative sections of the book, like the one that embeds Amos Tutngld's fiction in the "world view" of his novels, pinpoint the peculiar enlightenment potential of classical na- tivism. The Tutuold section rescues the stories from the overzealous misreading that sees in Tutoli a preternatural instinct for modernism. The authors of Toward the Decolonization of African Literature demon- strate that Tuthola's narratives subsist on a philosophically distinct concept of time, space, and person and on a story-telling tradition formed in an unmodernist milieu. My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 13 behaviors of the operators of a class of mass-transit buses in urban southwestern Nigeria, the critics style themselves bblhkdja (come down and let us fight), the outraged touts of the "passenger lorries of African literature." In Lagos, the touts are actually called pmo ita, literally "the outside child" or "the homeless fellow," and not blgkdja, which is the name given to the trucks and buses. Both terms imply "untraditional" effrontery enabled by urban alienation and anonymity. The authors' substitution of bblekdja for the more correct pmo Ita gives away what I believe to be the militant classical nativist's dilemma. The militant nativist admires the brash bravery and the outspokenness of the urban tout, but his interest is only in the speech style. As two well-known characters in African fiction demonstrate, one cannot at once be like the youthful and traditional Okonkwo in Achebe's Things Fall Apart and the foulmouthed bus conductor in Armah's The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born. The two men live in different worlds. Modern critics live in a world that is even more different from the ones occupied by the characters. Rarely is the nativist trained in divination arts, priestly roles, and even public spectacular poetry. Rarer still is the nativist scholar who practices these arts directly. All that a self-aware nativist critic can do, as Achebe's literary criticism indicates, is to devise general principles based on an interpretation of second-order infor- mation. The incontrovertible truths of classical nativism, that African cultures did not begin with European contacts and that modern writ- ers should locate their inspiration in their traditional predecessors, sound less anxious whenever the theorist states explicitly that the arts of the diviners, the hunters' guilds, and the priesthood are forms that are being appropriated for a localist foundation of the emergent postindependence culture. The most persuasive sections of Toward the Decolonization of African Literature bear out that fact. The most creative sections of the book, like the one that embeds Amos Tuthola's fiction in the "world view" of his novels, pinpoint the peculiar enlightenment potential of classical na- tivism. The TutholA section rescues the stories from the overzealous misreading that sees in Tutbold a preternatural instinct for modernism. The authors of Toward the Decolonization of African Literature demon- strate that Tuthold's narratives subsist on a philosophically distinct concept of time, space, and person and on a story-telling tradition formed in an unmodernist milieu.  14 Chapter 1 The Firewood Which a People Have Is Enough for the Kind of Cooking They Do: Structuralist Nativism and the Indigenization of Speculative Aesthetics Where classical nativism focuses on the clear expression of public themes, structuralist nativists Africanize the expression of public themes in forms that need not be clear. As discussed above, classical nativism doubts the African-ness of any work that exhibits self-conscious art- istry. In the rhetoric of militant and not so militant classical nativism, an overt sympathy for modernist aesthetics is a heavy literary offense. Thus, in Toward the Decolonization of African Literature, the dense poetry of Wole Soyinka, Christopher Okigbo, and Michael Echeruo is dis- missed as modernist and irrelevant. To contest the effective strategy with which classical nativism indigenizes its preferred stylistic of clar- ity, structuralist nativists have to reject the narrow interpretation given the traditional "back cloth" of contemporary written cultures, and they treat as philosophical matters much of what the others regard as phe- nomenal peculiarities. The structuralists search for the identity markers of modern African writing in the structural and hermeneutic principles that are derivable from traditional high arts such as rituals, divination chants, esoteric lyric, and the secular narratives of the Sahelian griot. From fragments of "The Fourth Stage," the most speculative and the most challenging of Wole Soyinka's writing on the philosophical impli- cations of precolonial cultures for modern African arts; "Idanre," his poetic celebration of Ogin's mythical tragedy; and Myth, Literature, nod the African World, t reconstruct below Soyinka's structuralist nativist appropriation of Yorubd rituals for a theory of tragedy. I choose Soyinka's work to illustrate patterns of structuralist nativist thinking partly because his has been the most insistent voice on the Africanist defense of self-conscious artistry. His explanations of the philosophical implications of YorhbA rituals represent one of the most advanced examples of structuralist nativist thinking.' Soyinka's nativist ideas on art, cognition, and existence are founded on the widespread African belief that dying and living are different stations on the track that connects humans to their ancestors. As every- day practice reveals, the living reaches ancestry through propitiation and plies the stretch to the unborn with the physical labor of procre- ation. In addition to the three "ethnographic" states-living, unborn, and ancestral-there is an in-between "fourth" space "awhere occurs the utter transmutation of essence-ideal and materiality" (Myth 26). In that 14 Chapter 1 The Firewood Which a People Have Is Enough for the Kind of Cooking They Do: Structuralist Nativism and the Indigenization of Speculative Aesthetics Where classical nativism focuses on the clear expression of public themes. structuralist nativists Africanize the expression of public themes in forms that need not be clear. As discussed above, classical nativism doubts the African-ness of any work that exhibits self-conscious art- istry. In the rhetoric of militant and not so militant classical nativism, an overt sympathy for modernist aesthetics is a heavy literary offense. Thus, in Toward the Decolonization of African Literature, the dense poetry of Wole Soyinka, Christopher Okigbo, and Michael Echeruo is dis- missed as modernist and irrelevant. To contest the effective strategy with which classical nativism indigenizes its preferred stylistic of clar- ity, structuralist nativists have to reject the narrow interpretation given the traditional "back cloth" of contemporary written cultures, and they treat as philosophical matters much of what the others regard as phe- nomenal peculiarities. The structuralists search for the identity markers of modern African writing in the structural and hermeneutic principles that are derivable from traditional high arts such as rituals, divination chants, esoteric lyric, and the secular narratives of the Sahelian griot. From fragments of "The Fourth Stage," the most speculative and the most challenging of Wole Soyinka's writing on the philosophical impli- cations of precolonial cultures for modern African arts; "Idanre," his poetic celebration of bgnn's mythical tragedy; and Myth, Literature, and the African World, I reconstruct below Soyinka's structuralist nativist appropriation of Yorib rituals for a theory of tragedy. I choose Soyinka's work to illustrate patterns of structuralist nativist thinking partly because his has been the most insistent voice on the Africanist defense of self-conscious artistry. His explanations of the philosophical implications of Yornbd rituals represent one of the most advanced examples of structuralist nativist thinking.' Soyinka's nativist ideas on art, cognition, and existence are founded on the widespread African belief that dying and living are different stations on the track that connects humans to their ancestors. As every- day practice reveals, the living reaches ancestry through propitiation and plies the stretch to the unborn with the physical labor of procre- ation. In addition to the three "ethnographic" states-living, unborn, and ancestral-there is an in-between "fourth" space "where occurs the utter transmutation of essence-ideal and materiality" (lyth 26). In that 14 Chapter 1 The Firewood Which a People Have Is Enough for the Kind of Cooking They Do: Structuralist Nativism and the Indigenization of Speculative Aesthetics Where classical nativism focuses on the clear expression of public themes, structuralist nativists Africanize the expression of public themes in forms that need not be clear. As discussed above, classical nativism doubts the African-ness of any work that exhibits self-conscious art- istry. In the rhetoric of militant and not so militant classical nativism, an overt sympathy for modernist aesthetics is a heavy literary offense. Thus, in Toward the Decolonization of African Literature, the dense poetry of Wole Soyinka, Christopher Okigbo, and Michael Echeruo is dis- missed as modernist and irrelevant. To contest the effective strategy with which classical nativism indigenizes its preferred stylistic of clar- ity, structuralist nativists have to reject the narrow interpretation given the traditional "back cloth" of contemporary written cultures, and they treat as philosophical matters much of what the others regard as phe- nomenal peculiarities. The structuralists search for the identity markers of modem African writing in the structural and hermeneutic principles that are derivable from traditional high arts such as rituals, divination chants, esoteric lyric, and the secular narratives of the Sahelian griot. From fragments of "The Fourth Stage," the most speculative and the most challenging of Wole Soyinka's writing on the philosophical impli- cations of precolonial cultures for modern African arts; "Idanre" his poetic celebration of Ogon's mythical tragedy; and Myth, Literataure. and the African World, I reconstruct below Soyinka's structuralist nativist appropriation of YorubA rituals for a theory of tragedy. I choose Soyinka's work to illustrate patterns of structuralist nativist thinking partly because his has been the most insistent voice on the Africanist defense of self-conscious artistry. His explanations of the philosophical implications of Yorhbi rituals represent one of the most advanced examples of structuralist nativist thinking' Soyinka's nativist ideas on art, cognition, and existence are founded on the widespread African belief that dying and living are different stations on the track that connects humans to their ancestors. As every- day practice reveals, the living reaches ancestry through propitiation and plies the stretch to the unborn with the physical labor of procre- ation. In addition to the three "ethnographic" states-living, unborn, and ancestral-there is an in-between "fourth" space "where occurs the utter transmutation of essence-ideal and materiality" (Myth 26). In that  My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 15 space, the will to (pro)create is tested and proved. Without that space, none of the living, the unborn, or the ancestors will ever come to fulfillment. According to Soyinka's reading of tradition, the transac- tions in the "fourth" space are the subjects of ritual performances of myths of creation and of creativity. One such story says that in the Yorub6 beginning an Orisa Nld (Grand Divinity) was smashed into countless pieces when his servant, Atoindi (Reinvention), pushed down a huge boulder on him. The frag- mented pieces of the hitherto grand being rolled into the terrestrial distances and became multiple gods and goddesses. At some point in time, the deities developed a nostalgia for the earthly wholeness within which they used to live before the Orisa Nld bang. Humans too suffered in the aftermath of that split: as it is usually expressed in divination formulas, famine scorched the earth, semen atrophied in the genital sac, women's menstruation ceased, and total chaos threatened the cos- mos. The divinities and humanity together experienced a grief about the separation of "essence" from "self" brought about by Atandi's acts. Both communities also started efforts to recreate the original unity. Although he is not quite explicit on the matter, Soyinka implies that the productive Orisa Kid split and the reopening of the paths to oneness happened in a time unit not measurable mechanically. But the mutual desire of the gods and humans to unite cannot be realized because the disequilibrium caused by the initial crash in itself produces and sustains the ethnographic orders that would be destroyed if metaphysical oneness were reestablished. The wish for wholeness must not be fulfilled because the energy generated during the quest for the construction of linkages sustains existential patterns. The endless imaginative striving of humans and the divinities to construct the path to (meta)physical oneness energizes life and fends off stasis. If the labor devoted to the bridging stopped-especially because it succeeded-for a noticeable period of time, all of the known existential states would fuse: the ancestral pool would dry up for a lack of supply from the deaths of the living, the ranks of the deities that draw therefrom would be depleted, and the physical act of bringing forth the unborn would cease. To avoid such a disaster, humans keep replaying the quest for material oneness-one that will never materialize physically-with repeated sacrifices, rituals, and appeasement feasts. The myths say that when the gods set out to realize their yearnings, they too faced daunting problems. Dense forests and massive rocks My Signifier Ts More Native than Yours 15 space, the will to (pro)create is tested and proved. Without that space, none of the living, the unborn, or the ancestors will ever come to fulfillment. According to Soyinka's reading of tradition, the transac- tions in the "fourth" space are the subjects of ritual performances of myths of creation and of creativity. One such story says that in the Yorhb beginning an Orisa ld (Grand Divinity) was smashed into countless pieces when his servant, Atdnd6 (Reinvention), pushed down a huge boulder on him. The frag- mented pieces of the hitherto grand being rolled into the terrestrial distances and became multiple gods and goddesses. At some point in time, the deities developed a nostalgia for the earthly wholeness within which they used to live before the Orisa ld bang. Humans too suffered in the aftermath of that split: as it is usually expressed in divination formulas, famine scorched the earth, semen atrophied in the genital sac, women's menstruation ceased, and total chaos threatened the cos- mos. The divinities and humanity together experienced a grief about the separation of "essence" from "self" brought about by Atund&'s acts. Both communities also started efforts to recreate the original unity. Although he is not quite explicit on the matter, Soyinka implies that the productive Orisa Nld split and the reopening of the paths to oneness happened in a time unit not measurable mechanically. But the mutual desire of the gods and humans to unite cannot be realized because the disequilibrium caused by the initial crash in itself produces and sustains the ethnographic orders that would be destroyed if metaphysical oneness were reestablished. The wish for wholeness must not be fulfilled because the energy generated during the quest for the construction of linkages sustains existential patterns. The endless imaginative striving of humans and the divinities to construct the path to (meta)physical oneness energizes life and fends off stasis. If the labor devoted to the bridging stopped-especially because it succeeded-for a noticeable period of time, all of the known existential states would fuse: the ancestral pool would dry up for a lack of supply from the deaths of the living, the ranks of the deities that draw therefrom would be depleted, and the physical act of bringing forth the unborn would cease. To avoid such a disaster, humans keep replaying the quest for material oneness-one that will never materialize physically-with repeated sacrifices, rituals, and appeasement feasts. The myths say that when the gods set out to realize their yearnings, they too faced daunting problems. Dense forests and massive rocks My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 15 space, the will to (pro)create is tested and proved. Without that space, none of the living, the unborn, or the ancestors will ever come to fulfillment. According to Soyinka's reading of tradition, the transac- tions in the "fourth" space are the subjects of ritual performances of myths of creation and of creativity. One such story says that in the Yorhb6 beginning an Orisa Nld (Grand Divinity) was smashed into countless pieces when his servant, AtandA (Reinvention), pushed down a huge boulder on him. The frag- mented pieces of the hitherto grand being rolled into the terrestrial distances and became multiple gods and goddesses. At some point in time, the deities developed a nostalgia for the earthly wholeness within which they used to live before the Orisa Nld bang. Humans too suffered in the aftermath of that split: as it is usually expressed in divination formulas, famine scorched the earth, semen atrophied in the genital sac, women's menstruation ceased, and total chaos threatened the cos- mos. The divinities and humanity together experienced a grief about the separation of "essence" from "self" brought about by Atdnda's acts. Both communities also started efforts to recreate the original unity. Although he is not quite explicit on the matter, Soyinka implies that the productive Orisa Nld split and the reopening of the paths to oneness happened in a time unit not measurable mechanically. But the mutual desire of the gods and humans to unite cannot be realized because the disequilibrium caused by the initial crash in itself produces and sustains the ethnographic orders that would be destroyed if metaphysical oneness were reestablished. The wish for wholeness must not be fulfilled because the energy generated during the quest for the construction of linkages sustains existential patterns. The endless imaginative striving of humans and the divinities to construct the path to (meta)physical oneness energizes life and fends off stasis. If the labor devoted to the bridging stopped-especially because it succeeded-for a noticeable period of time, all of the known existential states would fuse: the ancestral pool would dry up for a lack of supply from the deaths of the living, the ranks of the deities that draw therefrom would be depleted, and the physical act of bringing forth the unborn would cease. To avoid such a disaster, humans keep replaying the quest for material oneness-one that will never materialize physically-with repeated sacrifices, rituals, and appeasement feasts. The myths say that when the gods set out to realize their yearnings, they too faced daunting problems. Dense forests and massive rocks  16 Chapter 1 obstructed their earthward ventures. Thoughts of unforeseeable conse- quences of reuniting with humans aggravated the torment of physical barriers. Ogdn, one of the godlings, successfully conquered the physi- cal barrier with his fabricated iron cutlass. Ogtin's implement proved useful where those of the others, made of soft alloys like silver, bronze, and aluminum, failed. Because his tool was very sharp and hard- edged, Ogdn was able to clear the forests more efficiently than the other divinities. The other deities conceded leadership to him after they discovered the strength of his path-making manufacture. Soyinka at- tributes an artistic and political significance to Ogdn's act. He says Ogdn's feat makes him "the first actor ... first suffering deity, first creative energy, the first challenger, and the conqueror of transition" ("Fourth Stage" 145). The myths do not state how many of the gods completed the earthward journey. Only Ognn's disastrous short inter- action with mortals at ire and his self-imposed exile in the hills are recalled in the lore. Soyinka bases his theory of remarkable speech on the ritual re- creation of Ogdin's overcoming of the wild divide between the earth and the gods. The rituals mime Ogdn's releasing "from within him the most energetic, deeply combative inventions" ("Fourth Stage" 146) necessary for opening up a path that, in the end, respects life-sustaining boundaries. Ogrin's devotees reenact the deity's painful wail Cthe soul's despairing cry") of loneliness, which echoed inside the transi- tional abyss. The details of the ritual re-creation suggest that the aco- lytes commemorate the physical and intellectual exertion that the first actor invested in the creation of a bridging device. Ogdn's rituals cel- ebrate his forging of a newness out of disparities "when from earth itself, he extracted elements for the subjugation of chthonic chaos" ("Fourth Stage" 146). The rituals commemorate his valor in the battle of will and reenact his inauguration of an art form constituted in the wail he exhaled during his labors of creation. During the celebration of Ogdn's mysteries, each possessed and "god-suffused choric individual" (143) exudes the spirit of Ogdn's contribution to the amelioration of Atdndi's generative cataclysm. The ritualized movements and actions, symbolic re-creations of Ogon's nonmimetic wail, mimic the deity's founding creativity. The essence of theatrical performances are embed- ded in Ogdn's involuntary, perhaps unstructured, cries, which are re- created in the choruses chanted by the possessed votary. The perfor- mances of the acolytes mimic the primordial anguish that Ogdn suffered t6 Chapter 1 obstructed their earthward ventures. Thoughts of unforeseeable conse- quences of reuniting with humans aggravated the torment of physical barriers. Ogdn, one of the godlings, successfully conquered the physi- cal barrier with his fabricated iron cutlass. Ogon's implement proved useful where those of the others, made of soft alloys like silver, bronze, and aluminum, failed. Because his tool was very sharp and hard- edged, Ogdn was able to clear the forests more efficiently than the other divinities. The other deities conceded leadership to him after they discovered the strength of his path-making manufacture. Soyinka at- tributes an artistic and political significance to Ogdn's act. He says Ogin's feat makes him "the first actor ... first suffering deity, first creative energy, the first challenger, and the conqueror of transition" ("Fourth Stage" 145). The myths do not state how many of the god- completed the earthward journey. Only Ognn's disastrous short inter- action with mortals at lre and his self-imposed exile in the hills are recalled in the lore. Soyinka bases his theory of remarkable speech on the ritual re- creation of Otigdn's overcoming of the wild divide between the earth and the gods. The rituals mime Ogdn's releasing "from within him the most energetic, deeply combative inventions" ("Fourth Stage" 146) necessary for opening up a path that, in the end, respects life-sustaining boundaries. Ogdn's devotees reenact the deitv's painful wail ("the soul's despairing cry") of loneliness, which echoed inside the transi- tional abyss. The details of the ritual re-creation suggest that the aco- lytes commemorate the physical and intellectual exertion that the first actor invested in the creation of a bridging device. Ogon's rituals cel- ebrate his forging of a newness out of disparities "when from earth itself, he extracted elements for the subjugation of chthonic chaos" ("Fourth Stage" 146). The rituals commemorate his valor in the battle of will and reenact his inauguration of an art form constituted in the wail he exhaled during his labors of creation. During the celebration of Ogdn's mysteries, each possessed and "god-suffused choric individual" (143) exudes the spirit of Ogan's contribution to the amelioration of Atnndd's generative cataclysm. The ritualized movements and actions, symbolic re-creations of Ogdn's nonmimetic wail, mimic the deite's founding creativity. The essence of theatrical performances are embed- ded in Ogdn's involuntary, perhaps unstructured, cries, which are re- created in the choruses chanted by the possessed votary. The perfor- mances of the acolytes mimic the primordial anguish that Ogn suffered 16 Chapter 1 obstructed their earthward ventures. Thoughts of unforeseeable conse- quences of reuniting with humans aggravated the torment of physical barriers. Ogdn, one of the godlings, successfully conquered the physi- cal barrier with his fabricated iron cutlass. Ogdn's implement proved useful where those of the others, made of soft alloys like silver, bronze, and aluminum, failed. Because his tool was very sharp and hard- edged, Ogbn was able to clear the forests more efficiently than the other divinities. The other deities conceded leadership to him after they discovered the strength of his path-making manufacture. Soyinka at- tributes an artistic and political significance to Oga n's act. He says Ogan's feat makes him "the first actor ... first suffering deity, first creative energy, the first challenger, and the conqueror of transition" ("Fourth Stage" 145). The myths do not state how many of the gods completed the earthward journey. Only Ogen's disastrous short inter- action with mortals at ie and his self-imposed exile in the hills are recalled in the lore. Soyinka bases his theory of remarkable speech on the ritual re- creation of Ogdn's overcoming of the wild divide between the earth and the gods. The rituals mime Ogen's releasing "from within him the most energetic, deeply combative inventions" ("Fourth Stage" 146) necessary for opening up a path that, in the end, respects life-sustaining boundaries. Ogdun's devotees reenact the deity's painful rail ("the soul's despairing cry") of loneliness, which echoed inside the transi- tional abyss. The details of the ritual re-creation suggest that the aco- lytes commemorate the physical and intellectual exertion that the first actor invested in the creation of a bridging device. Ogdn's rituals cel- ebrate his forging of a newness out of disparities "when from earth itself, he extracted elements for the subjugation of chthonic chaos" ("Fourth Stage" 146). The rituals commemorate his valor in the battle of will and reenact his inauguration of an art form constituted in the wail he exhaled during his labors of creation. During the celebration of Ogdn's mysteries, each possessed and "god-suffused choric individual" (143) exudes the spirit of Ogdn's contribution to the amelioration of Atdndd's generative cataclysm. The ritualized movements and actions, symbolic re-creations of Ognn's nonmimetic wail, mimic the deity's founding creativity. The essence of theatrical performances are embed- ded in Ogdn's involuntary, perhaps unstructured, cries, which are re- created in the choruses chanted by the possessed votary. The perfor- mances of the acolytes mimic the primordial anguish that Ogdn suffered  when he was attacking the barriers to transition. Ogtin's brief suspen- sion of the primal "severance" caused by Atdndi was enabled by both the unprecedented fabrication of a steel cutlass and his determination not to succumb to despair while in the transitional chasm. Every true simulation of Ogdn'sfourth stage experience-which is to say every act of creation-therefore, repeats the deity's conscious and unconscious acts in the simultaneously life-sustaining and life-threatening abyss. From this Yoruba story of tragedy, Soyinka deduces two senses of acting. In the first faculty, inventive genius, humans exercise the power to create combative tools that defy disintegration: these tools include verbal arts, mechanical contraptions, and other elements of material culture. These physical and scientific acts of creation are complemented by the exertion of will, which is the second sense of acting. Both acts continue endlessly and are fundamental to existence. In Soyinka's de- duction, the unending quest to bridge the abysmal gulf accidentally caused by Atnndi simultaneously motivates self-reflective will for res- toration and provokes purposeful physical movements and actions. If that gulf does not exist, all will be one, and if the energy to bridge it is not renewed constantly, all will be separate. Neither state, in Yoruba metaphysics, is permissible. Although he does not deploy deconstructive idioms, Soyinka's de- scription of the rituals-"a metaphor for the perennial," he calls them- depicts the practices as iterable forms of the Yoruba tragic impulse and worldview. Ritual, Soyinka says in "Who's Afraid of Elesin Oba?," is "the irreducible formal agent for event disparate and time separated actions of human beings in society" (120). Rituals, for Soyinka, are conspicuous means by which Yorubi culture articulates, classifies, and inscribes philosophical and time-tested meaning.' The rites dramatize the conditions in the fictive but re-creative state during which the first tragic hero and actor, Ogtn, was tested. The ritual (or the re-creation of primal invention) state defies muteness, incomprehension, and isola- tion. Ogdn, whose celebrated acts first pointed this out, is the premier dramatic protagonist. His acts willed reproducible and re-creative rites of affirming existence to the world. In Soyinka's speculative reading of rituals, the duty of a "serious" African literature is to inflect the cosmic overview that organizes tradi- tional performances. A proper appreciation of Ogdn's ritual enables the formation of a theory of knowledge: all "engineering," like Ogdn's steel cutlass, must serve communal good. Such understanding also when he was attacking the barriers to transition. Ogdn's brief suspen- sion of the primal "severance" caused by Atdnds was enabled by both the unprecedented fabrication of a steel cutlass and his determination not to succumb to despair while in the transitional chasm. Every true simulation of Ogdin'sfourth stage experience-which is to say every act of creation-therefore, repeats the deity's conscious and unconscious acts in the simultaneously life-sustaining and life-threatening abyss. From this Yorubi story of tragedy, Soyinka deduces two senses of acting. In the first faculty, inventive genius, humans exercise the power to create combative tools that defy disintegration: these tools include verbal arts, mechanical contraptions, and other elements of material culture. These physical and scientific acts of creation are complemented by the exertion of will, which is the second sense of acting. Both acts continue endlessly and are fundamental to existence. In Soyinka's de- duction, the unending quest to bridge the abysmal gulf accidentally caused by Atdndi simultaneously motivates self-reflective will for res- toration and provokes purposeful physical movements and actions. If that gulf does not exist, all will be one, and if the energy to bridge it is not renewed constantly, all will be separate. Neither state, in Yorhbi metaphysics, is permissible. Although he does not deploy deconstructive idioms, Soyinka's de- scription of the rituals-"a metaphor for the perennial," he calls them- depicts the practices as iterable forms of the Yorbba tragic impulse and worldview. Ritual, Soyinka says in "Who's Afraid of Elesin Oba?," is "the irreducible formal agent for event disparate and time separated actions of human beings in society" (120). Rituals, for Soyinka, are conspicuous means by which Yorhbi culture articulates, classifies, and inscribes philosophical and time-tested meaning.> The rites dramatize the conditions in the fictive but re-creative state during which the first tragic hero and actor, Ogdn, was tested. The ritual (or the re-creation of primal invention) state defies muteness, incomprehension, and isola- tion. Ogdn, whose celebrated acts first pointed this out, is the premier dramatic protagonist. His acts willed reproducible and re-creative rites of affirming existence to the world. In Soyinka's speculative reading of rituals, the duty of a "serious" African literature is to inflect the cosmic overview that organizes tradi- tional performances. A proper appreciation of Ogdn's ritual enables the formation of a theory of knowledge: all "engineering," like Ogdn's steel cutlass, must serve communal good. Such understanding also when he was attacking the barriers to transition. Ogdn's brief suspen- sion of the primal "severance" caused by Atandi was enabled by both the unprecedented fabrication of a steel cutlass and his determination not to succumb to despair while in the transitional chasm. Every true simulation of Ogtinsfourth stage experience-which is to say every act of creation-therefore, repeats the deity's conscious and unconscious acts in the simultaneously life-sustaining and life-threatening abyss. From this Yoruba story of tragedy, Soyinka deduces two senses of acting. In the first faculty, inventive genius, humans exercise the power to create combative tools that defy disintegration: these tools include verbal arts, mechanical contraptions, and other elements of material culture. These physical and scientific acts of creation are complemented by the exertion of will, which is the second sense of acting. Both acts continue endlessly and are fundamental to existence. In Soyinka's de- duction, the unending quest to bridge the abysmal gulf accidentally caused by Attndi simultaneously motivates self-reflective will for res- toration and provokes purposeful physical movements and actions. If that gulf does not exist, all will be one, and if the energy to bridge it is not renewed constantly, all will be separate. Neither state, in Yornb6 metaphysics, is permissible. Although he does not deploy deconstructive idioms, Soyinka's de- scription of the rituals-"a metaphor for the perennial," he calls them- depicts the practices as iterable forms of the Yorubi tragic impulse and worldview. Ritual, Soyinka says in "Who's Afraid of Elesin Oba?," is "the irreducible formal agent for event disparate and time separated actions of human beings in society" (120). Rituals, for Soyinka, are conspicuous means by which Yorubi culture articulates, classifies, and inscribes philosophical and time-tested meaning> The rites dramatize the conditions in the fictive but re-creative state during which the first tragic hero and actor, Ogdn, was tested. The ritual (or the re-creation of primal invention) state defies muteness, incomprehension, and isola- tion. Ogan, whose celebrated acts first pointed this out, is the premier dramatic protagonist. His acts willed reproducible and re-creative rites of affirming existence to the world. In Soyinka's speculative reading of rituals, the duty of a "serious" African literature is to inflect the cosmic overview that organizes tradi- tional performances. A proper appreciation of Ogdn's ritual enables the formation of a theory of knowledge: all "engineering," like Ogdn's steel cutlass, must serve communal good. Such understanding also  18 Chapter 1 enables a theory of acting: choral performance, like Ognn's wail, must aid the strengthening of a will to invent. Also, knowing the essence of the rituals leads to a theory of tragedy that requires that the hero's twill, like Ogdn's, must not succumb to destructive forces.' Sokote Agbewd, Bi 6 so ni Lese, a Fun ni Nitan [Borrowed Pants, When They Are Not Loose at the Ankle, Are Tight at the Thigh]: Linguistic Nativism and the Politics of Material Form In one episode in Casely Hayford's Ethiopia Unbound (1911), one of the oldest imaginative extended English prose narratives in West Africa, Kwamankra, the protagonist, insists on the use of the local language as the medium of instruction and official business in the National Uiniver- sity. He was foremost in bringing forward schemes to prevent the work of the University from becoming a mere foreign imitation. He kept con- stantly before the Committee from the first that no people could despise its own language, customs, and institutions and hope to avoid national death. For that reason the distinctive garb of stu- dents, male and female, was national with an adaptability sugges- tive of the advanced state of society. It was recognised that the best part of the teaching must be done in the people's own language, and soon several textbooks of known authority had, with the kind permission of authors and publishers, been translated into Fanti, thereby making the progress of the student rapid and sound. (16- 17; emphases added) The emphasized parts of Kwamankra's plan state the central philo- sophical and political contentions of linguistic nativism. Since 1911, one might say, the major quest of linguist nativists has been to produce an effective pedagogy for national development, to promote indigenous languages and cultures, and to quicken the development of written artifacts in the indigenous languages. The rhetoric too has been con- stant. In 1911, Casely Hayford's Kwamankra wanted to prevent cul- tural death; in 1962, Obi Wali urged African culture producers to avoid a dead end. As in previous sections, I will illustrate the cultural ques- tions and problems raised by linguistic nativism with the works of a leading speaker. For this section, I choose the writing of Nghgi wa Thiong'o, whose voice is the most insistent at the present time. This most controversial variety of nativisms returned to the critical t8 Chapter1 enables a theory of acting: choral performance, like Ogdn's wail, must aid the strengthening of a will to invent. Also, knowing the essence of the rituals leads to a theory of tragedy that requires that the hero's rill, like Ogdn's, must not succumb to destructive forces." Sbkotb Agbaw6, Bib to ni Lese, a Fun ni Nitan [Borrowed Pants, When They Are Not Loose at the Ankle, Are Tight at the Thigh]: Linguistic Nativism and the Politics of Material Form In one episode in Casely Hayford's Ethiopia Unbound (1911), one of the oldest imaginative extended English prose narratives in West Africa, Kwamankra, the protagonist, insists on the use of the local language as the medium of instruction and official business in the National Lniver- sity. He was foremost in bringing forward schemes to prevent the work of the University from becoming a mere foreign imitation. He kept con- stantly before the Committee from the first that no people could despise its own language, customs, and institutions and hope to avoid national death. For that reason the distinctive garb of stu- dents, male and female, was national with an adaptability sugges- tive of the advanced state of society. It was recognised that the bes:t part of the teaching must be done in the people's own language, and soon several textbooks of known authority had, with the kind permission of authors and publishers, been translated into Fanti, thereby making the progress of the student rapid and sound. (16- 17; emphases added) The emphasized parts of Kwamankra's plan state the central philo- sophical and political contentions of linguistic nativism. Since 1911, one might say, the major quest of linguist nativists has been to produce an effective pedagogy for national development, to promote indigenous languages and cultures, and to quicken the development of tritten artifacts in the indigenous languages. The rhetoric too has been con- stant. In 1911, Casely Hayford's Kwamankra wanted to prevent cul- tural death; in 1962, Obi Wal urged African culture producers to avoid a dead end. As in previous sections, I will illustrate the cultural ques- tions and problems raised by linguistic nativism with the works of a leading speaker. For this section, I choose the writing of Ngugi w5a Thiong'o, whose voice is the most insistent at the present time. This most controversial variety of nativisms returned to the critical 18 Chapter 1 enables a theory of acting: choral performance, like Ogtin's wail, must aid the strengthening of a will to invent. Also, knowing the essence of the rituals leads to a theory of tragedy that requires that the hero's will, like Ogdn's, must not succumb to destructive forces Sketb Agbiw6, Bf b so ni Lese, a Fun ni Nitan [Borrowed Pants, When They Are Not Loose at the Ankle, Are Tight at the Thigh]: Linguistic Nativism and the Politics of Material Form In one episode in Casely Hayford's Ethiopia Unbound (1911), one of the oldest imaginative extended English prose narratives in West Africa, Kwamankra, the protagonist, insists on the use of the local language as the medium of instruction and official business in the National Univer- sity. He was foremost in bringing forward schemes to prevent the work of the University from becoming a mere foreign irnitation. He kept con- stantly before the Committee from the first that no people could despise its own language, customs, and institutions and hope to avoid national death. For that reason the distinctive garb of stu- dents, male and female, was national with an adaptability sugges- tive of the advanced state of society. It was recognised that the best part of the teaching must be done in the people's own language, and soon several textbooks of known authority had, with the kind permission of authors and publishers, been translated into Fanti, thereby making the progress of the student rapid and sound. (16- 17; emphases added) The emphasized parts of Kwamankra's plan state the central philo- sophical and political contentions of linguistic nativism. Since 1911, one might say, the major quest of linguist nativists has been to produce an effective pedagogy for national development, to promote indigenous languages and cultures, and to quicken the development of written artifacts in the indigenous languages. The rhetoric too has been con- stant. In 1911, Casely Hayford's Kwamankra wanted to prevent cul- tural death; in 1962, Obi Wali urged African culture producers to avoid a dead end. As in previous sections, I will illustrate the cultural ques- tions and problems raised by linguistic nativism with the works of a leading speaker. For this section, I choose the writing of Ngugi wa Thiong'o, whose voice is the most insistent at the present time. This most controversial variety of nativisms returned to the critical  My Signifier s More Natire than Yours 19 center stage in 1977 when Nghgt condemned as un-African all writing, his own included, done in European languages. The prominent histori- cal materialist broke ranks with his Marxist colleagues when he de- clared publicly that material languages in themselves carry significant ideological connotations. In his manifesto statement, "Return to the Roots," which he expanded later into the book-length essay De-colonising the Mind, Ngugi ruffled African Marxist activism with the claim that the language selected by a writer from the menu available in a stratified, multilingual, and formerly colonial society is inevitably of ideological significance. He premised this proposition on the belief that national languages in multilingual former colonies are not neutral communica- tion instruments but partisan tools in the unending skirmishes between liberating and colonizing forces. For Ngfgi, material languages are depositories of both ethnic and national histories. Narrative forms, vocabulary range, rhetorical apparatuses, socio-linguistic patterns, and even syntax are shaped by the history of their specific community. Like Wali before him, NgugS calls upon fellow writers in English to cultivate some competence in the native languages. He believes that such a reeducation will enable them to change their neocolonialist attitudes about the local languages. Since history has not fashioned monolingual nations for Africa, the national literatures, he said, must not be forced into an artificial monolingualism. Speaking about his own country, Ngugi says, "Kenyan national literature should mostly be produced in the languages of the various nationalities that make up modern Kenya. Kenyan national literature can only get its stamina and blood by utiliz- ing the rich national traditions of culture and history carried by the languages of all the Kenyan nationalities" (59). Mainly because "Return to the Roots" contradicts Ngugi's well- known Marxist views of culture, surprised critics accused him of a relapse into a romanticism peculiar to the cultural idealists he used to attack. Critics of his linguistic nativism see no particular characteristic that can distinguish his program from an extreme nationalism. Simon Gikandi asks one common question about Nglgi's views on the histori- cal significance of material language in postcolonial communities: "But if language was a product of separate generations and social classes, how could it transcend historically-engendered social divisions to be- come the unified signifier of a nation and its many voices? Indeed, how could the materiality of language be reconciled with Ngugi's romantic conception of literary language as the agent of a sprachgeist?" (132). My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 19 center stage in 1977 when NglgS condemned as un-African all writing, his own included, done in European languages. The prominent histori- cal materialist broke ranks with his Marxist colleagues when he de- clared publicly that material languages in themselves carry significant ideological connotations. In his manifesto statement, "Return to the Roots," which he expanded later into the book-length essay De-colonising the Mind, Ngigi ruffled African Marxist activism with the claim that the language selected by a writer from the menu available in a stratified, multilingual, and formerly colonial society is inevitably of ideological significance. He premised this proposition on the belief that national languages in multilingual former colonies are not neutral communica- tion instruments but partisan tools in the unending skirmishes between liberating and colonizing forces. For Ngugi, material languages are depositories of both ethnic and national histories. Narrative forms, vocabulary range, rhetorical apparatuses, socio-linguistic patterns, and even syntax are shaped by the history of their specific community. Like Wali before him, Ngfgi calls upon fellow writers in English to cultivate some competence in the native languages. He believes that such a reeducation will enable them to change their neocolonialist attitudes about the local languages. Since history has not fashioned monolingual nations for Africa, the national literatures, he said, must not be forced into an artificial monolingualism. Speaking about his own country, Ngugi says, "Kenyan national literature should mostly be produced in the languages of the various nationalities that make up modern Kenya. Kenyan national literature can only get its stamina and blood by utiliz- ing the rich national traditions of culture and history carried by the languages of all the Kenyan nationalities" (59). Mainly because "Return to the Roots" contradicts Ngigi's well- known Marxist views of culture, surprised critics accused him of a relapse into a romanticism peculiar to the cultural idealists he used to attack. Critics of his linguistic nativism see no particular characteristic that can distinguish his program from an extreme nationalism. Simon Gikandi asks one common question about Ngigi's views on the histori- cal significance of material language in postcolonial communities: "But if language was a product of separate generations and social classes, how could it transcend historically-engendered social divisions to be- come the unified signifier of a nation and its many voices? Indeed, how could the materiality of language be reconciled with Ngugi's romantic conception of literary language as the agent of a sprachgeist?" (132). My Signifier Is More \lative than Yours 19 center stage in 1977 when Ngfgi condemned as un-African all writing, his own included, done in European languages. The prominent histori- cal materialist broke ranks with his Marxist colleagues when he de- clared publicly that material languages in themselves carry significant ideological connotations. In his manifesto statement, "Return to the Roots," which he expanded later into the book-length essay De-colonising the Mind, Ngugi ruffled African Marxist activism with the claim that the language selected by a writer from the menu available in a stratified, multilingual, and formerly colonial society is inevitably of ideological significance. He premised this proposition on the belief that national languages in multilingual former colonies are not neutral communica- tion instruments but partisan tools in the unending skirmishes between liberating and colonizing forces. For Nglgi, material languages are depositories of both ethnic and national histories. Narrative forms, vocabulary range, rhetorical apparatuses, socio-linguistic patterns, and even syntax are shaped by the history of their specific community. Like Wali before him, Ngugi calls upon fellow writers in English to cultivate some competence in the native languages. He believes that such a reeducation will enable them to change their neocolonialist attitudes about the local languages. Since history has not fashioned monolingual nations for Africa, the national literatures, he said, must not be forced into an artificial monolingualism. Speaking about his own country, Ngigi says, "Kenyan national literature should mostly be produced in the languages of the various nationalities that make up modern Kenya. Kenyan national literature can only get its stamina and blood by utiliz- ing the rich national traditions of culture and history carried by the languages of all the Kenyan nationalities" (59). Mainly because "Return to the Roots" contradicts Nglgi's well- known Marxist views of culture, surprised critics accused him of a relapse into a romanticism peculiar to the cultural idealists he used to attack. Critics of his linguistic nativism see no particular characteristic that can distinguish his program from an extreme nationalism. Simon Gikandi asks one common question about Ngigi's views on the histori- cal significance of material language in postcolonial communities: "But if language was a product of separate generations and social classes, how could it transcend historically-engendered social divisions to be- come the unified signifier of a nation and its many voices? Indeed, how could the materiality of language be reconciled with Ngugi's romantic conception of literary language as the agent of a sprachgeist?" (132).  2' y b0< a 3$ 2 3 9C 50. Ez 2 . 3' 22 $2 c i52 ¢E $ S5  b1gsva'f, clMs salyr thyss eoss "1 1 bAgnyuhretMOr Natv th-sVwse 21 Vy gn'trekbeessnos, as 21 tte lub aiisd a qpe trda l dison hn Afrca aSi tM ligufi a a up.e *diioa diison Sn Alvi Sn to fllrgsicad a pe Wrd. dbvn in A cod dyes. His progrssv and nabevist actieismr brings together two hnih erto opposing theoretial baos in African cuttsrat debates. Prier to Ngtgt s itcentons, Aic,-rMauisShaebeer ho redeementrimir in, int controversies about the forms most appropriate for smoking African liteature native. For oneinpormtat reason, the fine attesaton to the details of hlstoricatinprinls that Marxism requires for the sttsdy of culture was difficult to practice on precolonial African fortms, For an- other reason the anficotoniat movement out of which tite traditional' and "Adrian" categoeies emerged had already implicated Marsisms as 'Europeact."Softhe tican Marxist cotmmitted to adialctical method- otogy carsnot tfunction without a specter of Eurocentism+" A Marsist swho wants to beAfricar without compromsising ether of the two discipli-say identities has to devise a method that acepts the 'tradi- tionat" sisamsof the csdinasty cornprnmisd precoloniat tests and then cince othr An-eics that Maesisam is sat Eusrseenic.'- When dgtgiaddedinguiticmratiis orissettkaswn Matsistidentifv,be cleatedrnew forests for bath fottow lrffotto seavaoided "romanticized" astifact and the ctassico I nativists sets distrusted dialectical analysis. Natisaism as the Vehicle at tdealismn and P'ragmsatism ind fa theoe ,s ot l cism s eti osnnqsis nte cufndtta te uige t'cmo uon ntch otate la n tof the postindependec nair the sybtic olf-3 eof mtateriat tasgage ana tsett totic ndepent na- tiona can reshape colonfat legacies- The pragmatic ctasicol aed. sma.- tutalstativarr ant to cetate intlocaltaccensan Aftianiera tre that can use any of ifs historical tanguages and fornts. They tsetiee that tangate and etlitteal conventions are inafratmes that do not on their own definecutttures, liternats, or naitt. Whlen different geco graphicat and political entities share a commton langutage in the articu- lton of their lieatures, tte exressed cutural, etimic, and national differences establish their Indivdata identities For the pragmtatists, code switchin,,characters indtvidtlatexi by bative speech patterns, etabce rae wartdvews, fictiontied local response to history, and other mark- essofcunlturallyspecific narrative, poetie and dramatic protocols arte moeitmportant for the creation al a distinty nationatist cultaure than oethe easy vrbol materials.I teIoales, for them, tee sot tangytages bat ast Fit progressive tand nativist activism being together two ith- cr10 opposing theoreticat camps InAfrcan cultal debates Prior to Nglig'tittteettino, African Marxists have been too reticent in fain bug the controersie about the teems most appropriate ire making African litera natve For ore iaspctaetmeon, ehe fine attention to the details of hlstical imriusts that Mmars requires fan the study of cature was difficult to pratc o prcwotniat African forms. For an- other reason, the antiotial movemaent out of which the "traditioasal" and "Aftican' citoiness emerged had already implicated Marxism as "European," Sao eoticanMarsistcosaittedt tadioteetieatmetsad- close cannot functian withoutt a specter' of faroenlsismS' A Maraist who wants to beAfricansithoaut cmprosisng eitherof thetoeo disciplinary identities has to devise a method that accepts the 'trasd- tWool" status of the ordinarily compromised precolottal tests and then convn other Anricest that Marsism is not Eureentmc's When NTdigT added lin gsie nativism to his wellkntownt Massit identity, tat daedewfytets for both feliow ltiusts who avoided 'romanticized' sattfce and the dwassical natisism who distusted dialectical aalysis. Natisiam as the Vehicle of tdalaism atad Pragaismo in African Literary Criticism Ifind at the core of att naiim cectain common qutestions on the cultual character of the potidependnc nationt, the symbolic signfi- ato materiat tange adith extent to rhich independent fn tions ron reshape ceytaniat legacies The pragmatic ctassical and ane t- tyralist-laitsw teaEd to me l i ocat occencs an Airicon aliterahare that ca of fib histotiat languages aed ross They betieve that languages and cultuarl cnvb, onate ist-uaeastthat donoteon their aen detnue culturesliteratues, or natitsns. when different ges graphial and political entities share a commsoon lasaguage in the at..ca lotion of their literatytres, the expeosds cultural, ethnic tad natfonal differences estabtish their individuat ideetite 'o the pttgrtohs, code stsitching, characters individuated by natise speech psesn, etbo- rate worldview s, fict fanalized lcal response to history, and other asa rk- mof comudniaty specific narrative poetic and dramatic protocols are moeimportant for the creation of a disltity naonalist culture than omthe raw verbal esaterials. Liteatures, for them, are not languages but rises. His progressive myd nativist activism brngs, together two hith- to opposing theoretical camps in African cultutral debate- Pro, to Ngrgt's ittrvenations,AfricantMaxists have been tootxticentinjoe- log the cantraversies about the ferris most appropriate for takaling of rar eatrearnsy, Form onimportantreasonthe tine attention to the details of historical irinew that Marxism requires for the siudy of culture seas difficult to practice an precotenal African forms. Far an- other reaons, the atticytod movemenyt cot of which the traditional" oand "Africn" ctegores emerged had already implicated Mantises as "European> tSo the African Macxist commtitted to a dialectical method oegy cannot fncticnswithout a suter ofttuatim^A Marxist awhoswants m beAf rcnssithout compromiing either of the pwo disciplinary idetites has to desiseoasmethod that accepts the "tradi- tonal" sitnts of the ordinarily corprouied pecoloaiatteasts and then convince other Africatiate that Marxism is not Luracegi-a When Ngugiladded lingituisticasativia tos hweli-ktoser Marsst id eea, he dleared nes'farmsts for bethfeliow laeftswho avoidedrmced" artiacs and tte classical nativisti who distutsted dialectical analysis Naiism as ltar Vehicle of Ideatitm tand Pragmnatism in Atrican Literary Criticismn lfind at the core afanairitrcertainosson q h aclrlcartrfhpld d F heyshnsaunhe' cane of mtateriat tanguage, and the extent to which idependent e dascan reshape rotonat legacies. The pragmatic ctassical and sluc- ftalist nativists stant to ceate in tonal aecents an frican literature Iturt ce aseof itshistorica languages asyd forms. They believe that tangnages and cauttral coneentionas are tisisueeat that do not on their own define cuttoes , literatures, or nations. Whten different few graphicat and politcal entites share ae-commongaeith ro tartar of their titereattaes, the expressed cultural, ethnic, and national differences establish ther individuat identities, For the pragatist, coet switching, characers indisidnal by native speech patterna, elbo-, rate seadeies,ctiotsd tocol nickpamne histury,and atheresark- c5of cultrmally specific ramnabee, poetic, and deasotic protocols are mwimportant far the creation of a dstnty naoalist dethroe that r the raw verbal ma toriaoh. Literatures, for them, are not languages bat  22 Chapter 1 linguistic embodiments of cultural patterns." Achebe, ever a realist, once pondered aloud in a rebuttal of linguistic nativism that Some of my colleagues ... have tried to rewrite their history into a straightforward case of oppression by presenting a happy mono- lingual African childhood brusquely disrupted by the imposition of a domineering foreign language. This historical fantasy de- mands that we throw out the English language in order to restore linguistic justice and self respect to ourselves. My position is that anyone who feels unable to write in English should follow their desires. But they must not take liberties with our history. It is not simply true that the English forced us to learn their language. ... We chose English not because the English desired it, but because having tacitly accepted the new nationali- ties into which colonialism had grouped us, we needed its lan- guage to transact our business, including the business of over- throwing colonialism itself. . . . For me, it is not either English or Igbo, it is both. ("Song" 32) This evidently pragmatic statement suggests that histors has created multiethnic, multilingual, and culturally pluralistic African nations. History has also imposed on the various creations a homogenizing language.' The linguistic nativists respond that history is not tamperproof: it is intended to be rewritten and reconstituted constantly. They agree with the pragmatists that languages, for understandable reasons, shed off their national(istic) and cultural origins when they cross boundaries and are sometimes used in creating forms unrecognizable to the initial users. They add, however, that those tongues do not migrate on their own. The languages find and make homes in strange lands, usually after bloody conquests. Decolonized people cannot, after having freed themselves again, be less anxious about the languages and con entions of their cultures. History teaches that linguistic and other cultural vari- ables usually correlate with a hierarchy propped by educational, socio- logical, economic, and cultural privileges. In postindependence Africa, the languages and cultural forms introduced during the colonial era remain dominant because the hegemonic structures that were devised for maintaining conquest have not been dismantled. If the postinde- pendence culture is to fulfill its promise adequately, it has to pay greater attention to the native conventions of signification. 22 Chapter 1 linguistic embodiments of cultural patterns.' Achebe, ever a realist, once pondered aloud in a rebuttal of linguistic nativism that Some of my colleagues ... have tried to rewrite their history into a straightforward case of oppression by presenting a happy mono- lingual African childhood brusquely disrupted by the imposition of a domineering foreign language. This historical fantasy de- mands that we throw out the English language in order to restore linguistic justice and self respect to ourselves. My position is that anyone who feels unable to write in English should follow their desires. But they must not take liberties with our history. It is not simply true that the English forced us to learn their language. . . . We chose English not because the English desired it, but because having tacitly accepted the new nationali- ties into which colonialism had grouped us, we needed its lan- guage to transact our business, including the business of over- throwing colonialism itself. ... For me, it is not either English or Igbo, it is both. ("Song" 32) This evidently pragmatic statement suggests that history has created multiethnic, multilingual, and culturally pluralistic African nations. History has also imposed on the various creations a homogenizing language The linguistic nativists respond that history is not tamperproof: it is intended to be rewritten and reconstituted constantly. They agree with the pragmatists that languages, for understandable reasons, shed off their national(istic) and cultural origins when they cross boundaries and are sometimes used in creating forms unrecognizable to the initial users. They add, however, that those tongues do not migrate on their own. The languages find and make homes in strange lands, usually after bloody conquests. Decolonized people cannot, after having freed themselves again, be less anxious about the languages and conventions of their cultures. History teaches that linguistic and other cultural vari- ables usually correlate with a hierarchy propped by educational, socio- logical, economic, and cultural privileges. In postindependence Africa, the languages and cultural forms introduced during the colonial era remain dominant because the hegemonic structures that were devised for maintaining conquest have not been dismantled. If the postinde- pendence culture is to fulfill its promise adequately, it has to pay greater attention to the native conventions of signification. 22 Chapter I linguistic embodiments of cultural patterns." Achebe, ever a realist, once pondered aloud in a rebuttal of linguistic nativism that Some of my colleagues ... have tried to rewrite their history into a straightforward case of oppression by presenting a happy mono- lingual African childhood brusquely disrupted by the imposition of a domineering foreign language. This historical fantasy de- mands that we throw out the English language in order to restore linguistic justice and self respect to ourselves. My position is that anyone who feels unable to write in English should follow their desires. But they must not take liberties with our history. It is not simply true that the English forced us to learn their language. . . . We chose English not because the English desired it, but because having tacitly accepted the new nationali- ties into which colonialism had grouped us, we needed its lan- guage to transact our business, including the business of over- throwing colonialism itself.. .F.or me, it is not either English or Igbo, it is both. ("Song" 32) This evidently pragmatic statement suggests that history has created multiethnic, multilingual, and culturally pluralistic African nations. History has also imposed on the various creations a homogenizing language. The linguistic nativists respond that history is not tamperproof: it is intended to be rewritten and reconstituted constantly. They agree with the pragmatists that languages, for understandable reasons, shed off their national(istic) and cultural origins when they cross boundaries and are sometimes used in creating forms unrecognizable to the initial users. They add, however, that those tongues do not migrate on their own. The languages find and make homes in strange lands, usually after bloody conquests. Decolonized people cannot, after hating freed themselves again, be less anxious about the languages and conventions of their cultures. History teaches that linguistic and other cultural vari- ables usually correlate with a hierarchy propped by educational, socio- logical, economic, and cultural privileges. In postindependence Africa, the languages and cultural forms introduced during the colonial era remain dominant because the hegemonic structures that were devised for maintaining conquest have not been dismantled. If the postinde- pendence culture is to fulfill its promise adequately, it has to pay greater attention to the native conventions of signification.  My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 23 My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 23 My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 23 Nativism and Contemporary Literary Theory A reader who encounters the globalist explanations of the place of African literature in world cultures without a knowledge of the fratri- cidal divisions among Africanists might not be able to reckon with the unacknowledged indebtedness of those theories to nativist in-fighting. In particular, the rhetoric of difference and liberal multiculturalism used in contemporary criticism to comment on what is broadly called the post-colony are inspired by nativist discourses of self-assertion. Even the world-system overview used to model the cultures in post- independence states as mutations of first-world postmodernism are not free of debts to nativism. We can consider, for example, Frederic Jameson's well-known "Third World" essay. That paper, a fragment of his epic history of post-mod- ernism that he excluded without explanation from his book on the same topic, echoes the nativists' call for a culturally differentiated criticism. On first reading, Jameson's characterization of third-world writing as necessarily allegories of nationalism sounds imperial in its first-world "postmodernist" context. When placed within the nativist discourses, however, it becomes clearer that Jameson is trying to mark the differences between first- and third-world allegories. Jameson's world-system grid (which is better sketched in the programmatic chap- ter of his book on postmodernism) reflects the relative status of each region in contemporary world orders. In the grid, first-world writers produce allegories that use traditional images but without relating them, as tradition demands, to antecedent cultural references. Their third-world counterparts, who work from the late capitalist outposts, write classical allegories that reflect national experiences. This proposition, to my mind, resembles that made in classical nativism: where Jameson tropologizes third-world history and antico- lonial struggles, classical nativists refuse to metaphorize as mere "text" the literary preservation of the nationalist battles that some of them witnessed. Nevertheless, I do not believe that Jameson's tropological differentiation between the capitalist metropolis and its periphery would have been possible without trenchant nativism. At the time that essay was published, no serious theorist could have ignored the nativist cultural politics in the third world itself. By that time nativism-in the form of the so-called internal "third world" minority movements in the United States-had reached the center of "theory" and capitalism. Jameson's allotment of regional tropes resembles very closely the Nativism and Contemporary Literary Theory A reader who encounters the globalist explanations of the place of African literature in world cultures without a knowledge of the fratri- cidal divisions among Africanists might not be able to reckon with the unacknowledged indebtedness of those theories to nativist in-fighting. In particular, the rhetoric of difference and liberal multiculturalism used in contemporary criticism to comment on what is broadly called the post-colony are inspired by nativist discourses of self-assertion. Even the world-system overview used to model the cultures in post- independence states as mutations of first-world postmodernism are not free of debts to nativism. We can consider, for example, Frederic Jameson's well-known "Third World" essay. That paper, a fragment of his epic history of post-mod- ernism that he excluded without explanation from his book on the same topic, echoes the nativists' call for a culturally differentiated criticism. On first reading, Jameson's characterization of third-world writing as necessarily allegories of nationalism sounds imperial in its first-world "postmodernist" context. When placed within the nativist discourses, however, it becomes clearer that Jameson is trying to mark the differences between first- and third-world allegories. Jameson's world-system grid (which is better sketched in the programmatic chap- ter of his book on postmodernism) reflects the relative status of each region in contemporary world orders. In the grid, first-world writers produce allegories that use traditional images but without relating them, as tradition demands, to antecedent cultural references. Their third-world counterparts, who work from the late capitalist outposts, write classical allegories that reflect national experiences. This proposition, to my mind, resembles that made in classical nativism: where Jameson tropologizes third-world history and antico- lonial struggles, classical nativists refuse to metaphorize as mere "text" the literary preservation of the nationalist battles that some of them witnessed. Nevertheless, I do not believe that Jameson's tropological differentiation between the capitalist metropolis and its periphery would have been possible without trenchant nativism. At the time that essay was published, no serious theorist could have ignored the nativist cultural politics in the third world itself. By that time nativism-in the form of the so-called internal "third world" minority movements in the United States-had reached the center of "theory" and capitalism. Jameson's allotment of regional tropes resembles very closely the Nativism and Contemporary Literary Theory A reader who encounters the globalist explanations of the place of African literature in world cultures without a knowledge of the fratri- cidal divisions among Africanists might not be able to reckon with the unacknowledged indebtedness of those theories to nativist in-fighting. In particular, the rhetoric of difference and liberal multiculturalism used in contemporary criticism to comment on what is broadly called the post-colony are inspired by nativist discourses of self-assertion. Even the world-system overview used to model the cultures in post- independence states as mutations of first-world postmodernism are not free of debts to nativism. We can consider, for example, Frederic Jameson's well-known "Third World" essay. That paper, a fragment of his epic history of post-mod- ernism that he excluded without explanation from his book on the same topic, echoes the nativists' call for a culturally differentiated criticism. On first reading, Jameson's characterization of third-world writing as necessarily allegories of nationalism sounds imperial in its first-world "postmodernist" context. When placed within the nativist discourses, however, it becomes clearer that Jameson is trying to mark the differences between first- and third-world allegories. Jameson's world-system grid (which is better sketched in the programmatic chap- ter of his book on postmodernism) reflects the relative status of each region in contemporary world orders. In the grid, first-world writers produce allegories that use traditional images but without relating them, as tradition demands, to antecedent cultural references. Their third-world counterparts, who work from the late capitalist outposts, write classical allegories that reflect national experiences. This proposition, to my mind, resembles that made in classical nativism: where Jameson tropologizes third-world history and antico- lonial struggles, classical nativists refuse to metaphorize as mere "text" the literary preservation of the nationalist battles that some of them witnessed. Nevertheless, I do not believe that Jameson's tropological differentiation between the capitalist metropolis and its periphery would have been possible without trenchant nativisme. At the time that essay was published, no serious theorist could have ignored the nativist cultural politics in the third world itself. By that time nativism-in the form of the so-called internal "third world" minority movements in the United States-had reached the center of "theory" and capitalism. Jameson's allotment of regional tropes resembles very closely the  24 Chaptr I functionalist poetics of African classical nativism. When Jameson hy- pothesizes that "third world texts, even those which are seemingly private and invested with a properly libidinal dynamicnecessarily project a political dimension in the form of national allegory: the story of the private individual destiny is always a0 allegory of the embattled situation of the public third-world culture and society" (69), he states what classical nativists call an irreducible quality of all African arts. Although Jameson denies a cultural specificity to the third world out- side of a predestined response to late capitalism-"none of these cul- tures can be conceived as anthropologically independent or autono- mous, rather, they are all in various ways locked in a life-and-death struggle with first world cultural imperialism" (68)-the nativists would say that Jameson's admission of tropological differences only rhetoricizes the difference. Jameson's assessment of the American reception of "third world" art also parallels rather closely some of the nativist attacks on Eurocentrism. Jameson says, for instance, that the engagement with "national" issues causes the cold reception of third-world texts in the American first world, where privatist and modernist aesthetic expecta- tions rule. I think this is what Chinweizu and others had in mind ws hen they advised that "those approaching the task [of discussing African literature] from a training in the Western narrative tradition, whether of the 'well made' or the modernist tendencies, need an apprenticeship in the African oral tradition" (240) of making political and personal statements. We may also consider Christopher Miller's methodologically inno- vative "Theories of Africans." The exploratory essay, later expanded into the lead chapter in his book of the same title, balances two contra- dictory tasks. It heeds the nativist demand for an analytical differentia- tion that respects local initiatives and also fulfills the homogenizing conditions of contemporary theory. Miller prpasesa intrdiscipi- nary griticisr-that-wiltdy indigenousideas on representation for the purpose ofunderstanding how chosen cultures order and rhtetorici e facts.? The method, which he calls a literary anthropology, explores the discourses of "man" in a way that adapts localist (native) theoretical perspectives for practical literary and cultural criticism. Such a study will make use of both "ethnic" insights and cosmopolitan theory; it will correct both the blind spots of globalism (especially its purported mas- tery of regional differences) and the unjustifiable "theoretical" shyness of nativism. Such metafigural studies will expose the differences be- 24 Chapter1 functionalist poetics of African classical nativism. When Jameson hy- pothesizes that "third world texts, even those which are seemingly private and invested with a properly libidinal dynamic-necessarily project a political dimension in the form of national allegory: the story of the private individual destiny is always an allegory of the embattled situation of the public third-world culture and society" (69), he states what classical nativists call an irreducible quality of all African arts. Although Jameson denies a cultural specificity to the third world out- side of a predestined response to late capitalism-"none of these cul- tures can be conceived as anthropologically independent or autono- mous, rather, they are all in various wats locked in a life-and-death struggle with first world cultural imperialism" (68)-the nativists would say that Jameson's admission of tropological differences only rhetoricizes the difference. Jameson's assessment of the American reception of "third world" art also parallels rather closely some of the nativist attacks on Eurocentrism. Jameson says, for instance, that the engagement with "national" issues causes the cold reception of third-world texts in the American first world, where privatist and modernist aesthetic expecta- tions rule. I think this is what Chinweizu and others had in mind when they advised that "those approaching the task [of discussing African literature] from a training in the Western narrative tradition, whether of the 'well made' or the modernist tendencies, need an apprenticeship in the African oral tradition" (240) of making political and personal statements. We may also consider Christopher Miller's methodologically inno- vative "Theories of Africans." The exploratory essay, later expanded into the lead chapter in his book of the same title, balances two contra- dictory tasks. It heeds the nativist demand for an analytical differentia- tion that respects local initiatives and also fulfills the homogenizing conditions of contemporary theory. Miller proposes an interdiscipli- nary sriticisnethat-wil-studyindigenouideas on representation for the purposeof understanding how chosen cultures order and rhetorici:e facts. The method, which he calls a literary anthropology, explores the discourses of "man" in a way that adapts localist (native) theoretical perspectives for practical literary and cultural criticism. Such a study will make use of both "ethnic" insights and cosmopolitan theory; it ill correct both the blind spots of globalism (especially its purported mas- tery of regional differences) and the unjustifiable "theoretical" shyness of nativism. Such metafigural studies will expose the differences be- 24 Chapter1 functionalist poetics of African classical nativism. When Jameson hy- pothesizes that "third world texts, even those which are seemingly private and invested with a properly libidinal dynamic-necessarily project a political dimension in the form of national allegory: the story of the private individual destiny is always an allegory of the embattled situation of the public third-world culture and society" (69), he states what classical nativists call an irreducible quality of all African arts. Although Jameson denies a cultural specificity to the third world out- side of a predestined response to late capitalism-"none of these cul- tures can be conceived as anthropologically independent or autono- mous, rather, they are all in various ways locked in a life-and-death struggle with first world cultural imperialism" (68)-the nativists w, ould say that Jameson's admission of tropological differences only rhetoricizes the difference. Jameson's assessment of the American reception of "third world" art also parallels rather closely some of the nativist attacks on Eurocentrism. Jameson says, for instance, that the engagement with "national" issues causes the cold reception of third-world tests in the American first world, where privatist and modernist aesthetic expecta- tions rule. I think this is what Chinweizu and others had in mind when they advised that "those approaching the task [of discussing African literature] from a training in the Western narrative tradition, whether of the 'well made' or the modernist tendencies, need an apprenticeship in the African oral tradition" (240) of making political and personal statements. We may also consider Christopher Miller's methodologically inno- vative "Theories of Africans." The exploratory essay, later expanded into the lead chapter in his book of the same title, balances two contra- dictory tasks. It heeds the nativist demand for an analytical differentia- tion that respects local initiatives and also fulfills the homogenizing conditions of contemporary theory. Miller propses an incPdisCipli- nary griticisnth-will-stvudyindigenousideas on representation for the purposeof understanding how chosen cultures order and rhetorici:e facts." The method, which he calls a literary anthropology, explores the discourses of "man" in a way that adapts localist (native) theoretical perspectives for practical literary and cultural criticism. Such a study will make use of both "ethnic" insights and cosmopolitan theory; it will correct both the blind spots of globalism (especially its purported mas- tery of regional differences) and the unjustifiable "theoretical" shyness of nativism. Such metafigural studies will expose the differences be-  My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 25 tween "European" ideas of representation and the African "native" perception of the same. Miller thinks that a literary anthropologica-, criticism of African literature will be ethical in that it will overcome the implicit arrogance of the question "What's the difference?" (as in Paul de Man's famous reading of an Archie Bunker episode) and then aid the setting out of what's different. Miller's literary anthropology theo- rizes the native's signifier and also signifies the native's theory. Miller tells the nonnative investigator that in regard to literary theory, "the most fruitful path for the western critic of African literatre is not to play it safe and 'stay home,' nor to 'leave home without it,' and pretend to approach African literature with a virgin mind, but to balance one against the other, by reconsidering the applicability of all our critical terms and by looking to traditional African cultures for terms they might offer" (139). Although Miller confesses that a literary anthropology will not make the scholar a native, that "outsider" humility, to my mind, is merely a professional disclaimer and a preempting of passionate nativist critics who might accuse the self-confessed Western critic of a surreptitious entry. Henry Louis Gates, Jr., whose choice of personal pronoun indi- cates that he considers himself a native, once advised virtually the same direction for the African Literature Association: "we must, first, de- mand that the major theorists of Western literature be accountable for African literary theory; and we must, second, turn into our vernacular traditions to define indigenous systems of interpretation that arise from within African cultures themselves" ("On the Rhetoric" 16). Both the native and the self-confessed nonnative critic repudiate, from what I call a neo-nativist platform, the classical nativist notion that dense theo- retical speculation is by nature imperialistic and Western. Like the structuralist nativists that came before them, they refuse to dismiss "theory," in itself, as alien. Instead, they attempt an understanding of the native's theories. Of course, Miller, Gates, and Jameson benefit from advances in theories of identity which the older nativists did not have. Popular academic axioms now say that ethnography is implicated in imperial- ism, that theory is very ethnocentric, and that ethnicity itself is a theo- retically produced identity. We also know that in contemporary, late capitalist academe, the most eminent critics ask theories to stake rigor against rigor and not the emotions of intimate belonging against an imperial "outsider." The native scholar, we also know now, is not My Signifier Is More Naie than Yours 25 tween "European" ideas of representation and the African "native" perception of the same. Miller thinks that a literary anthropological--, criticism of African literature will be ethical in that it will overcome the implicit arrogance of the question "What's the difference?" (as in Paul de Man's famous reading of an Archie Bunker episode) and then aid the setting out of what's different. Miller's literary anthropology theo- rizes the native's signifier and also signifies the native's theory. Miller tells the nonnative investigator that in regard to literary theory, "the most fruitful path for the western critic of African literatre is not to play it safe and 'stay home,' nor to 'leave home without it,' and pretend to approach African literature with a virgin mind, but to balance one against the other, by reconsidering the applicability of all our critical terms and by looking to traditional African cultures for terms they might offer" (139). Although Miller confesses that a literary anthropology will not make the scholar a native, that "outsider" humility, to my mind, is merely a professional disclaimer and a preempting of passionate nativist critics who might accuse the self-confessed Western critic of a surreptitious entry. Henry Louis Gates, Jr., whose choice of personal pronoun indi- cates that he considers himself a native, once advised virtually the same direction for the African Literature Association: "we must, first, de- mand that the major theorists of Western literature be accountable for African literary theory; and we must, second, turn into our vernacular traditions to define indigenous systems of interpretation that arise from within African cultures themselves" ("On the Rhetoric" 16). Both the native and the self-confessed nonnative critic repudiate, from what I call a neo-nativist platform, the classical nativist notion that dense theo- retical speculation is by nature imperialistic and Western. Like the structuralist nativists that came before them, they refuse to dismiss "theory," in itself, as alien. Instead, they attempt an understanding of the native's theories. Of course, Miller, Gates, and Jameson benefit from advances in theories of identity which the older nativists did not have. Popular academic axioms now say that ethnography is implicated in imperial- ism, that theory is very ethnocentric, and that ethnicity itself is a theo- retically produced identity." We also know that in contemporary, late capitalist academe, the most eminent critics ask theories to stake rigor against rigor and not the emotions of intimate belonging against an imperial "outsider." The native scholar, we also know now, is not My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 25 tween "European" ideas of representation and the African "native" perception of the same. Miller thinks that a literarv anthropologicar-- criticism of African literature will be ethical in tEat it will overcome the implicit arrogance of the question "What's the difference?" (as in Paul de Man's famous reading of an Archie Bunker episode) and then aid the setting out of what's different. Miller's literary anthropology theo- rizes the native's signifier and also signifies the native's theory. Miller tells the nonnative investigator that in regard to literary theory, "the most fruitful path for the western critic of African literatre is not to play it safe and 'stay home,' nor to 'leave home without it,' and pretend to approach African literature with a virgin mind, but to balance one against the other, by reconsidering the applicability of all our critical terms and by looking to traditional African cultures for terms they might offer" (139). Although Miller confesses that a literary anthropology will not make the scholar a native, that "outsider" humility, to my mind, is merely a professional disclaimer and a preempting of passionate nativist critics who might accuse the self-confessed Western critic of a surreptitious entry. Henry Louis Gates, Jr., whose choice of personal pronoun indi- cates that he considers himself a native, once advised virtually the same direction for the African Literature Association: "we must, first, de- mand that the major theorists of Western literature be accountable for African literary theory; and we must, second, turn into our vernacular traditions to define indigenous systems of interpretation that arise from within African cultures themselves" ("On the Rhetoric" 16). Both the native and the self-confessed nonnative critic repudiate, from what I call a neo-nativist platform, the classical nativist notion that dense theo- retical speculation is by nature imperialistic and Western. Like the structuralist nativists that came before them, they refuse to dismiss "theory," in itself, as alien. Instead, they attempt an understanding of the native's theories. Of course, Miller, Gates, and Jameson benefit from advances in theories of identity which the older nativists did not have. Popular academic axioms now say that ethnography is implicated in imperial- ism, that theory is very ethnocentric, and that ethnicity itself is a theo- retically produced identity. We also know that in contemporary, late capitalist academe, the most eminent critics ask theories to stake rigor against rigor and not the emotions of intimate belonging against an imperial "outsider." The native scholar, we also know now, is not  26 Chapter 1 always an "insider."" As Miller says, for instance, "the fact of being biologically or culturally African neither guarantees nor necessarily permits any sort of purely 'African' reading, in a relation of total oneness with its text or with Africa itself" (121). In the contemporary late capitalist environment, whenever Miller, Appiah, Gates, Chinweizu and his collaborators, or Jameson uses a personal pronoun to claim inclusion (or exclusion) with respect to a particular culture, that person is talking primarily to a professional intellectual community. The imme- diate addressees of the theories are other theorists whose nonintellec- tual ethnic identities might not be too critical for a sufficient compre- hension of their propositions. The referential import of Miller's "our critical terms" and Gates's "our own vernacular traditions" can at best be figures of speech for discursively constituted groups. "Ethical" com- mitment in that context is an intellectual claim and differs profoundly from the direct political engagement that inspired the earlier natisisms like Achebe's "earnest" fiction. Still, I interpret the contemporary advances (and critiques) in Jameson, Miller, and Gates as a flattering homage, even when not explicitly acknowledged, to the foresight of the earlier nativisms. The first generation of African postindependence intellectuals not only successfully opposed the domineering "universalism" that granted their cultures no generative subjective status, they weere also able to dictate the terms of future debates. Achebe refused literary high mod- ernism with "indigenist" aesthetics, Soyinka reinterpreted Yorhba myths with a Nietzschean model in order to give a native philosophi- cal depth to his drama. Chinweizu, Madubuike, and Jemie experi- enced the Black Arts phenomenon in the United States and were provoked enough to return home and smash a few critical and cul- tural icons they viewed as betrayals of an African outlook. Nggi constantly moves his global materialist concept of cultural activism toward the indigenous languages. However, partly because of the sociology of contemporary intellectual traffic, the devastation of post- independence economies, and the ideological compromises that re- sult from migration, some critics of African literature want to believe that those earlier defenses of "local knowledge" are wrongheaded and claustrophobic: it is a matter of "us" against "them," Appiah says. As the preceding discussions of the major currents in African literary criticism show, African nativists responded to global encroach- ments, and they in turn influenced cosmopolitan views of the world. 26 Chapter 1 always an "insider."" As Miller says, for instance, "the fact of being biologically or culturally African neither guarantees nor necessarily permits any sort of purely 'African' reading, in a relation of total oneness with its text or with Africa itself" (121). In the contemporary late capitalist environment, whenever Miller, Appiah, Gates, Chinveizu and his collaborators, or Jameson uses a personal pronoun to claim inclusion (or exclusion) with respect to a particular culture, that person is talking primarily to a professional intellectual community. The imme- diate addressees of the theories are other theorists whose nonintellec- tual ethnic identities might not be too critical for a sufficient compre- hension of their propositions. The referential import of Miller's "our critical terms" and Gates's "our own vernacular traditions" can at best be figures of speech for discursively constituted groups. "Ethical" com- mitment in that context is an intellectual claim and differs profoundly from the direct political engagement that inspired the earlier nativisms like Achebe's "earnest" fiction. Still, I interpret the contemporary advances (and critiques) in Jameson, Miller, and Gates as a flattering homage, even when not explicitly acknowledged, to the foresight of the earlier nativisms. The first generation of African postindependence intellectuals not only successfully opposed the domineering "universalism" that granted their cultures no generative subjective status, they were also able to dictate the terms of future debates. Achebe refused literary high mod- ernism with "indigenist" aesthetics, Soyinka reinterpreted Yornba myths with a Nietzschean model in order to give a native philosophi- cal depth to his drama. Chinweizu, Madubuike, and Jemie experi- enced the Black Arts phenomenon in the United States and wsere provoked enough to return home and smash a few critical and cul- tural icons they viewed as betrayals of an African outlook. Ngugi constantly moves his global materialist concept of cultural activism toward the indigenous languages. However, partly because of the sociology of contemporary intellectual traffic, the devastation of post- independence economies, and the ideological compromises that re- sult from migration, some critics of African literature want to believe that those earlier defenses of "local knowledge" are wrongheaded and claustrophobic: it is a matter of "us" against "them," Appiah says. As the preceding discussions of the major currents in African literary criticism show, African nativists responded to global encroach- ments, and they in turn influenced cosmopolitan views of the world. 26 Chapter 1 always an "insider."" As Miller says, for instance, "the fact of being biologically or culturally African neither guarantees nor necessarily permits any sort of purely 'African' reading, in a relation of total oneness with its text or with Africa itself" (121). In the contemporary late capitalist environment, whenever Miller, Appiah, Gates, Chimeizu and his collaborators, or Jameson uses a personal pronoun to claim inclusion (or exclusion) with respect to a particular culture, that person is talking primarily to a professional intellectual community. The imme- diate addressees of the theories are other theorists whose nonintellec- tual ethnic identities might not be too critical for a sufficient compre- hension of their propositions. The referential import of Miller's "our critical terms" and Gates's "our own vernacular traditions" can at best be figures of speech for discursively constituted groups. "Ethical" com- mitment in that context is an intellectual claim and differs profoundly from the direct political engagement that inspired the earlier nativisms like Achebe's "earnest" fiction. Still, I interpret the contemporary advances (and critiques) in Jameson, Miller, and Gates as a flattering homage, even when not explicitly acknowledged, to the foresight of the earlier nativisms. The first generation of African postindependence intellectuals not only successfully opposed the domineering "universalism" that granted their cultures no generative subjective status, they weere also able to dictate the terms of future debates. Achebe refused literary high mod- ernism with "indigenist" aesthetics, Soyinka reinterpreted YorubA myths with a Nietzschean model in order to give a native philosophi- cal depth to his drama. Chinweizu, Madubuike, and Jemie experi- enced the Black Arts phenomenon in the United States and were provoked enough to return home and smash a few critical and cul- tural icons they viewed as betrayals of an African outlook. Ngugi constantly moves his global materialist concept of cultural activism toward the indigenous languages. However, partly because of the sociology of contemporary intellectual traffic, the devastation of post- independence economies, and the ideological compromises that re- sult from migration, some critics of African literature want to believe that those earlier defenses of "local knowledge" are wrongheaded and claustrophobic: it is a matter of "us" against "them," Appiah says. As the preceding discussions of the major currents in African literary criticism show, African nativists responded to global encroach- ments, and they in turn influenced cosmopolitan views of the world.  My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 27 The important lesson of nativist formulations for the history of liter- ary criticism is not whether they offer profoundly original theories of art or propose a thoroughly new poetics of culture, or whether the exclusivist and specificist language of some of the nativists is self- defeating. The philosophical challenge of nativism for criticism lies, I believe, in devising the means with which to measure how well an identitarian discourse like African literature can fulfill its classical role of persuasion at the same time that it says conspicuous figuration is immaterial. My Signifier ts More Native than Yours 27 The important lesson of nativist formulations for the history of liter- ary criticism is not whether they offer profoundly original theories of art or propose a thoroughly new poetics of culture, or whether the exclusivist and specificist language of some of the nativists is self- defeating. The philosophical challenge of nativism for criticism lies, I believe, in devising the means with which to measure how well an identitarian discourse like African literature can fulfill its classical role of persuasion at the same time that it says conspicuous figuration is immaterial. My Signifier Is More Native than Yours 27 The important lesson of nativist formulations for the history of liter- ary criticism is not whether they offer profoundly original theories of art or propose a thoroughly new poetics of culture, or whether the exclusivist and specificist language of some of the nativists is self- defeating. The philosophical challenge of nativism for criticism lies, I believe, in devising the means with which to measure how well an identitarian discourse like African literature can fulfill its classical role of persuasion at the same time that it says conspicuous figuration is immaterial.  2 2 The Proverb Is the Horse of Words Figuration and Consciousness in Nativist Tropes The major currents in contemporary criticism tend to sidestep the fun- damental questions raised in nativism. For example, in the overwhelm- ingly political interpretation that dominates postcolonial criticism the privileging of differentiating tropes that the postcolonial writers de- signed to lend figural specificity to primary postcolonial texts usually gets unexplained beyond the rationalization that they invert inherited European styles. The critical importance of the writers' coding of their histories in native idioms and literary figures of speech often gets lost in the disalienating criticism that substitutes the troubled virtues of transnationalism for the genuine identitarian passion of earlier nativisms. Postcolonial criticism, the main metropolitan category in which African literature fits today, has been able to show the dominance of allegory in postcolonial writing but has never considered the conspicuous pres- ence of the proverb to be of any theoretical value. Whereas the former trope seems to be easily useful for explaining the complexity of refer- encing in the writing of ex-colonial peoples, the locally specific course of the latter trope seems to be unfit for metropolitan discourses. It will not matter in postcolonial criticism that in Yoribi language, an "alle- gory" is a "proverbial story" or in oldwe) This chapterbrings the nativist perspective to the discussion through a study of the proverb, the most common marker of narrative locality in African literature. In the first section, I present an analysis of the para- digms that govern proverb studies in anthropology and rhetoric. The common view of proverbs held in these fields resembles greatly the The Proverb Is the Horse of Words Figuration and Consciousness in Nativist Tropes The major currents in contemporary criticism tend to sidestep the fun- damental questions raised in nativism. For example, in the overwhelm- ingly political interpretation that dominates postcolonial criticism the privileging of differentiating tropes that the postcolonial writers de- signed to lend figural specificity to primary postcolonial texts usually gets unexplained beyond the rationalization that they invert inherited European styles. The critical importance of the writers' coding of their histories in native idioms and literary figures of speech often gets lost in the disalienating criticism that substitutes the troubled virtues of transnationalism for the genuine identitarian passion of earlier nativisms. Postcolonial criticism, the main metropolitan category in which African literature fits today, has been able to show the dominance of allegory in postcolonial writing but has never considered the conspicuous pres- ence of the proverb to be of any theoretical value. Whereas the former trope seems to be easily useful for explaining the complexity of refer- encing in the writing of ex-colonial peoples, the locally specific course of the latter trope seems to be unfit for metropolitan discourses. It will not matter in postcolonial criticism that in Yorb language, an "alle- gory" is a "proverbial story" or itan oldwe.' This chapter brings the nativist perspective to the discussion through a study of the proverb, the most common marker of narrative locality in African literature. In the first section, I present an analysis of the para- digms that govern proverb studies in anthropology and rhetoric. The common view of proverbs held in these fields resembles greatly the The Proverb Is the Horse of Words Figuration and Consciousness in Nativist Tropes The major currents in contemporary criticism tend to sidestep the fun- damental questions raised in nativism. For example, in the overwhelm- ingly political interpretation that dominates postcolonial criticism the privileging of differentiating tropes that the postcolonial writers de- signed to lend figural specificity to primary postcolonial texts usually gets unexplained beyond the rationalization that they insert inherited European styles. The critical importance of the writers' coding of their histories in native idioms and literary figures of speech often gets lost in the disalienating criticism that substitutes the troubled virtues of transnationalism for the genuine identitarian passion of earlier nativisms. Postcolonial criticism, the main metropolitan category in which African literature fits today, has been able to show the dominance of allegory in postcolonial writing but has never considered the conspicuous pres- ence of the proverb to be of any theoretical value. Whereas the former trope seems to be easily useful for explaining the complexity of refer- encing in the writing of ex-colonial peoples, the locally specific course of the latter trope seems to be unfit for metropolitan discourses. It will not matter in postcolonial criticism that in Yoruba language, an "alle- gory" is a "proverbial story" or itdn oldwe.' This chapter brings the nativist perspective to the discussion through a study of the proverb, the most common marker of narrative locality in African literature. In the first section, I present an analysis of the para- digms that govern proverb studies in anthropology and rhetoric. The common view of proverbs held in these fields resembles greatly the  The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 29 classical tenets of nativist writing and criticism. In the second section, I contrast to the conventional principles of proverb studies a literary interpretation of the Yornba metaproverb "Owe lesin oro, bi r6 bd sonu dwe la fi i wA a" ([The] proverb is the horse of [the] word; if the word is lost we use the proverb to search for it). The deconstructive overview adopted in juxtaposing "cosmopolitan" and "native" concep- tions of the figural character of the proverb allows for the placement of nativism in poststructuralist thinking in a way that does not subordi- nate one to the other. The Proverb in Rhetoric, Linguistics, and Anthropology A description that subordinates proverbs to metaphors concludes the section on "felicitous sayings" in Aristotle's Poetics: "Proverbs too are metaphors with transference from species to species of the same ge- nus," he wrote. That definition institutes the view that the proverb is a vehicular trope authorized by analogical similarities between the im- mediate speech topic and the subject matter of the saying. Proverbs, in other words, are tropological agents of thought. This early character- ization of the proverb as a metaphor has endured in countless rhetori- cal analyses of how and why thought is transported in proverbs. In one ambitious definition that strives to reveal the processes of rhetorical persuasion and thought transfer that operate in proverb usage, Michael Apostolius says the proverb is a statement which conceals the clear in the unclear, or which through concrete images indicates intellectual concepts, or which makes the truth in furtive fashion. And further in this fashion, a proverb is a narration by the way, or a trite phrase constantly used in popular speech, which can be transferred from small and slight matters to those larger and more numerous; or a saying that has become thoroughly habitual in our daily customs and life in the way that human beings have (of getting habits). And also, thus, is a useful saying, or one profitable for daily life, having a usefulness that is increased by the very fact that there is a moderate amount of concealment in it, or it is an exhortation usefully adapted to the whole course of life (quoted in Whiting, "The Nature of the Prov- erb" 287)? This definition struggles to account for how proverbs' subject matter (truth, intellectual concepts, exhortations), their modes of transmission The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 29 classical tenets of nativist writing and criticism. In the second section, I contrast to the conventional principles of proverb studies a literary interpretation of the Yorubd metaproverb "Owe lesin d, bi o bd sond Owe la fi i w6 a" ([The] proverb is the horse of [the] word; if the word is lost we use the proverb to search for it). The deconstructive overview adopted in juxtaposing "cosmopolitan" and "native" concep- tions of the figural character of the proverb allows for the placement of nativism in poststructuralist thinking in a way that does not subordi- nate one to the other. The Proverb in Rhetoric, Linguistics, and Anthropology A description that subordinates proverbs to metaphors concludes the section on "felicitous sayings" in Aristotle's Poetics: "Proverbs too are metaphors with transference from species to species of the same ge- nus," he wrote. That definition institutes the view that the proverb is a vehicular trope authorized by analogical similarities between the im- mediate speech topic and the subject matter of the saying. Proverbs, in other words, are tropological agents of thought. This early character- ization of the proverb as a metaphor has endured in countless rhetori- cal analyses of how and why thought is transported in proverbs. In one ambitious definition that strives to reveal the processes of rhetorical persuasion and thought transfer that operate in proverb usage, Michael Apostolius says the proverb is a statement which conceals the clear in the unclear, or which through concrete images indicates intellectual concepts, or which makes the truth in furtive fashion. And further in this fashion, a proverb is a narration by the way, or a trite phrase constantly used in popular speech, which can be transferred from small and slight matters to those larger and more numerous; or a saying that has become thoroughly habitual in our daily customs and life in the way that human beings have (of getting habits). And also, thus, is a useful saying, or one profitable for daily life, having a usefulness that is increased by the very fact that there is a moderate amount of concealment in it, or it is an exhortation usefully adapted to the whole course of life (quoted in Whiting, "The Nature of the Prov- erb" 287).' This definition struggles to account for how proverbs' subject matter (truth, intellectual concepts, exhortations), their modes of transmission The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 29 classical tenets of nativist writing and criticism. In the second section, I contrast to the conventional principles of proverb studies a literary interpretation of the Yordbd metaproverb "Owe lesin orO, bi or bA son Owe la fi i wA a" ([The] proverb is the horse of [the] word; if the word is lost we use the proverb to search for it). The deconstructive overview adopted in juxtaposing "cosmopolitan" and "native" concep- tions of the figural character of the proverb allows for the placement of nativism in poststructuralist thinking in a way that does not subordi- nate one to the other. The Proverb in Rhetoric, Linguistics, and Anthropology A description that subordinates proverbs to metaphors concludes the section on "felicitous sayings" in Aristotle's Poetics: "Proverbs too are metaphors with transference from species to species of the same ge- nus," he wrote. That definition institutes the view that the proverb is a vehicular trope authorized by analogical similarities between the im- mediate speech topic and the subject matter of the saying. Proverbs, in other words, are tropological agents of thought. This early character- ization of the proverb as a metaphor has endured in countless rhetori- cal analyses of how and why thought is transported in proverbs. In one ambitious definition that strives to reveal the processes of rhetorical persuasion and thought transfer that operate in proverb usage, Michael Apostolius says the proverb is a statement which conceals the clear in the unclear, or which through concrete images indicates intellectual concepts, or which makes the truth in furtive fashion. And further in this fashion, a proverb is a narration by the way, or a trite phrase constantly used in popular speech, which can be transferred from small and slight matters to those larger and more numerous; or a saying that has become thoroughly habitual in our daily customs and life in the way that human beings have (of getting habits). And also, thus, is a useful saying, or one profitable for daily life, having a usefulness that is increased by the very fact that there is a moderate amount of concealment in it, or it is an exhortation usefully adapted to the whole course of life (quoted in Whiting, "The Nature of the Prov- erb" 287).2 This definition struggles to account for how proverbs' subject matter (truth, intellectual concepts, exhortations), their modes of transmission  30 Chapter 2 (concrete images, popular speech, daily habits), and the purpose they serve (useful existential lessons) interrelate. This conception of prov- erbs as "flowers" and "vehicles" of thought suggests that the one major factor that recommends otherwise trite sentences for proverbial citation and possibly intellectual investigation is the promise of a profound truth. The proverb commands attention mainly for the abiding mes- sage it bears. Not surprisingly, therefore, a binary opposition in which the conspicuous statement appraises for far less than its unseen core dominates Apostolius's definition. The familiarity of the surface mean- ing conceals moral elevation and intellectual reward. Triteness can be explored for its fuller implications, and popular vulgarity could be cultured for its hidden great wisdom. In each of the oppositions, the explicit saying proves worthy only in the aftermath of a deep search. The "trite" structure provokes the discerning mind to seek further truths. William Camden (1614) summarizes the conduit-of-wisdom and deco- rator-of-thought theory of proverb very aptly: "proverbs are concise, witty, and wise speeches grounded upon long experience, containing for the most part good caveats and therefore profitable and delightful" (quoted in Whiting 293). One definition written about the seventh century B.c. by a Tamil scholar shows that the apparent logocentrism of these descriptions is not an occidental peculiarity. In Topilkayyar's words, the proverb is "an old saying containing depth of knowledge, brevity, clarity and simplicity as its special characteristics and it will come as a quotation in a given situation" (quoted in Lourdu 129). Less philosophical definitions take proverbs to be formulaic locu- tions of ruder epochs that, due to some remarkable mnemonic features, survive diverse generations. James Howell specified the components of these mechanics in 1660 as "Sense, Shortness, and Salt." Later studies flesh out Howell's components with compendia of tropes believed to help a popular phrase become a proverb. These methods often include rhyme, alliteration, brevity, hyperbole, and epigrams and other memorv enhancing figures that turn on sound and economy of words. Lawrence Boadi's relatively recent study in Ghana confirms that in Akan cultures phrases get into the proverb inventory only if they contain striking imageries. When Boadi asked his informants to evaluate the proverbial stature of the biblical statement "Hear the instruction of thy father and forsake not the law of thy mother" and the secular sayings "Honest is the best policy" and "A friend in need is a friend indeed," none passed 30 Chapter 2 (concrete images, popular speech, daily habits), and the purpose they serve (useful existential lessons) interrelate. This conception of prov- erbs as "flowers" and "vehicles" of thought suggests that the one maior factor that recommends otherwise trite sentences for proverbial citation and possibly intellectual investigation is the promise of a profound truth. The proverb commands attention mainly for the abiding mes- sage it bears. Not surprisingly, therefore, a binary opposition in which the conspicuous statement appraises for far less than its unseen core dominates Apostolius's definition. The familiarity of the surface mean- ing conceals moral elevation and intellectual reward. Triteness can be explored for its fuller implications, and popular vulgarity could be cultured for its hidden great wisdom. In each of the oppositions, the explicit saying proves worthy only in the aftermath of a deep search. The "trite" structure provokes the discerning mind to seek further truths. William Camden (1614) summarizes the conduit-of-wisdom and deco- rator-of-thought theory of proverb very aptly: "proverbs are concise, witty, and wise speeches grounded upon long experience, containing for the most part good caveats and therefore profitable and delightful" (quoted in Whiting 293). One definition written about the seventh century B.c. by a Tamil scholar shows that the apparent logocentrism of these descriptions is not an occidental peculiarity. In Topilkayyar's words, the proverb is "an old saying containing depth of knowledge, brevity, clarity and simplicity as its special characteristics and it will come as a quotation in a given situation" (quoted in Lourdo 129). Less philosophical definitions take proverbs to be formulaic locu- tions of ruder epochs that, due to some remarkable mnemonic features, survive diverse generations. James Howell specified the components of these mechanics in 1660 as "Sense, Shortness, and Salt." Later studies flesh out Howell's components with compendia of tropes believed to help a popular phrase become a proverb. These methods often include rhyme, alliteration, brevity, hyperbole, and epigrams and other memory enhancing figures that turn on sound and economy of words. Lawrence Boadi's relatively recent study in Ghana confirms that in Akan cultures phrases get into the proverb inventory only if they contain striking imageries. When Boadi asked his informants to evaluate the proverbial stature of the biblical statement "Hear the instruction of thy father and forsake not the law of thy mother" and the secular sayings "Honesty is the best policy" and "A friend in need is a friend indeed," none passed 30 Chapter 2 (concrete images, popular speech, daily habits), and the purpose they serve (useful existential lessons) interrelate. This conception of prov- erbs as "flowers" and "vehicles" of thought suggests that the one major factor that recommends otherwise trite sentences for proverbial citation and possibly intellectual investigation is the promise of a profound truth. The proverb commands attention mainly for the abiding mes- sage it bears. Not surprisingly, therefore, a binary opposition in which the conspicuous statement appraises for far less than its unseen core dominates Apostolius's definition. The familiarity of the surface mean- ing conceals moral elevation and intellectual reward. Triteness can be explored for its fuller implications, and popular vulgarity could be cultured for its hidden great wisdom. In each of the oppositions, the explicit saying proves worthy only in the aftermath of a deep search. The "trite" structure provokes the discerning mind to seek further truths. William Camden (1614) summarizes the conduit-of-wisdom and deco- rator-of-thought theory of proverb very aptly: "proverbs are concise, witty, and wise speeches grounded upon long experience, containing for the most part good caveats and therefore profitable and delightful" (quoted in Whiting 293). One definition written about the seventh century B.c. by a Tamil scholar shows that the apparent logocentrism of these descriptions is not an occidental peculiarity. In Topilkayya's words, the proverb is "an old saying containing depth of knowledge, brevity, clarity and simplicity as its special characteristics and it will come as a quotation in a given situation" (quoted in Lourdu 129). Less philosophical definitions take proverbs to be formulaic locu- tions of ruder epochs that, due to some remarkable mnemonic features, survive diverse generations. James Howell specified the components of these mechanics in 1660 as "Sense, Shortness, and Salt." Later studies flesh out Howell's components with compendia of tropes believed to help a popular phrase become a proverb. These methods often include rhyme, alliteration, brevity, hyperbole, and epigrams and other memor enhancing figures that turn on sound and economy of words. Lawrence Boadi's relatively recent study in Ghana confirms that in Akan cultures phrases get into the proverb inventory only if they contain striking imageries. When Boadi asked his informants to evaluate the proverbial stature of the biblical statement "Hear the instruction of thy father and forsake not the law of thy mother" and the secular sayings "Honesty is the best policy" and "A friend in need is a friend indeed," none passed  The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 31 the Akan test because none contains any striking imagery. The prov- erbs' common truths command little attention because, to Boadi's sub- jects, proverbs are primarily manners of elegant speech and not simple kernels of wisdom. Another group of proverb scholars believes that popular memory alone gives a statement its proverbial recognition. The "populists" argue that proverbs persuade not because they enshrine incontrovert- ible wisdom in pleasing verbal forms but because they bear the sanc- tions of age. Whereas the "vehicular" definitions subject popularity to lofty ideals, populists propose that "wisdom" fits the proverb because, by definition, the expression has passed the test of time. According to this school, the defining quality in the proverb is wide acceptance and usage, regardless of the preponderance of rhymes and other poetic characteristics. "Without this popularity, without these suffrages, and this consent of the many," Reverend Trench declared, "no saying, however brief, however wise, however scensored with salt, however worthy on all these accounts to have become a proverb, however fulfill- ing all its other conditions, can yet be esteemed as such" (16). A proverb user validates his or her own observations with a received knowledge shared in advance by both the speaker and the audience. The speaker needs only to ensure that the citation agrees with the observation at hand. Any proverb correctly invoked is presumed to attest to a glaring truth. As the Reverend Trench said, the same satisfaction which the educated man finds in referring the particular matter before him to the universal law which rules it, a plainer man finds in the appeal to a proverb. He takes refuge, that is, as each man so gladly does, from his mere self and single fallible judgment, in a larger experience and wider conviction. The explanation of the word "proverb" I believe to lie here. One who uses it, uses it pro verbo; he employs for and instead of his own individual word, this more general word, which is every man's. (23) Neal Norrick's more recent work confirms the communal dimension of Trench's views. Norrick says that in speech the proverb user cites not "an individual author; he quotes the linguistic community itself" (26). Proverbs convince because they are preformed and inventoried in lin- guistic and cultural memory. In societies that are said to be preliterate, the proverb is never too far The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 31 the Akan test because none contains any striking imagery. The prov- erbs' common truths command little attention because, to Boadi's sub- jects, proverbs are primarily manners of elegant speech and not simple kernels of wisdom. Another group of proverb scholars believes that popular memory alone gives a statement its proverbial recognition. The "populists" argue that proverbs persuade not because they enshrine incontrovert- ible wisdom in pleasing verbal forms but because they bear the sanc- tions of age. Whereas the "vehicular" definitions subject popularity to lofty ideals, populists propose that "wisdom" fits the proverb because, by definition, the expression has passed the test of time. According to this school, the defining quality in the proverb is wide acceptance and usage, regardless of the preponderance of rhymes and other poetic characteristics. "Without this popularity, without these suffrages, and this consent of the many," Reverend Trench declared, "no saying, however brief, however wise, however scensored with salt, however worthy on all these accounts to have become a proverb, however fulfill- ing all its other conditions, can yet be esteemed as such" (16). A proverb user validates his or her own observations with a received knowledge shared in advance by both the speaker and the audience. The speaker needs only to ensure that the citation agrees with the observation at hand. Any proverb correctly invoked is presumed to attest to a glaring truth. As the Reverend Trench said, the same satisfaction which the educated man finds in referring the particular matter before him to the universal law which rules it, a plainer man finds in the appeal to a proverb. He takes refuge, that is, as each man so gladly does, from his mere self and single fallible judgment, in a larger experience and wider conviction. The explanation of the word "proverb" I believe to lie here. One who uses it, uses it pro verbo; he employs for and instead of his own individual word, this more general word, which is every man's. (23) Neal Norrick's more recent work confirms the communal dimension of Trench's views. Norrick says that in speech the proverb user cites not "an individual author; he quotes the linguistic community itself" (26). Proverbs convince because they are preformed and inventoried in lin- guistic and cultural memory. In societies that are said to be preliterate, the proverb is never too far The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 31 the Akan test because none contains any striking imagery. The prov- erbs' common truths command little attention because, to Boadi's sub- jects, proverbs are primarily manners of elegant speech and not simple kernels of wisdom. Another group of proverb scholars believes that popular memory alone gives a statement its proverbial recognition. The "populists" argue that proverbs persuade not because they enshrine incontrovert- ible wisdom in pleasing verbal forms but because they bear the sanc- tions of age. Whereas the "vehicular" definitions subject popularity to lofty ideals, populists propose that "wisdom" fits the proverb because, by definition, the expression has passed the test of time. According to this school, the defining quality in the proverb is wide acceptance and usage, regardless of the preponderance of rhymes and other poetic characteristics. "Without this popularity, without these suffrages, and this consent of the many," Reverend Trench declared, "no saying, however brief, however wise, however scensored with salt, however worthy on all these accounts to have become a proverb, however fulfill- ing all its other conditions, can yet be esteemed as such" (16). A proverb user validates his or her own observations with a received knowledge shared in advance by both the speaker and the audience. The speaker needs only to ensure that the citation agrees with the observation at hand. Any proverb correctly invoked is presumed to attest to a glaring truth. As the Reverend Trench said, the same satisfaction which the educated man finds in referring the particular matter before him to the universal law which rules it, a plainer man finds in the appeal to a proverb. He takes refuge, that is, as each man so gladly does, from his mere self and single fallible judgment, in a larger experience and wider conviction. The explanation of the word "proverb" I believe to lie here. One who uses it, uses it pro verbo; he employs for and instead of his own individual word, this more general word, which is every man's. (23) Neal Norrick's more recent work confirms the communal dimension of Trench's views. Norrick says that in speech the proverb user cites not "an individual author; he quotes the linguistic community itself" (26). Proverbs convince because they are preformed and inventoried in lin- guistic and cultural memory. In societies that are said to be preliterate, the proverb is never too far  32 Chapter 2 off the lips of political leaders, court historians, and disputants in legal matters because whoever marshals the most convincing number of sayings invokes tradition best and therefore has the ears of the audi- ence. Such erudition demonstrates astute knowledge of local lore, cul- tural and quasilegal precedence, and supreme eloquence. John Messen- ger records one proof for this view of the proverb in his ethnography of an Anang (southeastern Nigeria) courtroom. A man accused of being an accessory in a theft became incensed at the manner in which evidence was turning against him as the trial proceeded. After a particularly damning piece of evidence was introduced by a witness with the precept "when the fire burned the dog, it also burned the hunter holding the rope attached to the neck of the dog," the accused pleaded his innocence with the maxim "the snail is bleeding." Since a snail, lacking blood, cannot bleed when wounded, the defendant was asserting that he could not be punished for a crime which he had not committed. (70-71) Messenger says that the tradition-laden emotional appeal decided the case for the "guilty" defendant. The jurors acquitted because the defen- dant blackmailed them with the cultural consensus that prevents them from bleeding a snail . Scholars who use the anthropological model for understanding prov- erbs view the sayings as capsules of the principles of human behavior in the societies that formulated them. In one such work, William Alger found in proverbs "the indrawn meditativeness of the Hindu, the fier' imagination of the Arab, the devout and prudential understanding of the Hebrew, the aesthetic subtlety of the Greek, the legal breadth and sensual recklessness of the Roman, the martial frenzy of the Goth, the chivalric and dark pride of the Spaniard, the treacherous blood of the Italian, the mercurial vanity of the Frenchman, the blunt realism of the Englishman" (178). Such anthropological studies seek to capture for posterity both the proverbial texts and their significance to the particu- lar people that use them. They compile and classify sayings under presumed categories of use. These categories can range from philo- sophical observations to the codification of "ethnic" thought processes. This tendency was most prevalent among nineteenth-century Euro- pean ethnographers and Christian missionaries, who saw in the say- ings evidence of undeveloped Christian ideals in pagan minds. The Anglican Bishop Vidal once urged ethicists and similar professionals to 32 Chapter 2 off the lips of political leaders, court historians, and disputants in legal matters because whoever marshals the most convincing number of sayings invokes tradition best and therefore has the ears of the audi- ence. Such erudition demonstrates astute knowledge of local lore, cul- tural and quasilegal precedence, and supreme eloquence. John Messen- ger records one proof for this view of the proverb in his ethnography of an Anang (southeastern Nigeria) courtroom. A man accused of being an accessory in a theft became incensed at the manner in which evidence was turning against him as the trial proceeded. After a particularly damning piece of evidence was introduced by a witness with the precept "when the fire burned the dog, it also burned the hunter holding the rope attached to the neck of the dog," the accused pleaded his innocence with the maxim "the snail is bleeding." Since a snail, lacking blood, cannot bleed when wounded, the defendant was asserting that he could not be punished for a crime which he had not committed. (70-71) Messenger says that the tradition-laden emotional appeal decided the case for the "guilty" defendant. The jurors acquitted because the defen- dant blackmailed them with the cultural consensus that prevents them from bleeding a snail.' Scholars who use the anthropological model for understanding prov- erbs view the sayings as capsules of the principles of human behavior in the societies that formulated them. In one such work, William Alger found in proverbs "the indrawn meditativeness of the Hindu, the fier imagination of the Arab, the devout and prudential understanding of the Hebrew, the aesthetic subtlety of the Greek, the legal breadth and sensual recklessness of the Roman, the martial frenzy of the Goth, the chivalric and dark pride of the Spaniard, the treacherous blood of the Italian, the mercurial vanity of the Frenchman, the blunt realism of the Englishman" (178). Such anthropological studies seek to capture for posterity both the proverbial texts and their significance to the particu- lar people that use them. They compile and classify sayings under presumed categories of use. These categories can range from philo- sophical observations to the codification of "ethnic" thought processes. This tendency was most prevalent among nineteenth-century Euro- pean ethnographers and Christian missionaries, who saw in the sav- ings evidence of undeveloped Christian ideals in pagan minds. The Anglican Bishop Vidal once urged ethicists and similar professionals to 32 Chapter 2 off the lips of political leaders, court historians, and disputants in legal matters because whoever marshals the most convincing number of sayings invokes tradition best and therefore has the ears of the audi- ence. Such erudition demonstrates astute knowledge of local lore, cul- tural and quasilegal precedence, and supreme eloquence. John Messen- ger records one proof for this view of the proverb in his ethnography of an Anang (southeastern Nigeria) courtroom. A man accused of being an accessory in a theft became incensed at the manner in which evidence was turning against him as the trial proceeded. After a particularly damning piece of evidence was introduced by a witness with the precept "when the fire burned the dog, it also burned the hunter holding the rope attached to the neck of the dog," the accused pleaded his innocence with the maxim "the snail is bleeding." Since a snail, lacking blood, cannot bleed when wounded, the defendant was asserting that he could not be punished for a crime which he had not committed. (70-71) Messenger says that the tradition-laden emotional appeal decided the case for the "guilty" defendant. The jurors acquitted because the defen- dant blackmailed them with the cultural consensus that prevents them from bleeding a snailt Scholars who use the anthropological model for understanding prov- erbs view the sayings as capsules of the principles of human behavior in the societies that formulated them. In one such work, tWilliam Alger found in proverbs "the indrawn meditativeness of the Hindu, the fiery imagination of the Arab, the devout and prudential understanding of the Hebrew, the aesthetic subtlety of the Greek, the legal breadth and sensual recklessness of the Roman, the martial frenzy of the Goth, the chivalric and dark pride of the Spaniard, the treacherous blood of the Italian, the mercurial vanity of the Frenchman, the blunt realism of the Englishman" (178). Such anthropological studies seek to capture for posterity both the proverbial texts and their significance to the particu- lar people that use them. They compile and classify sayings under presumed categories of use. These categories can range from philo- sophical observations to the codification of "ethnic" thought processes. This tendency was most prevalent among nineteenth-century Euro- pean ethnographers and Christian missionaries, who saw in the sav- ings evidence of undeveloped Christian ideals in pagan minds. The Anglican Bishop Vidal once urged ethicists and similar professionals to  study Yorub6 sayings because he thought they corroborated Pauline truths. He wrote in his foreword to Burton's collection that "the exist- ence of proverbs such as these, amongst a people situated as the Yorubans are, is a fact pregnant with many thoughts, on which the theologian and the moralist may dwell with advantage" (xxv). Typically, sayings classified as social codes-legal, philosophical, ethical, commercial, etc.-are expressed in injunctive and declarative clauses. They direct, urge, and dictate actions. They read like com- mands bearing the force of law. I refer to Bishop Vidal again: "they profess not to dispute but to command; not to persuade, but to compel: they conduct men, not by circuitous argument, but immediately to the approbation and practice of integrity and virtue" (xx). Besides the sentence structure, nothing else suggests that proverbs ordinarily carry the weight of law. Edwin Loeb's little-known speculative study on the relationship between proverb origin and human intellectual growth reflects very well the anthropological preoccupation with respect to the proverb. Loeb, who thought proverbs constituted the oldest evidence of abstrac- tion, hypothesized that the geographical dispersion of earliest recorded occurrences of proverbs correlates with patterns of advancement in human mental development and the efficient disposition of moveable capital. Hunter-gatherer communities did not cultivate the requisite abstraction for making proverbs partly because they generated no form of portable capital. Although the more sophisticated thinkers of the succeeding farming communities invented the earliest currencies, they were inefficient users of resources and so failed to reproduce their economic prowess at the verbal abstract level. The invention of prov- erbs, Loeb says, fell on cattle breeders, who were the earliest efficient users of capital. They created the first proverbs because they were advanced enough to invent relatively light and portable wealth and, accordingly, use language imaginatively. The invention of moveable means of representing economic values made it imperative to fabricate an equally convenient means of communicating them. In that environ- ment, the proverb emerged as a necessity. In Loeb's words, "it was the cattle peoples everywhere who originally had proverbs, and these prov- erbs had the function of having been the general fund of primitive philosophy, ethics, and law" (101). To use proverbial syntax, wherever there is cattle, there is proverb. According to Loeb, "we have four phases of human thought succeeding one another alongside man's study Yorhbd sayings because he thought they corroborated Pauline truths. He wrote in his foreword to Burton's collection that "the exist- ence of proverbs such as these, amongst a people situated as the Yorubans are, is a fact pregnant with many thoughts, on which the theologian and the moralist may dwell with advantage" (xxv). Typically, sayings classified as social codes-legal, philosophical, ethical, commercial, etc.-are expressed in injunctive and declarative clauses. They direct, urge, and dictate actions. They read like com- mands bearing the force of law. I refer to Bishop Vidal again: "they profess not to dispute but to command; not to persuade, but to compel: they conduct men, not by circuitous argument, but immediately to the approbation and practice of integrity and virtue" (xx). Besides the sentence structure, nothing else suggests that proverbs ordinarily carry the weight of law. Edwin Loeb's little-known speculative study on the relationship between proverb origin and human intellectual growth reflects very well the anthropological preoccupation with respect to the proverb. Loeb, who thought proverbs constituted the oldest evidence of abstrac- tion, hypothesized that the geographical dispersion of earliest recorded occurrences of proverbs correlates with patterns of advancement in human mental development and the efficient disposition of moveable capital. Hunter-gatherer communities did not cultivate the requisite abstraction for making proverbs partly because they generated no form of portable capital. Although the more sophisticated thinkers of the succeeding farming communities invented the earliest currencies, they were inefficient users of resources and so failed to reproduce their economic prowess at the verbal abstract level. The invention of prov- erbs, Loeb says, fell on cattle breeders, who were the earliest efficient users of capital. They created the first proverbs because they were advanced enough to invent relatively light and portable wealth and, accordingly, use language imaginatively. The invention of moveable means of representing economic values made it imperative to fabricate an equally convenient means of communicating them. In that environ- ment, the proverb emerged as a necessity. In Loeb's words, "it was the cattle peoples everywhere who originally had proverbs, and these prov- erbs had the function of having been the general fund of primitive philosophy, ethics, and law" (101). To use proverbial syntax, wherever there is cattle, there is proverb. According to Loeb, "we have four phases of human thought succeeding one another alongside man's study Yornba sayings because he thought they corroborated Pauline truths. He wrote in his foreword to Burton's collection that "the exist- ence of proverbs such as these, amongst a people situated as the Yorubans are, is a fact pregnant with many thoughts, on which the theologian and the moralist may dwell with advantage" (xxv). Typically, sayings classified as social codes-legal, philosophical, ethical, commercial, etc-are expressed in injunctive and declarative clauses. They direct, urge, and dictate actions. They read like com- mands bearing the force of law. I refer to Bishop Vidal again: "they profess not to dispute but to command; not to persuade, but to compel: they conduct men, not by circuitous argument, but immediately to the approbation and practice of integrity and virtue" (xx). Besides the sentence structure, nothing else suggests that proverbs ordinarily carry the weight of law. Edwin Loeb's little-known speculative study on the relationship between proverb origin and human intellectual growth reflects very well the anthropological preoccupation with respect to the proverb. Loeb, who thought proverbs constituted the oldest evidence of abstrac- tion, hypothesized that the geographical dispersion of earliest recorded occurrences of proverbs correlates with patterns of advancement in human mental development and the efficient disposition of moveable capital. Hunter-gatherer communities did not cultivate the requisite abstraction for making proverbs partly because they generated no form of portable capital. Although the more sophisticated thinkers of the succeeding farming communities invented the earliest currencies, they were inefficient users of resources and so failed to reproduce their economic prowess at the verbal abstract level. The invention of prov- erbs, Loeb says, fell on cattle breeders, who were the earliest efficient users of capital. They created the first proverbs because they were advanced enough to invent relatively light and portable wealth and, accordingly, use language imaginatively. The invention of moveable means of representing economic values made it imperative to fabricate an equally convenient means of communicating them. In that environ- ment, the proverb emerged as a necessity. In Loeb's words, "it was the cattle peoples everywhere who originally had proverbs, and these prov- erbs had the function of having been the general fund of primitive philosophy, ethics, and law" (101). To use proverbial syntax, wherever there is cattle, there is proverb. According to Loeb, "we have four phases of human thought succeeding one another alongside man's  34 Chapter 2 material progress. First comes play or magical thinking, the let's-pre- tend kind, then proverbs, next deductive reasoning, such as Plato's idealism or the theory of the idea, and finally the objective reality of inductive science" (104). Hunter-gatherers and farmers practiced delu- sional thinking, and cattle breeders engaged in more "scientific" rea- soning. Each succeeding mode of perception drew on the discoveries of the preceding stages. Proverb studies guided by pragmatic linguistics model the sayings as excellent examples of how communication channels adapt to social needs. Proverbs, being short and witty (or "spicy" in Igbo language) and widely known to all ideal members of the speech community, enable speakers to communicate very efficiently. The oral milieu in which proverbs were invented made it imperative that the speaker should dispatch the essence of a thought unit in the smallest number of words possible, and in forms open-ended enough for the receiver to decipher the sender's intent. Proverb users draw codes from a commu- nal linguistic pool and parcel the same out to the listeners wcho then infer a meaning after factoring in instantiating conditions. Neal Norrick says that it seems as if the inventories also contain "customary mean- ings" that the receiver applies to the proverb. "Speakers must store proverb forms along with their SPIs [standard proverbial interpreta- tions] just as they store single words as form-meaning units" (82). For pragmatic linguistics, proverbs take the form that best enables them to serve the societies that invented them. In his "Proverbs," literary critic Oyekan Owomoyela finds evidence for the compact communication model of proverbs in Yorubd lan- guage. He says the adage "Aabo br6 lAi so f6muldwabi, t6 bd dena re yo di odindi" (To a well-bred person half of a speech is enough; when it reaches his inside it becomes whole) stipulates brevity (allusion, tact. euphemism) in public discussions of sensitive matters. He also exam- ines other metaproverbs that enjoin discretion in speech protocols. For example, "Fnu mi k6 no mda ti gbo pe iyi badle ldje6" (It will not be my mouth that will proclaim that the chief's mother is a witch) advises the necessity of matching diction and topic. The proverb "ki aditi ba le gborhn la se i so 6i16j j ng re" (It is so that the deaf might learn about a matter that we discuss it in his child's hearing) counsels on reaching an audience through the appropriate transmitter. Owomoyela further says that the modern proverb "Oyinbd to se 16edi 16 se ires" (The white person who made the pencil also made the eraser) illustrates the 34 Chapter 2 material progress. First comes play or magical thinking, the let's-pre- tend kind, then proverbs, next deductive reasoning, such as Plato's idealism or the theory of the idea, and finally the objective reality of inductive science" (104). Hunter-gatherers and farmers practiced delu- sional thinking, and cattle breeders engaged in more "scientific" rea- soning. Each succeeding mode of perception drew on the discoveries of the preceding stages. Proverb studies guided by pragmatic linguistics model the sayings as excellent examples of how communication channels adapt to social needs. Proverbs, being short and witty (or "spicy" in Igbo language) and widely known to all ideal members of the speech community., enable speakers to communicate very efficiently. The oral milieu in which proverbs were invented made it imperative that the speaker should dispatch the essence of a thought unit in the smallest number of words possible, and in forms open-ended enough for the receiver to decipher the sender's intent. Proverb users draw codes from a commu- nal linguistic pool and parcel the same out to the listeners who then infer a meaning after factoring in instantiating conditions. Neal Norrick says that it seems as if the inventories also contain "customary mean- ings" that the receiver applies to the proverb. "Speakers must store proverb forms along with their SPIs [standard proverbial interpreta- tions] just as they store single words as form-meaning units" (82). For pragmatic linguistics, proverbs take the form that best enables them to serve the societies that invented them. In his "Proverbs," literary critic Oyekan Owomoyela finds evidence for the compact communication model of proverbs in Yornbd lan- guage. He says the adage "Anbo fro laA so fdmgldwabi, to b& denn re ydo di odindi" (To a well-bred person half of a speech is enough; when it reaches his inside it becomes whole) stipulates brevity (allusion, tact, euphemism) in public discussions of sensitive matters. He also exam- ines other metaproverbs that enjoin discretion in speech protocols. For example, "Enu mi ko no mda ti gb6 pe lyd badle ldje6" (It will not be my mouth that will proclaim that the chief's mother is a witch) advises the necessity of matching diction and topic. The proverb "ki aditi ba le gb6rin la se i so 616jd gno re" (It is so that the deaf might learn about a matter that we discuss it in his child's hearing) counsels on reaching an audience through the appropriate transmitter. Owomoyela further says that the modern proverb "Oyinbd td se ledi 16 se irdsi" (The white person who made the pencil also made the eraser) illustrates the 34 Chapter 2 material progress. First comes play or magical thinking, the let's-pre- tend kind, then proverbs, next deductive reasoning, such as Plato's idealism or the theory of the idea, and finally the objective reality of inductive science" (104). Hunter-gatherers and farmers practiced delu- sional thinking, and cattle breeders engaged in more "scientific" rea- soning. Each succeeding mode of perception drew on the discoveries of the preceding stages. Proverb studies guided by pragmatic linguistics model the sayings as excellent examples of how communication channels adapt to social needs. Proverbs, being short and witty (or "spicy" in Igbo language) and widely known to all ideal members of the speech community, enable speakers to communicate very efficiently. The oral milieu in which proverbs were invented made it imperative that the speaker should dispatch the essence of a thought unit in the smallest number of words possible, and in forms open-ended enough for the receiver to decipher the sender's intent. Proverb users draw codes from a commu- nal linguistic pool and parcel the same out to the listeners who then infer a meaning after factoring in instantiating conditions. Neal Norrick says that it seems as if the inventories also contain "customary mean- ings" that the receiver applies to the proverb. "Speakers must store proverb forms along with their SPIs [standard proverbial interpreta- tions] just as they store single words as form-meaning units" (82). For pragmatic linguistics, proverbs take the form that best enables them to serve the societies that invented them. In his "Proverbs," literary critic Oyekan Owomoyela finds evidence for the compact communication model of proverbs in Yorub lan- guage. He says the adage "Anbf drf lid so fomoldwibi, td bi ddnd re y66 di odindi" (To a well-bred person half of a speech is enough; when it reaches his inside it becomes whole) stipulates brevity (allusion, tact, euphemism) in public discussions of sensitive matters. He also exam- ines other metaproverbs that enjoin discretion in speech protocols. For example, "Enu mi k6 no mia ti gb6 pe lyd baile ldje" (It will not be my mouth that will proclaim that the chief's mother is a witch) advises the necessity of matching diction and topic. The proverb "ki aditi ba le gbaran la se n so 616j6 omo re" (It is so that the deaf might learn about a matter that we discuss it in his child's hearing) counsels on reaching an audience through the appropriate transmitter. Owomoyela further says that the modern proverb "Oyinb6 to se 16edi 16 se iresi" (The white person who made the pencil also made the eraser) illustrates the  The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 35 nonliterate culture's awareness of the essential intangibility of commu- nication materials. For communicationists-and here they differ from rhetoricians-the proverb is the most self-aware vehicle of semiotic intentions. Studies inspired by descriptive linguistics struggle to prove wrong the statement made by Archer Taylor in 1931 that "an incommunicable quality tells us this sentence is proverbial and that one is not" (3).' Structuralists argue repeatedly that a compilation of common syntactic patterns can reveal the objective processes through which ordinary sentences become proverbs. They claim that proverbial sayings are usually unmarked for tense and number and that whenever they are so marked the modifiers are generalizing terms. For his "grammatical" description, G. B. Milner divides such proverbial clauses into tiny ideational units he calls quarters. The quarters perform for Milner the same functions phonemes do for phonologists. The leading two quar- ters he calls the "head" and the final two the "tail." He then assigns positive and negative values to each quarter depending on whether it recommends or repudiates an action. In "Penny wise, pound foolish," for example, "penny wise" is the head and "pound foolish" the tail. In the "head" quarters, "penny" is negative and "wise" positive. In the tail quarters, "pound" is positive and "foolish" negative. If the two quar- ters in a half carry identical values, that half is positive, and negative if otherwise. After testing this schema extensively in German, Milner concludes that only four classes of proverb exist: (a) positive head and positive tail, (b) negative head and positive tail, (c) positive head and negative tail, and (d) negative head and negative tail. With this alge- braic classification, Milner successfully kills the two proverbial birds with one stone. He puts in one description the elements that sustain both the combinatory and substitutive axes of the proverb. In "On the Structure of Proverbs," Dundes argues that Milner's proposition lacks the predictive capability required of rigorous struc- turalist descriptions. In Dundes' opinion, Milner's classification will not consistently account for the English-language saying "Rolling stones gather no moss." In England, stone usually refers to stationary pebbles in a river. Hence, moss, often taken to represent comfort, cannot stick on them. In Scotland, stone refers to the "cylindrical stones of an old fashioned roller" that will grow lichen if they remain inert. In Milner's schema, the four quarters of the proverb bear opposite values in En- gland and Scotland. In order to correct the problems he finds in other The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 35 nonliterate culture's awareness of the essential intangibility of commu- nication materials. For communicationists-and here they differ from rhetoricians-the proverb is the most self-aware vehicle of semiotic intentions. Studies inspired by descriptive linguistics struggle to prove wrong the statement made by Archer Taylor in 1931 that "an incommunicable quality tells us this sentence is proverbial and that one is not" (3).' Structuralists argue repeatedly that a compilation of common syntactic patterns can reveal the objective processes through which ordinary sentences become proverbs. They claim that proverbial sayings are usually unmarked for tense and number and that whenever they are so marked the modifiers are generalizing terms. For his "grammatical" description, G. B. Milner divides such proverbial clauses into tiny ideational units he calls quarters. The quarters perform for Milner the same functions phonemes do for phonologists. The leading two quar- ters he calls the "head" and the final two the "tail." He then assigns positive and negative values to each quarter depending on whether it recommends or repudiates an action. In "Penny wise, pound foolish," for example, "penny wise" is the head and "pound foolish" the tail. In the "head" quarters, "penny" is negative and "wise" positive. In the tail quarters, "pound" is positive and "foolish" negative. If the two quar- ters in a half carry identical values, that half is positive, and negative if otherwise. After testing this schema extensively in German, Milner concludes that only four classes of proverb exist: (a) positive head and positive tail, (b) negative head and positive tail, (c) positive head and negative tail, and (d) negative head and negative tail. With this alge- braic classification, Milner successfully kills the two proverbial birds with one stone. He puts in one description the elements that sustain both the combinatory and substitutive axes of the proverb. In "On the Structure of Proverbs," Dundes argues that Milner's proposition lacks the predictive capability required of rigorous struc- turalist descriptions. In Dundes' opinion, Milner's classification will not consistently account for the English-language saying "Rolling stones gather no moss." In England, stone usually refers to stationary pebbles in a river. Hence, moss, often taken to represent comfort, cannot stick on them. In Scotland, stone refers to the "cylindrical stones of an old fashioned roller" that will grow lichen if they remain inert. In Milner's schema, the four quarters of the proverb bear opposite values in En- gland and Scotland. In order to correct the problems he finds in other the Proverb Is the Horse of Words 35 nonliterate culture's awareness of the essential intangibility of commu- nication materials. For communicationists-and here they differ from rhetoricians-the proverb is the most self-aware vehicle of semiotic intentions. Studies inspired by descriptive linguistics struggle to prove wrong the statement made by Archer Taylor in 1931 that "an incommunicable quality tells us this sentence is proverbial and that one is not" (3)' Structuralists argue repeatedly that a compilation of common syntactic patterns can reveal the objective processes through which ordinary sentences become proverbs. They claim that proverbial sayings are usually unmarked for tense and number and that whenever they are so marked the modifiers are generalizing terms. For his "grammatical" description, G. B. Milner divides such proverbial clauses into tiny ideational units he calls quarters. The quarters perform for Milner the same functions phonemes do for phonologists. The leading two quar- ters he calls the "head" and the final two the "tail." He then assigns positive and negative values to each quarter depending on whether it recommends or repudiates an action. In "Penny wise, pound foolish," for example, "penny wise" is the head and "pound foolish" the tail. In the "head" quarters, "penny" is negative and "wise" positive. In the tail quarters, "pound" is positive and "foolish" negative. If the two quar- ters in a half carry identical values, that half is positive, and negative if otherwise. After testing this schema extensively in German, Milner concludes that only four classes of proverb exist: (a) positive head and positive tail, (b) negative head and positive tail, (c) positive head and negative tail, and (d) negative head and negative tail. With this alge- braic classification, Milner successfully kills the two proverbial birds with one stone. He puts in one description the elements that sustain both the combinatory and substitutive axes of the proverb. In "On the Structure of Proverbs," Dundes argues that Milner's proposition lacks the predictive capability required of rigorous struc- turalist descriptions. In Dundes' opinion, Milner's classification will not consistently account for the English-language saying "Rolling stones gather no moss." In England, stone usually refers to stationary pebbles in a river. Hence, moss, often taken to represent comfort, cannot stick on them. In Scotland, stone refers to the "cylindrical stones of an old fashioned roller" that will grow lichen if they remain inert. In Milner's schema, the four quarters of the proverb bear opposite values in En- gland and Scotland. In order to correct the problems he finds in other  36 Chapter 2 structuralist descriptions of the proverb, Dundes proposes that if one disregards wellerisms (attributed sayings) and aphorisms (literally true proverbs), one will discover that no one-word adage is possible. One will also find out that all proverbs are "topic-comment" sentences made up of "identificational-contrastive features" (966). Essentiall, he says, only two kinds of proverbs exist: "equational" sayings and "op- positional" sayings.' Neither Dundes nor Milner, I think, succeeds in showing the "in- communicable quality" that tells us a statement is a proverb. Dundes's analysis of more complex sentence patterns lacks the predictive capa- bilities he found wanting in Milner. Our knowledge that "An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure" is an oppositional topic-comment does not help us determine whether another equally oppositional sen- tence-"A cent of acceptance is worth a dollar of rustication -is a proverb. Structuralist descriptions, to my mind, reveal that proverbs have no strictly definitive linguistic formula except that they belong to a pool of citations formed by particular communities who then quote them for several reasons that cannot be charted in a straightforward fashion. Even when structuralists incorporate substitutive categories, they still fail to explain the causative factors that turn a phrase into a proverb. They fail because the process by which one phrase, to the exclusion of all syntactically identical others, becomes a proverb is largely arbitrary (which is not to say meaningless). This is what Archer Taylor implied when he said that the proverb-making property of a sentence cannot be communicated. The "incommunicability" arises from the arbitrary incorporation procedures. The Meaning of the Proverb In Richard Honeck's strictly linguistic definition, the proverb is a "prag- matically deviant, relatively concrete, present-tensed statement used to create a theoretical perspective for grouping referentially and literally distinguishable events" (150). In other words, the proverb, being the only almost completely preformed sentence in the usage context, is usually the only part of a conversation whose elements conflict with other markers of subject, time, and characters. In its literal state, the proverb disrupts cohesion in an utterance. But as indicated in the models of proverb studies discussed above, proverbs are meaning-governed expressions whose main function in conversation is to give cultural depth to a speaker's thought. By em- 36 Chapter2 structuralist descriptions of the proverb, Dundes proposes that if one disregards wellerisms (attributed sayings) and aphorisms (literally true proverbs), one will discover that no one-word adage is possible. One will also find out that all proverbs are "topic-comment" sentences made up of "identificational-contrastive features" (966). Essentially, he says, only two kinds of proverbs exist: "equational" sayings and "op- positional" sayings:' Neither Dundes nor Milner, I think, succeeds in showing the "in- communicable quality" that tells us a statement is a proverb. Dundes's analysis of more complex sentence patterns lacks the predictive capa- bilities he found wanting in Milner. Our knowledge that "An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure" is an oppositional topic-comment does not help us determine whether another equally oppositional sen- tence-"A cent of acceptance is worth a dollar of rustication"-is a proverb. Structuralist descriptions, to my mind, reveal that proverbs have no strictly definitive linguistic formula except that they belong to a pool of citations formed by particular communities who then quote them for several reasons that cannot be charted in a straightforward fashion. Even when structuralists incorporate substitutive categories, they still fail to explain the causative factors that turn a phrase into a proverb. They fail because the process by which one phrase, to the exclusion of all syntactically identical others, becomes a proverb is largely arbitrary (which is not to say meaningless). This is what Archer Taylor implied when he said that the proverb-making property of a sentence cannot be communicated. The "incommunicability" arises from the arbitrary incorporation procedures. The Meaning of the Proverb In Richard Honeck's strictly linguistic definition, the proverb is a "prag- matically deviant, relatively concrete, present-tensed statement used to create a theoretical perspective for grouping referentially and literally distinguishable events" (150). In other words, the proverb, being the only almost completely preformed sentence in the usage context, is usually the only part of a conversation whose elements conflict with other markers of subject, time, and characters. In its literal state, the proverb disrupts cohesion in an utterance. But as indicated in the models of proverb studies discussed above, proverbs are meaning-governed expressions whose main function in conversation is to give cultural depth to a speaker's thought. By em- 36 Chapter 2 structuralist descriptions of the proverb, Dundes proposes that if one disregards wellerisms (attributed sayings) and aphorisms (literally true proverbs), one will discover that no one-word adage is possible. One will also find out that all proverbs are "topic-comment" sentences made up of "identificational-contrastive features" (966). Essentiall., he says, only two kinds of proverbs exist: "equational" sayings and "op- positional" sayings' Neither Dundes nor Milner, I think, succeeds in shooing the "in- communicable quality" that tells us a statement is a proverb. Dundes's analysis of more complex sentence patterns lacks the predictive capa- bilities he found wanting in Milner. Our knowledge that "An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure" is an oppositional topic-comment does not help us determine whether another equally oppositional sen- tence-"A cent of acceptance is worth a dollar of rustication"-is a proverb. Structuralist descriptions, to my mind, reveal that proverbs have no strictly definitive linguistic formula except that they belong to a pool of citations formed by particular communities who then quote them for several reasons that cannot be charted in a straightforward fashion. Even when structuralists incorporate substitutive categories, they still fail to explain the causative factors that turn a phrase into a proverb. They fail because the process by which one phrase, to the exclusion of all syntactically identical others, becomes a proverb is largely arbitrary (which is not to say meaningless). This is what Archer Taylor implied when he said that the proverb-making property of a sentence cannotbe communicated. The "incommunicability" arises from the arbitrary incorporation procedures. The Meaning of the Proverb In Richard Honeck's strictly linguistic definition, the proverb is a "prag- matically deviant, relatively concrete, present-tensed statement used to create a theoretical perspective for grouping referentially and literally distinguishable events" (150). In other words, the proverb, being the only almost completely preformed sentence in the usage context, is usually the only part of a conversation whose elements conflict with other markers of subject, time, and characters. In its literal state, the proverb disrupts cohesion in an utterance. But as indicated in the models of proverb studies discussed above, proverbs are meaning-governed expressions whose main function in conversation is to give cultural depth to a speaker's thought. By em-  The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 37 phasizing mechanics of analogies, methods of citation, and the logical assumptions that connect the deeper structure of the proverbial predi- cates to the context of citation, conventional proverb studies demon- strate the means by which the sayings substitute for the speaker's consciousness. Traditional sayings cohere with timely utterances not at the literal level of grammatical requirements-the ones listed in Honeck's description-but at the nongrammatical levels of social situation and individual motivation. Hence, nonlinguistic explanations of proverb meaning suggest that, unlike other phrases, proverbs do not mean anything in themselves. The literal syntactic and semantic relations that make ordinary phrases sensible in regular utterances do not apply very well to proverbs. According to Raymond Firth, a "full account of the accompanying social situation-the reason for its use, its effect, and its significance in speech" (135) reveals more about the meaning of a proverb than a study of its literal contents. Peter Seitel expresses a similar thought. He says that proverbs succeed or fail based on how well the "social con- text" of citation (place, personalities, occasion) correlates with the ob- taining conditions in the proverb. Evans-Pritchard recorded a "folk" version of this theory of proverb meaning in Ghana. In one of the stories of the Akan we are told of an Omanhene (Paramount Chief) who had heard another Omanhene to be well versed in proverbs, and sent his linguist to him praying to him that he might recite a hundred proverbs to the linguist so that he could pass them over to his own Omanhene. The linguist went and having been given water to drink as the custom demanded, was asked the reason of his appearance. He told the king the reason of the errand. The king asked him to close his eyes. After a time he was asked to open them. The king asked what dream he had dreamed. He replied that he had not slept to be able to dream. The king interjected saying, "You have rightly answered. Go and tell your Omanhene that one sleeps to dream, proverbs do not come out of the absence of a situation." (7) Proverbs, in other words, are called forth and given meaning by con- texts and intended meanings. Several metaproverbs support this view: "The soup of speech is the proverb" (Birom); "Proverbs are the palm-oil with which words are chewed" (Idoma); "A proverb is to speech what salt is to food" (Ara- The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 37 phasizing mechanics of analogies, methods of citation, and the logical assumptions that connect the deeper structure of the proverbial predi- cates to the context of citation, conventional proverb studies demon- strate the means by which the sayings substitute for the speaker's consciousness. Traditional sayings cohere with timely utterances not at the literal level of grammatical requirements-the ones listed in Honeck's description-but at the nongrammatical levels of social situation and individual motivation. Hence, nonlinguistic explanations of proverb meaning suggest that, unlike other phrases, proverbs do not mean anything in themselves. The literal syntactic and semantic relations that make ordinary phrases sensible in regular utterances do not apply very well to proverbs. According to Raymond Firth, a "full account of the accompanying social situation-the reason for its use, its effect, and its significance in speech" (135) reveals more about the meaning of a proverb than a study of its literal contents. Peter Seitel expresses a similar thought. He says that proverbs succeed or fail based on how well the "social con- text" of citation (place, personalities, occasion) correlates with the ob- taining conditions in the proverb. Evans-Pritchard recorded a "folk" version of this theory of proverb meaning in Ghana. In one of the stories of the Akan we are told of an Omanhene (Paramount Chief) who had heard another Omanhene to be well versed in proverbs, and sent his linguist to him praying to him that he might recite a hundred proverbs to the linguist so that he could pass them over to his own Omanhene. The linguist went and having been given water to drink as the custom demanded, was asked the reason of his appearance. He told the king the reason of the errand. The king asked him to close his eyes. After a time he was asked to open them. The king asked what dream he had dreamed. He replied that he had not slept to be able to dream. The king interjected saying, "You have rightly answered. Go and tell your Omanhene that one sleeps to dream, proverbs do not come out of the absence of a situation." (7) Proverbs, in other words, are called forth and given meaning by con- texts and intended meanings. Several metaproverbs support this view: "The soup of speech is the proverb" (Birom); "Proverbs are the palm-oil with which words are chewed" (Idoma); "A proverb is to speech what salt is to food" (Ara- The Proverb Ts the Horse of Words 37 phasizing mechanics of analogies, methods of citation, and the logical assumptions that connect the deeper structure of the proverbial predi- cates to the context of citation, conventional proverb studies demon- strate the means by which the sayings substitute for the speaker's consciousness. Traditional sayings cohere with timely utterances not at the literal level of grammatical requirements-the ones listed in Honeck's description-but at the nongrammatical levels of social situation and individual motivation. Hence, nonlinguistic explanations of proverb meaning suggest that, unlike other phrases, proverbs do not mean anything in themselves. The literal syntactic and semantic relations that make ordinary phrases sensible in regular utterances do not apply very well to proverbs. According to Raymond Firth, a "full account of the accompanying social situation-the reason for its use, its effect, and its significance in speech" (135) reveals more about the meaning of a proverb than a study of its literal contents. Peter Seitel expresses a similar thought. He says that proverbs succeed or fail based on how well the "social con- text" of citation (place, personalities, occasion) correlates with the ob- taining conditions in the proverb. Evans-Pritchard recorded a "folk" version of this theory of proverb meaning in Ghana. In one of the stories of the Akan we are told of an Omanhene (Paramount Chief) who had heard another Omanhene to be well versed in proverbs, and sent his linguist to him praying to him that he might recite a hundred proverbs to the linguist so that he could pass them over to his own Omanhene. The linguist went and having been given water to drink as the custom demanded, was asked the reason of his appearance. He told the king the reason of the errand. The king asked him to close his eyes. After a time he was asked to open them. The king asked what dream he had dreamed. He replied that he had not slept to be able to dream. The king interjected saying, "You have rightly answered. Go and tell your Omanhene that one sleeps to dream, proverbs do not come out of the absence of a situation." (7) Proverbs, in other words, are called forth and given meaning by con- texts and intended meanings. Several metaproverbs support this view: "The soup of speech is the proverb" (Birom); "Proverbs are the palm-oil with which words are chewed" (Idoma); "A proverb is to speech what salt is to food" (Ara-  38 Chapter 2 bic); "What flowers are to gardens, spices to food, gems to a garment, and stars to heaven, such are proverbs interwoven in speech" (He- brew); "Proverbs are salt-pits from which you may extract salt and sprinkle it where you will" (Roman); "Proverbs are the adornment of speech" (Ilaje and Persian); "A speech properly garnished tsith prov- erbs, parables, and wisdom is pleasant to hear" (Orambo). The Zulu say that "without the proverbs, the language would be but a skeleton without flesh, a body without soul." However, some other less common metaproverbs suggest that con- tingent values override preconceived meaning in the use of proverbs. Examples are "A Fulani will lie, but not make a lying proverb" (Fulani); "A proverb never lies; it is only its meaning that deceives" (German); "Proverbs do not lie" (Russian); and "He who advises me not to em- ploy proverbs when speaking, may he climb palm-trees without the climbing rope" (Igbo). One can deduce from this tatter set of sayings that the idea of the proverb cannot be settled unquestioningly along the "meaning" axis. In one of the sayings, the proverb embodies the "neu- trality" of signification: a proverb will not lie because it is, on its own, "true," and the supplemented meaning can deceive because the state- ment does not make up its own meaning. In the Igbo adage, to speak is to use proverbs. In some cultures, the term for the proverb substitutes for figuration, conceptualization, and effective speech. Among the Nyanja, for example, mwambi means story, riddle, and proert. For the Ganda, olugero signifies a saying, a story, a proverb, and a parable. The Mongo designate several poetic expressions, such as fable, proerp etry, and allegory, with bikolo (Finnegan 390-91). Between the earlier set of metaproverbs that portray adages as styl- ized carriers of meaning and the latter set that describes them as meaning-t ful carriers of style stand divergent notions on the functions of the material signifier. Sayings that take proverbs to be transmitters and propagators of cultural insights over which contexts and individuals exercise only instantiation control presume that communication is the transportation of linguistic and semantic concepts across conscious- ness. In them, means of communication are technical tools of preserv- ing and extending the reach of oral speeches. For such philosophical predispositions, meaning is the content and animator of rhetorical re- hicles. Meaning is the matter the proverb transmits and communicates. The pleasing rhetorical forms for which proverbs are well known, therefore, constitute the "powerful mediation" appliance that enables 38 Chapter 2 bic); "What flowers are to gardens, spices to food, gems to a garment, and stars to heaven, such are proverbs interwoven in speech" (He- brew); "Proverbs are salt-pits from which you may extract salt and sprinkle it where you will" (Roman); "Proverbs are the adornment of speech" (Ilaje and Persian); "A speech properly garnished with prov- erbs, parables, and wisdom is pleasant to hear" (Ovambo). The Zulu say that "without the proverbs, the language would be but a skeleton without flesh, a body without soul." However, some other less common metaproverbs suggest that con- tingent values override preconceived meaning in the use of proverbs. Examples are "A Fulani will lie, but not make a lying proverb" (Fulani); "A proverb never lies; it is only its meaning that deceives" (German); "Proverbs do not lie" (Russian); and "He who advises me not to em- ploy proverbs when speaking, may he climb palm-trees without the climbing rope" (Igbo). One can deduce from this latter set of say ings that the idea of the proverb cannotbe settled unquestioningly along the "meaning" axis. In one of the sayings, the proverb embodies the 'neu- trality" of signification: a proverb will not lie because it is, on its own, "true," and the supplemented meaning can deceive because the state- ment does not make up its own meaning. In the Igbo adage, to speak is to use proverbs. In some cultures, the term for the proverb substitutes for figuration, conceptualization, and effective speech. Among the Nyanja, for example, mwambi means story, riddle, and proverb. For the Ganda, olugero signifies a saying, a story, a proverb, and a parable. The Mongo designate several poetic expressions, such as fable, plioerb. o- etry, and allegory, with bikolo (Finnegan 390-91). Between the earlier set of metaproverbs that portray adages as sty- ized carriers of meaning and the latter set that describes them as meaning- ful carriers of style stand divergent notions on the functions of the material signifier. Sayings that take proverbs to be transmitters and propagators of cultural insights over which contexts and individuals exercise only instantiation control presume that communication is the transportation of linguistic and semantic concepts across conscious- ness. In them, means of communication are technical tools of preserv- ing and extending the reach of oral speeches. For such philosophical predispositions, meaning is the content and animator of rhetorical ve- hicles. Meaning is the matter the proverb transmits and communicates. The pleasing rhetorical forms for which proverbs are well known, therefore, constitute the "powerful mediation" appliance that enables 38 Chapter 2 bic); "What flowers are to gardens, spices to food, gems to a garment, and stars to heaven, such are proverbs interwoven in speech" (He- brew); "Proverbs are salt-pits from which you may extract salt and sprinkle it where you will" (Roman); "Proverbs are the adornment of speech" (Ilaje and Persian); "A speech properly garnished with pros- erbs, parables, and wisdom is pleasant to hear" (Osambo). The Zulu say that "without the proverbs, the language would be but a skeleton without flesh, a body without soul." However, some other less common metaproverbs suggest that con- tingent values override preconceived meaning in the use of proverbs. Examples are "A Fulani will lie, butnot make a lying proverb" (Fulani); "A proverb never lies; it is only its meaning that deceives" (German); "Proverbs do not lie" (Russian); and "He who advises me not to em- ploy proverbs when speaking, may he climb palm-trees without the climbing rope" (Igbo). One can deduce from this latter set of sayings that the idea of the proverb cannot be settled unquestioningly along the "meaning" axis. In one of the sayings, the proverb embodies the "neu- trality" of signification: a proverb will not lie because it is, on its own, "true," and the supplemented meaning can deceive because the state- ment does not make up its own meaning. In the Igbo adage, to speak is to use proverbs. In some cultures, the term for the proverb substitutes for figuration, conceptualization, and effective speech. Among the Nyanja, for example, mwambi means story, riddle, and pro'er. For the Ganda, olugero signifies a saying, a story, a proverb, and a parable. The Mongo designate several poetic expressions, such as fable, pooerb, po- etry, and allegory, with bikolo (Finnegan 390-91). Between the earlier set of metaproverbs that portray adages as sttl- ized carriers of meaning and the latter set that describes them as meaning- ful carriers of style stand divergent notions on the functions of the material signifier. Sayings that take proverbs to be transmitters and propagators of cultural insights over which contexts and individuals exercise only instantiation control presume that communication is the transportation of linguistic and semantic concepts across conscious- ness. In them, means of communication are technical tools of preset - ing and extending the reach of oral speeches. For such philosophical predispositions, meaning is the content and animator of rhetorical se- hicles. Meaning is the matter the proverb transmits and communicates. The pleasing rhetorical forms for which proverbs are well known, therefore, constitute the "powerful mediation" appliance that enables  the community to hand down its wisdom across time and distance. The wisdom so transmitted, to borrow Derrida's terms, is deemed to be "continuous and equal to itself, within a homogenous element across which the unity and integrity of meanings is not affected in an essential way" ("Signature Event Context" 311). However, if one follows the adages that privilege proverbial figura- tion as the primary enabler of speech, one will discover that proverbs do not bring already fully constituted "communiques" to discussions but are parts of the expressive apparatus of an utterance. A study of proverbs governed by this assumption will show that speakers person- alize their citations in the same way they employ other aspects of language. As language users bend syntax and diction to inflect their responsibility for their utterance, so do proverb users devise means of "decommunalizing" their citations. Because proverbs are citable, iterable, "duplicitous," and reproduc- ible beyond the particular contexts that produce them-properties that are all confirmed but de-emphasized in conventional studies-they possess certain attributes that are extrasemiotic, extraconceptual. When an adage says "A proverb never lies, it is only the meaning that de- ceives," it seems to be absolving proverbs of the responsibility for meaning. Such a saying indicates that the proverb is not unlike what Jacques Derrida calls a grapheme: "a mark which remains, which is not exhausted in the present of its inscription, and which can give rise to an iteration both in the absence of and beyond the presence of the empiri- cally determined subject who, in a given context, has emitted or pro- duced it" ("Signature Event Context" 317). When a metaproverb says that "A Fulani will lie, but not make a lying proverb," it does not mean that the Fulani will not lie with a proverb. It implies, however, that the Fulani proverb, being an iterable "mark," cannot guarantee the ethics of the user's intent. The proverb, to use, once more, Derrida's descrip- tion of communication, "can break with every given context, and en- gender infinitely new contexts in an absolutely nonsaturable fashion" ("Signature Event Context," 320). The proverb, in other words, is a multivalent text. Virtually every study agrees, directly or by implica- tion, that the figure upsets "the opposition between true and false" and that it "destroys the voice which could give [a] text its ('organic') unity" (Barthes 44). That disruptive capacity-"pragmatic deviance" is Ho- neck's term-is the one explained away in rhetoric, communication, and communal consensus. The implication of this "writing" (graph- the community to hand down its wisdom across time and distance. The wisdom so transmitted, to borrow Derrida's terms, is deemed to be "continuous and equal to itself, within a homogenous element across which the unity and integrity of meanings is not affected in an essential way" ("Signature Event Context" 311). However, if one follows the adages that privilege proverbial figura- tion as the primary enabler of speech, one will discover that proverbs do not bring already fully constituted "communiques" to discussions but are parts of the expressive apparatus of an utterance. A study of proverbs governed by this assumption will show that speakers person- alize their citations in the same way they employ other aspects of language. As language users bend syntax and diction to inflect their responsibility for their utterance, so do proverb users devise means of "decommunalizing" their citations. Because proverbs are citable, iterable, "duplicitous," and reproduc- ible beyond the particular contexts that produce them-properties that are all confirmed but de-emphasized in conventional studies-they possess certain attributes that are extrasemiotic, extraconceptual. When an adage says "A proverb never lies, it is only the meaning that de- ceives," it seems to be absolving proverbs of the responsibility for meaning. Such a saying indicates that the proverb is not unlike what Jacques Derrida calls a grapheme: "a mark which remains, which is not exhausted in the present of its inscription, and which can give rise to an iteration both in the absence of and beyond the presence of the empiri- cally determined subject who, in a given context, has emitted or pro- duced it" ("Signature Event Context" 317). When a metaproverb says that "A Fulani will lie, but not make a lying proverb," it does not mean that the Fulani will not lie with a proverb. It implies, however, that the Fulani proverb, being an iterable "mark," cannot guarantee the ethics of the user's intent. The proverb, to use, once more, Derrida's descrip- tion of communication, "can break with every given context, and en- gender infinitely new contexts in an absolutely nonsaturable fashion" ("Signature Event Context," 320). The proverb, in other words, is a multivalent text. Virtually every study agrees, directly or by implica- tion, that the figure upsets "the opposition between true and false" and that it "destroys the voice which could give [a] text its ('organic') unity" (Barthes 44). That disruptive capacity-"pragmatic deviance" is Ho- neck's term-is the one explained away in rhetoric, communication, and communal consensus. The implication of this "writing" (graph- the community to hand down its wisdom across time and distance. The wisdom so transmitted, to borrow Derrida's terms, is deemed to be "continuous and equal to itself, within a homogenous element across which the unity and integrity of meanings is not affected in an essential way" ("Signature Event Context" 311). However, if one follows the adages that privilege proverbial figura- tion as the primary enabler of speech, one will discover that proverbs do not bring already fully constituted "communiques" to discussions but are parts of the expressive apparatus of an utterance. A study of proverbs governed by this assumption will show that speakers person- alize their citations in the same way they employ other aspects of language. As language users bend syntax and diction to inflect their responsibility for their utterance, so do proverb users devise means of "decommunalizing" their citations. Because proverbs are citable, iterable, "duplicitous," and reproduc- ible beyond the particular contexts that produce them-properties that are all confirmed but de-emphasized in conventional studies-they possess certain attributes that are extrasemiotic, extraconceptual. When an adage says "A proverb never lies, it is only the meaning that de- ceives," it seems to be absolving proverbs of the responsibility for meaning. Such a saying indicates that the proverb is not unlike what Jacques Derrida calls a grapheme: "a mark which remains, which is not exhausted in the present of its inscription, and which can give rise to an iteration both in the absence of and beyond the presence of the empiri- cally determined subject who, in a given context, has emitted or pro- duced it" ("Signature Event Context" 317). When a metaproverb says that "A Fulani will lie, but not make a lying proverb," it does not mean that the Fulani will not lie with a proverb. It implies, however, that the Fulani proverb, being an iterable "mark," cannot guarantee the ethics of the user's intent. The proverb, to use, once more, Derrida's descrip- tion of communication, "can break with every given context, and en- gender infinitely new contexts in an absolutely nonsaturable fashion" ("Signature Event Context," 320). The proverb, in other words, is a multivalent text. Virtually every study agrees, directly or by implica- tion, that the figure upsets "the opposition between true and false" and that it "destroys the voice which could give [a] text its ('organic') unity" (Barthes 44). That disruptive capacity-"pragmatic deviance" is Ho- neck's term-is the one explained away in rhetoric, communication, and communal consensus. The implication of this "writing" (graph-  40 Chapter 2 eme) concept of the proverb and traditional tropes for textual interpre- tation will be taken up in the last three chapters of this book. It is important, meanwhile, that this alternative overview of the proverb be tested in at least one African language. Yorub& Figurative Language and the Philosophies of the Proverb The different translations of the Yoruba metaproverb "Owe lesin bro, bi bro ba sonh, owe la fi i wd a" (The proverb is the horse of the word; if the word is lost, we use the proverb to search for it) dramatize howx philosophical divisions on communication play out in general proverb studies. Of the nine English versions I have come across, Chief Isaac Dland's "A proverb is the 'horse' of words; if a word is lost, a proverb is used to find it" (ix) is the most loyal to the Yorubd lexicon. Except for the omission of the searching agent and his choice of find in place of the more literal search, D6lhnb's rendering represents the Yorbbf source accurately. Later in his collection, he introduces another translation that says "A proverb is the horse which moves a subject under discus- sion along; if a subject under discussion goes astray, we use a proverb to track it" (109). In his foreword to D land's Owe Lesin Oro, S. A. BAnjo translates the saying as "A proverb is a horse which can carry you swiftly to the discovery of ideas sought" (vi). In D lano's first version, the selection of find (and not search) highlights the proverb's ability to police discourse (on behalf of a culture). The second, with its emphasis on containment, implies that the proverb is a vehicle of thought. Banjo's interpretation changes the entire saying into a code of anterior ideas. D6ln and Banjo represent the proverb as a commissioned "topic" guard and as a vehicle of antecedent thought. Of course, the "subject" and "thought" item in this proverb is simply ar (the word). Both commentators choose idea and subject over the more literal :'ord be- cause they believe that word stands for profound discourse. Other versions of the proverb foreground different intent. Kwesi Yankah renders it as "The proverb is the horse of conversation; when the conversation droops, the proverb picks it up" ("Aesthetic" 328). Alan Dundes translates it in "Metafolklore and Oral Literary Criticism" as "A proverb is like a horse: when the truth is missing, we use a proverb tofind it" (509). Qmoniyi Adwoye rewrites the saying as "Proverbs are the vehicle of thought; when the truth is elusive, it is proverbs that we employ to discover it" (1). Ojoade echoes B. J. Whiting: "A proverb is the horse of conversation; when the conversation droops a proverb 40 Chapter 2 eme) concept of the proverb and traditional tropes for textual interpre- tation will be taken up in the last three chapters of this book. It is important, meanwhile, that this alternative overview of the proverb be tested in at least one African language. Yorubd Figurative Language and the Philosophies of the Proverb The different translations of the Yorubd metaproverb "Owe lesin ard, bi brb bA son, owe la fii wA a" (The proverb is the horse of the word; if the word is lost, we use the proverb to search for it) dramatize how philosophical divisions on communication play out in general proverb studies. Of the nine English versions I have come across, Chief Isaac Dlan6's "A proverb is the'horse' of words; if a word is lost, a proverb is used to find it" (ix) is the most loyal to the Yordbd lexicon. E xcept for the omission of the searching agent and his choice of find in place of the more literal search, D6lAnd's rendering represents the Yoruba source accurately. Later in his collection, he introduces another translation that says "A proverb is the horse which moves a subject under discus- sion along; if a subject under discussion goes astray, we use a proverb to track it" (109). In his foreword to D6lano's Owce Lesin Oro, S. A. Bonjo translates the saying as "A proverb is a horse which can carry you swiftly to the discovery of ideas sought" (vi). In Delanoo's first version, the selection of find (and not search) highlights the proverb's ability to police discourse (on behalf of a culture). The second, with its emphasis on containment, implies that the proverb is a vehicle of thought. BAnjo's interpretation changes the entire saying into a code of anterior ideas. Delino and Bdnjo represent the proverb as a commissioned "topic" guard and as a vehicle of antecedent thought. Of course, the "subject" and "thought" item in this proverb is simply ar (the word). Both commentators choose idea and subject over the more literal ;eord be- cause they believe that word stands for profound discourse. Other versions of the proverb foreground different intent. Kwesi Yankah renders it as "The proverb is the horse of conversation; when the conversation droops, the proverb picks it up" ("Aesthetic" 328). Alan Dundes translates it in "Metafolklore and Oral Literary Criticism" as "A proverb is like a horse: when the truth is missing, we use a proverb tofind it" (509). Omoniyi Addwoye rewrites the saying as "Proverbs are the vehicle of thought; when the truth is elusive, it is proverbs that we employ to discover it" (1). Ojoade echoes B. J. Whiting: "A proverb is the horse of conversation; when the conversation droops a proverb 40 Chapter 2 eme) concept of the proverb and traditional tropes for textual interpre- tation will be taken up in the last three chapters of this book. It is important, meanwhile, that this alternative overview of the proverb be tested in at least one African language. Yornbi Figurative Language and the Philosophies of the Proverb The different translations of the Yorub metaproverb "Owe lesin oro, bi bro bi sonh, owe la fi i w6 a" (The proverb is the horse of the word; if the word is lost, we use the proverb to search for it) dramatize how philosophical divisions on communication play out in general proverb studies. Of the nine English versions I have come across, Chief Isaac D6lno's "A proverb is the'horse' of words; if a word is lost, a proverb is used to find it" (ix) is the most loyal to the Yoruba lexicon. Except for the omission of the searching agent and his choice of find in place of the more literal search, D land's rendering represents the Yoruba source accurately. Later in his collection, he introduces another translation that says "A proverb is the horse which moves a subject under discus- sion along; if a subject under discussion goes astray, we use a proverb to track it" (109). In his foreword to Dlan6o's Owe Lesin Oro, S. A. Banjo translates the saying as "A proverb is a horse which can carry you swiftly to the discovery of ideas sought" (vi). In D lAno's first version, the selection of find (and not search) highlights the proverb's ability to police discourse (on behalf of a culture). The second, with its emphasis on containment, implies that the proverb is a vehicle of thought. BAnjo's interpretation changes the entire saying into a code of anterior ideas. D6lan6 and Banjo represent the proverb as a commissioned "topic" guard and as a vehicle of antecedent thought. Of course, the "subject" and "thought" item in this proverb is simply ara (the word). Both commentators choose idea and subject over the more literal reord be- cause they believe that word stands for profound discourse. Other versions of the proverb foreground different intent. Kwesi Yankah renders it as "The proverb is the horse of conversation; when the conversation droops, the proverb picks it up" ("Aesthetic" 328). Alan Dundes translates it in "Metafolklore and Oral Literary Criticism" as "A proverb is like a horse: when the truth is missing, we use a proverb tofind it" (509). Qmgniyi Addwnye rewrites the saying as "Proverbs are the vehicle of thought; when the truth is elusive, it is proverbs that ore employ to discover it" (1). Ojoade echoes B. J. Whiting: "A proverb is the horse of conversation; when the conversation droops a proverb  The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 41 revives it. Proverbs and conversation follow each other." The last two translations most resemble the oldest recorded version in Burton's collection: "A proverb is the horse of conversation, when the conversa- tion is lost (i.e. flags), a proverb revives it: proverbs and conversation follow each other" (306). But for the clause "proverbs and conversation follow each other," the saying has remained largely unchanged since at least 1865. The translations refigure sonA (literally, to lose) into droop, flag, and elude. Scholars who follow Burton do not notice that he puts flags in parenthesis perhaps to show that this is his own interpretation. All of the translations also change the indefinite sense of wd (literally, to search) to English verbs of revitalization: revive, find, and discover. It appears as if the English translators want to prove that the metaproverb encodes the aesthetic and pragmaticfunction of Yorhbi adages. They all take the saying to be a compact conception of the proverb as either a thought vehicle or a dialogue aide. The translations imply that the topical focus of a citation context calls forth relevant proverbs that, perhaps, have been used in settling similar contentions in the past. The most significant variation in the translations occurs in the mean- ing of obs, literally the word. The word means conversation for Yankah because he studies pragmatics of dialogues in oral communities, ideas and subject for D6lano and Banjg because they intend to remark Yorubda wisdom. Dundes's substitution of truth for orb and his addition of like radically remake the proverb into a simile. Addwoye's essay on Yorhbn juristic philosophy understandably translates word as truth. The source, I must say, does not imply similarity, and truth is not one of the immedi- ate meanings of oro' Also, none of the translations broach other En- glish "equivalents" of sro: incident, presentation, affairs, and discourse. An "unvarnished," more literal, and yet sensible, translation will render the saying "Owe lesin oro, bi bro ba sona, owe la fi i wa a" as "[The] proverb is word's horse; if [the] word is lost, [the] proverb is what we use to search for it." The letters of this metaproverb suggest that it is only when, and if, "br" is lacking (lost) that we cite proverbs to help locate it. If we cut out the conditional clause "bi oro b6 soon" (if the word is lost), the proverb reads "Owe lesin ti a fi i wa (ro" (The proverb is the horse we take to search for the word). Owe (the proverb) serves us only when the word is lacking. The saying does not define dwe in and of itself. The metaproverb describes the figure not as a vehicle of the word (and associ- The Proverb is the Horse of Words 41 revives it. Proverbs and conversation follow each other."' The last two translations most resemble the oldest recorded version in Burton's collection: "A proverb is the horse of conversation, when the conversa- tion is lost (i.e. flags), a proverb revives it: proverbs and conversation follow each other" (306). But for the clause "proverbs and conversation follow each other," the saying has remained largely unchanged since at least 1865. The translations refigure sonA (literally, to lose) into droop, flag, and elude. Scholars who follow Burton do not notice that he puts flags in parenthesis perhaps to show that this is his own interpretation. All of the translations also change the indefinite sense of wd (literally, to search) to English verbs of revitalization: revive, find, and discover. It appears as if the English translators want to prove that the metaproverb encodes the aesthetic and pragmaticfunction of Yorhba adages. They all take the saying to be a compact conception of the proverb as either a thought vehicle or a dialogue aide. The translations imply that the topical focus of a citation context calls forth relevant proverbs that, perhaps, have been used in settling similar contentions in the past. The most significant variation in the translations occurs in the mean- ing of bro, literally the word. The word means conversation for Yankah because he studies pragmatics of dialogues in oral communities, ideas and subject for D61tnb and Bdnjg because they intend to remark Yorbd wisdom. Dundes's substitution of truth for oros and his addition of like radically remake the proverb into a simile. Adewoye's essay on Yorhbi juristic philosophy understandably translates word as truth. The source, I must say, does not imply similarity, and truth is not one of the immedi- ate meanings of oro.' Also, none of the translations broach other En- glish "equivalents" of oro: incident, presentation, affairs, and discourse. An "unvarnished," more literal, and yet sensible, translation will render the saying "Owe lesin bro, bi or) ba sonn, owe la fi I w& a" as "[The] proverb is word's horse; if [the] word is lost, [the] proverb is what we use to search for it." The letters of this metaproverb suggest that it is only when, and if, "bar" is lacking (lost) that we cite proverbs to help locate it. If we cut out the conditional clause "bi jro b son)" (if the word is lost), the proverb reads "Owe lesin ti a fi i wbar" (The proverb is the horse we take to search for the word). Owe (the proverb) serves us only when the word is lacking. The saying does not define owe in and of itself. The metaproverb describes the figure not as a vehicle of the word (and associ- The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 41 revives it. Proverbs and conversation follow each other."6 The last two translations most resemble the oldest recorded version in Burton's collection: "A proverb is the horse of conversation, when the conversa- tion is lost (i.e. flags), a proverb revives it: proverbs and conversation follow each other" (306). But for the clause "proverbs and conversation follow each other," the saying has remained largely unchanged since at least 1865. The translations refigure soni (literally, to lose) into droop, flag, and elude. Scholars who follow Burton do not notice that he puts flags in parenthesis perhaps to show that this is his own interpretation. All of the translations also change the indefinite sense of wd (literally, to search) to English verbs of revitalization: revive, find, and discover. It appears as if the English translators want to prove that the metaproverb encodes the aesthetic and pragmaticfunction of Yorub adages. They all take the saying to be a compact conception of the proverb as either a thought vehicle or a dialogue aide. The translations imply that the topical focus of a citation context calls forth relevant proverbs that, perhaps, have been used in settling similar contentions in the past. The most significant variation in the translations occurs in the mean- ing of oro, literally the word. The word means conversation for Yankah because he studies pragmatics of dialogues in oral communities, ideas and subject for Ddlan and Bsnjo because they intend to remark Yorbi wisdom. Dundes's substitution of truth for ora and his addition of like radically remake the proverb into a simile. Adewoye's essay on Yorhba juristic philosophy understandably translates word as truth. The source, I must say, does not imply similarity, and truth is not one of the immedi- ate meanings of orb.' Also, none of the translations broach other En- glish "equivalents" of brb: incident, presentation, affairs, and discourse. An "unvarnished," more literal, and yet sensible, translation will render the saying "Owe lesin or, bi bor b& sanh, owe la fi I wA a" as "[The] proverb is word's horse; if [the] word is lost, [the] proverb is what we use to search for it." The letters of this metaproverb suggest that it is only when, and if, "Oro" is lacking (lost) that we cite proverbs to help locate it. If we cut out the conditional clause "bi bro b sonh" (if the word is lost), the proverb reads "Owe lesin ti a fi i wa bro" (The proverb is the horse we take to search for the word). Owe (the proverb) serves us only when the word is lacking. The saying does not define owe in and of itself. The metaproverb describes the figure not as a vehicle of the word (and associ- 42 Chapter 2 ated meanings) but of the implied person who needs the word. If one accepts the saying as its own example, one can say that the Yornbt language conceives of the proverb as both a subject-directed mechanism of organizing speech and a mode of inquiry. The first interpretation, that the proverb is a subject-directed mechanism of organizing speech, is sup- ported by the notion that the proverb offers its services only when the word (aro) is wanted. The proverb neither replaces nor represents otro, it only enables the seeker's search. It is the seeker's tool. I suspect therefore that oro (the word in all its possible significations) is not the ex- figural meaning (referent) of the proverb (awe). The first half of the metaproverb represents the lack that leads to the search for the word as an event that is not of the subject's making. The instigating condition, "bf Or ba son" (if [when] word is lost), is in the passive voice. The other half of the saying, "owe la fi i wa a" (proverb is what we use to search for it), is in the active voice. The half in question shows that the deployment of the vehicle to search for the lost word (the proverb) is subject to the seeker's will. This particular syntactic order structures the general proverb as a mode of inquiry. The syntactic arrangement indicates also that the proverb user (or the searching "subject") is produced in the proverbial process. To argue otherwise that the subject "a" (we) of the inquiring party is entirely an animate, extraproverbial, literal subject will betray the "letter" of the adage. Such an assertion can stand only if "the word" (bo) and "the horse" (esin) receive equal treatment and are granted a literal status. Inasmuch as it is not "sensible" to argue that the "eord" is a literally rideable horse, so must we not falsely ascribe an animate personhood to the rider, "we." The "riding" subject, the inquiring mind, cannot be simplistically reduced to the ordinary fully conscious speaker. The rider is no more and no less figural than the lost word and the "horse."' All of "a" (we), "orb" (the word), and "esin" (the horse) are bound by the proverb. The inquiring subject, the lost word, and the vehicle of search for lost word (the proverb) are all functions of proverbial rela- tions. Rowland Abi6ddn has proposed that owe (the proverb) denotes "the communicative properties" in all stylized expressions, whether dance, drama, chant, poetry, incantation, or sculpture. That is why, he said, Yoruba language calls the proverb the "horse of words." Abiodun interpreted "the word" broadly as the signified, or the content, of communication. For evidence, he cited one mythical account of the origin of aro he collected from Awn Adeniji. 42 Chapter 2 ated meanings) but of the implied person who needs the word. If one accepts the saying as its own example, one can say that the Yorib& language conceives of the proverb as both a subject-directed mechanism o organizing speech and a mode of inquiry. The first interpretation, that the proverb is a subject-directed mechanism of organizing speech, is sup- ported by the notion that the proverb offers its services only when the word (oro) is wanted. The proverb neither replaces nor represents or. it only enables the seeker's search. It is the seeker's tool. I suspect therefore that aro (the word in all its possible significations) is not the ex- figural meaning (referent) of the proverb (owe). The first half of the metaproverb represents the lack that leads to the search for the word as an event that is not of the subject's making. The instigating condition, "bi tr bd son" (if [when] word is lost), is in the passive voice. The other half of the saying, "owe la fi i wd a" (proverb is what we use to search for it), is in the active voice. The half in question shows that the deployment of the vehicle to search for the lost word (the proverb) is subject to the seeker's will. This particular syntactic order structures the general proverb as a mode of inquiry. The syntactic arrangement indicates also that the proverb user ior the searching "subject") is produced in the proverbial process. To argue otherwise that the subject "a" (we) of the inquiring party is entirely an animate, extraproverbial, literal subject will betray the "letter" of the adage. Such an assertion can stand only if "the word" (oro) and "the horse" (esin) receive equal treatment and are granted a literal status. Inasmuch as it is not "sensible" to argue that the "word" is a literally rideable horse, so must we not falsely ascribe an animate personhood to the rider, "we." The "riding" subject, the inquiring mind, cannot be simplistically reduced to the ordinary fully conscious speaker. The rider is no more and no less figural than the lost word and the "horse."' All of "a" (we), "orb" (the word), and "esin" (the horse) are bound by the proverb. The inquiring subject, the lost word, and the vehicle of search for lost word (the proverb) are all functions of proverbial rela- tions. Rowland Abiodon has proposed that owe (the proverb) denotes "the communicative properties" in all stylized expressions, whether dance, drama, chant, poetry, incantation, or sculpture. That is why, he said, Yorub6 language calls the proverb the "horse of words." Abioddn interpreted "the word" broadly as the signified, or the content, of communication. For evidence, he cited one mythical account of the origin of oro he collected from Awo Addniji. 42 Chapter 2 ated meanings) but of the implied person who needs the word. If one accepts the saying as its own example, one can say that the Yortba language conceives of the proverb as both a subject-directed mechanism of organizing speech and a mode of inquiry. The first interpretation, that the proverb is a subject-directed mechanism of organizing speech, is sup- ported by the notion that the proverb offers its services only wohen the word (bro) is wanted. The proverb neither replaces nor represents ao., it only enables the seeker's search. It is the seeker's tool. I suspect therefore that oroe (the word in all its possible significations) is not the ex- figural meaning (referent) of the proverb (twe). The first half of the metaproverb represents the lack that leads to the search for the word as an event that is not of the subject's making. The instigating condition, "bi iro bi sonn" (if [when] word is lost), is in the passive voice. The other half of the saying, "owe la fii w& a" (proverb is what we use to search for it), is in the active voice. The half in question shows that the deployment of the vehicle to search for the lost word (the proverb) is subject to the seeker's will. This particular syntactic order structures the general proverb as a mode of inquir. The syntactic arrangement indicates also that the proverb user (or the searching "subject") is produced in the proverbial process. To argue otherwise that the subject "a" (we) of the inquiring party is entirely an animate, extraproverbial, literal subject will betray the "letter" of the adage. Such an assertion can stand only if "the word" (oro) and "the horse" (esin) receive equal treatment and are granted a literal status. Inasmuch as it is not "sensible" to argue that the "word" is a literally rideable horse, so must we not falsely ascribe an animate personhood to the rider, "we." The "riding" subject, the inquiring mind, cannot be simplistically reduced to the ordinary fully conscious speaker. The rider is no more and no less figural than the lost word and the "horse."' All of "a" (we), "oro" (the word), and "esin" (the horse) are bound by the proverb. The inquiring subject, the lost word, and the vehicle of search for lost word (the proverb) are all functions of proverbial rela- tions. Rowland Abi6ddn has proposed that twe (the proverb) denotes "the communicative properties" in all stylized expressions, whether dance, drama, chant, poetry, incantation, or sculpture. That is why, he said, Yorubd language calls the proverb the "horse of words." Abi6din interpreted "the word" broadly as the signified, or the content, of communication. For evidence, he cited one mythical account of the origin of orb he collected from Awo Adeniji.  The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 43 Odumare [God] sat back and thought about how to create more things in his universe. For this purpose he realized he needed an intermediary force, since he was too charged with energy to come into direct contact with any living thing and have it survive. Therefore he created Ogbon [wisdom], held it in his palm and thought where it could live. After a while, Odhmare released Qgb6n to fly away and look for a suitable place to lodge. When Qgb6n could not find a suitable abode, it flew back, humming like a bee, to Odimare who took Ogb6n and swallowed it. Similarly, imo [Knowledge] and Oye [Understanding], which were also created, returned for lack of suitable abodes, and weere swallowed for the same reason. ... After several 'thousand' years during which Odhmtre was disturbed by the incessant humming of Qgbon, Im6, and Oye, he decided to get rid of them in order to have some peace. So he ordered Qgbon, im, and Oye to descend (ro) making the sound hoo (254-55). Abiod n added that the descending (ro) sound, "hi," later became ,oro (word). Abioddn suggests that oro (word) is too intangible to make any sensory impact.' So, when it reached the earth, it took advantage of the tangible proverb. Hence, the proverb "Owe lesin [ro" (The proverb is the horse of words). According to the letters of the narrative, however, the three constitu- ents of knowing (wisdom, knowledge, and understanding) were united only in God's exhalation. In one sense, the story mystifies the origin of the word by making Odhmtre (God) himself the giver of the word to the world as containers of significant intuition. In a more oddly con- temporary sense, the story suggests that qro does not represent the three enablers of knowing. Rather, it is an onomatopoeia: a word trans- lated by the Yorhba Studies Association asfirdsinrodje (employ-sound- to-emulate-sound). The primal ora (a combination of hat and ro) merely formalized the vocal inflection of Odimare's expulsion of the restless three from the sky. The word is the incarnation of unformatted wis- dom, knowledge, and understanding. Odimare did not intentionally design the word to be the expression of wisdom, knowledge, and understanding. Whatever the three elements might have meant in Od mare's guts, once exhaled they become irremediably poetic and linguistic, and we have no mechanism of reconstituting them outside of contingent re-creations. I read Adeniji's narrative as an ethnographic The Proverb Ts the Horse of Words 43 The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 43 Odnmire [God] sat back and thought about how to create more things in his universe. For this purpose he realized he needed an intermediary force, since he was too charged with energy to come into direct contact with any living thing and have it survive. Therefore he created Ogbon [wisdom], held it in his palm and thought where it could live. After a while, Odumare released Ogb6n to fly away and look for a suitable place to lodge. When Ogbon could not find a suitable abode, it flew back, humming like a bee, to Odkmare who took Ogb6n and swallowed it. Similarly, imo [Knowledge] and Oye [Understanding], which were also created, returned for lack of suitable abodes, and were swallowed for the same reason. . . . After several 'thousand' years during which Oditmare was disturbed by the incessant humming of Ogbon, im, and Oye, he decided to get rid of them in order to have some peace. So he ordered Ogb6n, in, and Oye to descend (ro) making the sound hoa (254-55). Abf6ddn added that the descending (ro) sound, "h6," later became orq (word). Abf6ddn suggests that or) (word) is too intangible to make any sensory impact.' So, when it reached the earth, it took advantage of the tangible proverb. Hence, the proverb "Owe lesin Oro" (The proverb is the horse of words). According to the letters of the narrative, however, the three constitu- ents of knowing (wisdom, knowledge, and understanding) were united only in God's exhalation. In one sense, the story mystifies the origin of the word by making Odiumare (God) himself the giver of the word to the world as containers of significant intuition. In a more oddly con- temporary sense, the story suggests that bro does not represent the three enablers of knowing. Rather, it is an onomatopoeia: a word trans- lated by the Yornbs Studies Association asfirdsinrdje (employ-sound- to-emulate-sound). The primal oro (a combination of hoo and ro?) merely formalized the vocal inflection of Odhmare's expulsion of the restless three from the sky. The word is the incarnation of unformatted wis- dom, knowledge, and understanding. Odumire did not intentionally design the word to be the expression of wisdom, knowledge, and understanding. Whatever the three elements might have meant in Odumire's guts, once exhaled they become irremediably poetic and linguistic, and we have no mechanism of reconstituting them outside of contingent re-creations. I read Adeniji's narrative as an ethnographic Odhmere [God] sat back and thought about how to create more things in his universe. For this purpose he realized he needed an intermediary force, since he was too charged with energy to come into direct contact with any living thing and have it survive. Therefore he created Ogb6n [wisdom], held it in his palm and thought where it could live. After a while, Odmare released Qgb6n to fly away and look for a suitable place to lodge. When Qgb6n could not find a suitable abode, it flew back, humming like a bee, to Odtmnre who took Qgb6n and swallowed it. Similarly, imb [Knowledge] and Oye [Understanding], which were also created, returned for lack of suitable abodes, and were swallowed for the same reason. . . . After several 'thousand' years during which Odumare was disturbed by the incessant humming of Qgbin, imb, and Oye, he decided to get rid of them in order to have some peace. So he ordered Ogbon, imd, and Oye to descend (ro) making the sound hdd (254-55). Abi6ddn added that the descending (ro) sound, "h66," later became or (word). Abfddon suggests that aro (word) is too intangible to make any sensory impact' So, when it reached the earth, it took advantage of the tangible proverb. Hence, the proverb "Owe lesin 6ro" (The proverb is the horse of words). According to the letters of the narrative, however, the three constitu- ents of knowing (wisdom, knowledge, and understanding) were united only in God's exhalation. In one sense, the story mystifies the origin of the word by making Odhmare (God) himself the giver of the word to the world as containers of significant intuition. In a more oddly con- temporary sense, the story suggests that oro does not represent the three enablers of knowing. Rather, it is an onomatopoeia: a word trans- lated by the Yornba Studies Association asfcisinrodje (employ-sound- to-emulate-sound). The primal ro (a combination of hoo and r) merely formalized the vocal inflection of OdumAre's expulsion of the restless three from the sky. The word is the incarnation of unformatted wis- dom, knowledge, and understanding. Odnmare did not intentionally design the word to be the expression of wisdom, knowledge, and understanding. Whatever the three elements might have meant in bdhmere's guts, once exhaled they become irremediably poetic and linguistic, and we have no mechanism of reconstituting them outside of contingent re-creations. I read Adeniji's narrative as an ethnographic  44 Chapter 2 "proof" that the word, as the metaproverb "Owe lesin drd" suggests, is not a surrogate of transcendental wisdom, knowledge, and under- standing (or an underlying idea) but a sublimation of the contingent interests that surround the proverbial utterance. Other metaproverbial sayings represent the meanings of proverbs as figural constructions. One such saying goes like this: "Bi onle b ti n fi idi isu ban alejo, owe il td to niyen" (If the host begins to show the heel of the yam tuber to the guest, that is a proverb of it is time to go home)t A more modern variant says, "The moment a host starts to scratch the bottom of the pot while the guest is in the kitchen that is no longer a subtle hint that the guest has overstayed." There are no less than three proverbs in that saying. The first proverb is the whole statement; the second is the signifying act ("if the host begins to show the heel of the yam tuber to the guest"); and the third the signified ("it is time to go home"). The proverb, as it were, confirms the structuralist principle that the signified of a signifier results from the combination of other signifiers. The adage in question creates its own context, cites a pro\ er- bial action, and then proceeds to interpret itself as a proverb. Certainly, the interpretation (the signified) is different from the sig- nifying act, but it does not for that reason assume a figural privilege over the signifying act. Instead, it is further bound by the proverbial web. The saying incorporates the signified "intent" into the proverb by calling "meaning" another proverb amidst other proverbs. The proverb makes the referent neither an "exterior" reality nor a mere substantial substitute for an anterior presence. According to the saying's logic, the ostensibly extraproverbial meaning is itself proverbial. Meaning, or interpretation, is represented as an act of figuration. Meaning is just as proverbial as the context of citation (or proverbial behavior). Contrary to received wisdom, the proverb does not simply augment other forms of expressing contingent consciousness. In the adage, the markers of contingency (time, participants, pragmatics, etc.) assume meaning only within proverbiality. The saying neither equates nor substitutes the actions and utterances for an overriding meaning but establishes the different parts of the utterance that together constitute a structure of a meaning-making entity. The adage complicates mediation by suggest- ing that the performative deed of the host (exposing the heel of the yam), which is supposed to mediate and defuse rude complaints about the guest, is further mediated by the entire proverb-another mediat- ing act. The proverb, in a broad sense, then mediates another media- tion. 44 Chapter 2 "proof" that the word, as the metaproverb "Owe lesin ord" suggests, is not a surrogate of transcendental wisdom, knowledge, and under- standing (or an underlying idea) but a sublimation of the contingent interests that surround the proverbial utterance. Other metaproverbial sayings represent the meanings of proverbs as figural constructions. One such saying goes like this: "Bi onile b ti n fi idi isu han Alejb, owe ile t6 o niyen" (If the host begins to show the heel of the yam tuber to the guest, that is a proverb of it is time to go home). A more modern variant says, "The moment a host starts to scratch the bottom of the pot while the guest is in the kitchen that is no longer a subtle hint that the guest has overstayed." There are no less than three proverbs in that saying. The first proverb is the whole statement; the second is the signifying act ("if the host begins to shou the heel of the yam tuber to the guest"); and the third the signified ("it is time to go home"). The proverb, as it were, confirms the structuralist principle that the signified of a signifier results from the combination of other signifiers. The adage in question creates its own context, cites a prover- bial action, and then proceeds to interpret itself as a proverb. Certainly, the interpretation (the signified) is different from the sig- nifying act, but it does not for that reason assume a figural privilege over the signifying act. Instead, it is further bound by the proverbial web. The saying incorporates the signified "intent" into the proverb by calling "meaning" another proverb amidst other proverbs. The proserb makes the referent neither an "exterior" reality nor a mere substantial substitute for an anterior presence. According to the saying's logic, the ostensibly extraproverbial meaning is itself proverbial. Meaning, or interpretation, is represented as an act of figuration. Meaning is just as proverbial as the context of citation (or proverbial behavior). Conteary to received wisdom, the proverb does not simply augment other forms of expressing contingent consciousness. In the adage, the markers of contingency (time, participants, pragmatics, etc.) assume meaning only within proverbiality. The saying neither equates nor substitutes the actions and utterances for an overriding meaning but establishes the different parts of the utterance that together constitute a structure of a meaning-making entity. The adage complicates mediation by suggest- ing that the performative deed of the host (exposing the heel of the yam), which is supposed to mediate and defuse rude complaints about the guest, is further mediated by the entire proverb-another mediat- ing act. The proverb, in a broad sense, then mediates another media- tion. 44 Chapter 2 "proof" that the word, as the metaproverb "Owe lesin hrd" suggests, is not a surrogate of transcendental wisdom, knowledge, and under- standing (or an underlying idea) but a sublimation of the contingent interests that surround the proverbial utterance. Other metaproverbial sayings represent the meanings of proverbs as figural constructions. One such saying goes like this: "Bi onle bo ti n fi idi isu han alejd, dwe fie to lo nyen" (If the host begins to show the heel of the yam tuber to the guest, that is a proverb of it is time to go home. A more modern variant says, "The moment a host starts to scratch the bottom of the pot while the guest is in the kitchen that is no longer a subtle hint that the guest has overstayed." There are no less than three proverbs in that saying. The first proverb is the whole statement; the second is the sigoifying act ("if the host begins to show the heel of the yam tuber to the guest"); and the third the signified ("it is time to go home"). The proverb, as it were, confirms the structuralist principle that the signified of a signifier results from the combination of other signifiers. The adage in question creates its own context, cites a proser- bial action, and then proceeds to interpret itself as a proverb. Certainly, the interpretation (the signified) is different from the sig- nifying act, but it does not for that reason assume a figural privilege over the signifying act. Instead, it is further bound by the proverbial web. The saying incorporates the signified "intent" into the proverb by calling "meaning" another proverb amidst other proverbs. The proverb makes the referent neither an "exterior" reality nor a mere substantial substitute for an anterior presence. According to the saying's logic, the ostensibly extraproverbial meaning is itself proverbial. Meaning, or interpretation, is represented as an act of figuration. Meaning is just as proverbial as the context of citation (or proverbial behavior). Contrary to received wisdom, the proverb does not simply augment other forms of expressing contingent consciousness. In the adage, the markers of contingency (time, participants, pragmatics, etc.) assume meaning only within proverbiality. The saying neither equates nor substitutes the actions and utterances for an overriding meaning but establishes the different parts of the utterance that together constitute a structure of a meaning-making entity. The adage complicates mediation by suggest- ing that the performative deed of the host (exposing the heel of the yam), which is supposed to mediate and defuse rude complaints about the guest, is further mediated by the entire proverb-another mediat- ing act. The proverb, in a broad sense, then mediates another media- tion. The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 45 The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 45 The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 45 Other Yoruba terminologies for figuration support the hypothesis that the proverb, as a speech genre, is not a carrier of overwhelming preconceived tradition. When, for her study of Yoraba narratology, Deirdre LaPin asked folk storytellers "What is ald [narrative]?," her respondents answered, "Iro if16" -Ala is a lie (95). She inferred from this answer that her informants knew that both fiction (alo') and a lie (iry) share structural similarities. Her informants' answer refers to the artificing displacement (irt), or entwinement (elid), common to both fictive and nonfictive "lying." Two other narrative terms, itan and iron, confirm that fact. ltan denotes deception and dissemination; iron im- plies dispatching and sewing (suturing). Of the three, only itan sug- gests an opposition to truthfulness (etan) implied in the English word "fiction." However, the root morpheme in itan, tan, also means to illuminate, to propagate, and to disperse. These other senses dovetail with the entwinement and deferral in irdn and ali. The terms suggest that narratives are pragmatic deployments of narrative types. Word patterns in Yorhbd phonology indicate that fiction narrators do not "tell," that is, merely lift from the communal collection, pre- formed stories: they are hatched (pa). This predicator of a story perfor- mance, pa, is also used for the cracking of a kernel. Other nouns of figuration turn on the same root word pa: to command is stated as pa asp; pa owe means to cite a proverb; and pa aroko means to deploy personalized codes. The meanings implied-a cracking or hatching that predicates an entwinement or dispersion-in the structure of Yor6ba words for narrative do not suggest fidelity to an antecedent certainty but the origination (pipa) of a desired errand.? The etymological and phonological structures of Yorubd narrative terms imply that aesthetic functions do not reside naturally in stories and other generic or inventoried figures of speech. Rather, they show that the pragmatic effect producible by a narrative web or rhetorical construct flows from the author's methodical ordering of different story elements. In Yorubd rhetoric, narrative materials can be manipu- lated so that they will produce either a fabulation (arofp, aroso) or a persuasion (arigtn). The root morpheme in both cases, ro, denotes contrivance or artifice. The intended effect of each contrivance pro- ceeds from the author's negotiation of performance variables. R6p6 Sekont says that these variables include the "fluctuation of audience sensation, suspense and surprise, the interplay between predictability (an advanced epistemic sense of the whole) and uncertainty (epistemic denial of necessary information), and the variegation of experience Other Yorubd terminologies for figuration support the hypothesis that the proverb, as a speech genre, is not a carrier of overwhelming preconceived tradition. When, for her study of Yorubd narratology, Deirdre LaPin asked folk storytellers "What is ald [narrative]?," her respondents answered, "Ir tl6"-Alb is a lie (95). She inferred from this answer that her informants knew that both fiction (alas) and a lie (iry) share structural similarities. Her informants' answer refers to the artificing displacement (iroi), or entwinement (elo), common to both fictive and nonfictive "lying." Two other narrative terms, itan and iron, confirm that fact. Itan denotes deception and dissemination; irdn im- plies dispatching and sewing (suturing). Of the three, only itan sug- gests an opposition to truthfulness (etan) implied in the English word "fiction." However, the root morpheme in itan, tan, also means to illuminate, to propagate, and to disperse. These other senses dovetail with the entwinement and deferral in irdn and alp. The terms suggest that narratives are pragmatic deployments of narrative types. Word patterns in Yoruba phonology indicate that fiction narrators do not "tell," that is, merely lift from the communal collection, pre- formed stories: they are hatched (pa). This predicator of a story perfor- mance, pa, is also used for the cracking of a kernel. Other nouns of figuration turn on the same root word pa: to command is stated as pa ase; pa owe means to cite a proverb; and pa aroko means to deploy personalized codes. The meanings implied-a cracking or hatching that predicates an entwinement or dispersion-in the structure of Yorbbd words for narrative do not suggest fidelity to an antecedent certainty but the origination (pipa) of a desired errand.10 The etymological and phonological structures of Yorbba narrative terms imply that aesthetic functions do not reside naturally in stories and other generic or inventoried figures of speech. Rather, they show that the pragmatic effect producible by a narrative web or rhetorical construct flows from the author's methodical ordering of different story elements. In Yorbba rhetoric, narrative materials can be manipu- lated so that they will produce either a fabulation (arofo, aroso) or a persuasion (arbgan). The root morpheme in both cases, ro, denotes contrivance or artifice. The intended effect of each contrivance pro- ceeds from the author's negotiation of performance variables. R6pd Sekonf says that these variables include the "fluctuation of audience sensation, suspense and surprise, the interplay between predictability (an advanced epistemic sense of the whole) and uncertainty (epistemic denial of necessary information), and the variegation of experience Other Yorhbd terminologies for figuration support the hypothesis that the proverb, as a speech genre, is not a carrier of overwhelming preconceived tradition. When, for her study of Yorhbd narratology, Deirdre LaPin asked folk storytellers "What is ala [narrative]?," her respondents answered, "Ir lalo"-Al is a lie (95). She inferred from this answer that her informants knew that both fiction (al') and a lie (ird;) share structural similarities. Her informants' answer refers to the artificing displacement (iro), or entwinement (elo'), common to both fictive and nonfictive "lying." Two other narrative terms, itan and irdon, confirm that fact. Itan denotes deception and dissemination; irdn im- plies dispatching and sewing (suturing). Of the three, only itan sug- gests an opposition to truthfulness (etan) implied in the English word "fiction." However, the root morpheme in itan, tan, also means to illuminate, to propagate, and to disperse. These other senses dovetail with the entwinement and deferral in irdn and ali. The terms suggest that narratives are pragmatic deployments of narrative types. Word patterns in Yoraba phonology indicate that fiction narrators do not "tell," that is, merely lift from the communal collection, pre- formed stories: they are hatched (pa). This predicator of a story perfor- mance, pa, is also used for the cracking of a kernel. Other nouns of figuration turn on the same root word pa: to command is stated as pa ase; pa owe means to cite a proverb; and pa droka means to deploy personalized codes. The meanings implied-a cracking or hatching that predicates an entwinement or dispersion-in the structure of Yordbd words for narrative do not suggest fidelity to an antecedent certainty but the origination (pipa) of a desired errand." The etymological and phonological structures of Yorfbd narrative terms imply that aesthetic functions do not reside naturally in stories and other generic or inventoried figures of speech. Rather, they show that the pragmatic effect producible by a narrative web or rhetorical construct flows from the author's methodical ordering of different story elements. In Yorubd rhetoric, narrative materials can be manipu- lated so that they will produce either a fabulation (arofa, arbso) or a persuasion (ardgun). The root morpheme in both cases, ro, denotes contrivance or artifice. The intended effect of each contrivance pro- ceeds from the author's negotiation of performance variables. R6p6 Sekoni says that these variables include the "fluctuation of audience sensation, suspense and surprise, the interplay between predictability (an advanced epistemic sense of the whole) and uncertainty (epistemic denial of necessary information), and the variegation of experience  46 Chapter 2 (employment of multiple codes to signify the same phenomenon)" (3). Thus, depending on the permutation of audience, image alignment. and the performer's desire and degree of self-consciousness, a particu- lar story can be performed to persuade and/or to merely tickle the senses. The undertones of indeterminacy in the meaning of Yornba terms for hermeneutics further confirm that the role of contingency in compo- sition is a systemic issue in the language. The overriding word for meaning, itumo, is an agglutination of -tQ-i-myc, literally the unraveling of a consensus, conspiracy, plot, or in everyday translation, knowledge. Phonologically, the word combines il (unwrapping or unravelingi and imo (knowing, conspiracy, plot," knowledge). Every auditor of a narrative, in varying degrees of awareness and sophistication, is an unraveler of plot (olntomp). Every interpreter assembles a body of meaning out of the patterns detectable in the artificer's "signature" combination. The story's imo (plot in the literary sense or knowledge in epistemology) is not so transparent as to be discovered without effort. In this sense, the unraveled meaning or ima is neither pure immanence nor enlightenment but, literally, a coded "conspiracy" or a contrived disquisition on a method of actions. I render itenm as the unraveling of consensus or plot and not as the colloquial form "meaning," to reiterate the systemic linkage between figuration (itan) as structured dissemina- tion and "reception" (itdma) as further structured dissemination. In pedagogy, imo (knowledge, plot) is different from ek, (lesson or teaching). Elderly storytellers usually ask at the end of their perfor- mance, "Ekd wo ni itn yi k6 wa?" (What lesson does this store teach us?) and never "Imd no o itan yli k6 wa?" (What "plot" does this story teach us?). Indeed, the latter is an ungrammatical sentence, because only ek6 (lesson) can result in im-one proverb teaches that "Kik6 n mimg" (Teaching/learning is knowing/plotting). In Yordba pragmat- ics, plotting (emo) is neither "taught" nor learned separately, because the apprehension process constitutes the larger part of the knowledge, whereas in teaching/learning, a mechanical value or skill is the goal. The object of teaching/learning is the construction of a value or skill, or technique. The object of imo (plot/knowledge) is metatechnique or apperception. In order to possess imo, the ogber (novice) seeks an mmo or an "unraveler of plots" who over a period of time reveals the "my tery" of epistemological plots to the neophyte preparing for admission into a conclave. The master "unraveler" possesses high plot-making 46 Chapter 2 (employment of multiple codes to signify the same phenomenon)" 3 Thus, depending on the permutation of audience, image alignment. and the performer's desire and degree of self-consciousness, a particu- lar story can be performed to persuade and/or to merely tickle the senses. The undertones of indeterminacy in the meaning of Yoruba terms for hermeneutics further confirm that the role of contingency in compo- sition is a systemic issue in the language. The overriding word for meaning, tumae, is an agglutination of i-terermo, literally the unraveling of a consensus, conspiracy, plot, or in everyday translation, knowledge. Phonologically, the word combines it (unwrapping or unraveling and imo (knowing, conspiracy, plot,' knowledge). Every auditor of a narrative, in varying degrees of awareness and sophistication, is an unraveler of plot (olhetcmo). Every interpreter assembles a body of meaning out of the patterns detectable in the artificer's "signature" combination. The story's imp (plot in the literary sense or knowledge in epistemology) is not so transparent as to be discovered without effort. In this sense, the unraveled meaning or ime is neither pure immanence nor enlightenment but, literally, a coded "conspiracy" or a conrived disquisition on a method of actions. I render itcmq as the unraveling of consensus or plot and not as the colloquial form "meaning," to reiterate the systemic linkage between figuration (itan) as structured dissemina- tion and "reception" (itmo) as further structured dissemination. In pedagogy, imoe (knowledge, plot) is different from eke (lesson or teaching). Elderly storytellers usually ask at the end of their perfor- mance, "k wo ni itan yi k6 wa?" (What lesson does this store teach us?) and never "Im6 wo ni itdn yi k6 wa?" (What "plot" does this story teach us?). Indeed, the latter is an ungrammatical sentence, because only eg (lesson) can result in imp-one proverb teaches that "Kik6 ni mim" (Teaching/learning is knowing/plotting). In Yorca pragmat- ics, plotting (emo) is neither "taught" nor learned separately, because the apprehension process constitutes the larger part of the knowledge, whereas in teaching/learning, a mechanical value or skill is the goal. The object of teaching/learning is the construction of a value or skill, or technique. The object of imsa (plot/knowledge) is metatechnique or apperception. In order to possess imo, the ogber( (novice) seeks an om or an "unraveler of plots" who over a period of time reveals the "mys- tery" of epistemological plots to the neophyte preparing for admission into a conclave. The master "unraveler" possesses high plot-making 46 Chapter 2 (employment of multiple codes to signify the same phenomenon)" (3 L Thus, depending on the permutation of audience, image alignment, and the performer's desire and degree of self-consciousness, a particu- lar story can be performed to persuade and/or to merely tickle the senses. The undertones of indeterminacy in the meaning of Yornba terms for hermeneutics further confirm that the role of contingency in compo- sition is a systemic issue in the language. The overriding word for meaning, eteimo, is an agglutination of c-td-i-me, literally the unraveling of a consensus, conspiracy, plot, or in everyday translation, knowledge. Phonologically, the word combines (it (unwrapping or unraveling) and imo (knowing, conspiracy, plot," knowledge). Every auditor of a narrative, in varying degrees of awareness and sophistication, is an unraveler of plot (olutmo). Every interpreter assembles a body of meaning out of the patterns detectable in the artificer's "signature" combination. The story's emo (plot in the literary sense or knowledge in epistemology) is not so transparent as to be discovered without effort In this sense, the unraveled meaning or imo is neither pure immanence nor enlightenment but, literally, a coded "conspiracy" or a contrived disquisition on a method of actions. I render iteemo as the unraveling of consensus or plot and not as the colloquial form "meaning," to reiterate the systemic linkage between figuration (itan) as structured dissemina- tion and "reception" (itdoip) as further structured dissemination. In pedagogy, imo (knowledge, plot) is different from eks (lesson or teaching). Elderly storytellers usually ask at the end of their perfor- mance, "liko wo ni itan ydi k6 wa?" (What lesson does this story teach us?) and never "im6 wo ni ithn yli k6 wa?" (What "plot" does this story teach us?). Indeed, the latter is an ungrammatical sentence, because only e(g (lesson) can result in imn one proverb teaches that "Kik6 ni mimn" (Teaching/learning is knowing/plotting). In Yornba pragmat- ics, plotting (sim) is neither "taught" nor learned separately, because the apprehension process constitutes the larger part of the knowledge, whereas in teaching/learning, a mechanical value or skill is the goal. The object of teaching/learning is the construction of a value or skill, or technique. The object of iro (plot/knowledge) is metatechnique or apperception. In order to possess imo, the gberi (novice) seeks an 7,m, or an "unraveler of plots" who over a period of time reveals the "tNs- tery" of epistemological plots to the neophyte preparing for admission into a conclave. The master "unraveler" possesses high plot-making  The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 47 methods, which he unknots (another meaning of hi) for his ward. At the end of the process, the initiate receives both plot-making knowl- edge (subject matter) and knowledge-making plots (artificing meth- ods), both forms of imo. Barry Hallen and John Sodipo establish two necessary conditions for what I call plot-making knowledge. These are firsthand sensory per- ception (particularly sight [r]) and the "witnessing of the heart" (eri okon), which I think means classification in preexisting generic catego- ries. Hallen and Sodipo add that when a knowledge claim is chal- lenged, the claimant enlarges upon his position (laye) by invoking firsthandedness and urging the skeptic to apply the rule of probability (seese or k seise) to the claim. When the possessor of knowledge (imo) elaborates (layi) on a disputed matter, that person also unwraps (liter- ally, splits open) the process by which he comes about it. If knowledge (imo) were self-evident, mere expression should be enough to convince the auditor of its truth (bito). But truth, like imo, is not self-evident. Hence, the need for plot unraveling (itimo) or explanation (iliyd) arises. Phonological evidence shows that in Yorub6 language, generally, nothing is by itself. In narration and interpretation, both the performer and the auditor use generic codes to make (and unmake) meaning. Both the plot maker and the plot unraveler use means of establishing patterns of relationships (or making "comparisons" [afiwd], in collo- quial Yorhb&) out of which conventionally thematic significance de- rives. As one proverb claims, "Ohun to bi joun la fi n weun" (It is what resembles a thing that we compare to a thing). The Yori Studies Association of Nigeria (YSAN) misses that fundamental fact when, in order to distinguish between metaphor and simile, it coins "crooked comparison" (afiwd elilo) for metaphor and "straightforward compari- son" (afiwi gan an) for simile. In The Signifying Monkey, Henry Louis Gates, Jr., repeats the same fact in his comparative chart on the geneal- ogy of the African-American trope of "naming." He says that naming is the black equivalent of metaphor in "rhetorical trope," askesis in Harold Bloom's "revisionary ratio," a combination of "afiwe el6166" and "iwf gan an" in "classical" Yorhbd and a relative of the loan words metdfo and simili in contemporary Yoruba. Both Gates and the Yorubs Studies Association assume that the absence of "metaphor" and "simile" in the Yornba critical vocabulary calls for a loan. In classical Yorbrh, the distinction between metaphor and simile is redundant, because the concept of "comparison" (afiwd) is fundamental in the poetics, and it The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 47 methods, which he unknots (another meaning of td) for his ward. At the end of the process, the initiate receives both plot-making knowl- edge (subject matter) and knowledge-making plots (artificing meth- ods), both forms of lmo. Barry Hallen and John Sodipo establish two necessary conditions for what I call plot-making knowledge. These are firsthand sensory per- ception (particularly sight {r]) and the "witnessing of the heart" (eri okon), which I think means classification in preexisting generic catego- ries. Hallen and Sodipo add that when a knowledge claim is chal- lenged, the claimant enlarges upon his position (laey) by invoking firsthandedness and urging the skeptic to apply the rule of probability (seese or k sedse) to the claim. When the possessor of knowledge (imo) elaborates (liy) on a disputed matter, that person also unwraps (liter- ally, splits open) the process by which he comes about it. If knowledge (imo) were self-evident, mere expression should be enough to convince the auditor of its truth (into'). But truth, like imo, is not self-evident. Hence, the need for plot unraveling (it mo) or explanation (alay2) arises. Phonological evidence shows that in Yorrhi language, generally, nothing is by itself. In narration and interpretation, both the performer and the auditor use generic codes to make (and unmake) meaning. Both the plot maker and the plot unraveler use means of establishing patterns of relationships (or making "comparisons" [ofiwdc], in collo- quial Yorhba) out of which conventionally thematic significance de- rives. As one proverb claims, "Ohun t6 hi joun la fii we on" (It is what resembles a thing that we compare to a thing). The Yorubs Studies Association of Nigeria (YSAN) misses that fundamental fact when, in order to distinguish between metaphor and simile, it coins "crooked comparison" (affwi elilof ) for metaphor and "straightforward compari- son" (ifirwd gan an) for simile. In The Signifying Monkey, Henry Louis Gates, Jr., repeats the same fact in his comparative chart on the geneal- ogy of the African-American trope of "naming." He says that naming is the black equivalent of metaphor in "rhetorical trope," askesis in Harold Bloom's "revisionary ratio," a combination of "ifiwe elilbo" and "afiwi gan an" in "classical" Yorhba and a relative of the loan words metdf and simili in contemporary Yorba. Both Gates and the Yorhba Studies Association assume that the absence of "metaphor" and "simile" in the Yorba critical vocabulary calls for a loan. In classical Yornbn, the distinction between metaphor and simile is redundant, because the concept of "comparison" (afiw) is fundamental in the poetics, and it TIhe Proverb Is the Horse of Words 47 methods, which he unknots (another meaning of tr) for his ward. At the end of the process, the initiate receives both plot-making knowl- edge (subject matter) and knowledge-making plots (artificing meth- ods), both forms of imot. Barry Hallen and John Sodipo establish two necessary conditions for what I call plot-making knowledge. These are firsthand sensory per- ception (particularly sight [ri]) and the "witnessing of the heart" (eri okon), which I think means classification in preexisting generic catego- ries. Hallen and Sodipo add that when a knowledge claim is chal- lenged, the claimant enlarges upon his position (lay) by invoking firsthandedness and urging the skeptic to apply the rule of probability (seise or kb seese) to the claim. When the possessor of knowledge (fo) elaborates (liyd) on a disputed matter, that person also unwraps (liter- ally, splits open) the process by which he comes about it. If knowledge (imo) were self-evident, mere expression should be enough to convince the auditor of its truth (bitt). But truth, like imo, is not self-evident. Hence, the need for plot unraveling (itumo) or explanation (alayi) arises. Phonological evidence shows that in Yorhbs language, generally, nothing is by itself. In narration and interpretation, both the performer and the auditor use generic codes to make (and unmake) meaning. Both the plot maker and the plot unraveler use means of establishing patterns of relationships (or making "comparisons" [afiwd], in collo- quial Yorbbi) out of which conventionally thematic significance de- rives. As one proverb claims, "Ohun to ba joun la fii wd on" (It is what resembles a thing that we compare to a thing). The Yoruba Studies Association of Nigeria (YSAN) misses that fundamental fact when, in order to distinguish between metaphor and simile, it coins "crooked comparison" (afiwi elilot) for metaphor and "straightforward compari- son" (afiwi gan an) for simile. In The Signifying Monkey, Henry Louis Gates, Jr., repeats the same fact in his comparative chart on the geneal- ogy of the African-American trope of "naming." He says that naming is the black equivalent of metaphor in "rhetorical trope," askesis in Harold Bloom's "revisionary ratio," a combination of "afiwd e16166" and "Afiwi gan an" in "classical" Yorub and a relative of the loan words ometafo and simli in contemporary Yoruba. Both Gates and the Yortbi Studies Association assume that the absence of "metaphor" and "simile" in the Yornbs critical vocabulary calls for a loan. In classical Yoruba, the distinction between metaphor and simile is redundant, because the concept of "comparison" (afio) is fundamental in the poetics, and it  48 Chapter 2 hardly matters whether the comparison is "crooked" or "straight.' In Yorhbi phonology, "Afiw6 el6166" (crooked comparison) is tautologi- cal, for anything compared ("fi wa") is already entwined (wtt). I deem it significant that the root morpheme of the fundamental signification process we (to compare, to intersect) is also the same for the book (liw). Book, introduced during the colonial times as the ulti- mate form of redemptive knowledge (for Christians) is, not surpris- ingly, literally that which is wrapped, "ih." Like narrative ale or "that which is entwined") and interpretation (ithmo, or that which is unraveled), the Yoruba word for book connotes concealment and pos- sible subterfuge. These are the same notions implied in the metapro erb "Owe lesin 6ro bi hro bi soni owe la fi i wa A" (The proverb is the horse of the word; if the word is lost we use the proverb to search for it). I think "the book" is named in a way that connotes a similarity with figuration terms because they are all forms of preserving and dissemi- nating consensus, plot, and secrecy (o) that are often expressed in codes (awo). Literary and orature critics, and other seekers of plot- making knowledge and knowledge-making plots, are usually detising ways of untangling consensus and strategic scheming through "com- parisons" or discovering "intersections" of categories." The primacy of secrecy and revelation in Yorba epistemological terms suggests to me that the institutional hermeneutic practices in- vented in the precolonial (traditional) esoteric knowledge societies (or cults, in anthropological terms) are the origin of the secular term for meaning (to). In the Ifl divination orders, for instance, diviners practice primarily the techniques of decoding the will of the gods from versified stories. The babalawo (the diviner, or literally, the father of ciphered secrecy) receives during his lifelong training in the methods of matching contingent interpretation of sacred texts with the needs of living propitiators. Studies of divination practices also confirm that acts of interpretation do not merely decode a preexisting consciousness, The divination deity, Ifa, speaks only in "established" narratives, which are then "opened" and "read" by the babaldo according to some "eso- teric" graphic marks-sometimes expressed as imprinting (itceKi)-ar- rived at during the consultation process. The most striking point about this practice for my purpose here is that the diviner interprets the texts differently-without malice, of course-as occasioned by particular counseling sessions. It is not unusual for the same diviner to give different interpretations of a single text to different clients. Neither is it 48 Chapter 2 hardly matters whether the comparison is "crooked" or "straight." In Yorhba phonology, "afiwe elloo" (crooked comparison) is tautologi- cal, for anything compared ("fi wi") is already entwined (w#e). I deem it significant that the root morpheme of the fundamental signification process w (to compare, to intersect) is also the same for the book (iw). Book, introduced during the colonial times as the ulti- mate form of redemptive knowledge (for Christians) is, not surpris- ingly, literally that which is wrapped, "iw ." Like narrative (il, or "that which is entwined") and interpretation (ctumt, or that which is unraveled), the Yorubi word for book connotes concealment and pos- sible subterfuge. These are the same notions implied in the metaproverb "Owe lesin hr bf 6ro ba sonuh owe la fi f wa a" (The proverb is the horse of the word; if the word is lost we use the proverb to search for it). I think "the book" is named in a way that connotes a similarity with figuration terms because they are all forms of preseving and dissemi- nating consensus, plot, and secrecy (imqs) that are often expressed in codes (awo). Literary and orature critics, and other seekers of plot- making knowledge and knowledge-making plots, are usually devising ways of untangling consensus and strategic scheming through "com- parisons" or discovering "intersections" of categories. The primacy of secrecy and revelation in Yornba epistemological terms suggests to me that the institutional hermeneutic practices in- vented in the precolonial (traditional) esoteric knowledge societies (or cults, in anthropological terms) are the origin of the secular term for meaning (tmo). In the Ifa divination orders, for instance, diviners practice primarily the techniques of decoding the will of the gods from versified stories. The babaldwo (the diviner, or literally, the father of ciphered secrecy) receives during his lifelong training in the methods of matching contingent interpretation of sacred texts with the needs of living propitiators. Studies of divination practices also confirm that acts of interpretation do not merely decode a preexisting consciousness. The divination deity, Ifa, speaks only in "established" narratives, which are then "opened" and "read" by the babaldoo according to some "eso- teric" graphic marks-sometimes expressed as imprinting Ote'i)-ar- rived at during the consultation process. The most striking point about this practice for my purpose here is that the diviner interprets the texts differently-without malice, of course-as occasioned by particular counseling sessions. It is not unusual for the same diviner to give different interpretations of a single text to different clients. Neither is it 48 Chapter 2 hardly matters whether the comparison is "crooked" or "straight." In Yorrba phonology, "afiwe e161d6" (crooked comparison) is tautologi- cal, for anything compared ("fi we") is already entwined (wc). I deem it significant that the root morpheme of the fundamental signification process wd (to compare, to intersect) is also the same for the book (we). Book, introduced during the colonial times as the ulti- mate form of redemptive knowledge (for Christians) is, not surpris- ingly, literally that which is wrapped, "iw ." Like narrative (al or "that which is entwined") and interpretation (itumoe, or that which is unraveled), the Yorubi word for book connotes concealment and pos- sible subterfuge. These are the same notions implied in the metaproterb "Owe lesin 6ro bi ro b6 sonu owe la fi i wa a" (The proverb is the horse of the word; if the word is lost we use the proverb to search for it). I think "the book" is named in a way that connotes a similarity with figuration terms because they are all forms of preserving and dissemi- nating consensus, plot, and secrecy (hmo) that are often expressed in codes (auo). Literary and orature critics, and other seekers of plot- making knowledge and knowledge-making plots, are usually devising ways of untangling consensus and strategic scheming through "com- parisons" or discovering "intersections"ofeategaores The primacy of secrecy and revelation in Yorhba epistemological terms suggests to me that the institutional hermeneutic practices in- vented in the precolonial (traditional) esoteric knowledge societies (or cults, in anthropological terms) are the origin of the secular term for meaning (itmo). In the Ifd divination orders, for instance, diviners practice primarily the techniques of decoding the will of the gods from versified stories. The babalawo (the diviner, or literally, the father of ciphered secrecy) receives during his lifelong training in the methods of matching contingent interpretation of sacred texts with the needs of living propitiators. Studies of divination practices also confirm that acts of interpretation do not merely decode a preexisting consciousness. The divination deity, Ifi, speaks only in "established" narratives, which are then "opened" and "read" by the babaldwo according to some "eso- teric" graphic marks-sometimes expressed as imprinting (ite-) ar- rived at during the consultation process. The most striking point about this practice for my purpose here is that the diviner interprets the texts differently-without malice, of course-as occasioned by particular counseling sessions. It is not unusual for the same diviner to give different interpretations of a single text to different clients. Neither is it  The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 49 uncommon for different texts to be given identical interpretations. According to Gates, "what the supplicant hears read to him, in 'the signature of odh [the chanted divination verse]/ is neither a literal revelation of his fate nor a set of commands that can be put into practice to appease or redress" (Signifying 21). In order to arrive at a "reading," the diviner performs simultaneously the roles of both a storyteller or "narrative-hatcher" (opftan) and an "unraveler of plots" (olktlmb) who disseminates the significance of a "divine" lyric by comparing the patterns of the image clusters, the plot logic, and the client's demeanor.". The Proverb, Nativism, and Textual Interpretation I have argued in this chapter that it is quite possible to think of the proverb (bowe)-the Yorb figure of "comparison" (or signification in the structuralist sense) and the nativist's trope of choice-as a figure that does not transport a cultural unconscious. The "meaning" of the term proverb suggests, like other Yorbs terms for figuration, that the deployment of rhetorical structures always begins and concludes with structural remainders that will be necessary for subsequent "compari- son" and "suturing." In Yorhbd figuration, rhetoric is regarded as a function of text and intertext. In the specific case of the proverb, we have seen that the figure is simultaneously fragmentary, historical, and timeless. It can mean what it says without necessarily saying what it means. Proverbs are simultaneously figurative and literal. They are true and untrue, realistic and nonrealistic, local idiomatically and uni- versal in their assumptions. Because of these attributes, proverbs are unable to transport a cultural unconscious that can be quoted in full at all times. Nativist analyses ought to reflect, as the Yorhbd terms demonstrate, that textual figurations are active appropriations of preformed genres whose meanings are not exhausted either in the tradition that incorpo- rated them or in the performance circumstances in which they are used. The classical position that self-conscious artistry and "muddy" dis- courses that foreground the intricacies of material figuration are not indigenous to African aesthetics needs to be taken, as Achebe's writing demonstrates, as a particular response to historical situations. Textuality, in Yorhbd literary terms and ideas, is a complex weaving; and interpre- tation, in the same cultural and linguistic corpus, is no less so. In both acts, as the discussion about proverbs shows, the place of the material figure is a prominent one. The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 49 uncommon for different texts to be given identical interpretations. According to Gates, "what the supplicant hears read to him, in 'the signature of odD [the chanted divination verse],' is neither a literal revelation of his fate nor a set of commands that can be put into practice to appease or redress" (Sigmifying 21). In order to arrive at a "reading," the diviner performs simultaneously the roles of both a storyteller or "narrative-hatcher" (opitdn) and an "unraveler of plots" (oltdm) who disseminates the significance of a "divine" lyric by comparing the patterns of the image clusters, the plot logic, and the client's demeanor. " The Proverb, Nativism, and Textual Interpretation I have argued in this chapter that it is quite possible to think of the proverb (owe)-the Yorhbd figure of "comparison" (or signification in the structuralist sense) and the nativist's trope of choice-as a figure that does not transport a cultural unconscious. The "meaning" of the term proverb suggests, like other Yorfhb terms for figuration, that the deployment of rhetorical structures always begins and concludes with structural remainders that will be necessary for subsequent "compari- son" and "suturing." In Yorhbd figuration, rhetoric is regarded as a function of text and intertext. In the specific case of the proverb, we have seen that the figure is simultaneously fragmentary, historical, and timeless. It can mean what it says without necessarily saying what it means. Proverbs are simultaneously figurative and literal. They are true and untrue, realistic and nonrealistic, local idiomatically and uni- versal in their assumptions. Because of these attributes, proverbs are unable to transport a cultural unconscious that can be quoted in full at all times. Nativist analyses ought to reflect, as the Yorhbi terms demonstrate, that textual figurations are active appropriations of preformed genres whose meanings are not exhausted either in the tradition that incorpo- rated them or in the performance circumstances in which they are used. The classical position that self-conscious artistry and "muddy" dis- courses that foreground the intricacies of material figuration are not indigenous to African aesthetics needs to be taken, as Achebe's writing demonstrates, as a particular response to historical situations. Textuality, in Yornbd literary terms and ideas, is a complex weaving; and interpre- tation, in the same cultural and linguistic corpus, is no less so. In both acts, as the discussion about proverbs shows, the place of the material figure is a prominent one. The Proverb Is the Horse of Words 49 uncommon for different texts to be given identical interpretations. According to Gates, "what the supplicant hears read to him, in 'the signature of odD [the chanted divination verse],' is neither a literal revelation of his fate nor a set of commands that can be put into practice to appease or redress" (Signfying 21). In order to arrive at a "reading," the diviner performs simultaneously the roles of both a storyteller or "narrative-hatcher" (opitdn) and an "unraveler of plots" (oltmono) who disseminates the significance of a "divine" lyric by comparing the patterns of the image clusters, the plot logic, and the client's demeanor." The Proverb, Nativism, and Textual Interpretation I have argued in this chapter that it is quite possible to think of the proverb (oe)-the Yorhbd figure of "comparison" (or signification in the structuralist sense) and the nativist's trope of choice-as a figure that does not transport a cultural unconscious. The "meaning" of the term proverb suggests, like other Yorrbd terms for figuration, that the deployment of rhetorical structures always begins and concludes with structural remainders that will be necessary for subsequent "compari- son" and "suturing." In Yornbd figuration, rhetoric is regarded as a function of text and intertext. In the specific case of the proverb, we have seen that the figure is simultaneously fragmentary, historical, and timeless. It can mean what it says without necessarily saying what it means. Proverbs are simultaneously figurative and literal. They are true and untrue, realistic and nonrealistic, local idiomatically and uni- versal in their assumptions. Because of these attributes, proverbs are unable to transport a cultural unconscious that can be quoted in full at all times. Nativist analyses ought to reflect, as the Yorubd terms demonstrate, that textual figurations are active appropriations of preformed genres whose meanings are not exhausted either in the tradition that incorpo- rated them or in the performance circumstances in which they are used. The classical position that self-conscious artistry and "muddy" dis- courses that foreground the intricacies of material figuration are not indigenous to African aesthetics needs to be taken, as Achebe's writing demonstrates, as a particular response to historical situations. Textuality, in Yornbd literary terms and ideas, is a complex weaving; and interpre- tation, in the same cultural and linguistic corpus, is no less so. In both acts, as the discussion about proverbs shows, the place of the material figure is a prominent one.  3 3 Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts Chinua Achebe's Arrow of God and Qadejo Okddiji's Riri Rtn Chinua Achebe and Qlsdejo Okidiji are two Nigerian writers whose recognition, or lack thereof, in African literary criticism reflects the determinant power of the "nonliterary" politics of material languages in modern African literatures. Achebe, whose best-known works are set in traditional Igbo communities, writes in a "national" language, English. Okediji, whose major works deal with modern problems of urban crime, writes in an "ethnic" language, Yornbd.i Except among those also involved in Yorubd studies, Okidiji, like most other ethnic- language writers, is virtually unknown to African literary criticism. The case is not likely to be very different even if the topic is the use of proverbs in fiction, although Achebe's acclaimed skill in the matter is no more dexterous than Okediji's. Whereas criticism has made a pro- verbial case out of Achebe's proverbs, the Yorhbd language medium of Okidiji's works has limited the critical attention his writing receives. In the discussion of the work of the relatively unknown Okediji and the well-known Achebe carried out in this chapter, I begin a detailed appli- cation of the "writing" conception of native tropes, specifically the proverb, to a deconstructive criticism of African writing. In African literature, proverbs are commonly used to mark thematic shifts, indigenous high rhetoric, self-conscious speech, and the intellec- tual sharpness of characters. Proverb citation also often complements laudatory portrayals of village life. Outside of the rural setting, ordi- narily alienated educated characters quote stilted proverbs as learned Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts Chinua Achebe's Arrow of God and Qladejo Okddiji's Rgre Rin Chinua Achebe and Qlidejq Okldiji are two Nigerian writers whose recognition, or lack thereof, in African literary criticism reflects the determinant power of the "nonliterary" politics of material languages in modern African literatures. Achebe, whose best-known works are set in traditional Igbo communities, writes in a "national" language, English. Okidiji, whose major works deal with modern problems of urban crime, writes in an "ethnic" language, Yorubd. Except among those also involved in Yornb6 studies, Okediji, like most other ethnic- language writers, is virtually unknown to African literary criticism. The case is not likely to be very different even if the topic is the use of proverbs in fiction, although Achebe's acclaimed skill in the matter is no more dexterous than Okddiji's. Whereas criticism has made a pro- verbial case out of Achebe's proverbs, the Yortba language medium of Okidiji's works has limited the critical attention his writing receives. In the discussion of the work of the relatively unknown Okediji and the well-known Achebe carried out in this chapter, I begin a detailed appli- cation of the "writing" conception of native tropes, specifically the proverb, to a deconstructive criticism of African writing. In African literature, proverbs are commonly used to mark thematic shifts, indigenous high rhetoric, self-conscious speech, and the intellec- tual sharpness of characters. Proverb citation also often complements laudatory portrayals of village life. Outside of the rural setting, ordi- narily alienated educated characters quote stilted proverbs as learned Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts Chinua Achebe's Arrow of God and Q1Adejo Okddiji's Rire Rn Chinua Achebe and Olidejo Okddiji are two Nigerian writers whose recognition, or lack thereof, in African literary criticism reflects the determinant power of the "nonliterary" politics of material languages in modern African literatures. Achebe, whose best-known works are set in traditional Igbo communities, writes in a "national" language, English. Okediji, whose major works deal with modern problems of urban crime, writes in an "ethnic" language, Yorhb.' Except among those also involved in Yorhba studies, Okediji, like most other ethnic- language writers, is virtually unknown to African literary criticism. The case is not likely to be very different even if the topic is the use of proverbs in fiction, although Achebe's acclaimed skill in the matter is no more dexterous than Okediji's. Whereas criticism has made a pro- verbial case out of Achebe's proverbs, the Yorubd language medium of Okediji's works has limited the critical attention his writing receives. In the discussion of the work of the relatively unknown Okediji and the well-known Achebe carried out in this chapter, I begin a detailed appli- cation of the "writing" conception of native tropes, specifically the proverb, to a deconstructive criticism of African writing. In African literature, proverbs are commonly used to mark thematic shifts, indigenous high rhetoric, self-conscious speech, and the intellec- tual sharpness of characters. Proverb citation also often complements laudatory portrayals of village life. Outside of the rural setting, ordi- narily alienated educated characters quote stilted proverbs as learned  acknowledgment of rustic wisdom. In short, writers find in the sayings a very economical method of reflecting native ways of speaking about the world. As Achebe says, they represent "our Great Tradition." In Emmanuel Obiechina's most recent work, on the coexistence of oral artifacts and written forms in African cultures, the presence of proverbs in African writing best represents for him the citational relationship that obtains between oral traditions and the written ones that devel- oped after them. The critical analysis beginning in this chapter takes the criticism of native tropes in African literature in other directions by focusing on how the self-conscious usage of what we normally call native adages foreground the nature of material literary media and the role they play in literary meaning-making processes. The two selected texts, Achebe's Arrow of God and Okediji's R(r, Rdun are exemplary achievements of nativist poetics, the former for classical nativism and the latter for linguistic nativism. "A Messenger Does Not Choose Its Message": The Contests of Text and Context in Achebe's Arrow of God The one topic that most of Achebe's critics write about is his conspicu- ous use of proverbs. Numerous works have shown that Achebe uses proverbs to add distinctively local shade to his settings, to depict the speech patterns and conventions of Igbo characters who would not ordinarily speak English, to define these characters by the particular types of proverbs they use, and also to exercise narrative control by changing "thematic" statements as his plots develop. Studies of the sociology of language use in Achebe's fiction reveal that women and children do not quote proverbs in Achebe's Igboland and that "edu- cated" people often misuse proverbs The large interest in this aspect of Achebe's style seems to have been encouraged by his philosophical statements on African writing ana- lyzed earlier in the first chapter. Critics who follow Achebe's words literally see him as a teacher-writer and believe that he chooses the proverb as his signature idiom because no other rhetorical device serves better that role. The proverb is deemed to be such a good friend of the teacher-novelist because it is an oral and rural manner of speaking, is highly pragmatic, and is unavoidably didactic. The proverb, Eira Patnaik says, "penetrates to the heart of the situation and character, lending, at the same time, to succinct thought a freshness of expression and inge- niousness of idea" (68). I propose here a deconstructive and rhetorical acknowledgment of rustic wisdom. In short, writers find in the sayings a very economical method of reflecting native ways of speaking about the world. As Achebe says, they represent "our Great Tradition." In Emmanuel Obiechina's most recent work, on the coexistence of oral artifacts and written forms in African cultures, the presence of proverbs in African writing best represents for him the citational relationship that obtains between oral traditions and the written ones that devel- oped after them. The critical analysis beginning in this chapter takes the criticism of native tropes in African literature in other directions by focusing on how the self-conscious usage of what we normally call native adages foreground the nature of material literary media and the role they play in literary meaning-making processes. The two selected texts, Achebe's Arrow of God and Okediji's Rir Rin are exemplary achievements of nativist poetics, the former for classical nativism and the latter for linguistic nativism. "A Messenger Does Not Choose Its Message": The Contests of Text and Context in Achebe's Arrow of God The one topic that most of Achebe's critics write about is his conspicu- ous use of proverbs. Numerous works have shown that Achebe uses proverbs to add distinctively local shade to his settings, to depict the speech patterns and conventions of Igbo characters who would not ordinarily speak English, to define these characters by the particular types of proverbs they use, and also to exercise narrative control by changing "thematic" statements as his plots develop. Studies of the sociology of language use in Achebe's fiction reveal that women and children do not quote proverbs in Achebe's Igboland and that "edu- cated" people often misuse proverbs The large interest in this aspect of Achebe's style seems to have been encouraged by his philosophical statements on African writing ana- lyzed earlier in the first chapter. Critics who follow Achebe's words literally see him as a teacher-writer and believe that he chooses the proverb as his signature idiom because no other rhetorical device serves better that role. The proverb is deemed to be such a good friend of the teacher-novelist because it is an oral and rural manner of speaking, is highly pragmatic, and is unavoidably didactic. The proverb, Eira Patnaik says, "penetrates to the heart of the situation and character, lending, at the same time, to succinct thought a freshness of expression and inge- niousness of idea" (68). I propose here a deconstructive and rhetorical acknowledgment of rustic wisdom. In short, writers find in the sayings a very economical method of reflecting native ways of speaking about the world. As Achebe says, they represent "our Great Tradition." In Emmanuel Obiechina's most recent work, on the coexistence of oral artifacts and written forms in African cultures, the presence of proverbs in African writing best represents for him the citational relationship that obtains between oral traditions and the written ones that devel- oped after them. The critical analysis beginning in this chapter takes the criticism of native tropes in African literature in other directions by focusing on how the self-conscious usage of what we normally call native adages foreground the nature of material literary media and the role they play in literary meaning-making processes. The two selected texts, Achebe's Arrow of God and Okdiji's Rdrd Run are exemplary achievements of nativist poetics, the former for classical nativism and the latter for linguistic nativism. "A Messenger Does Not Choose Its Message": The Contests of Text and Context in Achebe's Arrow of God The one topic that most of Achebe's critics write about is his conspicu- ous use of proverbs. Numerous works have shown that Achebe uses proverbs to add distinctively local shade to his settings, to depict the speech patterns and conventions of Igbo characters who would not ordinarily speak English, to define these characters by the particular types of proverbs they use, and also to exercise narrative control by changing "thematic" statements as his plots develop. Studies of the sociology of language use in Achebe's fiction reveal that women and children do not quote proverbs in Achebe's Igboland and that "edu- cated" people often misuse proverbs' The large interest in this aspect of Achebe's style seems to have been encouraged by his philosophical statements on African writing ana- lyzed earlier in the first chapter. Critics who follow Achebe's words literally see him as a teacher-writer and believe that he chooses the proverb as his signature idiom because no other rhetorical device serves better that role. The proverb is deemed to be such a good friend of the teacher-novelist because it is an oral and rural manner of speaking, is highly pragmatic, and is unavoidably didactic. The proverb, Eira Patnaik says, "penetrates to the heart of the situation and character, lending, at the same time, to succinct thought a freshness of expression and inge- niousness of idea" (68). I propose here a deconstructive and rhetorical  52 Chapter3 reading of Arrow of God with one adage about the proper role of the material symbol in the communication relay, "The messenger does not choose its message" (158). The contradictions between events in the story and the proverb's recommendation on the proper comportment of the messenger is of particular significance for the kind of self-reflex- ive textual analysis lacking in Achebe criticism specifically and classical nativism generally. In the "oral" world of Arrow of God, discussions about the politics and ethics of making communication codes and their interpretation- topics that belong more appropriately to "literate" societies-are run- ning themes. In the novel, the behavior of traditional messengers con- flicts many times with the literal "traditional" wisdom set out in the proverb quoted above, and several events unfold around the struggles of both native and colonial authorities over how to constitute and interpret hegemonic codes. Recurrent patterns of the causes of plot conflicts and resolutions indicate that the proverb does not merely state a governing principle of Igbo communication etiquette concerning the supremacy of messages over messengers. Events in the story show that the saying is most useful to those who control the mechanics of compel- ling messengers to relay their political will. In the story, the messenger cannot fail to choose its message. At the center of the most important conflict in Arrow of God is the economic and cultural upheaval that breaks out in Umuaro when the local colonial officer's incarceration of Ezeulu-Umuaro's chief priest- prevents him from performing the monthly ritual at which he an- nounces the progression of the communal calendar. When the priest is released from detention after the colonial officer has discovered that no amount of harassment will make him accept an offer of a warrant chieftainship over his people, two moons have passed unannounced. Two of the yams that he eats every month to mark the progression of the planting and fiscal seasons have been left untouched. EzeuIu's detention for refusing a chieftainship offer prevents him from "writ- ing" the communal schedule. The anomaly caused by Ezeulu's detention can only be corrected in two ways. Umuaro will either have to extend its calendar by two months and risk losing its crops for that season (since the calendar is tied to the weather cycle), or the chief priest will be made to rig the calendar by eating the yams and announcing the end of a planting year at its known "natural" end. Ezeulu refuses to toe the community line 52 Chapter3 reading of Arrow of God with one adage about the proper role of the material symbol in the communication relay, "The messenger does not choose its message" (158). The contradictions between events in the story and the proverb's recommendation on the proper comportment of the messenger is of particular significance for the kind of self-reflex- ive textual analysis lacking in Achebe criticism specifically and classical nativism generally. In the "oral" world of Arrow of God, discussions about the politics and ethics of making communication codes and their interpretation- topics that belong more appropriately to "literate" societies-are run- ning themes. In the novel, the behavior of traditional messengers con- flicts many times with the literal "traditional" wisdom set out in the proverb quoted above, and several events unfold around the struggles of both native and colonial authorities over how to constitute and interpret hegemonic codes. Recurrent patterns of the causes of plot conflicts and resolutions indicate that the proverb does not merely state a governing principle of Igbo communication etiquette concerning the supremacy of messages over messengers. Events in the story show that the saying is most useful to those who control the mechanics of compel- ling messengers to relay their political will. In the story, the messenger cannot fail to choose its message. At the center of the most important conflict in Arrow of God is the economic and cultural upheaval that breaks out in Umuaro when the local colonial officer's incarceration of Ezeulu-Umuaro's chief priest- prevents him from performing the monthly ritual at which he an- nounces the progression of the communal calendar. When the priest is released from detention after the colonial officer has discovered that no amount of harassment will make him accept an offer of a warrant chieftainship over his people, two moons have passed unannounced. Two of the yams that he eats every month to mark the progression of the planting and fiscal seasons have been left untouched. Ezeulu's detention for refusing a chieftainship offer prevents him from "writ- ing" the communal schedule. The anomaly caused by Ezeulu's detention can only be corrected in two ways. Umuaro will either have to extend its calendar by two months and risk losing its crops for that season (since the calendar is tied to the weather cycle), or the chief priest will be made to rig the calendar by eating the yams and announcing the end of a planting year at its known "natural" end. Ezeulu refuses to toe the community line 52 Chapter 3 reading of Arrow of God with one adage about the proper role of the material symbol in the communication relay, "The messenger does not choose its message" (158). The contradictions between events in the story and the proverb's recommendation on the proper comportment of the messenger is of particular significance for the kind of self-reflex- ive textual analysis lacking in Achebe criticism specifically and classical nativism generally. In the "oral" world of Arrow of God, discussions about the politics and ethics of making communication codes and their interpretation- topics that belong more appropriately to "literate" societies-are run- ning themes. In the novel, the behavior of traditional messengers con- flicts many times with the literal "traditional" wisdom set out in the proverb quoted above, and several events unfold around the struggles of both native and colonial authorities over how to constitute and interpret hegemonic codes. Recurrent patterns of the causes of plot conflicts and resolutions indicate that the proverb does not merely state a governing principle of Igbo communication etiquette concerning the supremacy of messages over messengers. Events in the story show that the saying is most useful to those who control the mechanics of compel- ling messengers to relay their political will. In the story, the messenger cannot fail to choose its message. At the center of the most important conflict in Arrow of God is the economic and cultural upheaval that breaks out in Umuaro when the local colonial officer's incarceration of Ezeulu-Umuaro's chief priest- prevents him from performing the monthly ritual at which he an- nounces the progression of the communal calendar. When the priest is released from detention after the colonial officer has discovered that no amount of harassment will make him accept an offer of a warrant chieftainship over his people, two moons have passed unannounced. Two of the yams that he eats every month to mark the progression of the planting and fiscal seasons have been left untouched. Ezeulu's detention for refusing a chieftainship offer prevents him from "writ- ing" the communal schedule. The anomaly caused by Ezeulu's detention can only be corrected in two ways. Umuaro will either have to extend its calendar by two months and risk losing its crops for that season (since the calendar is tied to the weather cycle), or the chief priest will be made to rig the calendar by eating the yams and announcing the end of a planting year at its known "natural" end. Ezeulu refuses to toe the community line  Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 53 and declines the suggestion that he should eat more than one yam at a time. A political crisis erupts. The local Anglican church takes advan- tage of the impasse and invites citizens to think of its sanctuary as a new shrine within which they can have their new yams blessed. Amid the chaos, the chief priest's favorite son dies. Ezeulu himself goes mad soon after that personal tragedy. A messenger's loyalty to his charge first becomes the main focus of a conversation when Ezeulu rejects Tony Clarke's summons to the dis- trict headquarters. "Do you know what you are saying, my friend?" asked the messenger in utter unbelief. "Are you a messenger or not?" asked Ezeulu. "Go home and give my message to your master." (157) In order to avert a major confrontation between the cocky imperial messenger and the tradition-conscious audience of village elders, Ezeulu's friend quickly intervenes with a tacit citation of tradition on the appropriate behavior of messengers: "In Umuaro it is not our custom to refuse a call, although we may refuse to do what the caller asks. Ezeulu does not want to refuse the white man's call and so he is sending his son" (157). When the messenger rejects this reminder about tradition, Akuebue expresses his surprise with the proverbial saying "I have never heard of a messenger choosing the message he will carry" (158). This messenger "chooses" his message, as Akuebue implies, not because there is no proverb that prohibits such behavior in his home- town, but because he believes that he represents a sovereign Crown that is not subject to "local" conventions. In his mind, the district officer's subpoena overrides local traditions. This little skirmish over the role of the social position of the originator and the courier in determining the importance of a message causes great distress for Ezeulu and his community as the story progresses. In tracing the sad events that ensue, it is noticeable that most other key conflicts in the novel-even those that take place before this en- counter-occur over the most useful methods of encrypting powerful political directions or deciphering the most appropriate methods of implementing them. At several crucial moments, plot movement relies on the outcome of the struggles over the manipulation of message and messenger interaction. On some crucial occasions the wishes of the Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 53 and declines the suggestion that he should eat more than one yam at a time. A political crisis erupts. The local Anglican church takes advan- tage of the impasse and invites citizens to think of its sanctuary as a new shrine within which they can have their new yams blessed. Amid the chaos, the chief priest's favorite son dies. Ezeulu himself goes mad soon after that personal tragedy. A messenger's loyalty to his charge first becomes the main focus of a conversation when Ezeulu rejects Tony Clarke's summons to the dis- trict headquarters. "Do you know what you are saying, my friend?" asked the messenger in utter unbelief. "Are you a messenger or not?" asked Ezeulu. "Go home and give my message to your master." (157) In order to avert a major confrontation between the cocky imperial messenger and the tradition-conscious audience of village elders, Ezeulu's friend quickly intervenes with a tacit citation of tradition on the appropriate behavior of messengers: "In Umuaro it is not our custom to refuse a call, although we may refuse to do what the caller asks. Ezeulu does not want to refuse the white man's call and so he is sending his son" (157). When the messenger rejects this reminder about tradition, Akuebue expresses his surprise with the proverbial saying "I have never heard of a messenger choosing the message he will carry" (158). This messenger "chooses" his message, as Akuebue implies, not because there is no proverb that prohibits such behavior in his home- town, but because he believes that he represents a sovereign Crown that is not subject to "local" conventions. In his mind, the district officer's subpoena overrides local traditions. This little skirmish over the role of the social position of the originator and the courier in determining the importance of a message causes great distress for Ezeulu and his community as the story progresses. In tracing the sad events that ensue, it is noticeable that most other key conflicts in the novel-even those that take place before this en- counter-occur over the most useful methods of encrypting powerful political directions or deciphering the most appropriate methods of implementing them. At several crucial moments, plot movement relies on the outcome of the struggles over the manipulation of message and messenger interaction. On some crucial occasions the wishes of the Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 53 and declines the suggestion that he should eat more than one yam at a time. A political crisis erupts. The local Anglican church takes advan- tage of the impasse and invites citizens to think of its sanctuary as a new shrine within which they can have their new yams blessed. Amid the chaos, the chief priest's favorite son dies. Ezeulu himself goes mad soon after that personal tragedy. A messenger's loyalty to his charge first becomes the main focus of a conversation when Ezeulu rejects Tony Clarke's summons to the dis- trict headquarters. "Do you know what you are saying, my friend?" asked the messenger in utter unbelief. "Are you a messenger or not?" asked Ezeulu. "Go home and give my message to your master." (157) In order to avert a major confrontation between the cocky imperial messenger and the tradition-conscious audience of village elders, Ezeulu's friend quickly intervenes with a tacit citation of tradition on the appropriate behavior of messengers: "In Umuaro it is not our custom to refuse a call, although we may refuse to do what the caller asks. Ezeulu does not want to refuse the white man's call and so he is sending his son" (157). When the messenger rejects this reminder about tradition, Akuebue expresses his surprise with the proverbial saying "I have never heard of a messenger choosing the message he will carry" (158). This messenger "chooses" his message, as Akuebue implies, not because there is no proverb that prohibits such behavior in his home- town, but because he believes that he represents a sovereign Crown that is not subject to "local" conventions. In his mind, the district officer's subpoena overrides local traditions. This little skirmish over the role of the social position of the originator and the courier in determining the importance of a message causes great distress for Ezeulu and his community as the story progresses. In tracing the sad events that ensue, it is noticeable that most other key conflicts in the novel-even those that take place before this en- counter-occur over the most useful methods of encrypting powerful political directions or deciphering the most appropriate methods of implementing them. At several crucial moments, plot movement relies on the outcome of the struggles over the manipulation of message and messenger interaction. On some crucial occasions the wishes of the  54 Chapter 3 material messenger prevail. At these turns of events, the messenger demonstrates that it has a logic of its own independent of the fates of its message, its sender, and its intended receiver. In these instances, the messenger accepts all messages dumped on it but delivers only those that fit its circumstances. The messenger appears indifferent to the surrounding incessant power struggles as to how to resolve the dis- patcher's intentions with the receiver's wiles. In the wake of what we may call the messenger's "betrayal" of the sender's and reader's wills, a tragedy with serious political consequences often occurs. The first consequential conflict in the novel arises when an Umuaro delegation charged with negotiating the settlement terms of a land dispute with Okperi unwittingly botches its mission. The Akukalia delegation is instructed to act with the traditional dignity of a properly dispatched emissary and deliver in plain conventions only the village's instructions. The clan tells Akukalia to be a transparent messenger in whom its message can be read easily. The proverbial injunction says he cannot choose his message. As if he knows that the couriers might misrepresent the village, one of the elders instructs the leader of the delegation that "we do not want Okperi to choose war; nobody eats war. If they choose peace we shall rejoice. But tchatever they say you are not to dispute with them. Your duty is to bring word back to us" (19; emphasis added). Ogbuefi Egonwanne bids the envoys to be true mes- sengers, although the debates that precede the delegation formation indicate that true messengers are not necessarily messengers of incon- trovertible "truth." Partly due to the messenger's meddling with his commission, and partly due to infelicitous delivery circumstances, the message miscar- ries when Akukalia reaches Okperi. First, it is market day in Okperi, and there are not too many qualified people around to receive the message. Second, Akukalia is impatient. He refuses to return at a more convenient time because, according to him, his "mission could not wait" (25). (The urgency is not part of Umuaro's instructions.) Ebo, his Okperi host who cannot quickly assemble an adequate reception party, quotes tradition to chide Akukalia mildly: "I have not yet heard of a message that could not wait" (25). In the argument that follows, Ebo, presumably innocently, censures Akukalia: "if you want to shout like a castrated bull you must wait until you return to Umuaro" (26). Inciden- tally, the lead Umuaro messenger is an impotent man "whose two wives were secretly given to other men to bear his children" (26). At 54 Chapter 3 material messenger prevail. At these turns of events, the messenger demonstrates that it has a logic of its own independent of the fates of its message, its sender, and its intended receiver. In these instances, the messenger accepts all messages dumped on it but delivers only those that fit its circumstances. The messenger appears indifferent to the surrounding incessant power struggles as to how to resolve the dis- patcher's intentions with the receiver's wiles. In the wake of what we may call the messenger's "betrayal" of the sender's and reader's wills, a tragedy with serious political consequences often occurs. The first consequential conflict in the novel arises when an Umuaro delegation charged with negotiating the settlement terms of a land dispute with Okperi unwittingly botches its mission. The Akukalia delegation is instructed to act with the traditional dignity of a properly dispatched emissary and deliver in plain conventions only the village's instructions. The clan tells Akukalia to be a transparent messenger in whom its message can be read easily. The proverbial injunction says he cannot choose his message. As if he knows that the couriers might misrepresent the village, one of the elders instructs the leader of the delegation that "we do not want Okperi to choose war; nobody eats war. If they choose peace we shall rejoice. But whatever they say you are not to dispute with them. Your duty is to bring word back to us" (19; emphasis added). Ogbuefi Egonwanne bids the envoys to be true mes- sengers, although the debates that precede the delegation formation indicate that true messengers are not necessarily messengers of incon- trovertible "truth." Partly due to the messenger's meddling with his commission, and partly due to infelicitous delivery circumstances, the message miscar- ries when Akukalia reaches Okperi. First, it is market day in Okperi, and there are not too many qualified people around to receive the message. Second, Akukalia is impatient. He refuses to return at a more convenient time because, according to him, his "mission could not wait" (25). (The urgency is not part of Umuaro's instructions.) Ebo, his Okperi host who cannot quickly assemble an adequate reception party, quotes tradition to chide Akukalia mildly: "I have not yet heard of a message that could not wait" (25). In the argument that follows, Ebo, presumably innocently, censures Akukalia: "if you want to shout like a castrated bull you must wait until you return to Umuaro" (26). Inciden- tally, the lead Umuaro messenger is an impotent man "whose two wives were secretly given to other men to bear his children" (26). At 54 Chapter 3 material messenger prevail. At these turns of events, the messenger demonstrates that it has a logic of its own independent of the fates of its message, its sender, and its intended receiver. In these instances, the messenger accepts all messages dumped on it but delivers only those that fit its circumstances. The messenger appears indifferent to the surrounding incessant power struggles as to how to resolve the dis- patcher's intentions with the receiver's wiles. In the wake of what swe may call the messenger's "betrayal" of the sender's and reader's wills, a tragedy with serious political consequences often occurs. The first consequential conflict in the novel arises when an Umuaro delegation charged with negotiating the settlement terms of a land dispute with Okperi unwittingly botches its mission. The Akukalia delegation is instructed to act with the traditional dignity of a properly dispatched emissary and deliver in plain conventions only the village's instructions. The clan tells Akukalia to be a transparent messenger in whom its message can be read easily. The proverbial injunction says he cannot choose his message. As if he knows that the couriers might misrepresent the village, one of the elders instructs the leader of the delegation that "we do not want Okperi to choose war; nobody eats war. If they choose peace we shall rejoice. But whatever they say you are not to dispute with them. Your duty is to bring word back to us" (19; emphasis added). Ogbuefi Egonwanne bids the envoys to be true mes- sengers, although the debates that precede the delegation formation indicate that true messengers are not necessarily messengers of incon- trovertible "truth." Partly due to the messenger's meddling with his commission, and partly due to infelicitous delivery circumstances, the message miscar- ries when Akukalia reaches Okperi. First, it is market day in Okperi, and there are not too many qualified people around to receive the message. Second, Akukalia is impatient. He refuses to return at a more convenient time because, according to him, his "mission could not wait" (25). (The urgency is not part of Umuaro's instructions.) Ebo, his Okperi host who cannot quickly assemble an adequate reception party, quotes tradition to chide Akukalia mildly: "I have not yet heard of a message that could not wait" (25). In the argument that follows, Ebo, presumably innocently, censures Akukalia: "if you want to shout like a castrated bull you must wait until you return to Umuaro" (26). Inciden- tally, the lead Umuaro messenger is an impotent man "whose two wives were secretly given to other men to bear his children" (26). At  Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 55 this point, the message miscarries. The material messenger believes that his integrity is being unduly attacked and feels compelled to reply in equal terms. Akukalia runs into Ebo's family shrine and breaks his ikenga, "the [symbolic] strength of his right arm" (27). By so doing, Akukalia cuts Eh's communication channel with his ancestors. To placate his primogenitors, Ebo murders his guest in vengeance and, because custom demands that Umuaro must draw equal compensation for Akukalia's death, forces a war on his people. Although Akukalia does not live long enough to pass on the specific options in his charge, one of them, the choice of war, gets delivered. The messenger's body happens, even in death, to anchor the mission. Before discussing the most significant single conflict in the story, I want to examine another important episode involving an argument over the supremacy of message or messenger. The colonial administra- tion wants to make Ezeulu its messenger when it offers him a warrant chieftainship. Already, Ezeulu's priestly functions make him a messen- ger of Ulu and the Umuaro community. When, after making his propo- sition through an interpreter, Clarke asks, "Well, are you accepting the offer or not?," Ezeulu replies, "Tell the white man that Ezeulu will not be anybody's chief [messenger], except Ulu." "What!" shouted Tony Clarke. "Is the fellow mad?" "I tink so sah," said the interpreter. "In that case he goes back to prison." Clarke was now really angry. What cheek! A witch-doctor making a fool of the British Administration in public! (196) Clarke's detention order spells doom for the community, and another thread of conflict over the messenger's rote is spun. Ezeulu already considers himself to be the messenger of a God whose command is indisputable. But Clarke and his boss, Captain Winterbottom, misread that devotion as blind loyalty. They assume that he is a transparently honest messenger on whom they could load their own designs. They developed this opinion after listening to the chief's testimony against his own clan during the colonial inquiry into the bloody Okperi-Umuaro boundary war that followed Akukalia's murder. Somehow the colonial operatives believed that Ezeulu's depo- sition, which contradicted his clan's claims, marked him out as an unusually honest African who could be trusted with the imperial Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 55 this point, the message miscarries. The material messenger believes that his integrity is being unduly attacked and feels compelled to reply in equal terms. Akukalia runs into Ebo's family shrine and breaks his ikenga, "the [symbolic] strength of his right arm" (27). By so doing, Akukalia cuts Ebo's communication channel with his ancestors. To placate his primogenitors, Ebo murders his guest in vengeance and, because custom demands that Umuaro must draw equal compensation for Akukalia's death, forces a war on his people. Although Akukalia does not live long enough to pass on the specific options in his charge, one of them, the choice of war, gets delivered. The messenger's body happens, even in death, to anchor the mission. Before discussing the most significant single conflict in the story, I want to examine another important episode involving an argument over the supremacy of message or messenger. The colonial administra- tion wants to make Ezeulu its messenger when it offers him a warrant chieftainship. Already, Ezeulu's priestly functions make him a messen- ger of Ulu and the Umuaro community. When, after making his propo- sition through an interpreter, Clarke asks, "Well, are you accepting the offer or not?," Ezeulu replies, "Tell the white man that Ezeulu will not be anybody's chief [messenger], except Ulu." "What!" shouted Tony Clarke. "Is the fellow mad?" "I tink so sah," said the interpreter. "In that case he goes back to prison." Clarke was now really angry. What cheek! A witch-doctor making a fool of the British Administration in public! (196) Clarke's detention order spells doom for the community, and another thread of conflict over the messenger's role is spun. Ezeulu already considers himself to be the messenger of a God whose command is indisputable. But Clarke and his boss, Captain Winterbottom, misread that devotion as blind loyalty. They assume that be is a transparently honest messenger on whom they could load their own designs. They developed this opinion after listening to the chief's testimony against his own clan during the colonial inquiry into the bloody Okperi-Umuaro boundary war that followed Akukalia's murder. Somehow the colonial operatives believed that Ezeulu's depo- sition, which contradicted his clan's claims, marked him out as an unusually honest African who could be trusted with the imperial Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 55 this point, the message miscarries. The material messenger believes that his integrity is being unduly attacked and feels compelled to reply in equal terms. Akukalia runs into Ebo's family shrine and breaks his ikenga, "the [symbolic] strength of his right arm" (27). By so doing, Akukalia cuts Ebo's communication channel with his ancestors. To placate his primogenitors, Ebo murders his guest in vengeance and, because custom demands that Umuaro must draw equal compensation for Akukalia's death, forces a war on his people. Although Akukalia does not live long enough to pass on the specific options in his charge, one of them, the choice of war, gets delivered. The messenger's body happens, even in death, to anchor the mission. Before discussing the most significant single conflict in the story, I want to examine another important episode involving an argument over the supremacy of message or messenger. The colonial administra- tion wants to make Ezeulu its messenger when it offers him a warrant chieftainship. Already, Ezeulu's priestly functions make him a messen- ger of Ulu and the Umuaro community. When, after making his propo- sition through an interpreter, Clarke asks, "Well, are you accepting the offer or not?," Ezeulu replies, "Tell the white man that Ezeulu will not be anybody's chief [messenger], except Ulu." "What!" shouted Tony Clarke. "Is the fellow mad?" "I tink so sah," said the interpreter. "In that case he goes back to prison." Clarke was now really angry. What cheek! A witch-doctor making a fool of the British Administration in public! (196) Clarke's detention order spells doom for the community, and another thread of conflict over the messenger's role is spun. Ezeulu already considers himself to be the messenger of a God whose command is indisputable. But Clarke and his boss, Captain Winterbottom, misread that devotion as blind loyalty. They assume that he is a transparently honest messenger on whom they could load their own designs. They developed this opinion after listening to the chief's testimony against his own clan during the colonial inquiry into the bloody Okperi-Umuaro boundary war that followed Akukalia's murder. Somehow the colonial operatives believed that Ezeulu's depo- sition, which contradicted his clan's claims, marked him out as an unusually honest African who could be trusted with the imperial  56 Chapter 3 Crown's directives to Umuaro citizens. The colonial administrators did not know that Ezeulu is not a "blank" messenger. This singular mis- reading led to the chieftainship offer and to the yam-eating conflict. The most significant conflicts over interpretation occur when differ- ent Umuaro citizen groups try to prevent an imminent collapse of the Umuaro economy threatened by the yam palaver. In order to avert disaster, the council of elders, Ezeulu's assistants, the village school- teacher, and the local Anglican church all develop ways of saving Umuaro's crops. All the self-serving plans are aimed at circumventing the high priest's authority and subordinating the traditional conven- tions of regulating the communal calendar to the political and eco- nomic emergencies threatening to destroy the community. In the beginning, Ezeulu's assistants, who also "reckon" the number of months, approach the chief priest after the "twelfth moon" to make arrangements for the next New Yam Feast. When one of them says, "It is now four days since the new moon appeared in the sky; it is already grown big. And yet you have not called us together to tell as the day of the New Yam Feast" (232), Ezeulu responds, "I see. I thought perhaps I did not hear you well. Since when did you begin to reckon the year for Umuaro?" (233). One of the assistants, who thinks his colleague tact- less, recasts the request: "we do not reckon the year for Umuaro; we are not Chief Priest. But we thought that perhaps you have lost count because of your recent absence" (233). Ezeulu completely loses his temper and retorts, "Lost count! Did your father tell you that the Chief Priest of Ulu can lose count of the moons? No, my son . .. no Ezeulu can lose count. Rather it is you who count with your fingers who are likely to make a mistake, to forget which finger you counted at the last moon" (233). There is no doubt that Ezeulu's thirty-day detention in Okperi results in lost counting5 But if counting the yams is all there is, then Ezeulu has not lost count, for he has the yams to refer to. But another visit two days later by the titled elders further shows that there is more to this conversation than the ordinary number of yams. The elders call on Ezeulu to urge him to amend the calendar so as to save the political economy. But to their gracious entreaties Ezeulu replies, "I need not speak in riddles. You all know what our custom is. I only call a new festival when there is only one yam left" (236). When the elders insist that Ezeulu should seek a solution, with one of them even suggesting that he should eat up the "excess" yams, the priest restates his position: "You have spoken 56 Chapter 3 Crown's directives to Umuaro citizens. The colonial administrators did not know that Ezeulu is not a "blank" messenger. This singular mis- reading led to the chieftainship offer and to the yam-eating conflict. The most significant conflicts over interpretation occur when differ- ent Umuaro citizen groups try to prevent an imminent collapse of the Umuaro economy threatened by the yam palaver. In order to avert disaster, the council of elders, Ezeulu's assistants, the village school- teacher, and the local Anglican church all develop ways of saving Umuaro's crops. All the self-serving plans are aimed at circumventing the high priest's authority and subordinating the traditional conven- tions of regulating the communal calendar to the political and eco- nomic emergencies threatening to destroy the community. In the beginning, Ezeulu's assistants, who also "reckon" the number of months, approach the chief priest after the "twelfth moon" to make arrangements for the next New Yam Feast. When one of them says, "It is now four days since the new moon appeared in the sky; it is already grown big. And yet you have not called us together to tell us the day of the New Yam Feast" (232), Ezeulu responds, "I see. I thought perhaps I did not hear you well. Since when did you begin to reckon the year for Umuaro?" (233). One of the assistants, who thinks his colleague tact- less, recasts the request: "we do not reckon the year for Umuaro; we are not Chief Priest. But we thought that perhaps you have lost count because of your recent absence" (233). Ezeulu completely loses his temper and retorts, "Lost count! Did your father tell you that the Chief Priest of Ulu can lose count of the moons? No, my son ... no Ezeulu can lose count. Rather it is you who count with your fingers who are likely to make a mistake, to forget which finger you counted at the last moon" (233). There is no doubt that Ezeulu's thirty-day detention in Okperi results in lost counting? But if counting the yams is all there is, then Ezeulu has not lost count, for he has the yams to refer to. But another visit two days later by the titled elders further shows that there is more to this conversation than the ordinary number of yams. The elders call on Ezeulu to urge him to amend the calendar so as to save the political economy. But to their gracious entreaties Ezeulu replies, "I need not speak in riddles. You all know what our custom is. I only call a new festival when there is only one yam left" (236). When the elders insist that Ezeulu should seek a solution, with one of them even suggesting that he should eat up the "excess" yams, the priest restates his position: "You have spoken 56 Chapter 3 Crown's directives to Umuaro citizens. The colonial administrators did not know that Ezeulu is not a "blank" messenger. This singular mis- reading led to the chieftainship offer and to the yam-eating conflict. The most significant conflicts over interpretation occur when differ- ent Umuaro citizen groups try to prevent an imminent collapse of the Umuaro economy threatened by the yam palaver. In order to avert disaster, the council of elders, Ezeulu's assistants, the village school- teacher, and the local Anglican church all develop ways of saving Umuaro's crops. All the self-serving plans are aimed at circumventing the high priest's authority and subordinating the traditional conven- tions of regulating the communal calendar to the political and eco- nomic emergencies threatening to destroy the community. In the beginning, Ezeulu's assistants, who also "reckon" the number of months, approach the chief priest after the "twelfth moon" to snake arrangements for the next New Yam Feast. When one of them says, "It is now four days since the new moon appeared in the sky; it is already grown big. And yet you have not called us together to tell us the day of the New Yam Feast" (232), Ezeulu responds, "I see. I thought perhaps I did not hear you well. Since when did you begin to reckon the year for Umuaro?" (233). One of the assistants, who thinks his colleague tact- less, recasts the request: "we do not reckon the year for Umuaro; we are not Chief Priest. But we thought that perhaps you have lost count because of your recent absence" (233). Ezeulu completely loses his temper and retorts, "Lost count! Did your father tell you that the Chief Priest of Ulu can lose count of the moons? No, my son ... no Ezeulu can lose count. Rather it is you who count with your fingers who are likely to make a mistake, to forget which finger you counted at the last moon" (233). There is no doubt that Ezeulu's thirty-day detention in Okperi results in lost counting. But if counting the yams is all there is, then Ezeulu has not lost count, for he has the yams to refer to. But another visit two days later by the titled elders further shows that there is more to this conversation than the ordinary number of yams. The elders call on Ezeulu to urge him to amend the calendar so as to save the political economy. But to their gracious entreaties Ezeulu replies, "I need not speak in riddles. You all know what our custom is. I only call a new festival when there is only one yam left" (236). When the elders insist that Ezeulu should seek a solution, with one of them even suggesting that he should eat up the "excess" yams, the priest restates his position: "You have spoken  Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 57 well. But what you ask me to do is not done. Those yams are not food and a man does not eat them because he is hungry. You are asking me to eat death" (237). Ezeulu is both right and wrong, and the ambiguity is not totally of his making. The yams are food and, of course, not food. They are food because he eats them; they are not food because these particular yams serve more than one person's physiological needs. It is the entire com- munity that will starve if someone does not eat them. In other words, the yams are yams and not yams at the same time. They are markers (messengers or, if you like, signifiers) of the progression of the commu- nal calendar, and Ezeulu (another marker or signifier) is the designated reader and, arguably, the writer. Ezeulu takes an unprecedented stand by refusing to read according to the senders' (the community's) known will. He hedges the elders and his assistants because the yams (messengers) have a will of their own (their material exorbitance) that he exploits, knowingly or igno- rantly. He denies the elders their wishes by telling them that, although they are the initial creators of the calendar, the yams and whatever they now signify are beyond their direct control. He tells them tacitly that the material presence of the yams precedes and supersedes the commu- nal calendar. The elders also recognize that the yams' material con- spicuousness is important to interpretation. They only seek to manipu- late that presence to serve the purpose for which they believe the yams were invented originally but which is now threatened by unenvisioned circumstances. Ezeulu hides behind the invincibility and priority of the messenger (signifier), and the elders wave the banner of the infallibility of the motivating message. The elders face a greater difficulty than Ezeulu because they have to contend with two messengers: the yams (the text) and their eater (the reader). The confusion is more disconcert- ing because ordinary reasoning suggests that this is an open text whose letters everyone should be able to decipher. The community expects Ezeulu to count the moons with the aid of the yams and not the yams with the moons. That is why one of his assistants suggests that he has lost count. Ezeulu rejects the pleas of his aides and the community elders that he should count moons and not yams. He maintains that it is impossible for him or anybody else to do so and that anyone who has a contrary opinion must be miscounting. The yam counter, he insists, is forever right, and both the finger counter and the moon counter are susceptible to miscounting. The yams are Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 57 well. But what you ask me to do is not done. Those yams are not food and a man does not eat them because he is hungry. You are asking me to eat death" (237). Ezeulu is both right and wrong, and the ambiguity is not totally of his making. The yams are food and, of course, not food. They are food because he eats them; they are not food because these particular yams serve more than one person's physiological needs. It is the entire com- munity that will starve if someone does not eat them. In other words, the yams are yams and not yams at the same time. They are markers (messengers or, if you like, signifiers) of the progression of the commu- nal calendar, and Ezeulu (another marker or signifier) is the designated reader and, arguably, the writer. Ezeulu takes an unprecedented stand by refusing to read according to the senders' (the community's) known will. He hedges the elders and his assistants because the yams (messengers) have a will of their own (their material exorbitance) that he exploits, knowingly or igno- rantly. He denies the elders their wishes by telling them that, although they are the initial creators of the calendar, the yams and whatever they now signify are beyond their direct control. He tells them tacitly that the material presence of the yams precedes and supersedes the commu- nal calendar. The elders also recognize that the yams' material con- spicuousness is important to interpretation. They only seek to manipu- late that presence to serve the purpose for which they believe the yams were invented originally but which is now threatened by unenvisioned circumstances. Ezeulu hides behind the invincibility and priority of the messenger (signifier), and the elders wave the banner of the infallibility of the motivating message. The elders face a greater difficulty than Ezeulu because they have to contend with two messengers: the yams (the text) and their eater (the reader). The confusion is more disconcert- ing because ordinary reasoning suggests that this is an open text whose letters everyone should be able to decipher. The community expects Ezeulu to count the moons with the aid of the yams and not the yams with the moons. That is why one of his assistants suggests that he has lost count. Ezeulu rejects the pleas of his aides and the community elders that he should count moons and not yams. He maintains that it is impossible for him or anybody else to do so and that anyone who has a contrary opinion must be miscounting. The yam counter, he insists, is forever right, and both the finger counter and the moon counter are susceptible to miscounting. The yams are Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 57 well. But what you ask me to do is not done. Those yams are not food and a man does not eat them because he is hungry. You are asking me to eat death" (237). Ezeulu is both right and wrong, and the ambiguity is not totally of his making. The yams are food and, of course, not food. They are food because he eats them; they are not food because these particular yams serve more than one person's physiological needs. It is the entire com- munity that will starve if someone does not eat them. In other words, the yams are yams and not yams at the same time. They are markers (messengers or, if you like, signifiers) of the progression of the commu- nal calendar, and Ezeulu (another marker or signifier) is the designated reader and, arguably, the writer. Ezeulu takes an unprecedented stand by refusing to read according to the senders' (the community's) known will. He hedges the elders and his assistants because the yams (messengers) have a will of their own (their material exorbitance) that he exploits, knowingly or igno- rantly. He denies the elders their wishes by telling them that, although they are the initial creators of the calendar, the yams and whatever they now signify are beyond their direct control. He tells them tacitly that the material presence of the yams precedes and supersedes the commu- nal calendar. The elders also recognize that the yams' material con- spicuousness is important to interpretation. They only seek to manipu- late that presence to serve the purpose for which they believe the yams were invented originally but which is now threatened by unenvisioned circumstances. Ezeulu hides behind the invincibility and priority of the messenger (signifier), and the elders wave the banner of the infallibility of the motivating message. The elders face a greater difficulty than Ezeulu because they have to contend with two messengers: the yams (the text) and their eater (the reader). The confusion is more disconcert- ing because ordinary reasoning suggests that this is an open text whose letters everyone should be able to decipher. The community expects Ezeulu to count the moons with the aid of the yams and not the yams with the moons. That is why one of his assistants suggests that he has lost count. Ezeulu rejects the pleas of his aides and the community elders that he should count moons and not yams. He maintains that it is impossible for him or anybody else to do so and that anyone who has a contrary opinion must be miscounting. The yam counter, he insists, is forever right, and both the finger counter and the moon counter are susceptible to miscounting. The yams are  58 Chapter3 relatively permanent and differentiable, and once eaten they are no longer countable. Every yam eaten (and thus counted) disappears. Its absence helps determine the value of the remainder. Finger counters do not cut off their digits, hence they are likely to recount. These facts notwithstanding, the community believes that Ezeulu is wrong in the values he assigns to the remaining yams. (The aides and the commu- nity could have asked, "Counting yams and counting fingers, what is the difference?" and Ezeulu might have responded, "That is the differ- ence!") The citizens do not share Ezeulu's calculations that the yams represent an unalterable ("natural") number of moons, and they there- fore urge him to change his traditional interpretation of the remaining yams. Ezeulu refuses to eat up the yams, and successfully holds every- body for ransom by exploiting the tangible aspect of the signifying yams, which, contrary to proverbial injunctions, is indifferent to the users' intention. In a way, the yams carry transparent messages that neither the yams themselves, nor Ezeulu, nor the aides and the elders can appoint at will. It is also possible for us to see the Ezeulu-Umuaro fiasco as the result of a quarrel over the cultural control of nature and its signs. In Ezeulu's logic (also available to his opponents), there can be no culture (the year, the calendar) beyond the signification of the yams. He acts as if he believes the year ends only at the mercy of the "written" calendar and not because of any temporal terminus. In the name of an earnest respect for a calendar derived from nature, Ezeulu refuses to take advantage of the second opportunity that the other community elders give him to line up his political choices with theirs when they order him to speak to Ulu again. Both the elders' insistence that Ezeulu should either eat the yams or substitute a propitiation in lieu of not finishing the eating sequence and the chief priest's recalcitrance highlight the arbitrariness of the whole marking system. The controversy between the priest and the council of elders demonstrates the inorganic dimensions of Umuaro's association of the yam (the signifier) and the New Yam Feast (the signified), the planting season, and, by implication, the fiscal year. Of course, I do not mean that the community chooses the yams arbitrarily. The economy, the planting season, the fiscal year, and the cycle of festivals are all intimately linked to the yam trade. However, those facts of "nature" and sociology do not prevent the elders from reminding Ezeulu that their reasonable association of the yam, the communal schedule, and the 58 Chapter 3 relatively permanent and differentiable, and once eaten they are no longer countable. Every yam eaten (and thus counted) disappears. Its absence helps determine the value of the remainder. Finger counters do not cut off their digits, hence they are likely to recount. These facts notwithstanding, the community believes that Ezeulu is wrong in the values he assigns to the remaining yams. (The aides and the commu- nity could have asked, "Counting yams and counting fingers, what is the difference?" and Ezeulu might have responded, "That is the differ- ence!") The citizens do not share Ezeulu's calculations that the yams represent an unalterable ("natural") number of moons, and they there- fore urge him to change his traditional interpretation of the remaining yams. Ezeulu refuses to eat up the yams, and successfully holds every- body for ransom by exploiting the tangible aspect of the signifying yams, which, contrary to proverbial injunctions, is indifferent to the users' intention. In a way, the yams carry transparent messages that neither the yams themselves, nor Ezeulu, nor the aides and the elders can appoint at will. It is also possible for us to see the Ezeulu-Umuaro fiasco as the result of a quarrel over the cultural control of nature and its signs. In Ezeulu's logic (also available to his opponents), there can be no culture (the year, the calendar) beyond the signification of the yams. He acts as if he believes the year ends only at the mercy of the "written" calendar and not because of any temporal terminus. In the name of an earnest respect for a calendar derived from nature, Ezeulu refuses to take advantage of the second opportunity that the other community elders give him to line up his political choices with theirs when they order him to speak to Ulu again. Both the elders' insistence that Ezeulu should either eat the yams or substitute a propitiation in lieu of not finishing the eating sequence and the chief priest's recalcitrance highlight the arbitrariness of the whole marking system. The controversy between the priest and the council of elders demonstrates the inorganic dimensions of Umuaro's association of the yam (the signifier) and the New Yam Feast (the signified), the planting season, and, by implication, the fiscal year. Of course, I do not mean that the community chooses the yams arbitrarily. The economy, the planting season, the fiscal year, and the cycle of festivals are all intimately linked to the yam trade. However, those facts of "nature" and sociology do not prevent the elders from reminding Ezeulu that their reasonable association of the yam, the communal schedule, and the 58 Chapter3 relatively permanent and differentiable, and once eaten they are no longer countable. Every yam eaten (and thus counted) disappears. Its absence helps determine the value of the remainder. Finger counters do not cut off their digits, hence they are likely to recount. These facts notwithstanding, the community believes that Ezeulu is wrong in the values he assigns to the remaining yams. (The aides and the commu- nity could have asked, "Counting yams and counting fingers, what is the difference?" and Ezeulu might have responded, "That is the differ- ence!") The citizens do not share Ezeulu's calculations that the yams represent an unalterable ("natural") number of moons, and they there- fore urge him to change his traditional interpretation of the remaining yams. Ezeulu refuses to eat up the yams, and successfully holds every- body for ransom by exploiting the tangible aspect of the signifying yams, which, contrary to proverbial injunctions, is indifferent to the users' intention. In a way, the yams carry transparent messages that neither the yams themselves, nor Ezeulu, nor the aides and the elders can appoint at will. It is also possible for us to see the Ezeulu-Umuaro fiasco as the result of a quarrel over the cultural control of nature and its signs. In Ezeulu's logic (also available to his opponents), there can be no culture (the year, the calendar) beyond the signification of the yams. He acts as if he believes the year ends only at the mercy of the "written" calendar and not because of any temporal terminus. In the name of an earnest respect for a calendar derived from nature, Ezeulu refuses to take advantage of the second opportunity that the other community elders give him to line up his political choices with theirs when they order him to speak to Ulu again. Both the elders' insistence that Ezeulu should either eat the yams or substitute a propitiation in lieu of not finishing the eating sequence and the chief priest's recalcitrance highlight the arbitrariness of the whole marking system. The controversy between the priest and the council of elders demonstrates the inorganic dimensions of Umuaro's association of the yam (the signifier) and the New Yam Feast (the signified), the planting season, and, by implication, the fiscal year. Of course, I do not mean that the community chooses the yams arbitrarily. The economy, the planting season, the fiscal year, and the cycle of festivals are all intimately linked to the yam trade. However, those facts of "nature" and sociology do not prevent the elders from reminding Ezeulu that their reasonable association of the yam, the communal schedule, and the  Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 59 office of the chief priest can be realigned to form another chain. The elders believe they ordained Ulu to affirm their aspirations and not to betray them. Anichebe Udeozo speaks to this effect when he tells Ezeulu, "I want you to look around this room and tell me what you see. Do you think there is another Umuaro outside this hut now?" (237; emphasis added). Ezeulu agrees with him that the elders are the creators of the federation and its traditions. Udeozo then tells him, "Yes, we are Umuaro. Therefore listen to what I am going to say. Umuaro is now asking you to go and eat those remaining yams today and name the day of the next harvest . .. and if Ulu says we have committed an abomina- tion let it be on the heads of the ten of us here" (237-38). Udeozo's pleas are unheeded, and Ezeulu's wish partially prevails, because the very arbitrariness on which the elders' entreaties rest also permits the chief priest to interpret the yams' presence in his own way. Were Udeozo talking to a messenger who truly has no interest in his message, invoking public interest might have swayed Ezeulu. But the chief priest is prosecuting a personal grudge while furthering Ulu's course. When the chief priest defends his intransigence by saying that the power to "eat death" is not given to him, he is only avenging his hurt on the people whom he believes had once abandoned him for his political opponents. He pursues this grievance under the pretext that he is a mere messenger who does not select his messages, whereas he chooses them at every turn. He could not be proved false because, "cultural" (proverbial) prohibition notwithstanding, it appears that all messengers, in varying degrees of self-awareness, possess the ability to bear their own messages (and grudges) in addition to the others latched onto them. What are the specifics of Ezeulu's displeasure with the community? Prior to his detention, Ezeulu has had a long-running disagreement with the rival priest of Idemili and his smooth-talking supporter, the wealthy Nwaka. Ezeulu had also in the recent past opposed several popular decisions made by the Umuaro council of elders. The high point of these conflicts occurs during the land dispute inquiry I men- tioned above. At the hearings, Ezeulu testifies that the disputed piece of land belongs to the Okperi people. With that testimony, the chief priest of Umuaro's "highest" deity almost single-handedly gives the parcel of land in question to the foreigners, who, by the way, are his mother's people. It is common knowledge in Umuaro that historical recollection is a matter of reconstitution, subject to conjecture and personal inter- Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 59 office of the chief priest can be realigned to form another chain. The elders believe they ordained Ulu to affirm their aspirations and not to betray them. Anichebe Udeozo speaks to this effect when he tells Ezeulu, "I want you to look around this room and tell me what you see. Do you think there is another Umuaro outside this hut now?" (237; emphasis added). Ezeulu agrees with him that the elders are the creators of the federation and its traditions. Udeozo then tells him, "Yes, we are Umuaro. Therefore listen to what I am going to say. Umuaro is now asking you to go and eat those remaining yams today and name the day of the next harvest ... and if Ulu says we have committed an abomina- tion let it be on the heads of the ten of us here" (237-38). Udeozo's pleas are unheeded, and Ezeulu's wish partially prevails, because the very arbitrariness on which the elders' entreaties rest also permits the chief priest to interpret the yams' presence in his own way. Were Udeozo talking to a messenger who truly has no interest in his message, invoking public interest might have swayed Ezeulu. But the chief priest is prosecuting a personal grudge while furthering Ulu's course. When the chief priest defends his intransigence by saying that the power to "eat death" is not given to him, he is only avenging his hurt on the people whom he believes had once abandoned him for his political opponents. He pursues this grievance under the pretext that he is a mere messenger who does not select his messages, whereas he chooses them at every turn. He could not be proved false because, "cultural" (proverbial) prohibition notwithstanding, it appears that all messengers, in varying degrees of self-awareness, possess the ability to bear their own messages (and grudges) in addition to the others latched onto them. What are the specifics of Ezeulu's displeasure with the community? Prior to his detention, Ezeulu has had a long-running disagreement with the rival priest of Idemili and his smooth-talking supporter, the wealthy Nwaka. Ezeulu had also in the recent past opposed several popular decisions made by the Umuaro council of elders. The high point of these conflicts occurs during the land dispute inquiry I men- tioned above. At the hearings, Ezeulu testifies that the disputed piece of land belongs to the Okperi people. With that testimony, the chief priest of Umuaro's "highest" deity almost single-handedly gives the parcel of land in question to the foreigners, who, by the way, are his mother's people. It is common knowledge in Umuaro that historical recollection is a matter of reconstitution, subject to conjecture and personal inter- Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 59 office of the chief priest can be realigned to form another chain. The elders believe they ordained Ulu to affirm their aspirations and not to betray them. Anichebe Udeozo speaks to this effect when he tells Ezeulu, "I want you to look around this room and tell me what you see. Do you think there is another Unuaro outside this hut now?" (237; emphasis added). Ezeulu agrees with him that the elders are the creators of the federation and its traditions. Udeozo then tells him, "Yes, we are Umuaro. Therefore listen to what I am going to say. Umuaro is now asking you to go and eat those remaining yams today and name the day of the next harvest ... and if Ulu says we have committed an abomina- tion let it be on the heads of the ten of us here" (237-38). Udeozo's pleas are unheeded, and Ezeulu's wish partially prevails, because the very arbitrariness on which the elders' entreaties rest also permits the chief priest to interpret the yams' presence in his own way. Were Udeozo talking to a messenger who truly has no interest in his message, invoking public interest might have swayed Ezeulu. But the chief priest is prosecuting a personal grudge while furthering Ulu's course. When the chief priest defends his intransigence by saying that the power to "eat death" is not given to him, he is only avenging his hurt on the people whom he believes had once abandoned him for his political opponents. He pursues this grievance under the pretext that he is a mere messenger who does not select his messages, whereas he chooses them at every turn. He could not be proved false because, "cultural" (proverbial) prohibition notwithstanding, it appears that all messengers, in varying degrees of self-awareness, possess the ability to bear their own messages (and grudges) in addition to the others latched onto them. What are the specifics of Ezeulu's displeasure with the community? Prior to his detention, Ezeulu has had a long-running disagreement with the rival priest of Idemili and his smooth-talking supporter, the wealthy Nwaka. Ezeulu had also in the recent past opposed several popular decisions made by the Umuaro council of elders. The high point of these conflicts occurs during the land dispute inquiry I men- tioned above. At the hearings, Ezeulu testifies that the disputed piece of land belongs to the Okperi people. With that testimony, the chief priest of Umuara's "highest" deity almost single-handedly gives the parcel of land in question to the foreigners, who, by the way, are his mother's people. It is common knowledge in Umuaro that historical recollection is a matter of reconstitution, subject to conjecture and personal inter-  60 Chapter 3 ests. Ezeulu, regardless of his high office, does not possess the right to a correct historical reconstruction and, as such, has no right to speak for the entire community without its popular consent. Although he was bearing an impolitic message in testifying against his father's people, Ezeulu still believed that his was the voice of a messenger speaking only for his deity. Ezeulu uses the same rationale at the acrimonious prewar delibera- tions when he opposes any action against Okperi, his mother's home- land. He appeals to the people to listen to him because he speaks on behalf of a deity that will not endorse unjust courses. "Ulu would not fight an unjust war," he says. To buttress this point, he informs the assembly, "my father said this to me that when our village first came here to live the land belonged to Okperi.. . .This is the story as I heard it from my father" (17). At that meeting, Ezeulu insists he is not speaking for himself but as a simple messenger of truth. Nwaka, his most notorious opponent, replies that fact alone will not make him a truthful messenger: "Wisdom is like a goatskin bag; everv man carries his own. Knowledge of the land is also like that. Ezeulu has told us what his father told him about the olden days. We know that a father does not speak falsely to his son. But we also know that the lore of the land is beyond the knowledge of many fathers.... My father told me a different story" (17-18). Ezeulu dismisses Nwaka's speech as pure chicanery. He refuses to listen to the subtext of Nwaka's opposition. Whatever his ulterior motives might be, Nwaka warns Ezeulu that he cannot be a messenger of unimpeachable truth because his mother, of whom he has fond memories, hailed from Okperi. In taking refuge under the proverbial injunction of a messenger's inability to select its message, Ezeulu commits political parricide and testifies against his father's people. He forgets the proverb that warns that "No man, however great, can win a judgment against his [father's] clan" (148). An influential demagogue in the community uses this proverb to cast Ezeulu as a declared enemy of his father's people. So, when he refuses to be the white man's chief and messenger, his oppo- nents act as if nothing was heroic in the action. The political controver- sies over yam eating (reading) begin in these earlier struggles, which cleave in advance all the supposedly innocent readers. To conclude this description of the tradition-laden conflicts between signification and interpretation, I want to cite one incident that occurs between Ezeulu and the son he sends to join the local Anglican church 60 Chapter 3 ests. Ezeulu, regardless of his high office, does not possess the right to a correct historical reconstruction and, as such, has no right to speak for the entire community without its popular consent. Although he was bearing an impolitic message in testifying against his father's people, Ezeulu still believed that his was the voice of a messenger speaking only for his deity. Ezeulu uses the same rationale at the acrimonious prewar delibera- tions when he opposes any action against Okperi, his mother's home- land. He appeals to the people to listen to him because he speaks on behalf of a deity that will not endorse unjust courses. "Ulu would not fight an unjust war," he says. To buttress this point, he informs the assembly, "my father said this to me that when our village first came here to live the land belonged to Okperi.... This is the story as I heard it from my father" (17). At that meeting, Ezeulu insists he is not speaking for himself but as a simple messenger of truth. Nwtaka, his most notorious opponent, replies that fact alone will not make him a truthful messenger: "Wisdom is like a goatskin bag; even' man carries his own. Knowledge of the land is also like that. Ezeulu has told us what his father told him about the olden days. We know that a father does not speak falsely to his son. But we also know that the lore of the land is beyond the knowledge of many fathers.... My father told me a different story" (17-18). Ezeulu dismisses Nwaka's speech as pure chicanery. He refuses to listen to the subtext of Nwaka's opposition. Whatever his ulterior motives might be, Nwaka warns Ezeulu that he cannot be a messenger of unimpeachable truth because his mother, of whom he has fond memories, hailed from Okperi. In taking refuge under the proverbial injunction of a messenger's inability to select its message, Ezeulu commits political parricide and testifies against his father's people. He forgets the proverb that warns that "No man, however great, can win a judgment against his [father's] clan" (148). An influential demagogue in the community uses this proverb to cast Ezeulu as a declared enemy of his father's people. So, when he refuses to be the white man's chief and messenger, his oppo- nents act as if nothing was heroic in the action. The political controver- sies over yam eating (reading) begin in these earlier struggles, which cleave in advance all the supposedly innocent readers. To conclude this description of the tradition-laden conflicts between signification and interpretation, I want to cite one incident that occurs between Ezeulu and the son he sends to join the local Anglican church 60 Chapter 3 ests. Ezeulu, regardless of his high office, does not possess the right to a correct historical reconstruction and, as such, has no right to speak for the entire community without its popular consent. Although he was bearing an impolitic message in testifying against his father's people, Ezeulu still believed that his was the voice of a messenger speaking only for his deity. Ezeulu uses the same rationale at the acrimonious prewar delibera- tions when he opposes any action against Okperi, his mother's home- land. He appeals to the people to listen to him because he speaks on behalf of a deity that will not endorse unjust courses. "Ulu would not fight an unjust war," he says. To buttress this point, he informs the assembly, "my father said this to me that when our village first came here to live the land belonged to Okperi.... This is the story as I heard it from my father" (17)? At that meeting, Ezeulu insists he is not speaking for himself but as a simple messenger of truth. Nwvaka, his most notorious opponent, replies that fact alone will not make him a truthful messenger: "Wisdom is like a goatskin bag; every man carries his own. Knowledge of the land is also like that. Ezeulu has told us what his father told him about the olden days. We know that a father does not speak falsely to his son. But we also know that the lore of the land is beyond the knowledge of many fathers. ... My father told me a different story" (17-18). Ezeulu dismisses Nwaka's speech as pure chicanery. He refuses to listen to the subtext of Nwaka's opposition. Whatever his ulterior motives might be, Nwaka warns Ezeulu that he cannot be a messenger of unimpeachable truth because his mother, of whom he has fond memories, hailed from Okperi. In taking refuge under the proverbial injunction of a messenger's inability to select its message, Ezeulu commits political parricide and testifies against his father's people. He forgets the proverb that warns that "No man, however great, can win a judgment against his [father's] clan" (148). An influential demagogue in the community uses this proverb to cast Ezeulu as a declared enemy of his father's people. So, when he refuses to be the white man's chief and messenger, his oppo- nents act as if nothing was heroic in the action. The political controver- sies over yam eating (reading) begin in these earlier struggles, which cleave in advance all the supposedly innocent readers. To conclude this description of the tradition-laden conflicts between signification and interpretation, I want to cite one incident that occurs between Ezeulu and the son he sends to join the local Anglican church  Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 67 so as, in Ezeulu's words, "to be his eyes" there. When Ezeulu decides to send the boy, he does not think that Oduche might like the new faith and all the benefits and prestige that come with it. Ezeulu, introspective as ever, never imagines that the new faith will make his son an inheritor of the alien legacy that will empower the boy to lock up the sacred snake of Idemili (another Umuaro deity and Ulu's archrival). But none of these events surpasses Oduche's not telling his father that desperate Umuaro citizens are sending the thanksgiving yams that they normally give to Ulu on the day of the New Yam Feast to Jesus, the Christ. When Ezeulu learns about this development from a friend, he is surprised that his "eyes" did not warn him. He rebukes the boy: "Do you remem- ber what I told you when I sent you among those people? ... I called you as a father calls his son and told you to go and be my eye and ear among those people. I did not send Obika or Edogo; I did not send Nwafo, your mother's son. I called you by name and you came here- in this obi-and I sent you to see and hearfor me. I did not know at that time that I was sending a goat's skull" (251). Again, the messenger derails the message. The messenger, due to the comforts of the destina- tion, chooses not to fulfill his charge. Oduche's betrayal breaks his father's spirit. Perhaps the best evidence for the theme of the role of the authorizing consciousness in figuration and communication is to be found in the kind of proverbs that Ezeulu ponders when his mind cracks up. He seeks explanations for the unfortunate turns of events in proverbs that focus on the nonculpability of the messenger in the effect of its mes- sage. Why, he asked himself again and again, why had Ulu chosen to deal thus with him, to strike him down and cover him with mud? What was his offence? Had he not divined the god's will and obeyed it? When was it ever heard that a child was scalded by the piece of yam its own mother put in its palm? What man would send his son with a potsherd to bring fire from a neighbor's hut and then unleash rain on him? Who ever sent his son up the palm to gather nuts and then took an axe and felled the tree? But today such a thing had happened before the eyes of all. (260) One can read these sayings as confirmation that Ezeulu is a victim of the social vagaries that determine the fates of messages and messen- gers. Bernth Lindfors, for instance, interprets the sequence of proverbs Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 61 so as, in Ezeulu's words, "to be his eyes" there. When Ezeulu decides to send the boy, he does not think that Oduche might like the new faith and all the benefits and prestige that come with it. Ezeulu, introspective as ever, never imagines that the new faith will make his son an inheritor of the alien legacy that will empower the boy to lock up the sacred snake of Idemili (another Umuaro deity and Ulu's archrival). But none of these events surpasses Oduche's not telling his father that desperate Umuaro citizens are sending the thanksgiving yams that they normally give to Ulu on the day of the New Yam Feast to Jesus, the Christ. When Ezeulu learns about this development from a friend, he is surprised that his "eyes" did not warn him. He rebukes the boy: "Do you remem- ber what I told you when I sent you among those people? . .. I called you as a father calls his son and told you to go and be my eye and ear among those people. I did not send Obika or Edogo; I did not send Nwafo, your mother's son. I called you by name and you came here- in this obi-and I sent you to see and hearfor me. I did not know at that time that I was sending a goat's skull" (251). Again, the messenger derails the message. The messenger, due to the comforts of the destina- tion, chooses not to fulfill his charge. Oduche's betrayal breaks his father's spirit. Perhaps the best evidence for the theme of the role of the authorizing consciousness in figuration and communication is to be found in the kind of proverbs that Ezeulu ponders when his mind cracks up. He seeks explanations for the unfortunate turns of events in proverbs that focus on the nonculpability of the messenger in the effect of its mes- sage. Why, he asked himself again and again, why had Ulu chosen to deal thus with him, to strike him down and cover him with mud? What was his offence? Had he not divined the god's will and obeyed it? When was it ever heard that a child was scalded by the piece of yam its own mother put in its palm? What man would send his son with a potsherd to bring fire from a neighbor's hut and then unleash rain on him? Who ever sent his son up the palm to gather nuts and then took an axe and felled the tree? But today such a thing had happened before the eyes of all. (260) One can read these sayings as confirmation that Ezeulu is a victim of the social vagaries that determine the fates of messages and messen- gers. Bernth Lindfors, for instance, interprets the sequence of proverbs 'Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 61 so as, in Ezeulu's words, "to be his eyes" there. When Ezeulu decides to send the boy, he does not think that Oduche might like the new faith and all the benefits and prestige that come with it. Ezeulu, introspective as ever, never imagines that the new faith will make his son an inheritor of the alien legacy that will empower the boy to lock up the sacred snake of Idemili (another Umuaro deity and Ulu's archrival). But none of these events surpasses Oduche's not telling his father that desperate Umuaro citizens are sending the thanksgiving yams that they normally give to Ulu on the day of the New Yam Feast to Jesus, the Christ. When Ezeulu learns about this development from a friend, he is surprised that his "eyes" did not warn him. He rebukes the boy: "Do you remem- ber what I told you when I sent you among those people? ... I called you as a father calls his son and told you to go and be my eye and ear among those people. I did not send Obika or Edogo; I did not send Nwafo, your mother's son. I called you by name and you came here- in this obi-and I sent you to see and hearfor me. I did not know at that time that I was sending a goat's skull" (251). Again, the messenger derails the message. The messenger, due to the comforts of the destina- tion, chooses not to fulfill his charge. Oduche's betrayal breaks his father's spirit. Perhaps the best evidence for the theme of the role of the authorizing consciousness in figuration and communication is to be found in the kind of proverbs that Ezeulu ponders when his mind cracks up. He seeks explanations for the unfortunate turns of events in proverbs that focus on the nonculpability of the messenger in the effect of its mes- sage. Why, he asked himself again and again, why had Ulu chosen to deal thus with him, to strike him down and cover him with mud? What was his offence? Had he not divined the god's will and obeyed it? When was it ever heard that a child was scalded by the piece of yam its own mother put in its palm? What man would send his son with a potsherd to bring fire from a neighbor's hut and then unleash rain on him? Who ever sent his son up the palm to gather nuts and then took an axe and felled the tree? But today such a thing had happened before the eyes of all. (260) One can read these sayings as confirmation that Ezeulu is a victim of the social vagaries that determine the fates of messages and messen- gers. Bernth Lindfors, for instance, interprets the sequence of proverbs  62 Chapter 3 as Ezeulu's belated regret over not knowing the political limits of his powers. "Ezeulu, in trying to adjust to the changing times, takes certain inappropriate actions which later lead him to neglect his duties and responsibilities. Not knowing his limitations, he goes too far and plunges himself and his people into disaster" ("The Palm-Oil" 15). Rightly, I think, Gareth Griffiths has said this interpretation is inad- equate. But Griffiths's replacement is equally short on several marks. It might be correct to say that Ezeulu seeks futile help in "proverbial" knowledge and that "frantically he runs through the proverbial wis- dom seeking for a clear sign that the relationship of trust which must exist between high priest and god still endures" (97). It is, however, not exactly true that the chief priest's failed search signifies the surrender of the so-called proverbial society (as opposed to modern "literate" ones) and its mores to the "irresistible and incomprehensible force of the white man, a force blind to the values and meaning of tribal life" (97). The invading force is not completely blind to local values. The conglomerate of proverbs running around in Ezeulu's head centers around the unjust culpability of the messenger. Ezeulu, the ordinary messenger (though of a deity), struggles within a web of proverbs about message and messenger and ponders why he must suffer for carrying out his duties "faithfully." The undecidability of the priority question-is the message prior and therefore superior?-is in itself a maddening matter. Achebe's narratorial comments on Ezeulu' condi- tion indicate that much. Perhaps it was the constant, futile throbbing of thes thought that finally left a crack in Ezeulu's mind. Or perhaps his implacable assailant having stood over him for a little while stepped on him as on an insect and crushed him in the dust. But this final act of malevolence proved merciful. It allowed Ezeulu, in his last days, to live in the haughty splendor of a demented high priest and spared him knowledge of the final outcome. (261; emphasis added) We need to ask whether or not the title proverb of this discussion is wrong about the irremediable servitude and muteness of the messen- ger. I believe that the proverb, in spite of itself, is correct to a large extent. All the messengers who choose to appoint their messages, con- sciously or not, regardless of their purpose, lose out, because what they had hitherto perceived as controllable messages slip out of their grips to become other messengers. Ezeulu makes of the calendrical yams a 62 Chapter 3 as Ezeulu's belated regret over not knowing the political limits of his powers. "Ezeulu, in trying to adjust to the changing times, takes certain inappropriate actions which later lead him to neglect his duties and responsibilities. Not knowing his limitations, he goes too far and plunges himself and his people into disaster" ("The Palm-Oil" 15). Rightly, I think, Gareth Griffiths has said this interpretation is inad- equate. But Griffiths's replacement is equally short on several marks. It might be correct to say that Ezeulu seeks futile help in "proverbial" knowledge and that "frantically he runs through the proverbial s - dom seeking for a clear sign that the relationship of trust which must exist between high priest and god still endures" (97). It is, however, not exactly true that the chief priest's failed search signifies the surrender of the so-called proverbial society (as opposed to modern "literate" ones) and its mores to the "irresistible and incomprehensible force of the white man, a force blind to the values and meaning of tribal life" (97). The invading force is not completely blind to local values. The conglomerate of proverbs running around in Ezeulu's head centers around the unjust culpability of the messenger. Ezeulu, the ordinary messenger (though of a deity), struggles within a web of proverbs about message and messenger and ponders why he must suffer for carrying out his duties "faithfully." The undecidability of the priority question-is the message prior and therefore superior?-is in itself a maddening matter. Achebe's narratorial comments on Ezeulu's condi- tion indicate that much. Perhaps it was the constant, futile throbbing of these thoughts that finally left a crack in Ezeulu's mind. Or perhaps his implacable assailant having stood over him for a ittle while stepped on him as on an insect and crushed him in the dust. But this final act of malevolence proved merciful. It allowed Ezeulu, in his last days, to live in the haughty splendor of a demented high priest and spared him knowledge of the final outcome. (261; emphasis added) We need to ask whether or not the title proverb of this discussion is wrong about the irremediable servitude and muteness of the messen- ger. I believe that the proverb, in spite of itself, is correct to a large extent. All the messengers who choose to appoint their messages, con- sciously or not, regardless of their purpose, lose out, because what they had hitherto perceived as controllable messages slip out of their grips to become other messengers. Ezeulu makes of the calendrical yams a 62 Chapter 3 as Ezeulu's belated regret over not knowing the political limits of his powers. "Ezeulu, in trying to adjust to the changing times, takes certain inappropriate actions which later lead him to neglect his duties and responsibilities. Not knowing his limitations, he goes too far and plunges himself and his people into disaster" ("The Palm-Oil" 15). Rightly, I think, Gareth Griffiths has said this interpretation is inad- equate. But Griffiths's replacement is equally short on several marks. It might be correct to say that Ezeulu seeks futile help in "proverbial knowledge and that "frantically he runs through the proverbial wis- dom seeking for a clear sign that the relationship of trust which must exist between high priest and god still endures" (97). It is, how eer, not exactly true that the chief priest's failed search signifies the surrender of the so-called proverbial society (as opposed to modern "literate" ones) and its mores to the "irresistible and incomprehensible force of the white man, a force blind to the values and meaning of tribal life" (97). The invading force is not completely blind to local values. The conglomerate of proverbs running around in Ezeulu's head centers around the unjust culpability of the messenger. Ezeulu, the ordinary messenger (though of a deity), struggles within a web of proverbs about message and messenger and ponders why he must suffer for carrying out his duties "faithfully." The undecidability of the priority question-is the message prior and therefore superior?-is in itself a maddening matter. Achebe's narratorial comments on Ezeulu's condi- tion indicate that much. Perhaps it was the constant, futile throbbing of these thoughts that finally left a crack in Ezeulu's mind. Or perhaps his implacable assailant having stood over him for a little while stepped on him as on an insect and crushed him in the dust. But this final act of malevolence proved merciful. It allowed Ezeulu, in his last days, to live in the haughty splendor of a demented high priest and spared him knowledge of the final outcome. (261; emphasis added) We need to ask whether or not the title proverb of this discussion is wrong about the irremediable servitude and muteness of the messen- ger. I believe that the proverb, in spite of itself, is correct to a large extent. All the messengers who choose to appoint their messages, con- sciously or not, regardless of their purpose, lose out, because what they had hitherto perceived as controllable messages slip out of their grips to become other messengers. Ezeulu makes of the calendrical yams a  Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 63 message of vengeance, but they eventually turn into messengers of change in the hands of the famished citizens, the local mission school- teacher, and the Anglican catechist. The teacher, in particular, recog- nizes the "open" letters of the yam and fully exploits them by urging his church members to convince their fellow citizens to substitute the church harvest ceremony for the New Yam Feast. He even tells them that if the "dead" Ulu can take one robust tuber from each family, the "living" God deserves more. Both the feast and the church ceremony inhabit entirely different worlds, but Mr. Goodcountry is able to tear them from their different universes and yoke them together, because both the yam and the harvest are so usable: they are syncretizable texts that conventions and trappings of particular epochs cannot hold from recombining. It is tempting to say that Ezeulu's manipulations prevail unwit- tingly. After all, Christianity spreads and the colonial administration fully settles down in Umuaro. Yielding to such temptation amounts to crediting Ezeulu with more than he deserves, for he is certainly not clairvoyant. Events do not happen the way they do because Ezeulu wishes them. Events turn around because the traditional calendar mark- ers refuse, ironically, to obey the traditional reader's wishes. It is true many children attend the mission school as Ezeulu suspects they would: even Nwaka, Ezeulu's most vicious critic, sends his laziest son there. I submit that events turn out this way because of the yam text's favorable response to the local teacher's perceptive, though opportunistic, read- ing. If Ezeulu's actions are interpreted according to the letter of my title proverb, the chief priest does not violate "tradition." He is a traditional- ist who believes that the messenger cannot choose its message. But as the narrative shows, proverbs do not ossify tradition. When they are perceived as "readable" codes, proverbs figure tradition as textual constructs that can only be successfully-politically, that is-invoked by those with prevailing reading strategies. At a time when profound changes in the function of cultural systems are taking place in the land, deciding the most correct strategy can be very difficult. In Ezeulu's case, it is tragic. He is the messenger who cannot choose his message. But because he is a messenger, he is also one who cannot but choose a message. Without doubt, Achebe's fiction provides strong tools for fathoming the relationships of language and power in colonial societies. In equally message of vengeance, but they eventually turn into messengers of change in the hands of the famished citizens, the local mission school- teacher, and the Anglican catechist. The teacher, in particular, recog- nizes the "open" letters of the yam and fully exploits them by urging his church members to convince their fellow citizens to substitute the church harvest ceremony for the New Yam Feast. He even tells them that if the "dead" Ulu can take one robust tuber from each family, the "living" God deserves more. Both the feast and the church ceremony inhabit entirely different worlds, but Mr. Goodcountry is able to tear them from their different universes and yoke them together, because both the yam and the harvest are so usable: they are syncretizable texts that conventions and trappings of particular epochs cannot hold from recombining. It is tempting to say that Ezeulu's manipulations prevail unwit- tingly. After all, Christianity spreads and the colonial administration fully settles down in Umuaro. Yielding to such temptation amounts to crediting Ezeulu with more than he deserves, for he is certainly not clairvoyant. Events do not happen the way they do because Ezeulu wishes them. Events turn around because the traditional calendar mark- ers refuse, ironically, to obey the traditional reader's wishes. It is true many children attend the mission school as Ezeulu suspects they would: even Nwaka, Ezeulu's most vicious critic, sends his laziest son there. I submit that events turn out this way because of the yam text's favorable response to the local teacher's perceptive, though opportunistic, read- ing. If Ezeulu's actions are interpreted according to the letter of my title proverb, the chief priest does not violate "tradition." He is a traditional- ist who believes that the messenger cannot choose its message. But as the narrative shows, proverbs do not ossify tradition. When they are perceived as "readable" codes, proverbs figure tradition as textual constructs that can only be successfully-politically, that is-invoked by those with prevailing reading strategies. At a time when profound changes in the function of cultural systems are taking place in the land, deciding the most correct strategy can be very difficult. In Ezeulu's case, it is tragic. He is the messenger who cannot choose his message. But because he is a messenger, he is also one who cannot but choose a message. Without doubt, Achebe's fiction provides strong tools for fathoming the relationships of language and power in colonial societies. In equally Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 63 message of vengeance, but they eventually turn into messengers of change in the hands of the famished citizens, the local mission school- teacher, and the Anglican catechist. The teacher, in particular, recog- nizes the "open" letters of the yam and fully exploits them by urging his church members to convince their fellow citizens to substitute the church harvest ceremony for the New Yam Feast. He even tells them that if the "dead" Ulu can take one robust tuber from each family, the "living" God deserves more. Both the feast and the church ceremony inhabit entirely different worlds, but Mr. Goodcountry is able to tear them from their different universes and yoke them together, because both the yam and the harvest are so usable: they are syncretizable texts that conventions and trappings of particular epochs cannot hold from recombining. It is tempting to say that Ezeulu's manipulations prevail unwit- tingly. After all, Christianity spreads and the colonial administration fully settles down in Umuaro. Yielding to such temptation amounts to crediting Ezeulu with more than he deserves, for he is certainly not clairvoyant. Events do not happen the way they do because Ezeulu wishes them. Events turn around because the traditional calendar mark- ers refuse, ironically, to obey the traditional reader's wishes. It is true many children attend the mission school as Ezeulu suspects they would: even Nwaka, Ezeulu's most vicious critic, sends his laziest son there. I submit that events turn out this way because of the yam text's favorable response to the local teacher's perceptive, though opportunistic, read- ing. If Ezeulu's actions are interpreted according to the letter of my title proverb, the chief priest does not violate "tradition." He is a traditional- ist who believes that the messenger cannot choose its message. But as the narrative shows, proverbs do not ossify tradition. When they are perceived as "readable" codes, proverbs figure tradition as textual constructs that can only be successfully-politically, that is-invoked by those with prevailing reading strategies. At a time when profound changes in the function of cultural systems are taking place in the land, deciding the most correct strategy can be very difficult. In Ezeulu's case, it is tragic. He is the messenger who cannot choose his message. But because he is a messenger, he is also one who cannot but choose a message. Without doubt, Achebe's fiction provides strong tools for fathoming the relationships of language and power in colonial societies. In equally  64 Chapter 3 penetrating terms, his works dramatize the philosophical problems associated with the material letter. With Arrow of God, it is clear that the native divisions about the interpretation of a traditional text help the establishment of colonial order in an African community. Christianity retires the local order because the Anglican mission teacher seizes an opportunity to offer a salvationist reading that solves the impasse created by the deadlocked traditional strategies of "writing" and inter- pretation. John Goodcountry knows, like the chiefs, that "the messen- ger does not choose its message" and that the messenger cannot but bear a message. Hence, he captures the yam "text" for the church. The native text, in response to an acutely aware native's interpretation, becomes a tool for the alien's servant. Announcing the Queen Mother's Witchcraft: Proverbial Dramaturgy in 6kediji's Reri Rin In Olidejo Ok6diji's Riere Rn, proverbs foreground metatextual mat- ters in more explicit terms than in Achebe's novel. Okedijf uses prov- erbs in the play to mark themes, embody motifs, and make metadramatic commentaries. With carefully selected adages on judicious use of speech conventions, Okddiji represents politically engaged play-writing in a country ruled by a nervous military regime as a tactful reordering of conventions. The structure of the play suggests that Okediji, swho is better known as a novelist, probably knew that his dabbling into con- sciousness-raising theater in Yorsba language would draw the critical official attention such writing receives routinely. Okediji preempted state harassment and confounded elite critics by writing a "proverbial" work that pitches a group of striking construction workers against the ruling traditional chiefs for whom they toil. The play, which was Okediji's contribution to a writing workshop conducted by the renowned English-language plavwright, Old R6timi, at the Obafmi Aw616w University, moved rapidly within a few months from conception to performance, publication, and an English-language adaptation. One month after its premiere by the Ife-based Ori Ol6kun Theater in August 1973, one of the largest indigenous Nigerian publish- ers, the Onibonhjd Press, released it as the twelfth volume in its I/inle Aroso l1e Afrika (African Original Literature) series edited by the play- wright K616 Omotoso. A short while later, Bad Osinyin directed his English-language adaptation of the play. OsAnyin's adaptation swas particularly significant because it came on the heels of Wole Soyinka's 64 Chapter 3 penetrating terms, his works dramatize the philosophical problems associated with the material letter. With Arros of God, it is clear that the native divisions about the interpretation of a traditional text help the establishment of colonial order in an African community. Christianity retires the local order because the Anglican mission teacher seizes an opportunity to offer a salvationist reading that solves the impasse created by the deadlocked traditional strategies of "writing" and inter- pretation. John Goodcountry knows, like the chiefs, that "the messen- ger does not choose its message" and that the messenger cannot but bear a message. Hence, he captures the yam "text" for the church. The native text, in response to an acutely aware native's interpretation, becomes a tool for the alien's servant. Announcing the Queen Mother's Witchcraft: Proverbial Dramaturgy in Ok6diji's R/r/ Rein In Qlddejo Okediji's Riri Rn, proverbs foreground metatextual mat- ters in more explicit terms than in Achebe's novel. Okediji uses prov- erbs in the play to mark themes, embody motifs, and make metadramatic commentaries. With carefully selected adages on judicious use of speech conventions, Oktdiji represents politically engaged play-writing in a country ruled by a nervous military regime as a tactful reordering of conventions. The structure of the play suggests that Oktdiji, who is better known as a novelist, probably knew that his dabbling into con- sciousness-raising theater in Yorbbd language would draw the critical official attention such writing receives routinely. Ok6diji preempted state harassment and confounded elite critics by writing a "proverbial" work that pitches a group of striking construction workers against the ruling traditional chiefs for whom they toil. The play, which was Okediji's contribution to a uriting workshop conducted by the renowned English-language playwright, OtA R6timi, at the ObAf6mi Aw616wo University, moved rapidly within a fewc months from conception to performance, publication, and an English-language adaptation. One month after its premiere by the Ife-based Ori Ol6kun Theater in August 1973, one of the largest indigenous Nigerian publish- ers, the Onibonoje Press, released it as the twelfth volume in its Iinle Arso Ile Afrika (African Original Literature) series edited by the play- wright K616 Omot6so. A short while later, Bodd Osanyin directed his English-language adaptation of the play. Osanyin's adaptation was particularly significant because it came on the heels of Wale Soyinka's 64 Chapter 3 penetrating terms, his works dramatize the philosophical problems associated with the material letter. With Arrowe of God, it is clear that the native divisions about the interpretation of a traditional text help the establishment of colonial order in an African community. Christianity retires the local order because the Anglican mission teacher seizes an opportunity to offer a salvationist reading that solves the impasse created by the deadlocked traditional strategies of "writing" and inter- pretation. John Goodcountry knows, like the chiefs, that "the messen- ger does not choose its message" and that the messenger cannot but bear a message. Hence, he captures the yam "text" for the church. The native text, in response to an acutely aware native's interpretation, becomes a tool for the alien's servant. Announcing the Queen Mother's Witchcraft: Proverbial Dramaturgy in Okbdiji's Rere Ren In OlAdejo Ok6diji's Rird Rdn, proverbs foreground metatextual mat- ters in more explicit terms than in Achebe's novel. Ok diji uses prov- erbs in the play to mark themes, embody motifs, and make metadramatic commentaries. With carefully selected adages on judicious use of speech conventions, Okedlji represents politically engaged play-writing in a country ruled by a nervous military regime as a tactful reordering of conventions. The structure of the play suggests that Okdiji, who is better known as a novelist, probably knew that his dabbling into con- sciousness-raising theater in Yorubd language would draw' the critical official attention such writing receives routinely. Okediji preempted state harassment and confounded elite critics by writing a "proverbial" work that pitches a group of striking construction workers against the ruling traditional chiefs for whom they toil. The play, which was Oktdiji's contribution to a writing workshop conducted by the renowned English-language playwright, 1ld Rotimi, atthe Obafmi Aw616wo University, moved rapidly within a few months from conception to performance, publication, and an English-language adaptation. One month after its premiere by the Ife-based On Oldkun Theater in August 1973, one of the largest indigenous Nigerian publish- ers, the Onfbsnoje Press, released it as the twelfth volume in its inle Arso Ie Afrika (African Original Literature) series edited by the play- wright K616 Om6t6so. A short while later, Bbde Ossnyin directed his English-language adaptation of the play. Odsnyin's adaptation was particularly significant because it came on the heels of Wole Sosinka's  Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 65 English translation of Fignnwa's classic Ogbdjo Ode Nfnt Ighd Irnmale and appeared to be part of a pattern of making the so-called ethnic literatures available to national audiences. The trend was not sustained. Nonetheless, the play's rapid movement from conception to publica- tion and performance in Yorhba and English attest to the boundless energy evident in the Nigerian arts community during the post-civil- war economic flourish. In the postwar boom, both leftist and conserva- tive artists undertook many initiatives to nurture the culture industry. Indigenous publishing houses bloomed, and many writers who chose not to publish major works with transnationals had local outlets they could uset That era also produced a new cooperation between the university-based writers, who often wrote in English, and writers in the indigenous languages, the majority of whom worked outside of aca- demia. Rire Rin reflects the creative spirit of that era in one more respect: it is the first modern Yorubi-language play outside of the Travelling Theater tradition' to focus on the expanding industrial work- ing population, whose plight was sharpened by the socioeconomic disparities produced by the oil boom. Overtly ideologically engaged drama has never been a strong point for the Yoruba-language theater companies, which, unlike the university-based and state-supported elite English-language groups, must always be concerned with box- office earnings. In short, the circumstances of production, the language of the dialogue, and the working peoples' sympathies of Rere Rssn altogether make the play a bridge between two parallel theater tradi- tions: one performed in popular local languages and the other in En- glish; one commercial and oriented towards popular and "classical" entertainment, and the other elitist and progressive. In the play, the union of Mognn construction workers downs tools to back up its demands for equitable wages, progressive tax codes, ad- equate health facilities, and political representation (14). In the opening movement, the artisans resolve not to return to work until their wages are increased and Lawnwo, their detained leader, is released. In the second act, the chiefs who make up the ruling executive council spon- sor a rival union to divide the workers. In the third, the council discred- its Lawnwo by distributing some compromising pictures the chiefs tricked him into taking with them. In the final movement, Liftnwo's wife, Mor6nik6, commits suicide because she believes she has betrayed her husband when she succumbs to confidence tricksters who dupe her out of the union funds she kept for Lawnwo. The workers believe the Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 65 English translation of Faginwa's classic Ogbdji Ode Nfi Igba Irsnmale and appeared to be part of a pattern of making the so-called ethnic literatures available to national audiences. The trend was not sustained. Nonetheless, the play's rapid movement from conception to publica- tion and performance in Yorub and English attest to the boundless energy evident in the Nigerian arts community during the post-civil- war economic flourish. In the postwar boom, both leftist and conserva- tive artists undertook many initiatives to nurture the culture industry. Indigenous publishing houses bloomed, and many writers who chose not to publish major works with transnationals had local outlets they could use.' That era also produced a new cooperation between the university-based writers, who often wrote in English, and writers in the indigenous languages, the majority of whom worked outside of aca- demia. Rdri Rsn reflects the creative spirit of that era in one more respect: it is the first modern Yoruba-language play outside of the Travelling Theater tradition' to focus on the expanding industrial work- ing population, whose plight was sharpened by the socioeconomic disparities produced by the oil boom. Overtly ideologically engaged drama has never been a strong point for the Yoruba-language theater companies, which, unlike the university-based and state-supported elite English-language groups, must always be concerned with box- office earnings. In short, the circumstances of production, the language of the dialogue, and the working peoples' sympathies of Rir Rsn altogether make the play a bridge between two parallel theater tradi- tions: one performed in popular local languages and the other in En- glish; one commercial and oriented towards popular and "classical" entertainment, and the other elitist and progressive. In the play, the union of Mogdn construction workers downs tools to back up its demands for equitable wages, progressive tax codes, ad- equate health facilities, and political representation (14). In the opening movement, the artisans resolve not to return to work until their wages are increased and Lawnwo, their detained leader, is released. In the second act, the chiefs who make up the ruling executive council spon- sor a rival union to divide the workers. In the third, the council discred- its Lawuwno by distributing some compromising pictures the chiefs tricked him into taking with them. In the final movement, Lawnwo's wife, Morenik6, commits suicide because she believes she has betrayed her husband when she succumbs to confidence tricksters who dupe her out of the union funds she kept for Lawnwo. The workers believe the Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 65 English translation of Fgdnwns classic Ogbdji Ode Ninso Ighd Irinale and appeared to be part of a pattern of making the so-called ethnic literatures available to national audiences. The trend was not sustained. Nonetheless, the play's rapid movement from conception to publica- tion and performance in Yorhbi and English attest to the boundless energy evident in the Nigerian arts community during the post-civil- war economic flourish. In the postwar boom, both leftist and conserva- tive artists undertook many initiatives to nurture the culture industry. Indigenous publishing houses bloomed, and many writers who chose not to publish major works with transnationals had local outlets they could use' That era also produced a new cooperation between the university-based writers, who often wrote in English, and writers in the indigenous languages, the majority of whom worked outside of aca- demia. Rire Rn reflects the creative spirit of that era in one more respect: it is the first modern Yorubd-language play outside of the Travelling Theater tradition' to focus on the expanding industrial work- ing population, whose plight was sharpened by the socioeconomic disparities produced by the oil boom. Overtly ideologically engaged drama has never been a strong point for the Yorbba-language theater companies, which, unlike the university-based and state-supported elite English-language groups, must always be concerned with box- office earnings. In short, the circumstances of production, the language of the dialogue, and the working peoples' sympathies of Rere Rdn altogether make the play a bridge between two parallel theater tradi- tions: one performed in popular local languages and the other in En- glish; one commercial and oriented towards popular and "classical" entertainment, and the other elitist and progressive. In the play, the union of Mogun construction workers downs tools to back up its demands for equitable wages, progressive tax codes, ad- equate health facilities, and political representation (14). In the opening movement, the artisans resolve not to return to work until their wages are increased and Lawuwo, their detained leader, is released. In the second act, the chiefs who make up the ruling executive council spon- sor a rival union to divide the workers. In the third, the council discred- its Lawuwo by distributing some compromising pictures the chiefs tricked him into taking with them. In the final movement, Lawiwo's wife, Morfnik6, commits suicide because she believes she has betrayed her husband when she succumbs to confidence tricksters who dupe her out of the union funds she kept for Lawnwo. The workers believe the  66 Chapter 3 evidence of the compromising pictures circulated by the chiefs and develop a distrust of Lawuwo's sincerity. LAwdwo loses his mind, and the strikers return to work defeated. Concerned spectators who saw the inaugural performances wrote the playwright and asked him to explain the reasons for his "unrealis- tic" representation that dressed up the bourgeoisie as traditional chiefs. Oktdiji recollects that Lfhin ti awon asere ORI OLOKUN se ere naa ni Ilt-Ife, Ibadon, ati k6, ogdnl6g6 awon olnworan 16 ktwe si mi (wgon miiran til be mi wo) liti beere low6 mi p6 ni ild wo ni oba oti awon ijoye ti le ligbra ati maa ti entyan mtl6 syee nra ati kb6 vli, ti ol6paa n be 16de, ti k6otn si wa os gbogbo addgbo. (After the ORI OLOKUN players performed the play in Ile-Ife, ibdn, and Lagos, many spectators wrote [some even called on me personally] to ask me in what country do kings and chiefs possess the authority to lock people up in this age of naira and kobo, when law enforcement officers abound, and courts are in every corner.) (vi) The discerning public asked the playwright why he mismatched his- torical times and the forms of ruling classes appropriate to them. The audience was apparently worried that the play's representation of the truly ferocious bourgeoisie with feudal rulers defeated its contempo- rary theme about the deplorable condition of the working class. The alienated public-most probably university-based-demanded from Okddiji a clarification of the ideological confusion that might result from his dramaturgy. If Oktdiji was surprised that his audience did not recognize the modern captains of industry-the controllers of this era of Naira and Kobo-in the royal rulers of the play, he did not show it. Instead, the playwright enlightened the baffled audience with an explanation of his proverbial poetics. He said, "Owe ni mo fi er onitn yi pa; owe naa si j6 ogedd ena fift" (I make a proverb of this play; and the pro% erb is completely ciphered) (vi), and added, Ohun td si jd ki n fena ni pe pel6 iko, 6 ldbo. Ni to6t6, bi ojo b a sepin, oju nid ni a i fi i han, k6 le mo peoun n sobhn. Shgb6n eni ti yto so pe lyda baile ldje6, ytd ma mgn gn so, ko si ni soto larin oja. Bi bee k6, wgn 6 ti igi bo enu re ptngld pangala to so id or6 be jtde, y6 sil t si i ni. 66 Chapter 3 evidence of the compromising pictures circulated by the chiefs and develop a distrust of Lawwno's sincerity. Lawnwo loses his mind, and the strikers return to work defeated. Concerned spectators who saw the inaugural performances wrote the playwright and asked him to explain the reasons for his "unrealis- tic" representation that dressed up the bourgeoisie as traditional chiefs. oktdlji recollects that Lihm ti awon aser ORi OLOKUN se ere odd ni Ile-Ife, ibadan, ati Eko, ogdnl6g6 dwgn oluworan 16 kewt si mi (dwon miiren tle be mi wo) liti beere 16w6 mi pe of ild wo ni oba ah awon ijaye ti le lagbra ati maa ti eniyan mgl ltyee n~ira ati kobo yii, ti ol6pat n be l6de, ti kootb si wa of gbogbo addgbo. (After the ORi OLOKUN players performed the play in Ile-Ife, Ibadan, and Lagos, many spectators wrote [some even called on me personally] to ask me in what country do kings and chiefs possess the authority to lock people up in this age of naira and kobo, when law enforcement officers abound, and courts are in every corner.) (vi) The discerning public asked the playwright why he mismatched his- torical times and the forms of ruling classes appropriate to them. The audience was apparently worried that the play's representation of the truly ferocious bourgeoisie with feudal rulers defeated its contempo- rary theme about the deplorable condition of the working class. The alienated public-most probably university-based-demanded from Okediji a clarification of the ideological confusion that might result from his dramaturgy! If Okedijf was surprised that his audience did not recognize the modern captains of industry-the controllers of this era of Naira and Kobo-in the royal rulers of the play, he did not show it. Instead, the playwright enlightened the baffled audience with an explanation of his proverbial poetics. He said, "Owe ni mo fi ere onitan yii pa; owe naa si j6 bgtde en fif6" (I make a proverb of this play; and the proverb is completely ciphered) (vi), and added, Ohun t6 si j( ki n fena ni pe pele liko, 6 labo. Ni tolt6, bi ojd bd n sepin, ojd na ni a fi i han, k6 lb m6 pt oun n sgbnn. Sgbon eni ti y66 sq pe lyda baste ldjee, yto ma mgn 6n so, ko si ni sild Isarin gjd. Bi be k6, wgn 6 ti igi bo enu re pgngala pongala t6 so ird b be jade, yd si t6 si i of. 66 Chapter 3 evidence of the compromising pictures circulated by the chiefs and develop a distrust of LAwnwo's sincerity. LAwdwo loses his osind, and the strikers return to work defeated. Concerned spectators who saw the inaugural performances wrote the playwright and asked him to explain the reasons for his "unrealis- tic" representation that dressed up the bourgeoisie as traditional chiefs. Oktdiji recollects that Lthin ti awon asere OR OLOKUN se erea ds ntIe-It, ibadan, ati k6, ogdnt16g6 won oliworan 16 kgwe si mi (awon miiran tile be mi wo) tati beere ltw6 mi pens ilt wo ni oba ati anon ijoye ti le 1Agbra Ati mda ti enlyn mole layte niird oti kbt vi, ti ol6pda n be 16de, ti kdotu si wd ni gbogbo adugb6. (After the OR] OLOKUN players performed the play in Ile-Ife, ibadan, and Lagos, many spectators wrote [some even called on me personally] to ask me in what country do kings and chiefs possess the authority to lock people up in this age of naira and kobo, when law enforcement officers abound, and courts are in every corner.) (vi) The discerning public asked the playwright why he mismatched his- torical times and the forms of ruling classes appropriate to them. The audience was apparently worried that the play's representation of the truly ferocious bourgeoisie with feudal rulers defeated its contempo- rary theme about the deplorable condition of the working class. The alienated public-most probably university-based--demanded from Okediji a clarification of the ideological confusion that might result from his dramaturgy.' If Okdiji was surprised that his audience did not recognize the modern captains of industry-the controllers of this era of Naira and Kobo-in the royal rulers of the play, he did not show it. Instead, the playwright enlightened the baffled audience with an explanation of his proverbial poetics. He said, "Owe ni mo fi er onitan yli pa; owe nsa si j6 ogede ena fiff" (I make a proverb of this play; and the prov erb is completely ciphered) (vi), and added, Ohun t6 si j6 ki n fena ni pd pe lAko, 6 Ibo. Ni to6t6, bi ojo bA n sepin, ojn na ni a a fi ihan, koe m poun n s6bhn. Sdgbon en ti ydo sq p6 iyAa baale ltje6, y66 ma mon on so, ko si os sold lAarin gjd. Bi b) k6, won d ti igi bo enu re pgngala pongala to so ird eb bte jdde, yo si t6 si i ni.  Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 67 (I speak in ciphers because "How do you do?" can be either masculine or feminine. Ideally, if the eye discharges pus, it is to the same eye we show (reflect) it, so that it will know of its dirty habits. But, the person who will say that the chief's mother is a witch must exercise discretion, and he will not announce it in the marketplace. Else, the shapeless mouth that proclaims such words will be spiked.) (vi) Okedijf uses the proverb here as a statement, a way of making a state- ment, and a signifying principle. He labels the entire play a proverb, he states its theme in a proverb, he expresses his motivation proverbially, and, finally, he explains his theatrical strategy in proverbs. He uses "the language of the people," as Adewole puts it (43), to state his poetics and also to write his play. His proverb-laden preface demonstrates a well- informed concern for form, for thematic relevance, and for the influ- ence of historical circumstances on the techniques of engaged writing. The two proverbs central to understanding the play are (1) the thematic saying, "Bi ojd bd n sepin, ojd nsa ni a a fi i hban, k6 le m6 p6 oun f snbbn" (If the eye discharges pus, it is to the same eye we show [reflect] it, so that it will know of its dirty habits); and (2) the strategic adage, "Eni to ydo so pd fyia baale lajb?, yo ma mn on so, k6 si on so 6 liarin oja" (The person who will say that the chief's mother possesses witchcraft must exercise discretion, and will not announce it in the marketplace). The two proverbs thematize Okediji's tactful depiction of the workers' plight. The first demands corrective forthrightness from the artist, and the second advises circumspection. The theme of the strategy-saying conflicts with the recommended strategy of the the- matic goal. One can eliminate the contradiction by showing that the introductory phrase to the belligerent correction, "ni b6t66" (ideally), infers impracticality. In other words, one can announce the queen mother's witchcraft blatantly only if the conditions are right. Okediji tells his readers that the times do not permit reflecting the eye's filthy discharge to it flagrantly. He therefore likens contemporary class antagonisms to the dictatorship of a feudal ruling council and invests the empty authority of the kings with the powers of the nascent bourgeoisie. His representation of the bourgeoisie with kings-"natu- ral" rulers in Nigerian political lingo-acknowledges the ferocity of all ruling regimes, but it deflects official notice with the stiff language and behaviors of the beaded chiefs. The deflection, Okhdiji advises, should not prevent the historically incongruous activities of the chiefs from lextual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 67 (I speak in ciphers because "How do you do?" can be either masculine or feminine. Ideally, if the eye discharges pus, it is to the same eye we show (reflect) it, so that it will know of its dirty habits. But, the person who will say that the chief's mother is a witch must exercise discretion, and he will not announce it in the marketplace. Else, the shapeless mouth that proclaims such words will be spiked.) (vi) Okedij uses the proverb here as a statement, a way of making a state- ment, and a signifying principle. He labels the entire play a proverb, he states its theme in a proverb, he expresses his motivation proverbially, and, finally, he explains his theatrical strategy in proverbs. He uses "the language of the people," as Adewole puts it (43), to state his poetics and also to write his play. His proverb-laden preface demonstrates a well- informed concern for form, for thematic relevance, and for the influ- ence of historical circumstances on the techniques of engaged writing. The two proverbs central to understanding the play are (1) the thematic saying, "Bi ojd ba sepin, ojn naa ni a a fi i hbn, k6 le mo p hun n sbbn" (If the eye discharges pus, it is to the same eye we show [reflect] it, so that it will know of its dirty habits); and (2) the strategic adage, "Eni Ii see so ph iya baalf laje6, y66 ma m6n on so, ko si n sq 6 laarin oja" (The person who will say that the chief's mother possesses witchcraft must exercise discretion, and will not announce it in the marketplace). The two proverbs thematize Okediji's tactful depiction of the workers' plight. The first demands corrective forthrightness from the artist, and the second advises circumspection. The theme of the strategy-saying conflicts with the recommended strategy of the the- matic goal. One can eliminate the contradiction by showing that the introductory phrase to the belligerent correction, "ni to6t6" (ideally), infers impracticality. In other words, one can announce the queen mother's witchcraft blatantly only if the conditions are right. Okdiji tells his readers that the times do not permit reflecting the eye's filthy discharge to it flagrantly. He therefore likens contemporary class antagonisms to the dictatorship of a feudal ruling council and invests the empty authority of the kings with the powers of the nascent bourgeoisie. His representation of the bourgeoisie with kings-"natu- ral" rulers in Nigerian political lingo-acknowledges the ferocity of all ruling regimes, but it deflects official notice with the stiff language and behaviors of the beaded chiefs. The deflection, Okhdij advises, should not prevent the historically incongruous activities of the chiefs from Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 67 (I speak in ciphers because "How do you do?" can be either masculine or feminine. Ideally, if the eye discharges pus, it is to the same eye we show (reflect) it, so that it will know of its dirty habits. But, the person who will say that the chief's mother is a witch must exercise discretion, and he will not announce it in the marketplace. Else, the shapeless mouth that proclaims such words will be spiked.) (vi) Ok6diji uses the proverb here as a statement, a way of making a state- ment, and a signifying principle. He labels the entire play a proverb, he states its theme in a proverb, he expresses his motivation proverbially, and, finally, he explains his theatrical strategy in proverbs. He uses "the language of the people," as Adewole puts it (43), to state his poetics and also to write his play. His proverb-laden preface demonstrates a well- informed concern for form, for thematic relevance, and for the influ- ence of historical circumstances on the techniques of engaged writing. The two proverbs central to understanding the play are (1) the thematic saying, "Bi oju ba f sepin, ojd na ni a a fi I hbn, k6 le m6 ph oun n s6bun" (If the eye discharges pus, it is to the same eye we show [reflect] it, so that it will know of its dirty habits); and (2) the strategic adage, "En i v6 so pe iyaa badle 1sj6h, y66 ma mon 6n so, kb si ni so 6 labrin oja" (The person who will say that the chief's mother possesses witchcraft must exercise discretion, and will not announce it in the marketplace). The two proverbs thematize Okddiji's tactful depiction of the workers' plight. The first demands corrective forthrightness from the artist, and the second advises circumspection. The theme of the strategy-saying conflicts with the recommended strategy of the the- matic goal. One can eliminate the contradiction by showing that the introductory phrase to the belligerent correction, "n t66to" (ideally), infers impracticality. In other words, one can announce the queen mother's witchcraft blatantly only if the conditions are right. Ok6dji tells his readers that the times do not permit reflecting the eye's filthy discharge to it flagrantly. He therefore likens contemporary class antagonisms to the dictatorship of a feudal ruling council and invests the empty authority of the kings with the powers of the nascent bourgeoisie. His representation of the bourgeoisie with kings-"natu- ral" rulers in Nigerian political lingo-acknowledges the ferocity of all ruling regimes, but it deflects official notice with the stiff language and behaviors of the beaded chiefs. The deflection, Okediji advises, should not prevent the historically incongruous activities of the chiefs from  68 Chapter 3 calling forth those of the modern ruling classes. As the proverb advises, "Ohun t6 bA joun la fi n weun, eepo epa 6 jo post eliri" (We compare only likes to one another; the groundnut shell resembles the Oiri rat's casket)." According to Ok/dijr, "Oba Onimogun ati awon ijoe r ti 6 wn nind igbimb alase ilu Mogun ddr6 fdn awon agbanisise gbogbo, ibi yodwh I won le we l6de ay6. ijoba orile ede ni gbogbo agbae wa nindu won; b)e si ni awon egb6 onisowo jinnra-jinnra; ati awon ilaleh sti atdpAtadide alaroobo ti gba eniydn sis6" (The Onmogdn and his chiefs in the Mogun cabinet stand for all employers wherever they mas be. Governments are among them; so also are the huge trading con- glomerates; and the petty commissioned agents) (vi). The playwright adds quickly that the working peoples literally represent themselves. Ok/diji's mixed representation allows his play, in a proverbial style, to say what it means (i.e., show the inequity of class relations) while still giving the writer the ability to claim, if warranted, that all he means is what the work says (i.e., entertaining an audience about the wicked- ness of old chiefs). Okodiji is not the first writer in Yoriba language to think of his work as a proverb. D. O. Fignnwa used that technique in his very first novel, Ogbdj Ode NinQ Igbo Iranmale. The fictive editor' of that tale opens the text with eyin ore mi, bi owe ni a n i u ogidigb6; ologb6n i i jd o, omaran o i si f m6 on. Itan ti n 6 so vii, ild ogidigbo ni; emi of nii ti coo to HO naa, eyin ni ologbon ti yo jo o, ayin si ni 6moran ti ydo m66n p/lt. (1) My friends all, like the sonorous proverb do we drum the agi- digb6; it is the wise who dance to it, and the learned who under- stand the language. The story which follows is a veritable ogi- digb6; it is I who will drum it, and you the wise heads who will interpret it. (Soyinka's translation 7). Fagdnwa's "scribe" promises to be a proverbial "conductor" in the symphony of images about to be spewed forth by his "informant." In another proverb, the scribe sets the terms of appropriate audience response. Awon Agba a maa pa owe kan-e ko bi mi bi won ti i pa ndan? Won ni, "Bi eegn enih b jore ori 6ya ni" Toto 6 se bi owe o. N ko f6 ki e j6 ild mi bi igba ti yAnmnyanmu ba f j bemb), ti 6 n to ese 68 Chapter 3 calling forth those of the modern ruling classes. As the proverb advises, "Ohun to b (oun la fi n weun, eepo epa 6 jo p6s eliri" (We compare only likes to one another; the groundnut shell resembles the elrm rat's casket)." According to Okediji, "Oba Onimogtn ti awon ijoye re ti 6 wa nind igbimb aldse ildu Mogt ddro fdn awon agbanisise gbogbo, ibi y/dwh ti w6n le wd lOde aye. Ijgba orile ede of gbogbo agbaye swa nindu won; b/e si ni awon egb6 onis/wo )innra-jinnr; oti awon ilalehu ati atapatadide alAro6bh tin gba enlydn sis&" (The Onimogon and his chiefs in the Mogan cabinet stand for all employers swherever they may be. Governments are among them; so also are the huge trading con- glomerates; and the petty commissioned agents) (vi). The playwright adds quickly that the working peoples literally represent themselves. Ok/diji's mixed representation allows his play, in a proverbial style, to say what it means (i.e., show the inequity of class relations) while still giving the writer the ability to claim, if warranted, that all he means is what the work says (i.e., entertaining an audience about the wicked- ness of old chiefs). Okldiji is not the first writer in Yoruba language to think of his work as a proverb. D. O. Fagunwd used that technique in his very first novel, Ogbdju Ode Nfn Igbo Irunmal'. The fictive editor' of that tale opens the text with Eyin 6 mi, bi owe ni a n lu ili dgidigb6; ologb6n nil j o, 6ran ni i si i m6 on. Itan ti n 6 sq yi, ilh ogidigb6 ni; emi ni eni ti yc re flu naa, eyin ni ologbon I yo j6 o, eyin sa ni 6mbran I y6s ms 6n peld. (1) My friends all, like the sonorous proverb do we drum the ogi- digb6; it is the wise who dance to it, and the learned who under- stand the language. The story which follows is a veritable /gi- digb6; it is I who will drum it, and you the wise heads who will interpret it. (Soyinka's translation 7). Figdnwa's "scribe" promises to be a proverbial "conductor" in the symphony of images about to be spewed forth by his "informant." In another proverb, the scribe sets the terms of appropriate audience response. Awon agba a mAa pa owe kan-e kh bi mi bi won ti i pa ndan? Won ni, "Bi eegdn eni bi jdore ori ya ni" T6t6 6 se bi owe o. N k f6 ki e jo il mi bi igba ti yAnmdyinmt bi n j6 bembd, ti 6 n to ese 68 Chapter 3 calling forth those of the modern ruling classes. As the proverb advises, "Ohun ta ha jqun la fi n w/un, eepo epd 6 jo post eliri" (We compare only likes to one another; the groundnut shell resembles the blm rat's casket)." According to Ok/diji, "Oba Onimogt Ati Awon ijoe re ti 6 wa nint igbimb alise ildu Mogdn ddr6 fan dwon agbanisis/ gbogbo, ibi yo6wh ti won le wa lode aye. Ijoba orile ede ni gbogbo agbaye wa nindu won; be si ni awon egb6 onisOwb jirma-jinnra; ati awon ilalehn ati atapatadide alsroob6 It n gba eniyn sise" (The Onimogun and his chiefs in the Mogun cabinet stand for all employers ws herever they mat be. Governments are among them; so also are the huge trading con- glomerates; and the petty commissioned agents) (vi). The playwright adds quickly that the working peoples literally represent themselves. Okedlji's mixed representation allows his play, in a proverbial style, to say what it means (i.e., show the inequity of class relations) while still giving the writer the ability to claim, if warranted, that all he means is what the work says (i.e., entertaining an audience about the wicked- ness of old chiefs). Okediji is not the first writer in Yorhba language to think of his wrork as a proverb. D. O. Fagdnw used that technique in his very first noel, Ogbdju Ode Nrd fgbd Irdnrale. The fictive editors of that tale opens the text with Eyin Or) mi, bi owe ni a In sir ogidigb6; glogbn ni i j6 o, 6mran nii si i m/ On. itan ti n 6 se vai, ilt ogidigb6 ni; emi ni eni I see ilh nah, eyin ni ologbon ti y6o jo o, eyin si ni omdran ti y6o moon pld. (1) My friends all, like the sonorous proverb do we drum the ogi- digb6; it is the wise who dance to it, and the learned who under- stand the language. The story which follows is a veritable ogi- digb6; it is I who will drum it, and you the wise heads who will interpret it. (Soyinka's translation 7). Fagunwa's "scribe" promises to be a proverbial "conductor" in the symphony of images about to be spewed forth by his "informant." In another proverb, the scribe sets the terms of appropriate audience response. Awon agba a msa pa owe kan-e ko bi mi bi won ti i pa ndan? W6n ni, "Bi eegun eni b joore ori ya ni" T6to6 se bi owe o. N ko f6 ki e jOat mi bi igba ti yanmdydnmu bi a j6 bemb6, ti 6 n to ese  Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 69 Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 69 Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 69 wdiwdi ti ese ko si b& it d6gba, shgb6n kaka b~e ki e j6 iit nda dadaa, ki e j6 o taydtay6, ki e j o terinterin, td bye ti dwon eniyan yd maa fi owd le yin tori." (1) Our elders have a favorite proverb-are you not dying to ask me how it goes?-they tell it thus, "When our masquerade dances well, our heads swell and do a spin." Forgive my forwardness, it is the proverb which speaks. I do not want you to dance to my drumming as a mosquito dances to the deep bembe drums, its legs twitching haphazardly, at loggerheads with the drums. Dance my friends, in harmony, with joy and laughter, that your audience may ring your brows with coins. (Soyinka's translation 7). Figunwa enjoins his audience to bring individual native styles to the reception of his fantastic images and the contrived accentuation of his themes. Fdgdnwa's fiction, like the agsdigbd drum performance, re- quires discriminating aesthetic tastes. Accordingly, he closes the narra- tive with another proverb about appropriate reader response: Lyin okhnrin ati obinrin ni ile Yoruba, ogb6n ol6gb6n ki i j6 ki a pe agbh ni were; e fi itAn ind iw yii se arikogbon. Oldkiske yin ni 6 ni sbro I6ti bi pd nind aye, olukalbkb ni 6 n Oke Lsngbod tire lati to. (97) You men and women of Yorubaland, the wisdom of others teaches us not to think an elder a madman put the story of this book to wise use. Each of you meets with difficulties in the world, each of you has his Mount Langbodo to attain. (Soyinka's transla- tion 139).' Although Okediji addresses a metropolitan audience in an era ruled by a military dictatorship and Fdgdnwd wrote for virtually all of the budding Yorubs literate community on general existential struggles in a colonial epoch, both writers think of their work as extended proverbs. Even if Fsgdnwa's example did not exist, Okediji's description of his play as a "proverb" would be important. The strike plot, the working- class theme, and the mixed mimesis are all proverbial, if only in the sense that they constitute a strategic use of an established form. With Lawdwo's plight, Okddiji borrows from the now generic African left's technique of pitting powerless sectors of the community against the wielders of economic and political control. Since Sembene Ousmane's waiwhi ti ese ko si ba lh d6gba, sdgbon kaka bye ki e j6 ilun na daadaa, ki e j o taygtay6, ki e jo trinterin, t6 be tI Awon eniyan y66 mia fi ow6 le yin tor." (1) Our elders have a favorite proverb-are you not dying to ask me how it goes?-they tell it thus, "When our masquerade dances well, our heads swell and do a spin." Forgive my forwardness, it is the proverb which speaks. I do not want you to dance to my drumming as a mosquito dances to the deep bembe drums, its legs twitching haphazardly, at loggerheads with the drums. Dance my friends, in harmony, with joy and laughter, that your audience may ring your brows with coins. (Soyinka's translation 7). Fdgdnwd enjoins his audience to bring individual native styles to the reception of his fantastic images and the contrived accentuation of his themes. Fgunwn's fiction, like the bgidigbd drum performance, re- quires discriminating aesthetic tastes. Accordingly, he closes the narra- tive with another proverb about appropriate reader response: $yin oknnrin ati obinrin ns ile Yorubb, ogbdn al6gb6n kt i j6 ki a pe agba nf were; e fi stan in iwe ys se arikogb6n. Oldkdtlsk yin ni 6 ni isoro lti ba pade nind aye, oldktilukus ni 6 ni Oke Langb6dh tire lati to. (97) You men and women of Yorubaland, the wisdom of others teaches us not to think an elder a madman-put the story of this book to wise use. Each of you meets with difficulties in the world, each of you has his Mount Langbodo to attain. (Soyinka's transla- tion 139). Although Okfdiji addresses a metropolitan audience in an era ruled by a military dictatorship and Fagdnwa wrote for virtually all of the budding Yorubd literate community on general existential struggles in a colonial epoch, both writers think of their work as extended proverbs. Even if Fdganwa's example did not exist, Okddiji's description of his play as a "proverb" would be important. The strike plot, the working- class theme, and the mixed mimesis are all proverbial, if only in the sense that they constitute a strategic use of an established form. With Ldwdwo's plight, Okedij borrows from the now generic African left's technique of pitting powerless sectors of the community against the wielders of economic and political control. Since Sembene Ousmane's wdiwdi ti ese k6 si b5 ilh dogba, shgb6n koka bie ki e j6 il nad daadaa, ki e j6 o tayntayd, ki e j o terintern, to be ti awon eniydn y66 moa fi ow6 1e yin 16ri." (1) Our elders have a favorite proverb-are you not dying to ask me how it goes?-they tell it thus, "When our masquerade dances well, our heads swell and do a spin." Forgive my forwardness, it is the proverb which speaks. I do not want you to dance to my drumming as a mosquito dances to the deep bembe drums, its legs twitching haphazardly, at loggerheads with the drums. Dance my friends, in harmony, with joy and laughter, that your audience may ring your brows with coins. (Soyinka's translation 7). Fagnnwa enjoins his audience to bring individual native styles to the reception of his fantastic images and the contrived accentuation of his themes. Fagdnwa's fiction, like the ogidgbd drum performance, re- quires discriminating aesthetic tastes. Accordingly, he closes the narra- tive with another proverb about appropriate reader response: Eyin okunrin oti obinrin ni ile Yorbi, ogb6n al6gb6n ki i j6 ki a pe dgba ni were; e fi Iton ind iwe yii se arik6gb6n. Oltkdlkh yin ni 6 ni isoro liti b6 pade nind aye, oldkdltskh ni 6 ni Oke Langbdo tire 16ti 1o. (97) You men and women of Yorubaland, the wisdom of others teaches us not to think an elder a madman-put the story of this book to wise use. Each of you meets with difficulties in the world, each of you has his Mount Langbodo to attain. (Soyinka's transla- tion 139).9 Although Okdiji addresses a metropolitan audience in an era ruled by a military dictatorship and Fagunwa wrote for virtually all of the budding Yoruba literate community on general existential struggles in a colonial epoch, both writers think of their work as extended proverbs. Even if Fagnnw 's example did not exist, Okddiji's description of his play as a "proverb" would be important. The strike plot, the working- class theme, and the mixed mimesis are all proverbial, if only in the sense that they constitute a strategic use of an established form. With Liwdwo's plight, Okediji borrows from the now generic African left's technique of pitting powerless sectors of the community against the wielders of economic and political control. Since Sembene Ousmane's  70 Chapter3 God's Bits of Wood, the trade union model of political agitation has been the preferred form of depicting class antagonism in African litera- tures. If only at that level, bk diji's proverbial description is accurate. The substitution of the feudal Mogun Council of chiefs for the state and the bourgeoisie also resembles a proverb-making method. As pro\erbs often are in conversations, the chiefs are historical incongruities in the strike context. But, as in colloquial proverb usage too, the "contextual" incongruity does not blunt the edge of the thematic critique served by the chiefs. The dual authority of the Mogun Council as wielder of state power and the most significant employer of wage labor replicates the obtaining condition in most postindependence African states. The pro- verbial chiefs operate simultaneously as the national chamber of com- merce and the state cabinet: they appear thrice on stage to plot the formation of a rival union, to entrap the strike leader, and to command the despondent strikers to return to work in conditions worse than the status quo. The subject matter of bkediji's songs also witnesses to his ability to juggle theatrical expedience and social critique. The play opens and closes with a lament adapted from a folktale about a wicked step- mother who seizes for her child a well-cooked egg that another mother had left for her own infant. Ero tf n rOjedje, Oje6je; E wi ftn iyaa mi, Ojf6je; Eyin to fi sile, Oj6je Lorogdn sf f6mo re, Oj6eje Ewura td kan b6bo, Ojf6je Lorogun se td fdn mi je, Oj66je ro ti n rOj6eje, Ojeje (Folks going to Ojeje, Ojeeje; Tell my mother, Ojedje; The egg she intended for me to eat, Ojedje The other woman cooks for her child, Oj6je An inedible yam, Oj6je The other wife cooks for me, Oje6je Folks going to Ojffje, Ojeje)" The strikers' hymn invites a comparison between the deprived child and the council's denial of the workers' modest demands. W\ hile the Chapter3 God's Bits of Wood, the trade union model of political agitation has been the preferred form of depicting class antagonism in African litera- tures. If only at that level, Okediji's proverbial description is accurate. The substitution of the feudal Mogun Council of chiefs for the state and the bourgeoisie also resembles a proverb-making method. As proverbs often are in conversations, the chiefs are historical incongruities in the strike context. But, as in colloquial proverb usage too, the "contextual" incongruity does not blunt the edge of the thematic critique served by the chiefs. The dual authority of the Mogon Council as wvielder of state power and the most significant employer of wage labor replicates the obtaining condition in most postindependence African states. The pro- verbial chiefs operate simultaneously as the national chamber of con- merce and the state cabinet: they appear thrice on stage to plot the formation of a rival union, to entrap the strike leader, and to command the despondent strikers to return to work in conditions worse than the status quo. The subject matter of Ok6diji's songs also witnesses to his ability to juggle theatrical expedience and social critique. The play opens and closes with a lament adapted from a folktale about a wicked step- mother who seizes for her child a well-cooked egg that another mother had left for her own infant. Ero ti n rfjedje, Oj66je; E wi fdn lyde mi, Ojeeje; Eyin ti fi silM, Oj6eje Lorogin se fimo re, Oj66je Ewibra td kan b6b6, Oj66je Lorogun se ti ftn mi je, Oj6dje Ero tf n rOjedje, Oj6je (Folks going to Oj6je, Oj6eje; Tell my mother, Oj6fje; The egg she intended for me to eat, Ojd6je The other woman cooks for her child, Oj6je An inedible yam, Oj66je The other wife cooks for me, Oj66je Folks going to Oj66je, Oje6je)" The strikers' hymn invites a comparison between the deprived child and the council's denial of the workers' modest demands. Wchile the 70 Chapter 3 God's Bits of Wood, the trade union model of political agitation has been the preferred form of depicting class antagonism in African litera- tures." If only at that level, Okediji's proverbial description is accurate. The substitution of the feudal Mogon Council of chiefs for the state and the bourgeoisie also resembles a proverb-making method. As proerbs often are in conversations, the chiefs are historical incongruities in the strike context. But, as in colloquial proverb usage too, the "contextual" incongruity does not blunt the edge of the thematic critique served by the chiefs. The dual authority of the Mognd Council as wielder of state power and the most significant employer of wage labor replicates the obtaining condition in most postindependence African states. The pro- verbial chiefs operate simultaneously as the national chamber of com- merce and the state cabinet: they appear thrice on stage to plot the formation of a rival union, to entrap the strike leader, and to command the despondent strikers to return to work in conditions worse than the status quo. The subject matter of Ok6diji's songs also witnesses to his ability to juggle theatrical expedience and social critique. The play opens and closes with a lament adapted from a folktale about a wicked step- mother who seizes for her child a well-cooked egg that another mother had left for her own infant. Ero ti n rOj6je, Oj6eje; E wi fun iya mi, Ojd6je; Eyin 16 fi sile, Oje je Lorogun se fimo re, Ojidje Ewria to kan bib6, Ojffje Lorogdn so to fdn mi je, Ojeeje rb ti n r~j6dje, Oj66je (Folks going to Oj6dje, Oj6eje; Tell my mother, Oj6fje; The egg she intended for me to eat, Oj6je The other woman cooks for her child, Oj6eje An inedible yam, Ojedje The other wife cooks for me, Ojeje Folks going to Ojedje, Ojd6je)" The strikers' hymn invites a comparison between the deprived child and the council's denial of the workers' modest demands. WShile the  Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 71 play does not portray the filial relationship between the caring mother and the deprived child, it flaunts the deeds of the powerful expropria- tor. The song thus dramatizes extortion but, as the Yorhba idiom goes, does not "speak with the whole mouth." Since the workers are not like children to the extortionist employers, the play absolves itself of cul- pable literality. Within the colloquial play, i.e., at the level of theatrical conflict, Okbdiji condenses the response of the Mogbn Council of Chiefs to the strike in three strategic proverbs: "'Md fi oka mi do oa,' hekan la fohun ako, ti a d sofin re o" ("Don't make a path of my farm" must be firmly asserted in a timely fashion) (10); "Bd a ba tete peetan ir6ko, b6 b& fi dagba tan, aps kh ma si ni ks a mo" (If we do not trim the mahogany sapling very early, it would in no time be a mighty tree) (11); and "Ila k6 gbod6 ga ju olko lo" (The okra plant must not outgrow the farmer [else, the farmer cuts it to size]) (12). These words govern the council's management of the strike. To prevent the sapling of the strike from growing into a mighty tree, the chiefs hatch a plan of poisoning the shoot, which they believe Lawdwo represents. They recognize that the union consists of artisans and craftsmen whose immediate interests are simply adequate wages and to whom Ldwbwo's class-conflict aspi- rations are not that clear. The chiefs also deal with Lawdwo as if he were a precocious okra plant that must be cut to size (12). Just as the chiefs set the political goal of their strikebreaking strategies in prov- erbs, the laborers also speak obliquely when they allude to subversion and the demise of the social inequities under which they toil. The chiefs use proverbs to express the need for hegemonic preservation; the labor- ers code their antithetical aspirations for the state in the same figures. But whenever the laborers discuss too literally their poverty and the course of actions appropriate for the current strike, they use unproverbial assertions. In the speeches Lawuwo gives after his conditional release from detention, he shifts between proverbial and less figurative registers, according to his topics. In the following characteristic speech, Ldwnwo uses not a single proverb in the description of the conspicuous con- sumption of the bourgeoisie. Nitori 6 da mi lojd gbangba pe ind glorun k dnn si i pf ki eni kan mia koile nlanla kiri bi ikdn, k6nt kan mi r66wd sanw6 os iyard kan soso t6 n ya gb6; ki eni kan maa ra moth bbli 16soosh, k6ni Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 77 play does not portray the filial relationship between the caring mother and the deprived child, it flaunts the deeds of the powerful expropria- tor. The song thus dramatizes extortion but, as the Yorubi idiom goes, does not "speak with the whole mouth." Since the workers are not like children to the extortionist employers, the play absolves itself of cul- pable literality. Within the colloquial play, i.e., at the level of theatrical conflict, Okbdiji condenses the response of the Mogun Council of Chiefs to the strike in three strategic proverbs: "'Mi fi oko mi da bna/ eekan li fohun ako, ti a a sofin re o" ("Don't make a path of my farm" must be firmly asserted in a timely fashion) (10); "Bs a bd tete pe6tan ir6ko, b6 ba fi dagbh tan, apa k6 mi si ni ki a m6" (If we do not trim the mahogany sapling very early, it would in no time be a mighty tree) (11); and "Ils ko gbodo ga ju oloko lo" (The okra plant must not outgrow the farmer [else, the farmer cuts it to size]) (12). These words govern the council's management of the strike. To prevent the sapling of the strike from growing into a mighty tree, the chiefs hatch a plan of poisoning the shoot, which they believe Liwuwo represents. They recognize that the union consists of artisans and craftsmen whose immediate interests are simply adequate wages and to whom LAwuwo's class-conflict aspi- rations are not that clear. The chiefs also deal with Lawnwo as if he were a precocious okra plant that must be cut to size (12). Just as the chiefs set the political goal of their strikebreaking strategies in prov- erbs, the laborers also speak obliquely when they allude to subversion and the demise of the social inequities under which they toil. The chiefs use proverbs to express the need for hegemonic preservation; the labor- ers code their antithetical aspirations for the state in the same figures. But whenever the laborers discuss too literally their poverty and the course of actions appropriate for the current strike, they use unproverbial assertions. In the speeches Lawdwo gives after his conditional release from detention, he shifts between proverbial and less figurative registers, according to his topics. In the following characteristic speech, Ldwuwo uses not a single proverb in the description of the conspicuous con- sumption of the bourgeoisie. Nitori b da mi 16jd gbangba pb ind Olirun k dhn sipe hi gni ekan maa k6 ilb anl kiri bi ikdn, k6ni kan ma r66w6 sanw6 osb iyer kan soso t6 n yia gbe; ki emi kan ma ra moto bb61116s0osh, k6ni play does not portray the filial relationship between the caring mother and the deprived child, it flaunts the deeds of the powerful expropria- tor. The song thus dramatizes extortion but, as the Yorubs idiom goes, does not "speak with the whole mouth." Since the workers are not like children to the extortionist employers, the play absolves itself of cul- pable literality. Within the colloquial play, i.e., at the level of theatrical conflict, Okedji condenses the response of the Mogdn Council of Chiefs to the strike in three strategic proverbs: "'Ms fi oko mi di ono,' eekan Ia fohun ako, his a sofin rb o" ("Don't make a path of my farm" must be firmly asserted in a timely fashion) (10); "BA a bA tete peetan ir6ko, b6 b fi dagba tan, apA ko ma si ni ka a mo" (If we do not trim the mahogany sapling very early, it would in no time be a mighty tree) (11); and "Ild k gbod6 ga ju oltko lo" (The okra plant must not outgrow the farmer [else, the farmer cuts it to size]) (12). These words govern the council's management of the strike. To prevent the sapling of the strike from growing into a mighty tree, the chiefs hatch a plan of poisoning the shoot, which they believe Lawbwo represents. They recognize that the union consists of artisans and craftsmen whose immediate interests are simply adequate wages and to whom Lidwwo's class-conflict aspi- rations are not that clear. The chiefs also deal with Lwwo as if he were a precocious okra plant that must be cut to size (12). Just as the chiefs set the political goal of their strikebreaking strategies in prov- erbs, the laborers also speak obliquely when they allude to subversion and the demise of the social inequities under which they toil. The chiefs use proverbs to express the need for hegemonic preservation; the labor- ers code their antithetical aspirations for the state in the same figures. But whenever the laborers discuss too literally their poverty and the course of actions appropriate for the current strike, they use unproverbial assertions. In the speeches Liwbwo gives after his conditional release from detention, he shifts between proverbial and less figurative registers, according to his topics. In the following characteristic speech, Liwdwo uses not a single proverb in the description of the conspicuous con- sumption of the bourgeoisie. Nitori 6 da mi 16ji gbangba pb ind Oldrun ko dnn si i p ki em kan maa k6 il nlianl kin bi ikan, ksi kan ma r66w6 sanw6 osh iyard kan soso lb n yaa gbb; ki emi kan maa ra mAto bili 16soosu, k6ni  72 Chapter 3 kan ma si rf bata bd s6se; ki eni kan maa fi egbeegbhrun apo ow6 se iranti iku bibia re to ti faye sile ki wn td bi iruu va, ki en kan ma ri k6b6 fi sile f6mo jeun! (I am convinced God does not ordain it that one person should, like termites, be able to litter the land with gorgeous mansions, while another is unable to pay the rent on one room; that one person should be able to purchase luxurious cars every month, that another cannot afford sandals to wear; that one person should be able to spend millions on memorials of long gone ancestors, while another cannot provide food for the lis ing fam- ily!) (26) Ldwo's language thickens into proverbs and incantations once he begins to refer to the larger ethical soundness-which is completelv ideological and political-of the strike and the impending destruction of exploitation: Shugbon e md mikhn. B6 se khm6, b6 se k6d6, bi mo ba ti pe o y& ni e yggi. Igb6 b a fewe, nino oko lb a fdwebe. Gbogbo rw on la o k6 16gb6n ti igbb y66 si wdd dhn fdn mekdnnb. Eni n sis6 wa 16oron, eni moa ji wa nibooji. (But you worry not. Wield whatever weapon you hase rrhen I call on you to attack. The forest is the abode of greens. All of them we will teach unforgettable lessons, and ease will visit the laboring. The worker toils in the sun, the expropriator loafs in the shade.) (27) A 6 s6gun won. Onimogun n tri, Aresh n fgwo lale, Oldgb6n n laye bjeddlu. Hunhuuun.... Itaddgdn kb si dedh, oj6 elesin won ku bla. (We will overcome them. The Onimogdn boasts, the Arhsa brags. The Oldgb6n wallows in decadence. Hunhuuun. . .. A fortnight will soon be here, their day of shame is at hand.) (30) Sugbon ojdord ni i1 ke omi, bsibata ni i leke odo. A 6 bori dandan ni. (But the water lily always floats atop the river, the hyacinth ner sinks. We shall surely overcome.) (30) 72 Chapter3 kan md si ri bbtb bo s6se; ki eni kan mda fi egbeegberdn apo owd se irdnti ikuu babaa re to ti fay sile ki won t6 bi irdu wa, ki eni kan md ri k6bb fi sile f6mo jeun! (I am convinced God does not ordain it that one person should, like termites, be able to litter the land with gorgeous mansions, while another is unable to pay the rent on one room; that one person should be able to purchase luxurious cars every month, that another cannot afford sandals to wear; that one person should be able to spend millions on memorials of long gone ancestors, while another cannot provide food for the living fam- ily!) (26) LAwdwo's language thickens into proverbs and incantations once he begins to refer to the larger ethical soundness-which is completey ideological and political-of the strike and the impending destruction of exploitation: Shgbin e ma mikan. Bd se kamb, b6 se k6ndd, bi mo b6 ti pe 6 y& ni e yogi. Igb6 a d f6we, nind oko lb d fewebe. Gbogbo won la o k6 16gb6n ti igba ydb si wAA dun fun mekdnnu. Ent n sis6 w. 16mran, eni maa j6 w nibooji. (But you worry not. Wield whatever weapon you have when ( call on you to attack. The forest is the abode of greens. All of them wer will teach unforgettable lessons, and ease will visit the laboring. The worker toils in the sun, the expropriator loafs in the shade.) (27) A 6 sgun wan. Onimogdn n l6n, Aresa n fow6 lali, Oldgbon 6 jaye bjedalu. Hunhuuun.... Itbddgdn kh si dede, oj6 elbsmin won ku bla. (We will overcome them. The Ontmogdn boasts, the Aresa brags. The Oldgb6n wallows in decadence. Hunhuuun. . . . A fortnight will soon be here, their day of shame is at hand.) (30) Shgbon ojdor6 ni i leke omi, osibata ni 11 ke odo. A 6 bori dandan ni. (But the water lily always floats atop the river, the hyacinth never sinks. We shall surely overcome.) (30) 72 Chapter 3 kan mA si rf bath b sese; ki em kan mba fi egbeegberun apo o6 se irdnti ikdu babad re td ti faye stil ki won to bi irdo wa, ki ent kan mi ri k6bb fi sie f6mo jeun! (I am convinced God does not ordain it that one person should, like termites, be able to litter the land with gorgeous mansions, while another is unable to pay the rent on one room; that one person should be able to purchase luxurious cars every month, that another cannot afford sandals to wear; that one person should be able to spend millions on memorials of long gone ancestors, while another cannot provide food for the living fam- ily!) (26) Ldwnmo's language thickens into proverbs and incantations once he begins to refer to the larger ethical soundness-which is completely ideological and political-of the strike and the impending destruction of exploitation: Sugbon e md mikn. B6 se khm6, b6 se k6id6, bi mo bd ti p 6 yA ni e yogi. lgb6 a s f6we, nind oko lb a fewebe. Gbogbo non la o k6 16gb6n ti igbb yo st wAi dhn fdn mekunnh. En i sis wa 16orun, en mia j6 wb nrbooji. (But you worry not. Wield whatever weapon you have when I call on you to attack. The forest is the abode of greens. All of them we will teach unforgettable lessons, and ease will visit the laboring. The worker toils in the sun, the expropriator loafs in the shade.) (27) A 6 s6gun won. Onimbgn n leri, Aresb ( fow6 lale, Oldgb6n n jave bjedilu. Hunhuuun.... itddgun kh si dedi, oj6 elinin won ku ola. (We will overcome them. The Onimogdn boasts, the Aresa brags. The Oltdgb6n wallows in decadence. Hunhuuun.... A fortnight will soon be here, their day of shame is at hand.) (30) Shgbn ojdor6 ni i leke omi, bsibata ni i (eb odo. A 6 bori dandan ni. (But the water lily always floats atop the river, the hyacinth never sinks. We shall surely overcome.) (30)  Ikok6 n sesu eni kan 6 gb6, b6d6 bi f gdnydn, ariwo 6 ma ta o. (Now that the pot is cooking the yam no one notices, when the pestle pounds the yam the cacophony will be great.) (31) These statements speak of despicable decadence, of the inevitability of change, and of the considerable pains of corrective social upheaval. I do not think that Lawdwo makes this sharp rhetorical turn to protect himself against arrest. He reminds the workers very often that he is ready to give up his life for the class struggle. The proverbial turn is another of the playwright's ways of tactfully "announcing the chief's mother's witchcraft." Okddiji's protagonist speaks subversion in prov- erbs not in response to his own world but, I think, to the writer's. In any case, the Mogon Council does not because of the use of "indirect" language leave LAwuwo alone; he is rearrested shortly after the speech. The representation of Lawuwo himself is enough to validate Okediji's metatextual view of the proverb. The workers revere him and speak of him in lyrical panegyrics. He is described variously as "Ognn& gbogbb ti 1 dat6 l6nu igbin" (the huge red-hot ember that cures the snail of its slime); "gko Onimogdn, gko igbim6" (one who husbands the Onimogon and the council); "ko si eye meji ti i j6 okin; eniyan bi 6gA LAwnwo ko 16 Akan" (no two birds answer to the name peacock; persons like Lbwdwo the foreman are rare)" (6). Arese, the chief who schemes his entrap- ment, describes him thus: "Be si ni ela ileke ni Liwdwo, kb 16jd btokhnbd" (And Lbwdwo is a split bead; he has no threading aperture). All these oriki praise lines set up Lawnwo as a conspicuous personality. And like a colossal proverb, he treads the utterance titled Riri Rn. Okediji's proverbial design is even more apparent in his portrait of the pathos of Lawdwo's fall after the council breaks up his union. The eloquent leader becomes incoherent and begins to use truncated prov- erbs immediately after he discovers his wife's suicide. Shortly before he discovers Morenike's body, Liwdwo ruminates on the workers' gull- ible acceptance of the betrayal story concocted by the chiefs. He tells himself, "Afi ki n fokan mi bale. Ogiri 16 tu baba mi m61e, to fi kd. Ogiri wbhila 16 si fdn lyba mi ti k6 j6 k6kbn an re bale, to fi md an niye lo. Ogiri ird ew 16 fe fdn mi pa yi!" (I must put my mind to rest. A collapsed wall snuffed out my father's life. The concrete walls of physi- cal toil squeezed out my mother's sanity. What type of wall is closing in on me now!) (90). On discovering his wife's body, Lawtwo concludes that the siege laid on him has finally succeeded. From this point on, he Ikoko n sesu en kan 6 gbo, b6d6 b& n gonyan, ariwo 6 ma to o. (Now that the pot is cooking the yam no one notices, when the pestle pounds the yam the cacophony will be great.) (31) These statements speak of despicable decadence, of the inevitability of change, and of the considerable pains of corrective social upheaval. I do not think that Lwdtwo makes this sharp rhetorical turn to protect himself against arrest. He reminds the workers very often that he is ready to give up his life for the class struggle. The proverbial turn is another of the playwright's ways of tactfully "announcing the chief's mother's witchcraft." Okediji's protagonist speaks subversion in prov- erbs not in response to his own world but, I think, to the writer's. In any case, the Mogan Council does not because of the use of "indirect" language leave Ldwdwo alone; he is rearrested shortly after the speech. The representation of LAwdwo himself is enough to validate Okediji's metatextual view of the proverb. The workers revere him and speak of him in lyrical panegyrics. He is described variously as "Ogdnnd gbogbh tii dat6 lfnu igbin" (the huge red-hot ember that cures the snail of its slime); "oko Onimogdn, oko igbim6" (one who husbands the Onimogdn and the council); "ko si eye mdji ti ( j 6kin; eniyan bi 6gb Lawdwo kh 16 nkan" (no two birds answer to the name peacock; persons like LAwdwo the foreman are rare)" (6). Aresb, the chief who schemes his entrap- ment, describes him thus: "B6e si ni ela ileke ni Lawdwo, ko 16j6 btokhnbo" (And Lawdwo is a split bead; he has no threading aperture). All these orik praise lines set up Lbwdwo as a conspicuous personality. And like a colossal proverb, he treads the utterance titled Rird Rn. Okediji's proverbial design is even more apparent in his portrait of the pathos of LAwdwo's fall after the council breaks up his union. The eloquent leader becomes incoherent and begins to use truncated prov- erbs immediately after he discovers his wife's suicide. Shortly before he discovers Morenike's body, Liwdwo ruminates on the workers' gull- ible acceptance of the betrayal story concocted by the chiefs. He tells himself, "Afi ki n fokan mi bale. Ogiri 16 to baba mi m6le, to fi kP. Ogiri wbh6lb 16 si fdn lyba mi lI ko j6 kdkbn an re bale, t6 fi md on niye lo. Ogiri ird ewo 16 f6 fdn mi pa yhf!" (I must put my mind to rest. A collapsed wall snuffed out my father's life. The concrete walls of physi- cal toil squeezed out my mother's sanity. What type of wall is closing in on me now!) (90). On discovering his wife's body, Ldwdwo concludes that the siege laid on him has finally succeeded. From this point on, he Ikoko f sesu eni kan o gb6, b6d6 bb 6 gnnyan, ariwo 6 ma ta o. (Now that the pot is cooking the yam no one notices, when the pestle pounds the yam the cacophony will be great.) (31) These statements speak of despicable decadence, of the inevitability of change, and of the considerable pains of corrective social upheaval. I do not think that Lbwdwo makes this sharp rhetorical turn to protect himself against arrest. He reminds the workers very often that he is ready to give up his life for the class struggle. The proverbial turn is another of the playwright's ways of tactfully "announcing the chief's mother's witchcraft." Okfdiji's protagonist speaks subversion in prov- erbs not in response to his own world but, I think, to the writer's. In any case, the Mogdn Council does not because of the use of "indirect" language leave Lbwuwo alone; he is rearrested shortly after the speech. The representation of Lawdwo himself is enough to validate Okediji's metatextual view of the proverb. The workers revere him and speak of him in lyrical panegyrics. He is described variously as "Ogdnni gbogbo ti i dat 16nu igbin" (the huge red-hot ember that cures the snail of its slime); "oko Onimogon, oko igbim6" (one who husbands the Onimogdn and the council); "ko si eye m6ji i f i 6kin; enlyan bi 6g6 Lbwnwo ko 16 nkan" (no two birds answer to the name peacock; persons like Ldwo the foreman are rare)" (6). Aresb, the chief who schemes his entrap- ment, describes him thus: "B6e si i ela ileke ni Lbwnwo, ko 16j6 atoknnb6" (And Ldwdwo is a split bead; he has no threading aperture). All these oriki praise lines set up Lbwdwo as a conspicuous personality. And like a colossal proverb, he treads the utterance titled Riri Rtn. Okhdiji's proverbial design is even more apparent in his portrait of the pathos of LAwnwo's fall after the council breaks up his union. The eloquent leader becomes incoherent and begins to use truncated prov- erbs immediately after he discovers his wife's suicide. Shortly before he discovers Morenike's body, Lbwdwo ruminates on the workers' gull- ible acceptance of the betrayal story concocted by the chiefs. He tells himself, "Afi ki n fokin mi bale. Ogiri 16 lu hbbda mi m6le, 16 fi kd. Ogiri wbhl 16 si fun lyda mi ti kb j6 kokan an re bale, td fi md on niye lo. Ogiri ird iewo 16 f6 fun mi pa ydi!" (I must put my mind to rest. A collapsed wall snuffed out my father's life. The concrete walls of physi- cal toil squeezed out my mother's sanity. What type of wall is closing in on me now!) (90). On discovering his wife's body, Liwdwo concludes that the siege laid on him has finally succeeded. From this point on, he  74 Chapter 3 mixes up formulaic expressions. He interprets Mor6nik6's death as the ultimate disaster and lapses into incoherent proverbs and proverbial expressions that the playwright himself calls "awon owe Lawwo" (Liwiwo's peculiar proverbs). Mor6nik6 is the last outpost of "mean- ing" for him, and with her death conventional order (syntax) loses significance. Hence, he breaks down in an incoherence of merely phoni- cally related, disjointed proverbs. Ldwdwo, Okedijt's exemplary prov- erb, is fallen. But Okfdiji turns the political failure into memorable rhetoric. He marks the ruining of the strike verbally with Ldwo's incoherent proverbs. In his first mad adage, Lawuwo combines into one sentence his mother's predicament-which occupied his mind shortly before he discovered Mor6nik6's body-and certain terms in the workers' an- them: "Ani s6 Antil mi, hwon ero n bd iyda mi loo si Ojeeje, 6 si fan scon nisu Id kan bbo, orogun re sl kd. R~r6 ran o! Ruru ma ti run o" lly sister, the folks accompanied my mother to Ojeeje, she gave them very sour yam, her rival wife died. Disaster struck! Disaster has struck indeed) (92). This statement exhibits all the classical symptoms of schizo- phrenia-bizarre content, incoherent sentence structure, and obviously complex-determined preoccupation. The subject of this utterance-the protagonist's mother feeding sour yams to fellow travelers to Ojeeje- is unrelated to the context. Lawdwo strings words from contemporary forms (a folksong and the workers' adaptation of it) and social circum- stances (Mor6nikf's death) and amalgamates them without any con- scious regard for causation. But the concluding fragment of the "non- sense" utterance, the death of the wicked cowife, states Lawcwo's subliminal wish for the "bourgeoisie" that has just destroyed his cause. His next utterance repeats the amalgamation pattern. "E e si ma a gbo awon antl mi, ani Onimogun ti gba Mor6nik6 low6 mi or koat aligbAdA" (Listen to my sister, she doesn't know that the Onimogun has snatched Morfnik6 away from me in a Native Authority Court) (92). The sentence has nothing to do with the preceding statement in the conversation. It refers to the dead Mor6nik6 as one whom the Onimogun, ordinarily a "Native Court" president, deceives into di- vorcing a loving husband. Both causation and syntax are logical here, but the temporal facts of the sentence are wrong. The sentence does not comment on a true antecedent event although it uses correctly the grammar of a declarative saying. It is clear, however, that Ldwuwo 's incoherence is not insensible. The audience knows that the Mogdn 74 Chapter 3 mixes up formulaic expressions. He interprets Morfnike's death as the ultimate disaster and lapses into incoherent proverbs and proverbial expressions that the playwright himself calls "awon owe Lawdwo" (Lawdwo's peculiar proverbs). Morenik6 is the last outpost of "mean- ing" for him, and with her death conventional order (syntax) loses significance. Hence, he breaks down in an incoherence of merely phoni- cally related, disjointed proverbs. Ldwuro, Okediji's exemplary prov- erb, is fallen. But Ok diji turns the political failure into memorable rhetoric. He marks the ruining of the strike verbally with Lawuwo's incoherent proverbs. In his first mad adage, Ldwdwo combines into one sentence his mother's predicament-which occupied his mind shortly before he discovered Mor6nik6's body-and certain terms in the workers' an- them: "An s6 antil mi, awon ero n bilyaa mi loo si Ojeeje, 6 si fuon oon nisu to kan hbo, orogun re si kd. R6r6 run o! R6r6 ma ti run o" (\y sister, the folks accompanied my mother to Ojeeje, she gave them sery sour yam, her rival wife died. Disaster struck! Disaster has struck indeed) (92). This statement exhibits all the classical symptoms of schizo- phrenia-bizarre content, incoherent sentence structure, and obviously complex-determined preoccupation. The subject of this utterance-the protagonist's mother feeding sour yams to fellow travelers to Oeje- is unrelated to the context. Lw swo strings words from contemporary forms (a folksong and the workers' adaptation of it) and social circum- stances (Morenik6's death) and amalgamates them without any con- scious regard for causation. But the concluding fragment of the "non- sense" utterance, the death of the wicked cowife, states Law iwo's subliminal wish for the "bourgeoisie" that has just destroyed his cause. His next utterance repeats the amalgamation pattern. "E e si ma a gbo awon antil mi, ani Onimogun ti gba Morenike thw6 mi or kot alagbidi" (Listen to my sister, she doesn't know that the Onimogon has snatched Mor6nik6 away from me in a Native Authority Court) (92). The sentence has nothing to do with the preceding statement in the conversation. It refers to the dead Morfnik6 as one whom the Onimogdn, ordinarily a "Native Court" president, deceives into di- vorcing a loving husband. Both causation and syntax are logical here, but the temporal facts of the sentence are wrong. The sentence does not comment on a true antecedent event although it uses correctly the grammar of a declarative saying. It is clear, however, that Lawdo'sa incoherence is not insensible. The audience knows that the logdn 74 Chapter 3 mixes up formulaic expressions. He interprets Mor6nik6's death as the ultimate disaster and lapses into incoherent proverbs and proverbial expressions that the playwright himself calls "awon owe Ladwo" (Liwdwo's peculiar proverbs). Mor6nik6 is the last outpost of "mean- ing" for him, and with her death conventional order (syntax) loses significance. Hence, he breaks down in an incoherence of merely phoni- cally related, disjointed proverbs. Lawiwo, Okfdiji's exemplary prov- erb, is fallen. But Ok diji turns the political failure into memorable rhetoric. He marks the ruining of the strike verbally with Lawdwo's incoherent proverbs. In his first mad adage, Liwdwo combines into one sentence his mother's predicament-which occupied his mind shortly before he discovered Mornik6's body-and certain terms in the workers' an- them: "Ani s6 Antil mi, awon ero n bA iyda mi loo si Ojeeje, 6 si fun ron nisu tf kan hobo, ordgun re si kd. R6r6 rdn o! R6r6 ma ti rdn o" (My sister, the folks accompanied my mother to Ojeeje, she gave them ver sour yam, her rival wife died. Disaster struck! Disaster has struck indeed) (92). This statement exhibits all the classical symptoms of schizo- phrenia-bizarre content, incoherent sentence structure, and obiously complex-determined preoccupation. The subject of this utterance-the protagonist's mother feeding sour yams to fellow travelers to Oj66je- is unrelated to the context. Lawdwo strings words from contemporary forms (a folksong and the workers' adaptation of it) and social circum- stances (Mor6nik6's death) and amalgamates them without any con- scious regard for causation. But the concluding fragment of the "non- sense" utterance, the death of the wicked cowife, states Lswdwo's subliminal wish for the "bourgeoisie" that has just destroyed his cause. His next utterance repeats the amalgamation pattern. "E e si ma a gb6 Awon Antil mi, ani Onimogdn ti gba Mor6nik6 16w6 mi of kdotu alAgbda" (Listen to my sister, she doesn't know that the Onimogtin has snatched Mor6nik6 away from me in a Native Authority Court) (92). The sentence has nothing to do with the preceding statement in the conversation. It refers to the dead Morfnikf as one whom the Onimogan, ordinarily a "Native Court" president, deceives into di- vorcing a loving husband. Both causation and syntax are logical here, but the temporal facts of the sentence are wrong. The sentence does not comment on a true antecedent event although it uses correctly the grammar of a declarative saying. It is clear, however, that Ldwso's incoherence is not insensible. The audience knows that the Mogdn  Council engineered Morfnik6's suicide indirectly when it hired Idow, who in turn employed some con men to steal union funds from Lduwo's loyal wife. In other words, the Onimogun used his powerful office to kill off Mordnikd, Lawuwo's symbolic key to coherence. Again, the ruthless "bourgeoisie" is the butt of the apparent proverbial inco- herence. Prior to his madness, Law6wo, like all the other characters, uses proverbs to argue, list facts, prove a point, and change the direction of conversations. After Morinik6's death, he loses all of these abilities. He defies rules of citation by serializing only proverbs that contain his preferred key words in conversation topics without any regard for the subject matter of either the dialogue or the proverb. Sometimes he substitutes words taken from the conversation topic for elements of a well-known proverb and makes up unrecognizable sayings. At other times, he haphazardly joins different elements of popular adages into one saying. The word wo (watch) cues LAwrwo's first proverb after his sister, who does not know that Morenik6 is lying on the mat already dead, asks "0 n wd m niran ni Morenike?" (Are you just watching me, Morfnik6?) (92). Ldwuwo answers for her. He says that the Onsmogdn has seduced her and then adds a pastiche of four proverbs about birds and gazing. "S6 iwo td a d waparo aso re n p6n koko, sgb6n Alnko kir pas esfi da, piri lologo 6 jf" (You know, we always watch a partridge, his feathers are dusty brown, but the alhko bird wears the same apparel all the time . . . the baby bird wakes up in the nest feisty) (92). In full, the amalgamated sayings are "Iwo td a n wo aparo bi i k fi dta, or eye ni h peye" (We gaze at the partridge with a thought of what an okra dish it will make; only the bird's destiny protects it); "Pip6n laso aparo 6 pdn koko" (Dusty is the partridge's plume); "Aghntan ko paso esi da" (The sheep does not change the previous season's coat); and "A kit bokunrun eye nind ite piri lologo 6 ji" (No one ever finds a bird lying sick in the nest; feisty is the avian's early morning flight). Lawnwo's "travesty" picks from inventoried bird sayings onto which he notches the cultural perception that the unchanging dusty color of the partridge is a sign of ineradicable poverty. In the Yorhba proverb corpus, one of the cannibalized adages conceives of feathers in the Lawuwo sense and another refers to sheepskin in identical terms. But Lawuwo switches the partridge for the sheep. The remarkable fact about the resultant "artificial" proverb is that each part applies to Council engineered Morfnike's suicide indirectly when it hired Idowd, who in turn employed some con men to steal union funds from Lawuwo's loyal wife. In other words, the Onimogdn used his powerful office to kill off Morenik6, LAdwo's symbolic key to coherence. Again, the ruthless "bourgeoisie" is the butt of the apparent proverbial inco- herence. Prior to his madness, Ldwnwo, like all the other characters, uses proverbs to argue, list facts, prove a point, and change the direction of conversations. After Morenike's death, he loses all of these abilities. He defies rules of citation by serializing only proverbs that contain his preferred key words in conversation topics without any regard for the subject matter of either the dialogue or the proverb. Sometimes he substitutes words taken from the conversation topic for elements of a well-known proverb and makes up unrecognizable sayings. At other times, he haphazardly joins different elements of popular adages into one saying. The word wo (watch) cues Ldwdwo's first proverb after his sister, who does not know that Morenike is lying on the mat already dead, asks "0 n wo mi niran ni Morenik6?" (Are you just watching me, Morenik6?) (92). Ldwnwo answers for her. He says that the Onimogdn has seduced her and then adds a pastiche of four proverbs about birds and gazing. "S iwo to a n waparo asoo re 6 p6n koko, ssgb6n alnko ko paso ess di, piri lologo 6 ji" (You know, we always watch a partridge, his feathers are dusty brown, but the alako bird wears the same apparel all the time . . . the baby bird wakes up in the nest feisty) (92). In full, the amalgamated sayings are "iwo ti a u wo aparo bi i kn fi dala, or eye ni o peye" (We gaze at the partridge with a thought of what an okra dish it will make; only the bird's destiny protects it); "Pip6n laso aparo ti p6n koko" (Dusty is the partridge's plume); "AgOntan ko paso esi da" (The sheep does not change the previous season's coat); and "A kii b6khnrun eye nined it6 piri lologo 6 ji" (No one ever finds a bird lying sick in the nest; feisty is the avian's early morning flight). Ldwnwo's "travesty" picks from inventoried bird sayings onto which he notches the cultural perception that the unchanging dusty color of the partridge is a sign of ineradicable poverty. In the Yorubd proverb corpus, one of the cannibalized adages conceives of feathers in the Ldwdwo sense and another refers to sheepskin in identical terms. But Ldwdwo switches the partridge for the sheep. The remarkable fact about the resultant "artificial" proverb is that each part applies to Council engineered Morenik6's suicide indirectly when it hired Idown, who in turn employed some con men to steal union funds from Lawnwo's loyal wife. In other words, the Onimogdn used his powerful office to kill off Moronike, Ldwdwo's symbolic key to coherence. Again, the ruthless "bourgeoisie" is the butt of the apparent proverbial inco- herence. Prior to his madness, Lawnwo, like all the other characters, uses proverbs to argue, list facts, prove a point, and change the direction of conversations. After Morinik6's death, he loses all of these abilities. He defies rules of citation by serializing only proverbs that contain his preferred key words in conversation topics without any regard for the subject matter of either the dialogue or the proverb. Sometimes he substitutes words taken from the conversation topic for elements of a well-known proverb and makes up unrecognizable sayings. At other times, he haphazardly joins different elements of popular adages into one saying. The word wo (watch) cues Ldwo's first proverb after his sister, who does not know that Mordnik6 is lying on the mat already dead, asks "O n to mi niran ni Mornike?" (Are you just watching me, Morfnik6?) (92). Lawdwo answers for her. He says that the Onimogun has seduced her and then adds a pastiche of four proverbs about birds and gazing. "S iwo tA a n waparo asoo re i pon koko, shgbon albko ko paso esi da, piri lologo 6j" (You know, we always watch a partridge, his feathers are dusty brown, but the atko bird wears the same apparel all the time . .. the baby bird wakes up in the nest feisty) (92). In full, the amalgamated sayings are "two to a f wo aparo b i ka fi dal, orf eye ni o peye" (We gaze at the partridge with a thought of what an okra dish it will make; only the bird's destiny protects it); "Pip6n laso aparo 6 p6n koko" (Dusty is the partridge's plume); "Aguntan ko paso esi da" (The sheep does not change the previous season's coat); and "A kit b6ktnrun eye nind it6 piri lologo 6 ji" (No one ever finds a bird lying sick in the nest; feisty is the avian's early morning flight). Lawdwo's "travesty" picks from inventoried bird sayings onto which he notches the cultural perception that the unchanging dusty color of the partridge is a sign of ineradicable poverty. In the Yorhba proverb corpus, one of the cannibalized adages conceives of feathers in the Lawdwo sense and another refers to sheepskin in identical terms. But Lawdwo switches the partridge for the sheep. The remarkable fact about the resultant "artificial" proverb is that each part applies to  76 Chapter 3 different aspects of Lawiwo's travails before Morenik&'s death. The first part, "lwo td a n wo aparo bf i ki fi dAta, ori eye ni o peye" (we gaze at the partridge with a thought of what an okra dish it will make, only the bird's destiny protects it from us), recapitulates the Mogan Council's plotting of LAwtiwo's demise. The chiefs have always wished death upon Lswwo. Up to Mor6niki's suicide, the last part of the saying on the bird's destined escape-"ori eye ni a peye" (the bird's destiny protects it)-has been true for Liwdwo. The next two segments refer to his last conversation with Morenik6 on their abject poverty and her severe migraine (kftin'). The next Lswdwo proverb plays on oi (eye) in Watral&'s "Oju ma ti mi larin igboro o" (I am terribly shamed) (92). Wraola laments the mortification she believes she will suffer when fellow market women learn that her sister-in-law kills herself over a meager five hundred naira. Liwiwo's response joins the beginning and conclusion of two sayings about masque performances. He says, "Oji kii teegdn ki mo aligban ma korl s6ko" (The masque experiences no bashfulness to the extent that it will not head back to the farm). The inventoried sayings are "Ojd kii tefgdn 16bi as" (The masque is never bashful behind the mask); and "Ohun tii tAn leegun odin, gm aligbaa a kri s6ko" (The jolly annual masque festival is never an endless feast; even children of the chief masque head back to the farm) (92). The first saying comments on the effects of Mor6niki's suicide, and the other announces the end of both the strike and the maneuvers between LAwdwo and the Mogan Council of Chiefs. Morinik6 is now dead and beyond ant earthly worries. The strike is ended, the play is winding down, the workers will return to their toil, and the audience will head home. In the next scene, WdraglA enjoins Lawdwo to be calm: "Sa fara bale, Lawiwo, gbogbo re ni yio rogbo" (Just calm down, Lawwo, every- thing will be settled) (95). Liwnuwo replies with a wrought proverb: "tyin ni ki e fara bale, nitori eni ti a bi fi ori re f6 agbon, 6tl6nrinc6 erigi ni ydo fori mule lilyo" (You are the one who should calm down, because the person on whose head we crack a coconut shell, 460 molars will be buried deep in the gum). His source sayings are "Eni ti a bA fi ori re f6 agbon ko ni je n be" (The person on whose head we crack a coconut shell will not partake of the fruit); and "Me166 la 6 ka leyin Adepele, tid oje, tita ordn, othltnirinw6 erigi 16 fori mule 1aivo" (Countless are Adipele's [the bucked tooth's] mandibles: rows of sevens are inside, hundreds are outside, 460 molars are buried deep in the gum). Las as o's 76 Chapter 3 different aspects of Liwdwo's travails before Morenik6's death. The first part, "lwo tn a n wo aparo bi i kA fi dali, ori eye ni o peye" (e gaze at the partridge with a thought of what an okra dish it will make, only the bird's destiny protects it from us), recapitulates the Magun Council's plotting of Lawnwo's demise. The chiefs have alays wished death upon Lanuwo. Up to Morenik6's suicide, the last part of the sating on the bird's destined escape-"ori eye 01 o peye" (the bird's destiny protects it)-has been true for Liwnwo. The next two segments refer to his last conversation with Mor6nik6 on their abject poverty and her severe migraine (ef'). The next LAwuwo proverb plays on oji (eye) in Waraola's "Oju ma ti mi laarin igboro o" (I am terribly shamed) (92). Wuraola laments the mortification she believes she will suffer when fellow market women learn that her sister-in-law kills herself over a meager five hundred naira. Lawnwo's response joins the beginning and conclusion of two sayings about masque performances. He says, "Oja ki teegon ki omo alagbab md kori s6ko" (The masque experiences no bashfulness to the extent that it will not head back to the farm). The inventoried sasings are "Ojd kii teegsn lib6 asp" (The masque is never bashful behind the mask); and "Ohun hi tan leigun adun, om alsgbaa a keri s6ko" (The jolly annual masque festival is never an endless feast; even children of the chief masque head back to the farm) (92). The first saying comments on the effects of Morinik6's suicide, and the other announces the end of both the strike and the maneuvers between Lawnwo and the Mogan Council of Chiefs. Morenik6 is now dead and beyond any earthly worries. The strike is ended, the play is winding down, the workers will return to their toil, and the audience will head home. In the next scene, Wuralia enjoins Liwnwo to be calm: "S fara bale, Liwdwo, gbogbo re of yio rogbp" (Just calm down, LAni o, every- thing will be settled) (95). Law wo replies with a wrought proverb: "Eyin ni ki e fara bale, nftoreni ti a bi fiori re f6 agbon, 6talenfrino a erigi ni y66 fori mul liy" (You are the one who should calm down, because the person on whose head we crack a coconut shell, 460 molars will be buried deep in the gum). His source sayings are "Eni ti a bA fi ori re f6 agbon ko nije n be" (The pers o n whose head we crack a coconut shell will not partake of the fruit); and "Mi6o la 6 kA leyin Adepele, tied oje, ita orne, 6talirinw6 erigi 16 fort mule taya" (Countless are Ad6pel 's [the bucked tooth's mandibles: rows of sevens are inside, hundreds are outside, 460 molars are buried deep in the gum). Lwdiwo's 76 Chapter 3 different aspects of Liwdwo's travails before Mor6nik6's death. The first part, "lwo ti a n wo aparo bii kA fi di1, ori eye ni o pee" (we gaze at the partridge with a thought of what an okra dish it will make, only the bird's destiny protects it from us), recapitulates the logan Council' plotting of Lawnwo's demise. The chiefs have always wvished death upon Liwdwo. Up to Morenik6's suicide, the last part of the saying on the bird's destined escape-"ori eye ni o peye" (the bird's destiny protects it)-has been true for Lawuwo. The next two segments refer to his last conversation with Mor6nik6 on their abject poverty and her severe migraine ('ftir). The next Lawnwo proverb plays on ofu (eye) in Wdraold's "Oju ma ti mi laarin igboro o" (I am terribly shamed) (92). Wuraold laments the mortification she believes she will suffer when fellow market women learn that her sister-in-law kills herself over a meager five hundred naira. Liwuwo's response joins the beginning and conclusion of tswo sayings about masque performances. He says, "Oji kii teegan ki omo aligbah mi kori s6ko" (The masque experiences no bashfulness to the extent that it will not head back to the farm). The inventoried satings are "Oji kit teegun lab6 asp" (The masque is never bashful behind the mask); and "Ohun tii tan leegn oddn, om algba a ktri s6ko" (The jolly annual masque festival is never an endless feast; even children of the chief masque head back to the farm) (92). The first saying comments on the effects of Morenik6's suicide, and the other announces the end of both the strike and the maneuvers between Lswwo and the Mogun Council of Chiefs. Mor6niki is now dead and beyond any earthly worries. The strike is ended, the play is winding down, the workers will return to their toil, and the audience will head home. In the next scene, Wdratla enjoins Liwwo to be calm: "SA fara bale, Lawnwo, gbogbo re ni yoo rogbo" (Just calm down, Lawudwo, every- thing will be settled) (95). L swwo replies with a wrought proverb: "Eyin ni ki e fara bale, nitori eni t a b fi ori re f agbon, etalenrinw erigi ni ydo fori mule lilyp" (You are the one who should calm down, because the person on whose head we crack a coconut shell, 460 molars will be buried deep in the gum). His source sayings are "Eni ti a bA fi or re f6 agbpn koi je n be" (The person on whose head we crack a coconut shell will not partake of the fruit); and "M61o6 la 6 k 1 tin Adepele, tind oje, tita prdn, otalirinw6 erigi 16 fori mull laiyo" (Countless are Ad6pe I's (the bucked tooth's] mandibles: rows of sevens are inside, hundreds are outside, 460 molars are buried deep in the gum). Lwrwo's  Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 77 "nonsense" warns Wdrhold and the workers about the hardships that will continue now that the strike appears broken. He alters the second proverb with the future-tense marker yao (will) to underscore the inevi- tability of the dangers. A few lines later, LAdwo mocks his naive union members and his own leadership failure. Onimogdn: Adsklmifohin, a a ma teni to I se. Eni td bA t6 lorin ninu yin, kd yda mia sis6 to werewee, eyin ti k ba te 6ran, e dide 166rd, kI mo iyejd yin. Ldwdwo: Eni to b forii ti titi d opin, afhimI ni ko fi n di alAAire. (Onimognn: The deaf mute, we do not know which side he takes. Whoever is satisfied amongst you, let him begin to work immedi- ately; those who are still disgruntled, stand up and be counted. Liwnwo: Whoever endures it to the end, will most likely become a porter.) (107) Lawnwo's response to the Onimbgdn puns on orf (head; destiny), iforfti (endurance, but "head-pushing" literally), and aldadrn (a motor-park carrier). The source statement is the biblical saying "Whosoever en- dures it to the end shall be saved," which in Yoruba translation reads "Enikgni ti 6 bd fori titi d6 bpin, bun ni a 6 gbbln" (Only whosoever props it with his head [endures] till the end shall be saved). In Liwnwo's "unhinged" opinion, whichever of the laborers accepts (i.e., endures, or props with his head) the destiny Onimogon orders for them will be enslaved (be a motor-park porter) permanently. Lawdwo's crazy fragmentation of set proverbs is not unlike Okediji's strategy for the entire play. Okldiji consciously mixes up historical ruling classes and thereby violates verisimilitude; his protagonist fuses conventional proverbs into unknown but thematically meaningful rubbles of adages. Lawuwo makes relevant observations about his plight and about the dismal future awaiting his followers in disfigured proverbs. The mad utterances amuse the Mogdn Council, but they convey to a discerning audience a worthy message that will probably elude literal-minded spectators. To the conventional reader, Lawuwo's sayings reflect his disturbed psyche, and for those who worship the seriousness of conventions, they amount to a heap of humorous non- sense. But an attentive reader or spectator will notice that Ldwdwo has Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts "nonsense" warns Wural6 and the workers about the hardships that will continue now that the strike appears broken. He alters the second proverb with the future-tense marker yeb (will) to underscore the inevi- tability of the dangers. A few lines later, Lawnwo mocks his naive union members and his own leadership failure. Onimbgun: Addklmdfohnn, a a mo teni 16 n se. Eni t6 bd te 16rtn nindu yin, k6 yaa maa sis6 to wlrewere, eyin ti k bd to lorin, e dide 16ro, ka my iyeju yin. Ldwdwo: Eni td b6 fori ti i titi de opin, afalimo ni ko fi ni di aliairn. (Onimogdn: The deaf mute, we do not know which side he takes. Whoever is satisfied amongst you, let him begin to work immedi- ately; those who are still disgruntled, stand up and be counted. Lawdwo: Whoever endures it to the end, will most likely become a porter.) (107) Lawiwo's response to the Onimogdn puns on orn (head; destiny), iforfti (endurance, but "head-pushing" literally), and aldadrQ (a motor-park carrier). The source statement is the biblical saying "Whosoever en- dures it to the end shall be saved," which in Yorubi translation reads "Enikni I 6 bA for tie titi dd opin, oun ni a 6 gbali" (Only whosoever props it with his head [endures] till the end shall be saved). In Lawuwo's "unhinged" opinion, whichever of the laborers accepts (i.e., endures, or props with his head) the destiny Onimbgnn orders for them will be enslaved (be a motor-park porter) permanently. Liwnwo's crazy fragmentation of set proverbs is not unlike Okdij's strategy for the entire play. Okediji consciously mixes up historical ruling classes and thereby violates verisimilitude; his protagonist fuses conventional proverbs into unknown but thematically meaningful rubbles of adages. Lawdwo makes relevant observations about his plight and about the dismal future awaiting his followers in disfigured proverbs. The mad utterances amuse the Mogun Council, but they convey to a discerning audience a worthy message that will probably elude literal-minded spectators. To the conventional reader, Lawiwo's sayings reflect his disturbed psyche, and for those who worship the seriousness of conventions, they amount to a heap of humorous non- sense. But an attentive reader or spectator will notice that Lawdwo has "nonsense" warns Wdraola and the workers about the hardships that will continue now that the strike appears broken. He alters the second proverb with the future-tense marker ydb (will) to underscore the inevi- tability of the dangers. A few lines later, Ldwdwo mocks his naive union members and his own leadership failure. Onimogon: Adikimifohn, a a mo teni to se. Eni to b I6 l6ren nindu yin, k6 yia mia sis6 1wr wrwere, eyin ti ko be t 16rtn, e dide 16or6, ki mo iyejd yin. Lawuwo: Fn to b& fori fti i tit d opin, afhimo ni ko fi at di aldiAri. (Onimogun: The deaf mute, we do not know which side he takes. Whoever is satisfied amongst you, let him begin to work immedi- ately; those who are still disgruntled, stand up and be counted. Lawdwo: Whoever endures it to the end, will most likely become a porter.) (107) Liwnwo's response to the Onimogin puns on orf (head; destiny), ifordti (endurance, but "head-pushing" literally), and alaadrl (a motor-park carrier). The source statement is the biblical saying "Whosoever en- dures it to the end shall be saved," which in Yoreb translation reads "Eniklni ti 6 b fori i i tiot de pin, bun ni a 6 gbaa" (Only whosoever props it with his head [endures] till the end shall be saved). In Law dwo's "unhinged" opinion, whichever of the laborers accepts (i.e., endures, or props with his head) the destiny Onimogun orders for them will be enslaved (be a motor-park porter) permanently, LAwuwo's crazy fragmentation of set proverbs is not unlike Okdiji's strategy for the entire play. Okldiji consciously mixes up historical ruling classes and thereby violates verisimilitude; his protagonist fuses conventional proverbs into unknown but thematically meaningful rubbles of adages. Liwdwo makes relevant observations about his plight and about the dismal future awaiting his followers in disfigured proverbs. The mad utterances amuse the Mogdn Council, but they convey to a discerning audience a worthy message that will probably elude literal-minded spectators. To the conventional reader, Liwdwo's sayings reflect his disturbed psyche, and for those who worship the seriousness of conventions, they amount to a heap of humorous non- sense. But an attentive reader or spectator will notice that LIwudwo has  78 Chapter3 only lost his faculty of canonical syntax and that only his sense of procedure is impaired. His rubbles of substitution cohere at a thematic level. Liwuwo's mad practice can be better understood if compared to sane quotations. Normally, when the subject of the inventoried form of a proverbial saying is altered, a predicator always follows to connect the subject matter of the canonical form to the conversation topic. In one Onimogn address to his chiefs, he says, Oldgb6n, kI fi yen joye [awodi], k6 e md le gbadiye. Laiw wo si wa di igi ose mbo yin 16w6, 6 daraba, apAa yin 6 kd a, kiesa, Aresa, Bal6gun! Eni bi ti, ka fowo re ra Atbpa, igbb to wi so ara re di bjitanniwoldru m9 yin 16w6 yii nk6! H6wtb, 6gede n bAj6 e Is n pon! Ay6 n tin lo m6 yin 16w6, e si n woran. E win fi ete silte n pa lapblapa. (Oldgbon, to say that we make you an [an eagle] chief and ou cannot prey on chickens. Lawnwo turns himself into an ose tree while you watch, he becomes a mighty craba tree whose girth you cannot encircle with your arms, pity, Aresa, Balogun! The person we should have sold and spent the proceeds on buying a lamp, how do you account for his becoming one-for-whose-watch-you- light-up-a-lamp! Insult, the banana is rotting and you say it is ripening! The world is expiring and you watch helplessly. tou mistake leprosy for ringworm.) (11) The Onimog6n fractures some proverbs and grafts them onto others. Some he simply cites halfway. He elides inventoried items in some. Unlike Lawdwo, the head chief makes his addressees the subjects of the sayings and specifies his references. In the above speech, he combines and alters the inventoried texts of several proverbs to goad his chiefts into moving against Ldwnwo. He elides eagle (aodi) in the first, and he also rearranges the saying about Sang6's thunderbolt: "bi Sang6 n faraba 6 n fardko ya, bii tigi nld k6" (Sang6 may rip apart the araba and the siO, but not the mighty tree). In the proverb inventory, the thun- derbolt does not respect the araba. The Onimogun takes araba's promi- nence from another saying dealing with its majestic presence and yokes it to the one about Sbngo's deference to the little ose over and above the towering araba and irdo. But, quite unlike Lswowo's, the Onimogon's aberrations are remedied by his very specific deictics. The Onimogn 7S Chapter3 only lost his faculty of canonical syntax and that only his sense of procedure is impaired. His rubbles of substitution cohere at a thematic level. Lawnwo's mad practice can be better understood if compared to sane quotations. Normally, when the subject of the inventoried form of a proverbial saying is altered, a predicator alwass follows to connect the subject matter of the canonical form to the conversation topic. In one Onimogon address to his chiefs, he says, Olugb6n, k fi yin joye [awodi], k6 e ma le gbidiye. Lawuwo si wa di igi ose moo yin low6, 6 daraba, apa yin o ki a, kiasa, Aresa, Bal6gun! Eni a b6 th, ka fow6 re ra atupa, igba In wi ss ara re di ajftanniwldru mo yin 16w6 yi nk6! Hiwu, ogede n baje 16 n p6n! Ay6 n tan to m6 yin 16wo, e si n woran. E wsa fi ett sile e i pa tipalap. (Oldgb6n, to say that we make you an [an eagle] chief and o cannot prey on chickens. Lewdwo turns himself into an so tree while you watch, he becomes a mighty araba tree whose girth you cannot encircle with your arms, pity, AresA, Bal6gun! The person we should have sold and spent the proceeds on buying a lamp, how do you account for his becoming one-for-whose-watch-you- light-up-a-lamp! Insult, the banana is rotting and y~ou say it is ripening! The world is expiring and you watch helplessly. You mistake leprosy for ringworm.) (11) The Osnigsn fractures some proverbs and grafts them onto others. Some he simply cites halfway. He elides inventoried items in some. Unlike Ldwo, the head chief makes his addressees the subjects of the sayings and specifies his references. In the above speech, he combines and alters the inventoried texts of several proverbs to goad his chiefs into moving against Lawdwo. He elides eagle (aweo) in the first, and he also rearranges the saying about Sang6's thunderbolt: "bi Sango n fbriba t6 n fbr6ko ya, bii tigi lA ko" (Sangd may rip apart the araba and the irdo, but not the mighty tree). In the proverb inventory, the thun- derbolt does not respect the araba. The Onimogun takes araba's promi- nence from another saying dealing with its majestic presence and yokes it to the one about Sing6's deference to the little ose over and above the towering draba and irdks. But, quite unlike Lidwo's, the Onsmgnn's aberrations are remedied by his very specific deictics. The Onimogtn 78 Chapter3 only lost his faculty of canonical syntax and that only his sense of procedure is impaired. His rubbles of substitution cohere at a thematic level. Lawnwo's mad practice can be better understood if compared to sane quotations. Normally, when the subject of the inventoried form of a proverbial saying is altered, a predicator always follows to connect the subject matter of the canonical form to the conversation topic. In one Onimogdn address to his chiefs, he says, Oldgbon, ka i yin joye [awodi], k6 e mi le gbdiye. Lawn wo s wa di igi ose moo yin 16wd, 6 daraba, apa yin b ka a, keasa, Aresa, Baldgun! Eni a bi ta, ka fows r0 rea atpa, igba to wa so ara re di ajitannawoloru m6 yin 16w6 yi nk6! H6wb, 6gede ot baji 16 n pon! Aye n tin o m6 yin 16wo, e si n woran. E wid fi ete sile e pa lapilapi. (Oligb6n, to say that we make you an [an eagle] chief and sou cannot prey on chickens. Ldwo turns himself into an ose tree while you watch, he becomes a mighty arai tree whose girth you cannot encircle with your arms, pity, Ares, Balogun! The person we should have sold and spent the proceeds on buying a lamp, how do you account for his becoming one-for-whose-watch-you- light-up-a-lamp! Insult, the banana is rotting and you sa it is ripening! The world is expiring and you watch helplessly. Y1 mistake leprosy for ringworm.) (11) The Onumogdn fractures some proverbs and grafts them onto others. Some he simply cites halfway. He elides inventoried items in some. Unlike Lawdwo, the head chief makes his addressees the subjects of the sayings and specifies his references. In the above speech, be combines and alters the inventoried texts of several proverbs to goad his chiefs into moving against Liwnwo. He elides eagle (awoodi) in the first, and he also rearranges the saying about Sang6's thunderbolt: "bi Sango n faraba toe I fbrko ya, bti tigi nli k6" (Sbng6 may rip apart the araba and the rdki, but not the mighty tree). In the proverb inventory, the thun- derbolt does not respect the araba. The Onimogn takes artb's promi- nence from another saying dealing with its majestic presence and yokes it to the one about Sbng6's deference to the little ose over and above the towering araba and irid. But, quite unlike Liwdwo's, the Onimogun's aberrations are remedied by his very specific deictics. The Onimagn  Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 79 Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 79 Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 79 explicitly connects the chiefs (with Oldgb6n's name) to the proverbial eagle: he holds them responsible for making Lawdwo into the sacred oss tree (with the pronoun yin [you]), blames them for not monitoring Ldwdwo's escalating threat, and castigates his chiefs for mistaking rotting bananas for ripening ones. The Onimogn does not simply fling his fractured sayings into the conversation. Instead, he turns his ad- dressees into the subjects of the proverbs. Onimogn: Ill a maa ga ju ol6ko to? Aresa: O ti o, Kabiyesi! Onimogan: "0 ti o, Kabiyesi!" Sib! Aresl ko ri ill to ga ju oloko 1o ri! ltd a kdkd maa ga ju oloko lo ... Sugb6n, ill to bA ga ju ol6ko 19 ... Olgb6n: A di will. B616ko bA be e lule, ow6 A ws to 6o! Onimogln: Does the okra plant ever outgrow the farmer? AresA: Not at all, your majesty! Onimogdn: "Not at all, your majesty!" Pity! the Aresa has never seen such an okra plant. The okra plant can outgrow the farmer . . . But whichever plant does that ... Oligb6n: It's a fall. The farmer chops it down to within reach! (12) Here, the Onimogdn exploits the inventoried item "ll& kit ga ju oloko" (The okra plant does not outgrow the farmer) to tell his council that the workers' movement is becoming uncontrollable. He uses the saying in the form of a rhetorical question, and the Aresa falls into the trap, thinking that the Onimogon only wants a confirmation of the proverbial injunction. The Onimogdn pokes fun at the Aresn's ignorance of the contextual alteration he has made to the proverbial assertion. Because the Onimogln proposes a belligerent strategy to quell the strike, he reorders the proverb's "natural" observations about giant okra plants and sets up the precocious workers' union for humiliation. Had the Onimogin and the Aresa not used sarcastic fillers about the farmer's ultimate authority, the proverb would have come out "crazy" and "unknown." Ldwtso's linguistic madness, if one borrows Susan Stewart's words, is, in the context of the Onimogan's violations, the playwright's "flaunted, skilled incompetence" (206). The madness emanates neither from the atopicality of the sayings (that is the nature of all proverbs) nor from Lawdwo's serial constructions (the sane Onimogdn does that frequently), but because he excludes deictic markers that might have explicitly connects the chiefs (with Oldgb6n's name) to the proverbial eagle: he holds them responsible for making Lswwo into the sacred ose tree (with the pronoun yin [you]), blames them for not monitoring Liwnwo's escalating threat, and castigates his chiefs for mistaking rotting bananas for ripening ones. The Onimogdn does not simply fling his fractured sayings into the conversation. Instead, he turns his ad- dressees into the subjects of the proverbs. Onimogn: lA a mda ga ju oloko ly? Aresi: O ti o, Kibiyesi! Onimogdn: "O ti o, Kibiyesi!" Sio! Aresa ko ri ila t6 ga ju ol6ko to ri! Illa a kikd mda ga ju ol6ko 1o ... Shgb6n, ild t6 ba ga ju oloko lo ... S6gn. Oldgb6n: A di will. B616ko bA b6 e lule, owa a wa to 6 16ri! Onimogn: Does the okra plant ever outgrow the farmer? Aresa: Not at all, your majesty! Onimgin: "Not at all, your majesty!" Pity! the Aresa has never seen such an okra plant. The okra plant can outgrow the farmer ... But whichever plant does that ... Oldgbon: It's a fall. The farmer chops it down to within reach! (12) Here, the Onimogon exploits the inventoried item "IlA khi ga ju ol6ko" (The okra plant does not outgrow the farmer) to tell his council that the workers' movement is becoming uncontrollable. He uses the saying in the form of a rhetorical question, and the Aresa falls into the trap, thinking that the Onimogin only wants a confirmation of the proverbial injunction. The Onimogin pokes fun at the Ares's ignorance of the contextual alteration he has made to the proverbial assertion. Because the Onimogdn proposes a belligerent strategy to quell the strike, he reorders the proverb's "natural" observations about giant okra plants and sets up the precocious workers' union for humiliation. Had the Onimogdn and the Ares not used sarcastic fillers about the farmer's ultimate authority, the proverb would have come out "crazy" and "unknown." Lawnwo's linguistic madness, if one borrows Susan Stewart's words, is, in the context of the Onimgon's violations, the playwright's "flaunted, skilled incompetence" (206). The madness emanates neither from the atopicality of the sayings (that is the nature of all proverbs) nor from Ldwdlwo's serial constructions (the sane Onimogln does that frequently), but because he excludes deictic markers that might have explicitly connects the chiefs (with Oldgb6n's name) to the proverbial eagle: he holds them responsible for making Lawdwo into the sacred ose tree (with the pronoun yin [you]), blames them for not monitoring LAwnwo's escalating threat, and castigates his chiefs for mistaking rotting bananas for ripening ones. The Onimogon does not simply fling his fractured sayings into the conversation. Instead, he turns his ad- dressees into the subjects of the proverbs. Onimogan: Ill a maa ga ju ol6ko 1g? Aresa: O ti o, KAbiyesi! Onimogon: "O ti o, Ksbiyesi!" Si! A resa ko ri ili to ga ju oloko to ri! IIa a kdkd mda ga ju oldko 1 ... Sngbon, ild t6 bi ga (a oldko 1o ... S~ga. Otugb6n: A di will. Bloko bd b e lule, ow6 d wd to 6 lor! Onimogon: Does the okra plant ever outgrow the farmer? Aresa: Not at all, your majesty! Onimogdn: "Not at all, your majesty!" Pity! the Aresi has never seen such an okra plant. The okra plant can outgrow the farmer ... But whichever plant does that ... Oldgb6n: It's a fall. The farmer chops it down to within reach! (12) Here, the Onimogdn exploits the inventoried item "Ild kii ga ju oloko" (The okra plant does not outgrow the farmer) to tell his council that the workers' movement is becoming uncontrollable. He uses the saying in the form of a rhetorical question, and the Aresh falls into the trap, thinking that the Onimgdn only wants a confirmation of the proverbial injunction. The Onimogdn pokes fun at the Aresa's ignorance of the contextual alteration he has made to the proverbial assertion. Because the Onimogdn proposes a belligerent strategy to quell the strike, he reorders the proverb's "natural" observations about giant okra plants and sets up the precocious workers' union for humiliation. Had the Onimognn and the Aresa not used sarcastic fillers about the farmer's ultimate authority, the proverb would have come out "crazy" and "unknown." Liwnwo's linguistic madness, if one borrows Susan Stewart's words, is, in the context of the Onimogdn's violations, the playwright's "flaunted, skilled incompetence" (206). The madness emanates neither from the atopicality of the sayings (that is the nature of all proverbs) nor from LdwIwo's serial constructions (the sane Onimogin does that frequently), but because he excludes deictic markers that might have  80 Chapter 3 contextualized the sayings. Lawnwo, in other words, does not justifv his rationale for distorting formulaic inventories. Nonetheless, the "mad- ness" signified in the syntactic omissions still manages to fulfill the play's pragmatic goals. The "mad" Lawdwo still gives warnings, makes observations, and gives advice that are relevant to the subjects of dis- cussion. Perhaps most importantly, the deictic ellipses also save the playwright from being held responsible for what would hae been his hero's culpability. Okodiji's bourgeoisification of traditional rulers and his use of Lawdwo's nonsense proverbs, the two acts named together in his pref- ace as a proverb, disrupt expectations in a manner that makes con- scious interpretation, or reading, a necessary condition for understand- ing. The proverbialization poetics makes conscious interpretation an unavoidable outcome of watching or reading the play. Liwvewo's pro- verbial character and Okddiji's proverbial mixture of historical ruling classes invite reading. The proverbial representations thus make the knowledge that results from interpretation more memorable. In her reading of Figdnwa's place in Yortb fiction, Omolara Ogundipe- Leslie says that the kind of conspicuous "cleverness" which I describe here is a literate and modern development. She characterizes it as a "novelty" that the literate African artist is adding to tradition. Prov- erbs, going by the metatextual examples I discussed in chapter 2, are always texts that need to be unraveled. Historical Changes and the Proverbial Text The tragic endings in both Okdiji's play and Achebe's novel are marked by the mental breakdown of two men caught in the middle of impor- tant political and economic conflicts. The fates of the respected priest and the labor leader proverbialize the main political and economic disputes that preoccupy their times. Ezeulu's office was rendered irrel- evant by rapid colonial changes, and LAwnwo's movement was de- stroyed by a vicious ruling council. It is also remarkable that each writer uses proverbs to mark his hero's surprise at how events turn against him. Achebe represents the stunned Ezeulu's inability to com- prehend the fall of his prestigious priesthood with proverbs about the unjust fate of ruined messengers. Okbdiji renders Ldwnwo's surprise at the destruction of his forward-looking strike in disjointed proverbs. In Achebe's novel, native codes-village delegations, calendrical ritual objects, and proverbial wisdom-circulate as if they were willful 80 Chapter 3 contextualized the sayings. Ldwdwo, in other words, does not justify his rationale for distorting formulaic inventories. Nonetheless, the "mad- ness" signified in the syntactic omissions still manages to fulfill the play's pragmatic goals. The "mad" Ldnwo still gives warnings, makes observations, and gives advice that are relevant to the subjects of dis- cussion. Perhaps most importantly, the deictic ellipses also save the playwright from being held responsible for what would have been his hero's culpability. Okidiji's bourgeoisification of traditional rulers and his use of Ldwnwo's nonsense proverbs, the two acts named together in his pref- ace as a proverb, disrupt expectations in a manner that makes con- scious interpretation, or reading, a necessary condition for understand- ing. The proverbialization poetics makes conscious interpretation an unavoidable outcome of watching or reading the play. Lswdvo's pro- verbial character and Okediji's proverbial mixture of historical ruling classes invite reading. The proverbial representations thus make the knowledge that results from interpretation more memorable. In her reading of Figdnwh's place in Yornbd fiction, Omolara Ogundipe- Leslie says that the kind of conspicuous "cleverness" which I describe here is a literate and modern development. She characterizes it as a "novelty" that the literate African artist is adding to tradition. Prov- erbs, going by the metatextual examples I discussed in chapter 2, are always texts that need to be unraveled. Historical Changes and the Proverbial Text The tragic endings in both Okodiji's play and Achebe's novel are marked by the mental breakdown of two men caught in the middle of impor- tant political and economic conflicts. The fates of the respected priest and the labor leader proverbialize the main political and economic disputes that preoccupy their times. Ezeulu's office was rendered irrel- evant by rapid colonial changes, and Ldwnwo's movement was de- stroyed by a vicious ruling council. It is also remarkable that each writer uses proverbs to mark his hero's surprise at how events turn against him. Achebe represents the stunned Ezeulu's inability to com- prehend the fall of his prestigious priesthood with proverbs about the unjust fate of ruined messengers. Okddiji renders Lwovo's surprise at the destruction of his forward-looking strike in disjointed proverbs. In Achebe's novel, native codes-village delegations, calendrical ritual objects, and proverbial wisdom-circulate as if they were willful 80 Chapter 3 contextualized the sayings. Lawdwo, in other words, does not justify his rationale for distorting formulaic inventories. Nonetheless, the "mad- ness" signified in the syntactic omissions still manages to fulfill the play's pragmatic goals. The "mad" Lawdwo still gives warnings, makes observations, and gives advice that are relevant to the subjects of dis- cussion. Perhaps most importantly, the deictic ellipses also save the playwright from being held responsible for what would have been his hero's culpability. Ok diji's bourgeoisification of traditional rulers and his use of Lawnwo's nonsense proverbs, the two acts named together in his pref- ace as a proverb, disrupt expectations in a manner that makes con- scious interpretation, or reading, a necessary condition for understand- ing. The proverbialization poetics makes conscious interpretation an unavoidable outcome of watching or reading the play. Lwnwo's pro- verbial character and bkddiji's proverbial mixture of historical ruling classes invite reading. The proverbial representations thus make the knowledge that results from interpretation more memorable. In her reading of FignnwA's place in Yorubd fiction, Omolara Ogundipe- Leslie says that the kind of conspicuous "cleverness" which I describe here is a literate and modern development. She characterizes it as a "novelty" that the literate African artist is adding to tradition. Prov- erbs, going by the metatextual examples I discussed in chapter 2, are always texts that need to be unraveled. Historical Changes and the Proverbial Text The tragic endings in both Okediji's play and Achebe's novel are marked by the mental breakdown of two men caught in the middle of impor- tant political and economic conflicts. The fates of the respected priest and the labor leader proverbialize the main political and economic disputes that preoccupy their times. Ezeulu's office was rendered irrel- evant by rapid colonial changes, and Lawdwo's movement was de- stroyed by a vicious ruling council. It is also remarkable that each writer uses proverbs to mark his hero's surprise at how events turn against him. Achebe represents the stunned Ezeulu's inability to com- prehend the fall of his prestigious priesthood with proverbs about the unjust fate of ruined messengers. Okedlji renders LAwnwo's surprise at the destruction of his forward-looking strike in disjointed proverbs. In Achebe's novel, native codes-village delegations, calendrical ritual objects, and proverbial wisdom-circulate as if they were willful  Textual Proverbs in Proverbial Texts 81 messengers whose "true" meanings are always the subject of contests. The meanings of traditional codes appear to be unsettled and the con- tentions that usually surround interpretation seem built into the codes. Questions about the material importance of the messenger that occupy Ezeulu-the most significant messenger-at the beginning of the story (3) remain on his shattered mind at the end. Ok diji's protagonist also remains an object for interpretation at the close of his tragic experience. The meaning of Lddwo's words, like the entire text of the play, requires patient sorting and unraveling. The proverbs that the two characters ponder and fracture reflect figurally the symbolic status of their own experiences: the meanings of their lives, like those of the proverbs they juggle, need to be fathomed further. In both works, re- created nativist history and progressive political critique of the post- independence economy circulate as (proverbialized) texts. messengers whose "true" meanings are always the subject of contests. The meanings of traditional codes appear to be unsettled and the con- tentions that usually surround interpretation seem built into the codes. Questions about the material importance of the messenger that occupy Ezeulu-the most significant messenger-at the beginning of the story (3) remain on his shattered mind at the end. Okediji's protagonist also remains an object for interpretation at the close of his tragic experience. The meaning of Ldwnwo's words, like the entire text of the play, requires patient sorting and unraveling. The proverbs that the two characters ponder and fracture reflect figurally the symbolic status of their own experiences: the meanings of their lives, like those of the proverbs they juggle, need to be fathomed further. In both works, re- created nativist history and progressive political critique of the post- independence economy circulate as (proverbialized) texts. messengers whose "true" meanings are always the subject of contests. The meanings of traditional codes appear to be unsettled and the con- tentions that usually surround interpretation seem built into the codes. Questions about the material importance of the messenger that occupy Ezeulu-the most significant messenger-at the beginning of the story (3) remain on his shattered mind at the end. Okediji's protagonist also remains an object for interpretation at the close of his tragic experience. The meaning of Liwdwo's words, like the entire text of the play, requires patient sorting and unraveling. The proverbs that the two characters ponder and fracture reflect figurally the symbolic status of their own experiences: the meanings of their lives, like those of the proverbs they juggle, need to be fathomed further. In both works, re- created nativist history and progressive political critique of the post- independence economy circulate as (proverbialized) texts.  4 4 Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story Native Figures of History in Ayi Kwei Armah's Two Thousand Seasons History, the subject so ubiquitous that Lewis Nkosi has called it the hero of the African novel, is the major topic in Ayi Kwei Armah's Tor Thousand Seasons. But in this novel, the facts of colonization and its aftermath are not the most insistent themes. The mechanics of the representation of these facts is the main narrative concern. The novel mixes the historian's devotion to truth-ascertaining methods and the mythmaker's passion for rhythmic images. It mingles "speakerly" storytelling with "writerly" narration. It simulates a national histors in mythical terms. It crosses the rhetoric of nativist self-assertion and cosmopolitan narrative self-awareness. Two Thousand Seasons thematizes both the agonies of cultural emasculation caused by colonialism and the narrative maneuvers employed in the fictionalization of those pains. In splitting its focus between African fiction and metafiction, history and metahistory, narrative and metanarrative, the novel foregrounds the constitutive figures of African postindependence literature. It pro- verbializes both the constitutive devices of African literature and the themes they produce. In this chapter, I try to untangle the metafictional import of the novel's jumbled chronology, to present a case for the importance of its self-authenticating figuration of Anoa, and to summarize its hidden metacritical address to African literary criticism. Armah deals with these traditionally nonnativist themes in nativist idioms. The discus- Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story Native Figures of History in Ayi Kwei Armah's Two Thousand Seasons History, the subject so ubiquitous that Lewis Nkosi has called it the hero of the African novel, is the major topic in Ayi Kwei Armah's Tir Thousand Seasons. But in this novel, the facts of colonization and its aftermath are not the most insistent themes. The mechanics of the representation of these facts is the main narrative concern. The novel mixes the historian's devotion to truth-ascertaining methods and the mythmaker's passion for rhythmic images. It mingles "speakerly" storytelling with "writerly" narration. It simulates a national histors in mythical terms. It crosses the rhetoric of nativist self-assertion and cosmopolitan narrative self-awareness. Two Thousand Seasons thematizes both the agonies of cultural emasculation caused by colonialism and the narrative maneuvers employed in the fictionalization of those pains. In splitting its focus between African fiction and metafiction, history and metahistory, narrative and metanarrative, the novel foregrounds the constitutive figures of African postindependence literature. It pro- verbializes both the constitutive devices of African literature and the themes they produce. In this chapter, I try to untangle the metafictional import of the novel's jumbled chronology, to present a case for the importance of its self-authenticating figuration of Anoa, and to summarize its hidden metacritical address to African literary criticism. Armah deals with these traditionally nonnativist themes in nativist idioms. The discus- Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story Native Figures of History in Ayi Kwei Armah's Two Thousand Seasons History, the subject so ubiquitous that Lewis Nkosi has called it the hero of the African novel, is the major topic in Ayi Kwei Armah's Two Thousand Seasons. But in this novel, the facts of colonization and its aftermath are not the most insistent themes. The mechanics of the representation of these facts is the main narrative concern. The novel mixes the historian's devotion to truth-ascertaining methods and the mythmaker's passion for rhythmic images. It mingles "speakerly" storytelling with "writerly" narration. It simulates a national histor in mythical terms. It crosses the rhetoric of nativist self-assertion and cosmopolitan narrative self-awareness. Two Thousand Seasons thematizes both the agonies of cultural emasculation caused by colonialism and the narrative maneuvers employed in the fictionalization of those pains. In splitting its focus between African fiction and metafiction, history and metahistory, narrative and metanarrative, the novel foregrounds the constitutive figures of African postindependence literature. It pro- verbializes both the constitutive devices of African literature and the themes they produce. In this chapter, I try to untangle the metafictional import of the novel's jumbled chronology, to present a case for the importance of its self-authenticating figuration of Anoa, and to summarize its hidden metacritical address to African literary criticism. Armah deals with these traditionally nonnativist themes in nativist idioms. The discus-  Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story 83 sion is here organized around the Yorub& metanarrative proverb "Ko shun 166 be ti o nithn"' (Nothing is which lacks a story). I read Armah's novel with this Yoruba proverbial saying because its declaration on the "thingifying" character of stories approximates the narrative assump- tion of Two Thousand Seasons. Narrating Nationalist History Two Thousand Seasons simulates the performance of a fictive national history. The historians (and narrators), who are part of an antislavery guerrilla band, retell the story of their group and their country to energize their despondent compatriots, who have started to doubt the value of their continued resistance to an emerging alliance between their chiefs and European slave traders. Their performance emphasizes significant events in the nation's history and also makes explicit both its criteria of deciding truly significant events and the methods it employs in forming those criteria. In order for the narrators to preserve the spirit of the slave ship mutiny that brought them together, they construct an account that imposes on the guerrilla band the historic duty of launch- ing the revolt against the ceaseless occupation of Anoa by foreigners. With a story deeply rooted in the national imagination, the guerrillas teach their compatriots that forgetfulness is dangerous because it can lead to psychic isolation and despair. In the performance, Armah's oral historians invent a historical char- acter, Anoa, to name their country, their muse, and their emancipating ethos. The historians represent Anoa as the giver of a philosophy of history, a theory of society, and a narrative poetic. In the mouths of the historians, Anoa's story is an origin account that authorizes the knowl- edge of the constitution of being. They use their story of Anoa to connect their own historical condition to the fate of their nation. By intertwining the account of their own historical dilemmas and their nation's, the historians lighten the weight of reclamation borne by their colleagues. But the reader can arrive at the story I summarize here only after stitching together different parts of the novel. Classical African nativist criticism does not tolerate the foregrounding of metastructural matters that a reader cannot but notice in the "stitch- ing" together of the story parts. Classical nativists operate within a consensus that their constituent literatures deal with pressing existen- tial concerns-self-definition, cultural self-assurance, and the recupera- Nothing Is Which Lacks a Stor 83 sion is here organized around the Yornbd metanarrative proverb "Ko shun t6n be ti nitan"' (Nothing is which lacks a story). I read Armah's novel with this Yorb proverbial saying because its declaration on the "thingifying" character of stories approximates the narrative assump- tion of Two Thousand Seasons. Narrating Nationalist History Two Thousand Seasons simulates the performance of a fictive national history. The historians (and narrators), who are part of an antislavery guerrilla band, retell the story of their group and their country to energize their despondent compatriots, who have started to doubt the value of their continued resistance to an emerging alliance between their chiefs and European slave traders. Their performance emphasizes significant events in the nation's history and also makes explicit both its criteria of deciding truly significant events and the methods it employs in forming those criteria. In order for the narrators to preserve the spirit of the slave ship mutiny that brought them together, they construct an account that imposes on the guerrilla band the historic duty of launch- ing the revolt against the ceaseless occupation of Anoa by foreigners. With a story deeply rooted in the national imagination, the guerrillas teach their compatriots that forgetfulness is dangerous because it can lead to psychic isolation and despair. In the performance, Armah's oral historians invent a historical char- acter, Anna, to name their country, their muse, and their emancipating ethos. The historians represent Anoa as the giver of a philosophy of history, a theory of society, and a narrative poetic. In the mouths of the historians, Anoa's story is an origin account that authorizes the knowl- edge of the constitution of being. They use their story of Anna to connect their own historical condition to the fate of their nation. By intertwining the account of their own historical dilemmas and their nation's, the historians lighten the weight of reclamation borne by their colleagues. But the reader can arrive at the story I summarize here only after stitching together different parts of the novel. Classical African nativist criticism does not tolerate the foregrounding of metastructural matters that a reader cannot but notice in the "stitch- ing" together of the story parts. Classical nativists operate within a consensus that their constituent literatures deal with pressing existen- tial concerns-self-definition, cultural self-assurance, and the recupera- Nothing is Which Lacks a Story 83 sion is here organized around the Yorbba metanarrative proverb "Ko soun t6n be ti S nitan"1 (Nothing is which lacks a story). I read Armah's novel with this Yoruba proverbial saying because its declaration on the "thingifying" character of stories approximates the narrative assump- tion of Two Thousand Seasons. Narrating Nationalist History Two Thousand Seasons simulates the performance of a fictive national history. The historians (and narrators), who are part of an antislavery guerrilla band, retell the story of their group and their country to energize their despondent compatriots, who have started to doubt the value of their continued resistance to an emerging alliance between their chiefs and European slave traders. Their performance emphasizes significant events in the nation's history and also makes explicit both its criteria of deciding truly significant events and the methods it employs in forming those criteria. In order for the narrators to preserve the spirit of the slave ship mutiny that brought them together, they construct an account that imposes on the guerrilla band the historic duty of launch- ing the revolt against the ceaseless occupation of Anoa by foreigners. With a story deeply rooted in the national imagination, the guerrillas teach their compatriots that forgetfulness is dangerous because it can lead to psychic isolation and despair. In the performance, Armah's oral historians invent a historical char- acter, Anoa, to name their country, their muse, and their emancipating ethos. The historians represent Anoa as the giver of a philosophy of history, a theory of society, and a narrative poetic. In the mouths of the historians, Anoa's story is an origin account that authorizes the knowl- edge of the constitution of being. They use their story of Anoa to connect their own historical condition to the fate of their nation. By intertwining the account of their own historical dilemmas and their nation's, the historians lighten the weight of reclamation borne by their colleagues. But the reader can arrive at the story I summarize here only after stitching together different parts of the novel. Classical African nativist criticism does not tolerate the foregrounding of metastructural matters that a reader cannot but notice in the "stitch- ing" together of the story parts. Classical nativists operate within a consensus that their constituent literatures deal with pressing existen- tial concerns-self-definition, cultural self-assurance, and the recupera-  84 Chapter 4 tion of local histories-and cannot afford to indulge in problematic self- reflexivity and other supposedly narcissistic narrative maneuvers. So whenever stories emerge that have unquestionable credentials of the- matic belonging but rank-breaking narrative innovations, critics find them difficult to classify. This classification dilemma is most eident in the critical reception of Two Thousand Seasons. The novel was praised for its trenchant political engagement but condemned for its meta- fictional play with generic boundaries.2 The narrative has been criti- cized for embracing "mythologies" of race consciousness, for depicting implausible historical characters, for dabbling into heavy-handed ideo- logical enthusiasm, and for abandoning proper historical and mimetic realities. Many of Armah's ordinarily sympathetic readers believe that his implausible collage of Akan migration traditions, the precolonial decentralized politics of the lgbo people, and the postindependence Ujamaa concept of Tanzania's president, Julius Nyerere, imperils the novel's claim to true historical reconstruction. In an essay that is representative of a different type of appreciation of Armah's work, Ato Sekyi-Otu reevaluates the alleged excesses of T.o Thousand Seasons as metanarratological reflections on nationalist, i.e. nativist, fiction. Sekyi-Ot says the story's thematic quest for the recla- mation of "the Way" is first, and perhaps foremost, a "text-fulfilling" one. The novel's story of the search for a national self "is an immemorial quest and therefore a question . . . that is in principle guaranteed no answers." The questers know that no recuperable physical space exists in which their imagined predestruction governing ethos can be reinstituted in its full splendor. Therefore all that the loquacious historians com- memorate in their elaborate "remembrance of the was" is a memorable "way of remembrance" (197). Sekyi-Otu suggests that because the patriotic narrators themselves admit the irrecoverability of the original homeland, their calls for the remembrance of predestruction equilibrium can only be a discursive reconstruction. If the nostalgia implied in the historians' call for a "remembrance of the way" is implemented as stated, it will not pur- chase a pristine locale. I do not know of a more astute appraisal of the novel's self-conscious attention to narrative than Seksi-Otu's. That said, my specific concern is not the truth, the viability, or the desirability of the novel's revolutionary project. I am interested in its nativist attempt at an explicit (post)modernization of the anglophone postindependence narratives of cultural uplift. 84 Chapter 4 tion of local histories-and cannot afford to indulge in problematic self- reflexivity and other supposedly narcissistic narrative maneuvers. So whenever stories emerge that have unquestionable credentials of the- matic belonging but rank-breaking narrative innovations, critics find them difficult to classify. This classification dilemma is most evident in the critical reception of Two Thousand Seasons. The novel was praised for its trenchant political engagement but condemned for its meta- fictional play with generic boundariest The narrative has been criti- cized for embracing "mythologies" of race consciousness, for depicting implausible historical characters, for dabbling into heavy-handed ideo- logical enthusiasm, and for abandoning proper historical and mimetic realities. Many of Armah's ordinarily sympathetic readers believe that his implausible collage of Akan migration traditions, the precolonial decentralized politics of the Igbo people, and the postindependence Ujamaa concept of Tanzania's president, Julius Nyerere, imperils the novel's claim to true historical reconstruction.' In an essay that is representative of a different type of appreciation of Armah's work, Ato Sekyi-Otu reevaluates the alleged excesses of Tao Thousand Seasons as metanarratological reflections on nationalist, i.e., nativist, fiction. Sekyi-Otu says the story's thematic quest for the recla- mation of "the Way" is first, and perhaps foremost, a "text-fulfilling" one. The novel's story of the search for a national self "is an immemorial quest and therefore a question . . . that is in principle guaranteed no answers." The questers know that no recuperable physical space exists tin which their imagined predestruction governing ethos can be reinstituted in its full splendor. Therefore all that the loquacious historians com- memorate in their elaborate "remembrance of the way" is a memorable "way of remembrance" (197). Sekyi-Otu suggests that because the patriotic narrators themselves admit the irrecoverability of the original homeland, their calls for the remembrance of predestruction equilibrium can only be a discursive reconstruction. If the nostalgia implied in the historians' call for a "remembrance of the way" is implemented as stated, it will not pur- chase a pristine locale. I do not know of a more astute appraisal of the novel's self-conscious attention to narrative than Sekyi-Otu's. That said, my specific concern is not the truth, the viability, or the desirability of the novel's revolutionary project. I am interested in its nativist attempt at an explicit (post)modernization of the anglophone postindependence narratives of cultural uplift. 84 Chapter 4 tion of local histories-and cannot afford to indulge in problematic self- reflexivity and other supposedly narcissistic narrative maneuvers. So whenever stories emerge that have unquestionable credentials of the- matic belonging but rank-breaking narrative innovations, critics find them difficult to classify. This classification dilemma is most evident in the critical reception of Two Thousand Seasons. The novel was praised for its trenchant political engagement but condemned for its meta- fictional play with generic boundaries! The narrative has been criti- cized for embracing "mythologies" of race consciousness, for depicting implausible historical characters, for dabbling into heavy-handed ideo- logical enthusiasm, and for abandoning proper historical and mimetic realities. Many of Armah's ordinarily sympathetic readers believe that his implausible collage of Akan migration traditions, the precolonial decentralized politics of the Igbo people, and the postindependence Ujamaa concept of Tanzania's president, Julius Nyeeree, imperils the novel's claim to true historical reconstruction.' In an essay that is representative of a different type of appreciation of Armah's work, Ato Sekyi-Otu reevaluates the alleged excesses of T:co Thousand Seasons as metanarratological reflections on nationalist, i.e., nativist fiction. Sekyi-Otu says the story's thematic quest for the recla- mation of "the Way" is first, and perhaps foremost, a "text-fulfilling" one. The novel's story of the search for a national self "is an immemorial quest and therefore a question . . . that is in principle guaranteed no answers." The questers know that no recuperable physical space exists in which their imagined predestruction governing ethos can be reinstituted in its full splendor. Therefore all that the loquacious historians com- memorate in their elaborate "remembrance of the way" is a memorable "way of remembrance" (197). Sekyi-Otu suggests that because the patriotic narrators themselves admit the irrecoverability of the original homeland, their calls for the remembrance of predestruction equilibrium can only be a discursive reconstruction. If the nostalgia implied in the historians' call for a "remembrance of the way" is implemented as stated, it will not pur- chase a pristine locale. I do not know of a more astute appraisal of the novel's self-conscious attention to narrative than Seki-Otu's. That said, my specific concern is not the truth, the viability, or the desirability of the novel's revolutionary project. I am interested in its nativist attempt at an explicit (post)modernization of the anglophone postindependence narratives of cultural uplift.  Narrative Order and Nativist Polemics Two Thousand Seasons begins at the end. It presents its narrative closure as its prologue. When that inversion is not quickly noticed, the early warning of "writerly" and "speakerly" hazard may lead an unwary reader to dismiss the charging directness of the prologue's address as an unnovelistic authorial intrusion aimed at rigging the reader's inter- pretative range. Critics sometimes dismiss the "prologue" as an extra- neous part of the narrative proper. However, a close reading of the prologue and the final ten pages of the text reveals that the prologue provides a narrative "closure." The final pages and the italicized pro- logue, both of which summarize the importance of historical awareness for the continued well-being of the community, address the same group of people on the theme of despair. The last four paragraphs of the text and the conclusion of the pro- logue are identical rhetorically and thematically. As the story closes, it piles up one "answering question" after another to warn the guerrilla band against the temptations of despair-that word occurs fourteen times in the final twenty-five paragraphs of the story and four times in the prologue-and against the dangers of abandoning the reconstruc- tion of the Way. Whose will is it to make utterances of despair simply because our physical eyes have not lived at the very end of destruction's two thousand seasons? Who is the seer of such hazy vision he pines in regret that his ears of flesh will not be the very ears of flesh that hear the music of that definite creation? Where is the hearer so deaf he has not heard it does not matter which mouth of flesh and blood utters creation's onset as long as every seer treading paths to our living way, every hearer, every utterer of the way has even in the two thousand seasons turned all living energy against the whiteness of destruction's sway? (206) The repeated questions admonish the guerrillas not to lose sight of the long-term goals imposed on them by their historical circumstances. Two hundred pages back, identical rhetoric and subject matter are unmistakable: "What sufficiency is there in our hearing only this season's noise, seeing only the confusion around us here, uttering, like cavern- ous mirrors, a wild echo only of the howling cacophony engulfing us?" (xiii). Both extracts admonish the newly emerging but tired tribe of Narrative Order and Nativist Polemics Two Thousand Seasons begins at the end. It presents its narrative closure as its prologue. When that inversion is not quickly noticed, the early warning of "writerly" and "speakerly" hazard may lead an unwary reader to dismiss the charging directness of the prologue's address as an unnovelistic authorial intrusion aimed at rigging the reader's inter- pretative range. Critics sometimes dismiss the "prologue" as an extra- neous part of the narrative proper. However, a close reading of the prologue and the final ten pages of the text reveals that the prologue provides a narrative "closure." The final pages and the italicized pro- logue, both of which summarize the importance of historical awareness for the continued well-being of the community, address the same group of people on the theme of despair. The last four paragraphs of the text and the conclusion of the pro- logue are identical rhetorically and thematically. As the story closes, it piles up one "answering question" after another to warn the guerrilla band against the temptations of despair-that word occurs fourteen times in the final twenty-five paragraphs of the story and four times in the prologue-and against the dangers of abandoning the reconstruc- tion of the Way. Whose will is it to make utterances of despair simply because our physical eyes have not lived at the very end of destruction's two thousand seasons? Who is the seer of such hazy vision he pines in regret that his ears of flesh will not be the very ears of flesh that hear the music of that definite creation? Where is the hearer so deaf he has not heard it does not matter which mouth of flesh and blood utters creation's onset as long as every seer treading paths to our living way, every hearer, every utterer of the way has even in the two thousand seasons turned all living energy against the whiteness of destruction's sway? (206) The repeated questions admonish the guerrillas not to lose sight of the long-term goals imposed on them by their historical circumstances. Two hundred pages back, identical rhetoric and subject matter are unmistakable: "What sufficiency is there in our hearing only this season's noise, seeing only the confusion around us here, uttering, like cavern- ous mirrors, a wild echo only of the howling cacophony engulfing us?" (xiii). Both extracts admonish the newly emerging but tired tribe of Narrative Order and Nativist Polemics Two Thousand Seasons begins at the end. It presents its narrative closure as its prologue. When that inversion is not quickly noticed, the early warning of "writerly" and "speakerly" hazard may lead an unwary reader to dismiss the charging directness of the prologue's address as an unnovelistic authorial intrusion aimed at rigging the reader's inter- pretative range. Critics sometimes dismiss the "prologue" as an extra- neous part of the narrative proper. However, a close reading of the prologue and the final ten pages of the text reveals that the prologue provides a narrative "closure." The final pages and the italicized pro- logue, both of which summarize the importance of historical awareness for the continued well-being of the community, address the same group of people on the theme of despair. The last four paragraphs of the text and the conclusion of the pro- logue are identical rhetorically and thematically. As the story closes, it piles up one "answering question" after another to warn the guerrilla band against the temptations of despair-that word occurs fourteen times in the final twenty-five paragraphs of the story and four times in the prologue-and against the dangers of abandoning the reconstruc- tion of the Way. Whose will is it to make utterances of despair simply because our physical eyes have not lived at the very end of destruction's two thousand seasons? Who is the seer of such hazy vision he pines in regret that his ears of flesh will not be the very ears of flesh that hear the music of that definite creation? Where is the hearer so deaf he has not heard it does not matter which mouth of flesh and blood utters creation's onset as long as every seer treading paths to our living way, every hearer, every utterer of the way has even in the two thousand seasons turned all living energy against the whiteness of destruction's sway? (206) The repeated questions admonish the guerrillas not to lose sight of the long-term goals imposed on them by their historical circumstances. Two hundred pages back, identical rhetoric and subject matter are unmistakable: "What sufficiency is there in our hearing only this season's noise, seeing only the confusion around us here, uttering, like cavern- ous mirrors, a wild echo only of the howling cacophony engulfing us?" (xiii). Both extracts admonish the newly emerging but tired tribe of  86 Chapter4 nationalist fighters against easy solutions such as a migration to ancient Anna or some other new lands. In furtherance of this same theme, the metaphor of moving waters racing into a hot brazier is used both in the epilogic prologue and at the physical end of the text. One earns, "Springwater flowing to the desert, where you flow there is no regen- eration" (xi), and the other sighs, "What a hearing of the confluence of all the waters of life flowing to overwhelm the ashen desert's blight" (206). The prologue "proper" is in the earlier pages of the chapter titled "The Way." The narrative preamble, which I call the syntactic pro- logue, closes with the following paragraph: Trapped now in our smallest self, we, repositories of the remem- brance of the way violated, we, portion that sought the meaning of Anna's utterance in full and found another home on this same land, wefraction that crossed mountains, journeyed through for- ests, shook off destruction only to meet worse destruction, twe, people of the fertile time before these schisms, we, life's people, people of the way, trapped now in our smallest self, that is our vocation: to find our larger, our healing self, we the black people. (8-9; emphasis added) Here the narrators announce the specific moment of narration and identify the circumstances under which they perform the history that has been unfolding. Besides framing the narrative and repeating the novel's central pre- occupations for emphasis, the prologic inversion represents graphi- cally the narrators' exhortation against psychological and visionary closure. In other words, the motivated historians front the chronologi- cal closure of their story in order to replicate at the physical textual level their message of openness to renewed inspiration. The stor's disruption of narrative expectations nudges the guerrillas of the Wav tor open their minds to a more malleable syntax of reality. The narrators advise their audience to see beyond their apocalyptic vista not only by opening up the historically justifiable narrow perspective of contempo- rary events to grand patterns but also by disrupting paradigmatic narrative order. The self-aware narrators, to my mind, scramble crucial parts of the cause of the threatening closure so as not to reinforce a sense of completion in their audience and thereby defeat at the struc- tural level their expressed aim. By opening up both the story's and the 86 Chapter 4 nationalist fighters against easy solutions such as a migration to ancient Anna or some other new lands. In furtherance of this same theme, the metaphor of moving waters racing into a hot brazier is used both in the epilogic prologue and at the physical end of the text. One warns, "Springwater flowing to the desert, where you flow there is no regen- eration" (xi), and the other sighs, "What a hearing of the confluence of all the waters of life flowing to overwhelm the ashen desert's blight" (206). The prologue "proper" is in the earlier pages of the chapter titled "The Way." The narrative preamble, which I call the syntactic pro- logue, closes with the following paragraph: Trapped now in our smallest self, we, repositories of the remem- brance of the way violated, we, portion that sought the meaning of Anoa's utterance in full and found another home on this same land, we,fraction that crossed mountains, journeyed through for- ests, shook off destruction only to meet worse destruction, we, people of the fertile time before these schisms, we, life's people, people of the way, trapped now in our smallest self, that is our vocation: to find our larger, our healing self, we the black people. (8-9; emphasis added) Here the narrators announce the specific moment of narration and identify the circumstances under which they perform the history that has been unfolding. Besides framing the narrative and repeating the novel's central pre- occupations for emphasis, the prologic inversion represents graphi- cally the narrators' exhortation against psychological and visionar closure. In other words, the motivated historians front the chronologi- cal closure of their story in order to replicate at the physical textual level their message of openness to renewed inspiration. The story's disruption of narrative expectations nudges the guerrillas of thee's ay to open their minds to a more malleable syntax of reality. The narrators advise their audience to see beyond their apocalyptic vista not onl by opening up the historically justifiable narrow perspective of contempo- rary events to grand patterns but also by disrupting paradigmatic narrative order. The self-aware narrators, to my mind, scramble crucial parts of the cause of the threatening closure so as not to reinforce a sense of completion in their audience and thereby defeat at the struc- tural level their expressed aim. By opening up both the story's and the 86 Chapter 4 nationalist fighters against easy solutions such as a migration to ancient Anoa or some other new lands. In furtherance of this same theme, the metaphor of moving waters racing into a hot brazier is used both in the epilogic prologue and at the physical end of the text. One rnams, "Springwater flowing to the desert, where you flow there is no regen- eration" (xi), and the other sighs, "What a hearing of the confluence of all the waters of life flowing to overwhelm the ashen desert's blight" (206). The prologue "proper" is in the earlier pages of the chapter titled "The Way." The narrative preamble, which I call the syntactic pro- logue, closes with the following paragraph: Trapped now in our smallest self, we, repositories of the remem- brance of the way violated, we, portion that sought the meaning of Anna's utterance in full and found another home on this same land, wefraction that crossed mountains, journeyed through for- ests, shook off destruction only to meet worse destruction, see, people of the fertile time before these schisms, we, life's people, people of the way, trapped now in our smallest self, that is our vocation: to find our larger, our healing self, tee the black people. (8-9; emphasis added) Here the narrators announce the specific moment of narration and identify the circumstances under which they perform the history that has been unfolding. Besides framing the narrative and repeating the novel's central pre- occupations for emphasis, the prologic inversion represents graphi- cally the narrators' exhortation against psychological and visionary closure. In other words, the motivated historians front the chronologi- cal closure of their story in order to replicate at the physical textual level their message of openness to renewed inspiration. The story's disruption of narrative expectations nudges the guerrillas of the Way to open their minds to a more malleable syntax of reality. The narrators advise their audience to see beyond their apocalyptic vista not only by opening up the historically justifiable narrow perspective of contempo- rary events to grand patterns but also by disrupting paradigmatic narrative order. The self-aware narrators, to my mind, scramble crucial parts of the cause of the threatening closure so as not to reinforce a sense of completion in their audience and thereby defeat at the struc- tural level their expressed aim. By opening up both the story's and the  Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story 87 resistance movement's present to their past, and their very remote past to their present, they teach their colleagues that the temporary end of antislavery battles and the commencement of a prolonged resistance to desert blight do not exhaust their experience of Anna national history. The resistance cannot, the story's "de-structuration" implies, afford the pleasures of conventional syntax. The intricacies of the narrators' exact identities also reveal Armah's concern for protecting the integrity of his engaged historians and the effect of the history they construct. The narrators speak at different times as voices of the entire black people, authorized defenders of Anoa's national integrity, and spokespersons for an ethnically pan- African, anticolonial guerrilla band. In the italicized prologue, the mys- terious narrators use first-person pronouns (we and our) sparingly in their oracular address. At the end of the syntactic prologue, the speak- ers begin to assume a voice that is representative of the entire Anoa nation and, in one instance, the entire "black" people: "we life's people" and "we the black people" (9). Read closely, the final stanza, as it were, of the syntactic prologue pinpoints the identities of both the narrator(s) and the historical (primary) addressees. The first-person collective pro- noun, often overinterpreted as a simulated ancestral voice, reveals here a little piece of its particular identity as part of the group ensconced in a psychic and physical enclosure and burdened with an important com- munal secret: the remembrance of the Way. This same voice will later identify itself as belonging to the "children of our age" (76) who were tricked aboard a slave boat during the final rites of their conferment of full citizenship. The narrators' self-dissolution, which I think Armah appropriates from the Sahelian griot tradition,' serves a historiographic purpose that is far more important than that of mere textual intrigue. The feigned collective voice grounds the narrators' intent in the imper- sonal truths of the nation and its trustworthy ancestor, Anoa. The collective voice secures national symbolism for what is largely the autobiography of a very small group. The fundis'-storytellers'-gram- matical conflation of their temporal, national, and racial ancestry ad- vances the integrity of their peculiar historical and narrative methods. Composing a Nativist History: Anoa The fundis receive the facts of their story from Isanusi, the head priest who leads them through the rites of full citizenship. Isanusi also teaches them that it is right to speak for the nation provided communal good is Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story 87 resistance movement's present to their past, and their very remote past to their present, they teach their colleagues that the temporary end of antislavery battles and the commencement of a prolonged resistance to desert blight do not exhaust their experience of Anoa national history. The resistance cannot, the story's "de-structuration" implies, afford the pleasures of conventional syntax. The intricacies of the narrators' exact identities also reveal Armah's concern for protecting the integrity of his engaged historians and the effect of the history they construct. The narrators speak at different times as voices of the entire black people, authorized defenders of Anna's national integrity, and spokespersons for an ethnically pan- African, anticolonial guerrilla band. In the italicized prologue, the mys- terious narrators use first-person pronouns (we and our) sparingly in their oracular address. At the end of the syntactic prologue, the speak- ers begin to assume a voice that is representative of the entire Anna nation and, in one instance, the entire "black" people: "we life's people" and "we the black people" (9). Read closely, the final stanza, as it were, of the syntactic prologue pinpoints the identities of both the narrator(s) and the historical (primary) addressees. The first-person collective pro- noun, often overinterpreted as a simulated ancestral voice, reveals here a little piece of its particular identity as part of the group ensconced in a psychic and physical enclosure and burdened with an important com- munal secret: the remembrance of the Way. This same voice will later identify itself as belonging to the "children of our age" (76) who were tricked aboard a slave boat during the final rites of their conferment of full citizenship. The narrators' self-dissolution, which I think Armah appropriates from the Sahelian griot tradition,' serves a historiographic purpose that is far more important than that of mere textual intrigue. The feigned collective voice grounds the narrators' intent in the imper- sonal truths of the nation and its trustworthy ancestor, Anoa. The collective voice secures national symbolism for what is largely the autobiography of a very small group. The fundis'-storytellers'-gram- matical conflation of their temporal, national, and racial ancestry ad- vances the integrity of their peculiar historical and narrative methods. Composing a Nativist History: Anoa The fundis receive the facts of their story from Isanusi, the head priest who leads them through the rites of full citizenship. Isanusi also teaches them that it is right to speak for the nation provided communal good is Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story 87 resistance movement's present to their past, and their very remote past to their present, they teach their colleagues that the temporary end of antislavery battles and the commencement of a prolonged resistance to desert blight do not exhaust their experience of Anoa national history. The resistance cannot, the story's "de-structuration" implies, afford the pleasures of conventional syntax. The intricacies of the narrators' exact identities also reveal Armah's concern for protecting the integrity of his engaged historians and the effect of the history they construct. The narrators speak at different times as voices of the entire black people, authorized defenders of Anoa's national integrity, and spokespersons for an ethnically pan- African, anticolonial guerrilla band. In the italicized prologue, the mys- terious narrators use first-person pronouns (we and our) sparingly in their oracular address. At the end of the syntactic prologue, the speak- ers begin to assume a voice that is representative of the entire Anna nation and, in one instance, the entire "black" people: "we life's people" and "we the black people" (9). Read closely, the final stanza, as it were, of the syntactic prologue pinpoints the identities of both the narrator(s) and the historical (primary) addressees. The first-person collective pro- noun, often overinterpreted as a simulated ancestral voice, reveals here a little piece of its particular identity as part of the group ensconced in a psychic and physical enclosure and burdened with an important com- munal secret: the remembrance of the Way. This same voice will later identify itself as belonging to the "children of our age" (76) who were tricked aboard a slave boat during the final rites of their conferment of full citizenship. The narrators' self-dissolution, which I think Armah appropriates from the Sahelian griot tradition,' serves a historiographic purpose that is far more important than that of mere textual intrigue. The feigned collective voice grounds the narrators' intent in the imper- sonal truths of the nation and its trustworthy ancestor, Anoa. The collective voice secures national symbolism for what is largely the autobiography of a very small group. The fundis'--storytellers'-gram- matical conflation of their temporal, national, and racial ancestry ad- vances the integrity of their peculiar historical and narrative methods. Composing a Nativist History: Anoa The fundis receive the facts of their story from Isanusi, the head priest who leads them through the rites of full citizenship. Isanusi also teaches them that it is right to speak for the nation provided communal good is  88 Chapter 4 served] Isanusi is a primary source of both historical facts and a theors of historical narrative. But the narrators make only passing reference to those idle facts. The fundis recast the teaching they received from Isanusi as an "objective" background to the uplift theme of their own story. They concentrate on the linkage between their current dilemmas and Anoa's past. From Isanusi's teachings, the narrators come to know that they can establish significance for their travails by converting Anoa herself into their prehistoric national figure for eschatology, or, in the language of mystics, prophecy. They also use what Isanusi taught them about Anoa's benchmark of significance, the Way, to authenticate their understanding of the historical purpose of their group experience. In a cleverly designed series of cross-references, the narrators ensure that every utterance they make is believed to have been done on behalf of Anna (the nation and the prophet), Isanusi the patriotic knowledge giver, and the historical "children of our age." The thematic centrality of Anoa, Armah's first politically significant female character (Evans 19-22), is well known. She is clearly a mile- stone character who redeems the stereotypical women of Armah earlier novels. However, Anna's utmost significance lies in the narra- tors' use of her first prophecy as the foundation of the history they perform. On the fundis' lips, Anoa, like Mnemosyne, the Greek god- dess of memory and the mother of the muses, personifies the methods of archiving and retrieving uplifting nationalist thoughts. Beginning with her physique, the fundis describe her as if she were a compelling poem: "She was slender as a fale stalk, and suppler. From her forehead to her feet her body was of a deep, even blackness that could cause the chance looker to wonder how it was that even the surface of a person's skin could speak of depths. Her grace was easy in the dance" (1 Because Armah's self-conscious narrators make Anoa's initial per- formance the cultural antecedent of their own work, it is important that we understand the details of that "original" act. During the serene and plentiful regime of women that followed the men's querulous rule, fie prophetic voices warned against wasteful abundance, unreciprocated giving, and other indulgences of content. Of the five, three spoke before Anoa's birth and two during her childhood. None w as heeded. Their admonitions commanded little attention because the speeches lacked the rhetorical force that can move a people that were sery content. The warnings were made in "brief, uncomprehended, easily forgotten trag- ments" (12). When Anoa echoed their words many seasons later, she 88 Chapter 4 served.' Isanusi is a primary source of both historical facts and a theory of historical narrative. But the narrators make only passing reference to those idle facts. The fundis recast the teaching they received from Isanusi as an "objective" background to the uplift theme of their own story. They concentrate on the linkage between their current dilemmas and Anna's past. From Isanusi's teachings, the narrators come to know that they can establish significance for their travails by converting Anoa herself into their prehistoric national figure for eschatology, or, in the language of mystics, prophecy. They also use what Isanusi taught them about Anna's benchmark of significance, the Way, to authenticate their understanding of the historical purpose of their group experience. In a cleverly designed series of cross-references, the narrators ensure that every utterance they make is believed to have been done on behalf of Anoa (the nation and the prophet), Isanusi the patriotic knowledge giver, and the historical "children of our age." The thematic centrality of Anoa, Armah's first politically significant female character (Evans 19-22), is well known. She is clearly a mile- stone character who redeems the stereotypical women of Armah' earlier novels. However, Anoa's utmost significance lies in the narra- tors' use of her first prophecy as the foundation of the history they perform. On the fundis' lips, Anna, like Mnemosyne, the Greek god- dess of memory and the mother of the muses, personifies the methods of archiving and retrieving uplifting nationalist thoughts. Beginning with her physique, the fundis describe her as if she were a compelling poem: "She was slender as a fale stalk, and suppler. From her forehead to her feet her body was of a deep, even blackness that could cause the chance looker to wonder how it was that even the surface of a person's skin could speak of depths. Her grace was easv in the dance" (1ig. Because Armah's self-conscious narrators make Anoa's initial per- formance the cultural antecedent of their own work, it is important that we understand the details of that "original" act. During the serene and plentiful regime of women that followed the men's querulous rule, five prophetic voices warned against wasteful abundance, unreciprocated giving, and other indulgences of content. Of the five, three spoke before Anna's birth and two during her childhood. None was heeded. Their admonitions commanded little attention because the speeches lacked the rhetorical force that can move a people that were very content. The warnings were made in "brief, uncomprehended, easily forgotten trag- ments" (12). When Anna echoed their words many seasons later, she 88 Chapter 4 served.' Isanusi is a primary source of both historical facts and a theory of historical narrative. But the narrators make only passing reference to those idle facts. The fundis recast the teaching they received from Isanusi as an "objective" background to the uplift theme of their own story. They concentrate on the linkage between their current dilemmas and Anoa's past. From Isanusi's teachings, the narrators come to know that they can establish significance for their travails by converting Anoa herself into their prehistoric national figure for eschatology, or, in the language of mystics, prophecy. They also use w hat Isanusi taught them about Anoa's benchmark of significance, the Way, to authenticate their understanding of the historical purpose of their group experience. In a cleverly designed series of cross-references, the narrators ensure that every utterance they make is believed to have been done on behalf of Anna (the nation and the prophet), Isanusi the patriotic knowledge giver, and the historical "children of our age." The thematic centrality of Anna, Armah's first politically significant female character (Evans 19-22), is well known. She is clearly a mile- stone character who redeems the stereotypical women of Armah's earlier novels. However, Anna's utmost significance lies in the narra- tors' use of her first prophecy as the foundation of the history they perform. On the fundis' lips, Anna, like Mnemosyne, the Greek god- dess of memory and the mother of the muses, personifies the methods of archiving and retrieving uplifting nationalist thoughts. Beginning with her physique, the fundis describe her as if she were a compelling poem: "She was slender as a fale stalk, and suppler. From her forehead to her feet her body was of a deep, even blackness that could cause the chance looker to wonder how it was that even the surface of a person's skin could speak of depths. Her grace was easy in the dance" (1;. Because Armah's self-conscious narrators make Anoa's initial per- formance the cultural antecedent of their own work, it is important that we understand the details of that "original" act. During the serene and plentiful regime of women that followed the men's querulous rule, five prophetic voices warned against wasteful abundance, unreciprocated giving, and other indulgences of content. Of the five, three spoke before Anoa's birth and two during her childhood. None was heeded. Their admonitions commanded little attention because the speeches lacked the rhetorical force that can move a people that were very content. The warnings were made in "brief, uncomprehended, easily forgotten frag- ments" (12). When Anna echoed their words many seasons later, she  Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story 89 bore no significantly different message. But her "vision found sufficient stay" because "the sounds came clear, lasted for a repetition, and made error impossible" (13; emphasis added). According to the fundis, "all were astonished not by what she said alone but also by the way her utterance was made" (15). She spoke "exactly like the briefer three and the curt two before" her, but she revised their message with a compel- ling style ("greater frequency"). Anna's prophecies are in two opposed styles. One is high-strung and onomatopoeic-"a harassed voice shrieking itself to hoarseness"-as Anna foretells the impending misfortunes that will be caused by the neglect of a national ethos. She "uttered a terrifying catalogue of deaths- deaths of the body, deaths of the spirit; deaths of single, lost ones, deaths of groups snared in some killing pursuit" (15). Anna's screeches simulate the palpable violence of these deaths. Her ideophonic cries mimic the disasters she foretells. Her words command attention be- cause, as Isidore Okpewho says, they burn a permanent record into the people's memory (Myth 207). Anna further matches performance and subject matter when she predicts the resurgence of life that will succeed the horrible deaths. The historians remember that "from the same prophetic throat came the second voice. It was calmer, so calm it sounded to be talking not of matters of our life and death but of something like a change in the taste of the day's water, or of a slight variation noticed in the shape of grains of salt" (16). Being a figure of remembrance, Anoa could not "speak with the whole mouth." She only speaks in brief proverbial forms that recall and foretell the whole. Anoa knows that hers is an epoch of hedonistic abandon in which people understand only the present tense. She calls attention to this condition by phrasing her visions in three tenses. She summarizes the principles of the Way in the present tense, rebukes recent concupiscence in the past, and projects the future in imperatives. She says, "You have lost the way. You have forgotten the way of life, the living way. Your ears have stopped themselves to the voice of reciprocity" (16). She also warns the people that "the way is not the rule of men. The way is never women ruling men. The way is reciprocity." (17) Anna's contrasting tones reflect the productive clashes that the Way names. Her voice is shrill and calm, critical and complimentary, just as the Way teaches giving and taking, freedom and restraint. Anna does not recount the details of present amnesia but condenses its features into some maxims of the Way. She reminds the people of the corrective Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story 89 bore no significantly different message. But her "vision found sufficient stay" because "the sounds came clear, lasted for a repetition, and made error impossible" (13; emphasis added). According to the fundis, "all were astonished not by what she said alone but also by the way her utterance was made" (15). She spoke "exactly like the briefer three and the curt two before" her, but she revised their message with a compel- ling style ("greater frequency"). Anoa's prophecies are in two opposed styles. One is high-strung and onomatopoeic-"a harassed voice shrieking itself to hoarseness"-as Anoa foretells the impending misfortunes that will be caused by the neglect of a national ethos. She "uttered a terrifying catalogue of deaths- deaths of the body, deaths of the spirit; deaths of single, lost ones, deaths of groups snared in some killing pursuit" (15). Anoa's screeches simulate the palpable violence of these deaths. Her ideophonic cries mimic the disasters she foretells. Her words command attention be- cause, as Isidore Okpewho says, they burn a permanent record into the people's memory (Myth 207). Anona further matches performance and subject matter when she predicts the resurgence of life that will succeed the horrible deaths. The historians remember that "from the same prophetic throat came the second voice. It was calmer, so calm it sounded to be talking not of matters of our life and death but of something like a change in the taste of the day's water, or of a slight variation noticed in the shape of grains of salt" (16). Being a figure of remembrance, Anoa could not "speak with the whole mouth." She only speaks in brief proverbial forms that recall and foretell the whole. Anoa knows that hers is an epoch of hedonistic abandon in which people understand only the present tense. She calls attention to this condition by phrasing her visions in three tenses. She summarizes the principles of the Way in the present tense, rebukes recent concupiscence in the past, and projects the future in imperatives. She says, "You have lost the way. You have forgotten the way of life, the living way. Your ears have stopped themselves to the voice of reciprocity" (16). She also warns the people that "the way is not the rule of men. The way is never women ruling men. The way is reciprocity." (17) Anoa's contrasting tones reflect the productive clashes that the Way names. Her voice is shrill and calm, critical and complimentary, just as the Way teaches giving and taking, freedom and restraint. Anoa does not recount the details of present amnesia but condenses its features into some maxims of the Way. She reminds the people of the corrective Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story 89 bore no significantly different message. But her "vision found sufficient stay" because "the sounds came clear, lasted for a repetition, and made error impossible" (13; emphasis added). According to the fundis, "all were astonished not by what she said alone but also by the way her utterance was made" (15). She spoke "exactly like the briefer three and the curt two before" her, but she revised their message with a compel- ling style ("greater frequency"). Anoa's prophecies are in two opposed styles. One is high-strung and onomatopoeic-"a harassed voice shrieking itself to hoarseness"-as Anna foretells the impending misfortunes that will be caused by the neglect of a national ethos. She "uttered a terrifying catalogue of deaths- deaths of the body, deaths of the spirit; deaths of single, lost ones, deaths of groups snared in some killing pursuit" (15). Anna's screeches simulate the palpable violence of these deaths. Her ideophonic cries mimic the disasters she foretells. Her words command attention be- cause, as Isidore Okpewho says, they burn a permanent record into the people's memory (Myth 207). Anna further matches performance and subject matter when she predicts the resurgence of life that will succeed the horrible deaths. The historians remember that "from the same prophetic throat came the second voice. It was calmer, so calm it sounded to be talking not of matters of our life and death but of something like a change in the taste of the day's water, or of a slight variation noticed in the shape of grains of salt" (16). Being a figure of remembrance, Anoa could not "speak with the whole mouth." She only speaks in brief proverbial forms that recall and foretell the whole. Anna knows that hers is an epoch of hedonistic abandon in which people understand only the present tense. She calls attention to this condition by phrasing her visions in three tenses. She summarizes the principles of the Way in the present tense, rebukes recent concupiscence in the past, and projects the future in imperatives. She says, "You have lost the way. You have forgotten the way of life, the living way. Your ears have stopped themselves to the voice of reciprocity" (16). She also warns the people that "the way is not the rule of men. The way is never women ruling men. The way is reciprocity." (17) Anoa's contrasting tones reflect the productive clashes that the Way names. Her voice is shrill and calm, critical and complimentary, just as the Way teaches giving and taking, freedom and restraint. Anoa does not recount the details of present amnesia but condenses its features into some maxims of the Way. She reminds the people of the corrective  90 Chapter 4 potentials of the way instead of condemning particulars. She sass the present abandon results from a willedforgetfulness. If the memory gap is corrected, the Way will retake its governing pedestal. But that will not happen in a millennium: "You too will know the temptation to become takers. Some among you will succeed too well . . . all of son, sour children, their children, their children after them and generation after them again and again will be victims till the way is found again, till the return to our way, the way" (18). Anoa's anonymous second-person pronoun (you) refers to the entire polity. Then in the very last phrase, she changes the pronoun into the first-person possessive plural, includ- ing herself among the people of the Way, and talks of "our way, the way." The prophet thus returns to her specific humanity. The fundis' representation of Anoa's prophecy and the portrayal of their own story as a fulfillment of an important part of that prediction suggest a sophisticated sense of history. Anna gives them the intellec- tual and narrative tools to sort events and assign importance to them, to gauge the truth of events, and also to reconstruct their usefulness for the present. I think that the fundis' use of Anna suggests they know that significant anticolonial history is not a mere accumulation of one ethnographic fact after another but a coherent filtering and sequencing of evidence. The self-aware historians tell their immediate auditors that Anoa is not an absolute origin, for hers is not the first speech. She only amplifies an existing text. Anoa is not history; she is not the mother of the nation. She is, using writing to mean readable iteration, the first remarkable writer. Convincing histories, contemporary narrative theory teaches, de- rive their impact from how well they mesh "historical" events and significant narrative points. Competent historical accounts forge nar- rative meaning for important thematic events and build their truth claims on convincing homologies between narrative svntax and the order of events. Without the willed convergence of evidence and matching narrative syntax no readable history exists: Armah's histo- rians display a keen awareness of these facts in their simulated public performance when they offer their own biography as the fulfillment of a nationalist teleology. The narrators reached maturity during the long-predicted European incursion into Anna and were sold into slavery during their initiation rites. That singular event motivated them to fight for their individual lives and also to begin a landmark liberation struggle. The narrators weave the events into a historical 90 Chapter 4 potentials of the way instead of condemning particulars. She says the present abandon results from a willedforgetfulness. If the memory gap is corrected, the Way will retake its governing pedestal. But that will not happen in a millennium: "You too will know the temptation to become takers. Some among you will succeed too well . . . all of you, your children, their children, their children after them and generation after them again and again will be victims till the way is found again, till the return to our way, the way" (18). Anoa's anonymous second-person pronoun (you) refers to the entire polity. Then in the very last phrase, she changes the pronoun into the first-person possessive plural, includ- ing herself among the people of the Way, and talks of "our wtay, the way." The prophet thus returns to her specific humanity. The fundis' representation of Anna's prophecy and the portrayal of their own story as a fulfillment of an important part of that prediction suggest a sophisticated sense of history. Anoa gives them the intellec- tual and narrative tools to sort events and assign importance to them, to gauge the truth of events, and also to reconstruct their usefulness for the present. I think that the fundis' use of Anna suggests they knots that significant anticolonial history is not a mere accumulation of one ethnographic fact after another but a coherent filtering and sequencing of evidence. The self-aware historians tell their immediate auditors that Anoa is not an absolute origin, for hers is not the first speech. She only amplifies an existing text. Anoa is not history; she is not the mother of the nation. She is, using writing to mean readable iteration, the first remarkable writer. Convincing histories, contemporary narrative theory teaches, de- rive their impact from how well they mesh "historical" events and significant narrative points. Competent historical accounts forge nar- rative meaning for important thematic events and build their truth claims on convincing homologies between narrative syntax and the order of events. Without the willed convergence of evidence and matching narrative syntax no readable history exists. Armah's histo- rians display a keen awareness of these facts in their simulated public performance when they offer their own biography as the fulfillment of a nationalist teleology. The narrators reached maturity during the long-predicted European incursion into Anoa and were sold into slavery during their initiation rites. That singular event motivated them to fight for their individual lives and also to begin a landmark liberation struggle. The narrators weave the events into a historical 90 Chapter 4 potentials of the way instead of condemning particulars. She says the present abandon results from a willedforgetfulness. If the memory gap is corrected, the Way will retake its governing pedestal. But that will not happen in a millennium: "You too will know the temptation to become takers. Some among you will succeed too well . . . all of sou, sour children, their children, their children after them and generation after them again and again will be victims till the way is found again, till the return to our way, the way" (18). Anoa's anonymous second-person pronoun (you) refers to the entire polity. Then in the very last phrase, she changes the pronoun into the first-person possessive plural, includ- ing herself among the people of the Way, and talks of "our way, the way." The prophet thus returns to her specific humanity. The fundis' representation of Anoa's prophecy and the portrayal of their own story as a fulfillment of an important part of that prediction suggest a sophisticated sense of history. Anoa gives them the intellec- tual and narrative tools to sort events and assign importance to them, to gauge the truth of events, and also to reconstruct their usefulness for the present. I think that the fundis' use of Anoa suggests they know that significant anticolonial history is not a mere accumulation of one ethnographic fact after another but a coherent filtering and sequencing of evidence. The self-aware historians tell their immediate auditors that Anoa is not an absolute origin, for hers is not the first speech. She only amplifies an existing text. Anoa is not history; she is not the mother of the nation. She is, using writing to mean readable iteration, the first remarkable writer. Convincing histories, contemporary narrative theory teaches, de- rive their impact from how well they mesh "historical" events and significant narrative points. Competent historical accounts forge nar- rative meaning for important thematic events and build their truth claims on convincing homologies between narrative syntax and the order of events. Without the willed convergence of evidence and matching narrative syntax no readable history exists.' Armah's histo- rians display a keen awareness of these facts in their simulated public performance when they offer their own biography as the fulfillment of a nationalist teleology. The narrators reached maturity during the long-predicted European incursion into Anoa and were sold into slavery during their initiation rites. That singular event motivated them to fight for their individual lives and also to begin a landmark liberation struggle. The narrators weave the events into a historical  Nothing Is Which I acks a Story 91 necessity. They discover in their violent initiation into citizenship the fulfillment of prophecy for their muse of history (Anoa), a maturation of voice, and the beginning of a long battle for national reconstruc- tion. Eschatology (prophecy), biography, and history converge in their account. Armah's historians ensure, as de Man says of all genetic descriptions, that their "narrative articulations become themselves important thematic categories and the genetic moments are presented as cosmic catastrophes or divine interventions" (Allegories 84). Their primary evidence (their political odyssey) is unimpeachable because they experience it; their historiography-Linda Hutcheon calls it the imaginative reconstruction of evidence-is sound because it is founded on Anoa's poetics. The Way to a Native Measure of Historical Significance The narrators do not state explicitly that their knowledge of Anoan national migrations and Anoa's prophecies come from their initiation rites. They are not liars. That fact will be picked up easily by an atten- tive reader. The important issue for criticism is that the narrators know that concealment is necessary for their history. They know that if they are to produce a credible story in which the narrative turns justify evidence and vice versa, they must assume a structural viewpoint that is outside of ordinary events. So, in the name of Anoa (the nation and the muse), the narrators give memorable names to their characters (including members of their own group), disregard realistic time frames, give graphic reports of acts of resistance, and hurry over less spectacu- lar events. To enhance memory, and facilitate recollection, the fundis refashion their knowledge of "predestructive" times and personages as either precedent-conscientious promotion of the Way or illustrations of its despicable perversion. Anoa's Way is the narrators' measure of truth, and the one stan- dard-"one cause all else are branches" (16)-with which they assess all historically beneficent acts. According to the fundis' interpretation of Anoa's formulation, that ideologeme supplants class struggle, pa- triotism, market forces, dialectics, and other history-generating themes. The Way enables them to sort, analyze, and allocate significance to events. The Way authorizes them to elide, transform, and accentuate events that exemplify their theme. For the sake of the Way, Armah's narrators justify political partisanship by invoking memory loss and using degrading euphemisms. Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story 91 necessity. They discover in their violent initiation into citizenship the fulfillment of prophecy for their muse of history (Anoa), a maturation of voice, and the beginning of a long battle for national reconstruc- tion. Eschatology (prophecy), biography, and history converge in their account. Armah's historians ensure, as de Man says of all genetic descriptions, that their "narrative articulations become themselves important thematic categories and the genetic moments are presented as cosmic catastrophes or divine interventions" (Allegories 84). Their primary evidence (their political odyssey) is unimpeachable because they experience it; their historiography-Linda Hutcheon calls it the imaginative reconstruction of evidence-is sound because it is founded on Anoa's poetics. The Way to a Native Measure of Historical Significance The narrators do not state explicitly that their knowledge of Anoan national migrations and Anoa's prophecies come from their initiation rites. They are not liars. That fact will be picked up easily by an atten- tive reader. The important issue for criticism is that the narrators know that concealment is necessary for their history. They know that if they are to produce a credible story in which the narrative turns justify evidence and vice versa, they must assume a structural viewpoint that is outside of ordinary events. So, in the name of Anoa (the nation and the muse), the narrators give memorable names to their characters (including members of their own group), disregard realistic time frames, give graphic reports of acts of resistance, and hurry over less spectacu- lar events. To enhance memory, and facilitate recollection, the fundis refashion their knowledge of "predestructive" times and personages as either precedent-conscientious promotion of the Way or illustrations of its despicable perversion. Anoa's Way is the narrators' measure of truth, and the one stan- dard-"one cause all else are branches" (16)-with which they assess all historically beneficent acts. According to the fundis' interpretation of Anoa's formulation, that ideologeme supplants class struggle, pa- triotism, market forces, dialectics, and other history-generating themes. The Way enables them to sort, analyze, and allocate significance to events. The Way authorizes them to elide, transform, and accentuate events that exemplify their theme. For the sake of the Way, Armah's narrators justify political partisanship by invoking memory loss and using degrading euphemisms. Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story 91 necessity. They discover in their violent initiation into citizenship the fulfillment of prophecy for their muse of history (Anoa), a maturation of voice, and the beginning of a long battle for national reconstruc- tion. Eschatology (prophecy), biography, and history converge in their account. Armah's historians ensure, as de Man says of all genetic descriptions, that their "narrative articulations become themselves important thematic categories and the genetic moments are presented as cosmic catastrophes or divine interventions" (Allegories 84). Their primary evidence (their political odyssey) is unimpeachable because they experience it; their historiography-Linda Hutcheon calls it the imaginative reconstruction of evidence-is sound because it is founded on Anoa's poetics. The Way to a Native Measure of Historical Significance The narrators do not state explicitly that their knowledge of Anoan national migrations and Anoa's prophecies come from their initiation rites. They are not liars. That fact will be picked up easily by an atten- tive reader. The important issue for criticism is that the narrators know that concealment is necessary for their history. They know that if they are to produce a credible story in which the narrative turns justify evidence and vice versa, they must assume a structural viewpoint that is outside of ordinary events. So, in the name of Anoa (the nation and the muse), the narrators give memorable names to their characters (including members of their own group), disregard realistic time frames, give graphic reports of acts of resistance, and hurry over less spectacu- lar events. To enhance memory, and facilitate recollection, the fundis refashion their knowledge of "predestructive" times and personages as either precedent-conscientious promotion of the Way or illustrations of its despicable perversion. Anoa's Way is the narrators' measure of truth, and the one stan- dard-"one cause all else are branches" (16)-with which they assess all historically beneficent acts. According to the fundis' interpretation of Anoa's formulation, that ideologeme supplants class struggle, pa- triotism, market forces, dialectics, and other history-generating themes. The Way enables them to sort, analyze, and allocate significance to events. The Way authorizes them to elide, transform, and accentuate events that exemplify their theme. For the sake of the Way, Armah's narrators justify political partisanship by invoking memory loss and using degrading euphemisms.  92 Chapter 4 The Way, contrary to traditional ideological reading, is not a uto- pian political philosophy testable in praxis. It is a localist trope of history or, in other words, a nativist formula (proverb) for detecting historical significance. The Way also signifies more than the tropological reversal implied in Sekyi-Otu's statement that "the narrators' program- matic call to 'the remembrance of the Way' ... has no meaning other than that which is constituted by chiasmus as 'the eas of remem- brance'" (197). I think that the Way expresses more than playful self- reflexivity. The term founds the fundis' "rule" of responsibility. The fundis intend for it to be a crucial component of the substitutive axis of their "grammar" of history. The concept governs the order thes impose on the rise and fall of dynasties and the demarcation of historical periods. The fundis' naming and characterization methods, their un- flattering portraits of kings and chiefs, their methods of periodization, and their possessed millenarianism all assume meaning only in the restricted local contexts of the Way and Anoa. The Way, of course, is not a place-bound ideological proverb. It migrates with its pureyors across climactic and vegetational zones. The Anoans carried it with them from the original forest homeland to the new Anoa on the edges of the savanna. The rebellious youths took it aboard the slave ship and shared its subversive tenets with other nationalities when they were plotting their pan-African liberation. Clearly, the Way connotes more than its theme of the golden mean-"not merely taking, not merely offering" (17)-or "the balance of the yin and the yang," as Evans ha, argued (20). In order to ease the rigors of remembrance, Armah's historians di- vide Anoa's past into periods, to which they give what I call anoanic names. There were the "prehistoric" and pregendered times of which no one-meaning literally the fundis and Isanusi-knew any definite facts. Historicizable periods began with the fratricidal men's rule that was quickly succeeded by the regime of women. Of the time still known as the time of men our knowledge is fragile. The time is bound in secrets... .Nothing good has come to us that first time. The remembrance is of a harsh time, horrid, filled with pains for which no rememberer found a reason, choked with the greed, the laziness, the contempt for justice of men glad to indulge themselves at the expense of their own people. The time's tale is of jealous, cowardly men determined to cling to 92 Chapter 4 The Way, contrary to traditional ideological reading, is not a uto- pian political philosophy testable in praxis. It is a localist trope of history or, in other words, a nativist formula (proverb) for detecting historical significance. The Way also signifies more than the tropological reversal implied in Sekyi-Otu's statement that "the narrators' program- matic call to 'the remembrance of the Way' . . . has no meaning other than that which is constituted by chiasmus as 'the way of remem- brance"' (197). I think that the Way expresses more than playful self- reflexivity. The term founds the fundis' "rule" of responsibility. The fundis intend for it to be a crucial component of the substitutive axis of their "grammar" of history. The concept governs the order they impose on the rise and fall of dynasties and the demarcation of historical periods. The fundis' naming and characterization methods, their un- flattering portraits of kings and chiefs, their methods of periodization, and their possessed millenarianism all assume meaning only in the restricted local contexts of the Way and Anna. The Way, of course, is not a place-bound ideological proverb. It migrates with its purveyors across climactic and vegetational zones. The Anoans carried it with them from the original forest homeland to the new Anna on the edges of the savanna. The rebellious youths took it aboard the slave ship and shared its subversive tenets with other nationalities when they were plotting their pan-African liberation. Clearly, the Way connotes more than its theme of the golden mean-"not merely taking, not merely offering" (17)-or "the balance of the yin and the yang," as Evans ha, argued (20). In order to ease the rigors of remembrance, Armah's historians di- vide Anoa's past into periods, to which they give what I call anoanic names. There were the "prehistoric" and pregendered times of which no one-meaning literally the fundis and Isanusi-knew any definite facts. Historicizable periods began with the fratricidal men's rule that was quickly succeeded by the regime of women. Of the time still known as the time of men our knowledge is fragile. The time is bound in secrets. ... Nothing good has come to us that first time. The remembrance is of a harsh time, horrid, filled with pains for which no rememberer found a reason, choked with the greed, the laziness, the contempt for justice of men glad to indulge themselves at the expense of their own people. The time's tale is of jealous, cowardly men determined to cling to 92 Chapter 4 The Way, contrary to traditional ideological reading' is not a uto- pian political philosophy testable in praxis. It is a localist trope of history or, in other words, a nativist formula (proverb) for detecting historical significance. The Way also signifies more than the tropological reversal implied in Sekyi-Otu's statement that "the narrators' program- matic call to 'the remembrance of the Way' .. . has no meaning other than that which is constituted by chiasmus as 'the way of remem- brance"' (197). I think that the Way expresses more than playful self- reflexivity. The term founds the fundis' "rule" of responsibility. The fundis intend for it to be a crucial component of the substitutive axis of their "grammar" of history. The concept governs the order they impose on the rise and fall of dynasties and the demarcation of historical periods. The fundis' naming and characterization methods, their un- flattering portraits of kings and chiefs, their methods of periodization, and their possessed millenarianism all assume meaning only in the restricted local contexts of the Way and Anoa. The Way, of course, is not a place-bound ideological proverb. It migrates with its pursey ors across climactic and vegetational zones. The Anoans carried it with them from the original forest homeland to the new Anoa on the edges of the savanna. The rebellious youths took it aboard the slave ship and shared its subversive tenets with other nationalities when they were plotting their pan-African liberation. Clearly, the Way connotes more than its theme of the golden mean-"not merely taking, not merely offering" (17)-or "the balance of the yin and the yang," as Evans ha. argued (20). In order to ease the rigors of remembrance, Armah's historians di- vide Anoa's past into periods, to which they give what I call anoanic names. There were the "prehistoric" and pregendered times of which no one-meaning literally the fundis and Isanusi-knew any definite facts. Historicizable periods began with the fratricidal men's rule that was quickly succeeded by the regime of women. Of the time still known as the time of men our knowledge is fragile. The time is bound in secrets.... Nothing good has come to us that first time. The remembrance is of a harsh time, horrid, filled with pains for which no rememberer found a reason, choked with the greed, the laziness, the contempt for justice of men glad to indulge themselves at the expense of their own people. The time's tale is of jealous, cowardly men determined to cling to  Nothing Is Which lacks a Story 93 power, and the result of that determination: the slaughter of hon- est people, the banishment of honest words, the raising of flattery and lies into the authorized currency of the time, the reduction of public life to an unctuous interaction. (9) The narrators say that "no rememberer found a reason" for the men's self-defeating clashes, because the details of the bloody feuds will not serve the Way. The gifted storytellers do, however, recall the emascu- lating consequences of the fights. "The slaughter of honest people, the banishment of honest words" are specific perversions of the Way and are a direct fulfillment of Anna's prophecy. The narrators, we must note, pride themselves on not glorifying gore for its sake: "It is not things we praise in our utterance, not arms we praise but the living relationship itself of those united in the use of all things against the white sway of death, for creation's life" (205). Desert "Predators" swept away the prosperous regime of the women. The "Destroyers" from the ocean came later, sacked the Predators, and conquered Anoa Both conquering groups invented and exploited their native clones-the Askaris and the "Ostentatious Cripples"-for carry- ing out unmentionable devastation. The memory-enhancing names, which are reflective of dynastic misdeeds, memorialize the accuracy of Anna's prophecies of vast destruction. The Predators and the Destroy- ers are, for citizens knowledgeable in Anoa's past, not historical sur- prises. Their completion of the devastation started by the fratricidal men is historically necessary. The fundis name the aliens iconically in order for their compatriots to recognize the Cripples and their manipu- lators as perversions of Anna's Way. Anna's signature influence is particularly clear in the fundis' recol- lection of the Predators' conquest of the women's regime. The Preda- tors overran Anoa with subterfuge-"Haggard they came, betrayed and lonely in their hunger of soul and body" (19)-and studied its defenses from within. This successful reconnaissance facilitated the easy route that followed: "Thirty days of unrelenting massacre brought them the fruit they sought: the power of new masters over their hosts" (19). The fundis treat this military annihilation with scorn. Because they do not want to praise the military genius of the desecrators of the Way, the fundis hurry through the Predators' effective maneuvers. In three short paragraphs, the frundis deride the Predators' reconnaissance and surprise attack as a power-driven venture. They discredit the Preda- Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story 93 power, and the result of that determination: the slaughter of hon- est people, the banishment of honest words, the raising of flattery and lies into the authorized currency of the time, the reduction of public life to an unctuous interaction. (9) The narrators say that "no rememberer found a reason" for the men's self-defeating clashes, because the details of the bloody feuds will not serve the Way. The gifted storytellers do, however, recall the emascu- lating consequences of the fights. "The slaughter of honest people, the banishment of honest words" are specific perversions of the Way and are a direct fulfillment of Anoa's prophecy. The narrators, we must note, pride themselves on not glorifying gore for its sake: "It is not things we praise in our utterance, not arms we praise but the living relationship itself of those united in the use of all things against the white sway of death, for creation's life" (205). Desert "Predators" swept away the prosperous regime of the women. The "Destroyers" from the ocean came later, sacked the Predators, and conquered Anoa." Both conquering groups invented and exploited their native clones-the Askaris and the "Ostentatious Cripples"-for carry- ing out unmentionable devastation. The memory-enhancing names, which are reflective of dynastic misdeeds, memorialize the accuracy of Anoa's prophecies of vast destruction. The Predators and the Destroy- ers are, for citizens knowledgeable in Anoa's past, not historical sur- prises. Their completion of the devastation started by the fratricidal men is historically necessary. The fundis name the aliens iconically in order for their compatriots to recognize the Cripples and their manipu- lators as perversions of Anoa's Way. Anoa's signature influence is particularly clear in the fundis' recol- lection of the Predators' conquest of the women's regime. The Preda- tors overran Anoa with subterfuge-"Haggard they came, betrayed and lonely in their hunger of soul and body" (19)-and studied its defenses from within. This successful reconnaissance facilitated the easy route that followed: "Thirty days of unrelenting massacre brought them the fruit they sought: the power of new masters over their hosts" (19). The fundis treat this military annihilation with scorn. Because they do not want to praise the military genius of the desecrators of the Way, the fundis hurry through the Predators' effective maneuvers. In three short paragraphs, the fundis deride the Predators' reconnaissance and surprise attack as a power-driven venture. They discredit the Preda- Nothing is Which Lacks a Stoy 93 power, and the result of that determination: the slaughter of hon- est people, the banishment of honest words, the raising of flattery and lies into the authorized currency of the time, the reduction of public life to an unctuous interaction. (9) The narrators say that "no rememberer found a reason" for the men's self-defeating clashes, because the details of the bloody feuds will not serve the Way. The gifted storytellers do, however, recall the emascu- lating consequences of the fights. "The slaughter of honest people, the banishment of honest words" are specific perversions of the Way and are a direct fulfillment of Anna's prophecy. The narrators, we must note, pride themselves on not glorifying gore for its sake: "It is not things we praise in our utterance, not arms we praise but the living relationship itself of those united in the use of all things against the white sway of death, for creation's life" (205). Desert "Predators" swept away the prosperous regime of the women. The "Destroyers" from the ocean came later, sacked the Predators, and conquered Anoa. Both conquering groups invented and exploited their native clones-the Askaris and the "Ostentatious Cripples"-for carry- ing out unmentionable devastation. The memory-enhancing names, which are reflective of dynastic misdeeds, memorialize the accuracy of Anna's prophecies of vast destruction. The Predators and the Destroy- ers are, for citizens knowledgeable in Anoa's past, not historical sur- prises. Their completion of the devastation started by the fratricidal men is historically necessary. The fundis name the aliens iconically in order for their compatriots to recognize the Cripples and their manipu- lators as perversions of Anoa's Way. Anoa's signature influence is particularly clear in the fundis' recol- lection of the Predators' conquest of the women's regime. The Preda- tors overran Anoa with subterfuge-"Haggard they came, betrayed and lonely in their hunger of soul and body" (19)-and studied its defenses from within. This successful reconnaissance facilitated the easy route that followed: "Thirty days of unrelenting massacre brought them the fruit they sought: the power of new masters over their hosts" (19). The fundis treat this military annihilation with scorn. Because they do not want to praise the military genius of the desecrators of the Way, the fundis hurry through the Predators' effective maneuvers. In three short paragraphs, the fundis deride the Predators' reconnaissance and surprise attack as a power-driven venture. They discredit the Preda-  94 Chapter4 tors' military accomplishments and rationalize Anna's (the nation's) destruction with Anna's (the prophet's) forethought. Anona, they say, has taught the people to attack only in self-defense, and the Predators overran the country easily only because Annans had thought that their own governing principles were universally ethical. The Predators, ac- cording to the fundis, exploited a military and political credo--the proverbial African hospitality-long practiced in Anoa. Instead of criti- cizing a national flaw, the narrators refashion the conquest as a part of the unmitigated perversion of the Way foretold by Anna. They also attribute the defeat to an inevitable lack of vigilance which Anoa had predicted will prevail when the nation abandons the War. The partisan report of the Predators' victory begs for comparison with another military campaign. This time, the Anna insurgents are the attackers, and the Destroyers' slave barracoon at Poano, the Stone Place, is the target. For the offensive, the first large-scale battle for the restoration of the Way, the guerrilla band sent three spies to study the defenses at the slave depot. The fundis panegyrized to the fullest extent the discreetness of the spies, who for fifteen days-exactly half the time the desert Predators took to study Anoa-gathered information about the operations of the Stone Place. Armed with the spies' discoveries, thirty guerrillas accompanied Isanusi on the inside attack on the castle. The surprise charge worked perfectly; the narrators commented that after the first few shots were fired, "What followed was most surpris- ing in its ease. We had expected the Destroyers and their askaris, defenders of the Stone Place, to make immensely difficult the capture of the place" (165). The startled Destroyers and their minions were thor- oughly routed, and the fundis seized a large supply of ammunition. The fundis spread their remembrance of the battle at Poano over ten pages of gory killings that are rivaled only by their recall of the women's destruction of the Predators in earlier times. The two military cam- paigns are portrayed so differently because they serve antithetical pur- poses for the Way: one begins its destruction and the other starts its restoration. It is therefore fitting that they both be given ideological slant in direct proportion to how each serves positive ends in Anoa's prophecy. One other revealing instance of the narrators' grounding of their methods and intent in nationalist beliefs occurs in the fundis' account of the mass purging of suspected saboteurs during Anoa's national migration away from the Ostentatious Cripples: "The selfish we eased 94 Chapter 4 tors' military accomplishments and rationalize Anoa's (the nation's) destruction with Anoa's (the prophet's) forethought. Anoa, they say, has taught the people to attack only in self-defense, and the Predators overran the country easily only because Anoans had thought that their own governing principles were universally ethical. The Predators, ac- cording to the fundis, exploited a military and political credo-the proverbial African hospitality-long practiced in Anna. Instead of criti- cizing a national flaw, the narrators refashion the conquest as a part of the unmitigated perversion of the Way foretold by Anna. They also attribute the defeat to an inevitable lack of vigilance which Anoa had predicted will prevail when the nation abandons the Wat. The partisan report of the Predators' victory begs for comparison with another military campaign. This time, the Anoa insurgents are the attackers, and the Destroyers' slave barracoon at Poano, the Stone Place, is the target. For the offensive, the first large-scale battle for the restoration of the Way, the guerrilla band sent three spies to study the defenses at the slave depot. The fundis panegyrized to the fullest extent the discreetness of the spies, who for fifteen days-exactly half the time the desert Predators took to study Anoa-gathered information about the operations of the Stone Place. Armed with the spies' discoveries, thirty guerrillas accompanied Isanusi on the inside attack on the castle. The surprise charge worked perfectly; the narrators commented that after the first few shots were fired, "What followed was most surpris- ing in its ease. We had expected the Destropers and their askaris, defenders of the Stone Place, to make immensely difficult the capture of the place" (165). The startled Destroyers and their minions is ere thor- oughly routed, and the fundis seized a large supply of ammunition. The fundis spread their remembrance of the battle at Poano over ten pages of gory killings that are rivaled only by their recall of the women's destruction of the Predators in earlier times. The two military cam- paigns are portrayed so differently because they serve antithetical pur- poses for the Way: one begins its destruction and the other starts its restoration. It is therefore fitting that they both be given ideological slant in direct proportion to how each serves positive ends in Anoa's prophecy. One other revealing instance of the narrators' grounding of their methods and intent in nationalist beliefs occurs in the fundis' account of the mass purging of suspected saboteurs during Anona's national migration away from the Ostentatious Cripples: "The selfish ire eased 94 Chapter4 tors' military accomplishments and rationalize Anoa's (the nation's) destruction with Anna's (the prophet's) forethought. Anoa, they say, has taught the people to attack only in self-defense, and the Predators overran the country easily only because Anoans had thought that their own governing principles were universally ethical. The Predators, ac- cording to the fundis, exploited a military and political credo-the proverbial African hospitality-long practiced in Anoa. Instead of criti- cizing a national flaw, the narrators refashion the conquest as a part of the unmitigated perversion of the Way foretold by Anoa. They also attribute the defeat to an inevitable lack of vigilance which Anoa had predicted will prevail when the nation abandons the Way. The partisan report of the Predators' victory begs for comparison with another military campaign. This time, the Anoa insurgents are the attackers, and the Destroyers' slave barracoon at Poano, the Stone Place, is the target. For the offensive, the first large-scale battle for the restoration of the Way, the guerrilla band sent three spies to study the defenses at the slave depot. The fundis panegyrized to the fullest extent the discreetness of the spies, who for fifteen days-exactly half the time the desert Predators took to study Anoa-gathered information about the operations of the Stone Place. Armed with the spies' discoveries, thirty guerrillas accompanied Isanusi on the inside attack on the castle. The surprise charge worked perfectly; the narrators commented that after the first few shots were fired, "What followed was most surpris- ing in its ease. We had expected the Destroyers and their askaris, defenders of the Stone Place, to make immensely difficult the capture of the place" (165). The startled Destroyers and their minions sere thor- oughly routed, and the fundis seized a large supply of ammunition. The fundis spread their remembrance of the battle at Poano over ten pages of gory killings that are rivaled only by their recall of the women's destruction of the Predators in earlier times. The two military cam- paigns are portrayed so differently because they serve antithetical pur- poses for the Way: one begins its destruction and the other starts its restoration. It is therefore fitting that they both be given ideological slant in direct proportion to how each serves positive ends in Anoa's prophecy. One other revealing instance of the narrators' grounding of their methods and intent in nationalist beliefs occurs in the fundis' account of the mass purging of suspected saboteurs during Anna's national migration away from the Ostentatious Cripples: "The selfish we eased  Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story 95 from our midst. We curbed the impetuous among us who wanted- following the too generous, unthoughtful prompting of their hearts- to set themselves impossible tasks at work and in saving grains" (41). "Ease" and "curb" are seemingly inoffensive maneuvers against some enthusiastic violators of the Way. The euphemisms conceal the political exclusion and ostracism of undesirables, for which their mortal en- emies, the Cripples and the Askaris, are notorious. Political exclusion is justified here only because the ideological goal of its perpetrators serves national interests. Without the Way and Anoa's authority, characterization in Two Thousand Seasons amounts to little more than unabashed name-calling. But because Anoa's originary acts underwrite the entire performance, the derogatory names given to Arabs, Europeans, and African aggres- sors and their aides are fitting and proper. The fundis do not allot virtues and vices along racial lines but in proportion to each individual's or group's contribution to the fulfillment of Anoa's prophecy. To the narrators, virtues and vices are not functions of biology-e.g., race and family-but of ideological convergence. Fidelity to the Way governs all social rules. Characters on and of the Way, whether or not they are Anoans (and many Anoans are not of the Way), receive positive por- traiture. Those against the Way receive Anoa's curse and the verbal scourge of her disciples. The Way is the proverbial yardstick for judg- ing "historical," nationally significant characters. The Predators and the Destroyers are reviled not principally for their racial and geo- graphical stock but because they desecrate the Way. The Koranche line descended ideologically, if not biologically, from the Cripples. The Ostentatious Cripples (Bokassa, Togbui, Senho), the Predators (Hassan, Faisal, and Mohammed), and the horde of rabid Destroyers and their helpers (Kamuzu, Bradford George) all bear names which, to use Okpewho's words, "invite uneasy connections with contemporary lead- ers" (Myth 212). I think these names allude to recent ruling political giants only for contemporary readers who, in theory, were not envis- aged by Armah's narrators. The names, referring to those present dur- ing the early days of colonialism, were ordinary appellations in the novel's imagined narrative. For the fundis, the ethnicity of the names are far less significant than the deeds of the bearers. Acts associated with defenders of the Way are usually moderate and worthy of emulation. Their excesses are usually rationalized as neces- sary for restoration. Outside of Anoa's prophecy, the following de- Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story 95 from our midst. We curbed the impetuous among us who wanted- following the too generous, unthoughtful prompting of their hearts- to set themselves impossible tasks at work and in saving grains" (41). "Ease" and "curb" are seemingly inoffensive maneuvers against some enthusiastic violators of the Way. The euphemisms conceal the political exclusion and ostracism of undesirables, for which their mortal en- emies, the Cripples and the Askaris, are notorious. Political exclusion is justified here only because the ideological goal of its perpetrators serves national interests. Without the Way and Anoa's authority, characterization in Two Thousand Seasons amounts to little more than unabashed name-calling. But because Anna's originary acts underwrite the entire performance, the derogatory names given to Arabs, Europeans, and African aggres- sors and their aides are fitting and proper. The fundis do not allot virtues and vices along racial lines but in proportion to each individual's or group's contribution to the fulfillment of Anoa's prophecy. To the narrators, virtues and vices are not functions of biology-e.g., race and family-but of ideological convergence. Fidelity to the Way governs all social rules. Characters on and of the Way, whether or not they are Anoans (and many Anoans are not of the Way), receive positive por- traiture. Those against the Way receive Anna's curse and the verbal scourge of her disciples. The Way is the proverbial yardstick for judg- ing "historical," nationally significant characters. The Predators and the Destroyers are reviled not principally for their racial and geo- graphical stock but because they desecrate the Way. The Koranche line descended ideologically, if not biologically, from the Cripples. The Ostentatious Cripples (Bokassa, Togbui, Senho), the Predators (Hassan, Faisal, and Mohammed), and the horde of rabid Destroyers and their helpers (Kamuzu, Bradford George) all bear names which, to use Okpewho's words, "invite uneasy connections with contemporary lead- ers" (Myth 212)' 1 think these names allude to recent ruling political giants only for contemporary readers who, in theory, were not envis- aged by Armah's narrators. The names, referring to those present dur- ing the early days of colonialism, were ordinary appellations in the novel's imagined narrative. For the fundis, the ethnicity of the names are far less significant than the deeds of the bearers. Acts associated with defenders of the Way are usually moderate and worthy of emulation. Their excesses are usually rationalized as neces- sary for restoration. Outside of Anoa's prophecy, the following de- Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story 95 from our midst. We curbed the impetuous among us who wanted- following the too generous, unthoughtful prompting of their hearts- to set themselves impossible tasks at work and in saving grains" (41). "Ease" and "curb" are seemingly inoffensive maneuvers against some enthusiastic violators of the Way. The euphemisms conceal the political exclusion and ostracism of undesirables, for which their mortal en- emies, the Cripples and the Askaris, are notorious. Political exclusion is justified here only because the ideological goal of its perpetrators serves national interests. Without the Way and Anoa's authority, characterization in Two Thousand Seasons amounts to little more than unabashed name-calling. But because Anna's originary acts underwrite the entire performance, the derogatory names given to Arabs, Europeans, and African aggres- sors and their aides are fitting and proper. The fundis do not allot virtues and vices along racial lines but in proportion to each individual's or group's contribution to the fulfillment of Anoa's prophecy. To the narrators, virtues and vices are not functions of biology-e.g., race and family-but of ideological convergence. Fidelity to the Way governs all social rules. Characters on and of the Way, whether or not they are Anoans (and many Anoans are not of the Way), receive positive por- traiture. Those against the Way receive Anna's curse and the verbal scourge of her disciples. The Way is the proverbial yardstick for judg- ing "historical," nationally significant characters. The Predators and the Destroyers are reviled not principally for their racial and geo- graphical stock but because they desecrate the Way. The Koranche line descended ideologically, if not biologically, from the Cripples. The Ostentatious Cripples (Bokassa, Togbui, Senho), the Predators (Hassan, Faisal, and Mohammed), and the horde of rabid Destroyers and their helpers (Kamuzu, Bradford George) all bear names which, to use Okpewho's words, "invite uneasy connections with contemporary lead- ers" (Myth 212)' 1 think these names allude to recent ruling political giants only for contemporary readers who, in theory, were not envis- aged by Armah's narrators. The names, referring to those present dur- ing the early days of colonialism, were ordinary appellations in the novel's imagined narrative. For the fundis, the ethnicity of the names are far less significant than the deeds of the bearers. Acts associated with defenders of the Way are usually moderate and worthy of emulation. Their excesses are usually rationalized as neces- sary for restoration. Outside of Anoa's prophecy, the following de-  96 Chapter 4 scription extracted from the story of the women's instructive mutiny against the Predators can be read as wanton violence: "This is how Hassan died: at the height of his oblivious joy a seventh woman un- known to him but known to the other six brought a horn holed at its small end as well as the large, and inserted the small end into the Arab's rectum. Hassan was overjoyed. . .. Hassan's unforeseen bene- factress poured an overflowing measure of the sweet liquid into his arse" (24). Soyinka, who is generally supportive of the novel, rebukes the excessively gory report. "There is a gleefulness, a reckless ascen- dancy of the vengeance motif in passages such as these" (\Ttt 111 The report that "Hassan's unforeseen benefactress poured an oer- flowing measure of the sweet liquid into his arse" is an 'a traceable to Ana's injunction for the merciless destruction of Destruc- tion. The "sweetness" of the burning liquid funneled into Hassan's rectum is meaningful only in partisan retrospection from the fighting women's perspective. The women's deeds exemplify the glories of the Way, and the fundis' glowing report serves the uplift theme. In contrast to the dominating ugly Predators, the Anna comen are beautiful and cunning. Whereas Hassan exudes excess, conscientious plotting directs the women. The women endure extraordinary pain and ultimate sado- masochism simply to rid the nation of the Predators' pathological extravagance. The fundis detail the carnage in order to show the Fifth Grove guerrillas a historical example of successful resistance. On the other side of the ideological divide, events associated with the Cripples, the Destroyers, and the Predators-gluttony, destruction, ugliness, etc.-are gratuitous and correctable only by radical measures. Their excesses monumentalize the terrors of conquest and the dangers of despair. For example, the fundis leave to imagination the Cripples" regular menu after acquainting the audience A ith their guards' fare: "a dozen dripping lambs freshly taken from their frying fat, spiced hollow yams, seven whole cows turned two days and nights over slow fires, with only the liver, heart, the kidneys, brains and thigh meat taken from each beast" (20). These dietary details do not whet appetite but conjure horrendous memories of perversions of the Way. After all is said about the fundis' narrative skill, one must stress their knowledge that theirs is just one version of events, accorded an intellec- tual and political superiority only on the strength of a thoroughgoing method of discovery. The fundis rate their account superior because Anoa, the national muse and the standard against which competing 96 Chapter 4 scription extracted from the story of the women's instructive mutiny against the Predators can be read as wanton violence: "This is how Hassan died: at the height of his oblivious joy a seventh woman u known to him but known to the other six brought a horn holed at its small end as well as the large, and inserted the small end into the Arab's rectum. Hassan was overjoyed.... Hassan's unforeseen bene- factress poured an overflowing measure of the sweet liquid into his arse" (24). Soyinka, who is generally supportive of the novel, rebukes the excessively gory report. "There is a gleefulness, a reckless ascen- dancy of the vengeance motif in passages such as these" (lIt 110'- The report that "Hassan's unforeseen benefactress poured an of er- flowing measure of the sweet liquid into his arse' is an te traceable to Anna's injunction for the merciless destruction of Destruc- tion. The "sweetness" of the burning liquid funneled into Hassan' rectum is meaningful only in partisan retrospection from the fighting women's perspective. The women's deeds exemplify the glories of the Way, and the fundis' glowing report serves the uplift theme. In contrast to the dominating ugly Predators, the Anoa women are beautiful and cunning. Whereas Hassan exudes excess, conscientious plotting directs the women. The women endure extraordinary pain and ultimate sado- masochism simply to rid the nation of the Predators' pathological extravagance. The fundis detail the carnage in order to show the Fifth Grove guerrillas a historical example of successful resistance. On the other side of the ideological divide, events associated cwith the Cripples, the Destroyers, and the Predators-gluttony, destruction, ugliness, etc.-are gratuitous and correctable only by radical measures. Their excesses monumentalize the terrors of conquest and the langers of despair. For example, the fundis leave to imagination the Cripples regular menu after acquainting the audience with their guards' fare: 'a dozen dripping lambs freshly taken from their frying fat, spiced hollow yams, seven whole cows turned two days and nights over slow fires, with only the liver, heart, the kidneys, brains and thigh meat taken from each beast" (20). These dietary details do not whet appetite but conjure horrendous memories of perversions of the Way. After all is said about the fundis' narrative skill, one must stress their knowledge that theirs is just one version of events, accorded an intellec- tual and political superiority only on the strength of a thoroughgoing method of discovery. The fundis rate their account superior because Anoa, the national muse and the standard against which competing 96 Chapter 4 scription extracted from the story of the women's instructive mutiny against the Predators can be read as wanton violence "This i how Hassan died: at the height of his oblivious joy a seventh w\oman un- known to him but known to the other six brought a horn holed at its small end as well as the large, and inserted the small end into the Arab's rectum. Hassan was overjoyed. .. . Hassan's unforeseen bene- factress poured an overflowing measure of the sweet liquid into his arse" (24). Soyinka, who is generally supportive of the novel, rebukes the excessively gory report. "There is a gleefulness, a reckless ascen- dancy of the vengeance motif in passages such as these" (I.uth 1 I The report that "Hassan's unforeseen benefactress poured an over- flowing measure of the sweet liquid into his arse" is an cs: : traceable to Anoa's injunction for the merciless destruction of Destruc- tion. The "sweetness" of the burning liquid funneled into Hassan's rectum is meaningful only in partisan retrospection from the fighting women's perspective. The women's deeds exemplify the glories of the Way, and the fundis' glowing report serves the uplift theme. In conrast to the dominating ugly Predators, the Anoa women are beautiful and cunning. Whereas Hassan exudes excess, conscientious plotting directs the women. The women endure extraordinary pain and ultimate sado- masochism simply to rid the nation of the Predators' pathological extravagance. The fundis detail the carnage in order to show the Fifth Grove guerrillas a historical example of successful resistance. On the other side of the ideological divide, events associated teith the Cripples, the Destroyers, and the Predators-gluttony, destruction, ugliness, etc.-are gratuitous and correctable only by radical measures. Their excesses monumentalize the terrors of conquest and the dangers of despair. For example, the fundis leave to imagination the Cripple regular menu after acquainting the audience with their guards' fare: "a dozen dripping lambs freshly taken from their frying fat, spiced hollow yams, seven whole cows turned two days and nights over slow fires, with only the liver, heart, the kidneys, brains and thigh meat taken from each beast" (20). These dietary details do not whet appetite but conjure horrendous memories of perversions of the Way. After all is said about the fundis' narrative skill, one must stres their knowledge that theirs is just one version of events, accorded an intellec- tual and political superiority only on the strength of a thoroughgoing method of discovery. The fundis rate their account superior because Anoa, the national muse and the standard against which competing  Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story 97 versions must rise or fall, inspires it. We can consider their rewriting of Anna social history shortly after the women's routing of the desert Predators. Then, rampant, murderous struggles for succession among the "caretakers" of state apparatus dominated the land and stalled economic activities. Different classes and social groups jostled for power and fabricated countless myths of legitimation to back up their claims to authority. Some stories were invented by those who escaped to the desert with the fleeing Predators and then returned to Anoa after they discovered that the desert people had no need for them but as slaves. The returnees, the "zombis," commissioned stories that gave "their particular enslavement a legendary glory" (27). The Cripples and the Askaris who hijacked power after the Predators left also invented fables of power and pomp. The disappointed Askaris cultivated secret wishes of destruction against us. These wishes they passed on to the first, the second and the third generation. Children walked among us believing secretly there had been an age of giants and doers of great deeds now gone, and that these doers of great deeds had been their fathers' fathers. They heard secret, nostalgic tales of a time when a brave man had no need to do the careful steady work of planting, watching, harvesting, but could in one sudden, brilliant flash of violent energy capture from others all the riches he craved, then like a python lie lazy through the length of coming seasons, consuming his victim's profit. (32) The power seekers knew that "the capture of the mind and the body both is a slavery far more lasting, far more secure than the conquest of bodies alone" (33). In a way, Two Thousand Seasons reads like the stories ordered by the Askaris and zombis in that it gives a glorious spin to a millennium of enslavement. But Armah's vigilant historians accuse those who commissioned the competing narratives of high treason. The sponsors of those other accounts are not followers of the Way articu- lated by Anoa. The accounts produced under their auspices cannot but be inauthentic. Armah and the Politics of Nativist Symbolism I do not wish for the preceding analysis to suggest that Armah's story is claustrophobic or narcissistic. Indeed, of all the much-discussed narra- tives of postindependence disillusionment and the succeeding combat- Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story 97 versions must rise or fall, inspires it. We can consider their rewriting of Anoa social history shortly after the women's routing of the desert Predators. Then, rampant, murderous struggles for succession among the "caretakers" of state apparatus dominated the land and stalled economic activities. Different classes and social groups jostled for power and fabricated countless myths of legitimation to back up their claims to authority. Some stories were invented by those who escaped to the desert with the fleeing Predators and then returned to Anna after they discovered that the desert people had no need for them but as slaves. The returnees, the "zombis," commissioned stories that gave "their particular enslavement a legendary glory" (27). The Cripples and the Askaris who hijacked power after the Predators left also invented fables of power and pomp. The disappointed Askaris cultivated secret wishes of destruction against us. These wishes they passed on to the first, the second and the third generation. Children walked among us believing secretly there had been an age of giants and doers of great deeds now gone, and that these doers of great deeds had been their fathers' fathers. They heard secret, nostalgic tales of a time when a brave man had no need to do the careful steady work of planting, watching, harvesting, but could in one sudden, brilliant flash of violent energy capture from others all the riches he craved, then like a python lie lazy through the length of coming seasons, consuming his victim's profit. (32) The power seekers knew that "the capture of the mind and the body both is a slavery far more lasting, far more secure than the conquest of bodies alone" (33). In a way, Two Thousand Seasons reads like the stories ordered by the Askaris and zombis in that it gives a glorious spin to a millennium of enslavement. But Armah's vigilant historians accuse those who commissioned the competing narratives of high treason. The sponsors of those other accounts are not followers of the Was articu- lated by Anoa. The accounts produced under their auspices cannot but be inauthentic. Armah and the Politics of Nativist Symbolism I do not wish for the preceding analysis to suggest that Armah's story is claustrophobic or narcissistic. Indeed, of all the much-discussed narra- tives of postindependence disillusionment and the succeeding combat- Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story 97 versions must rise or fall, inspires it. We can consider thenir rewriting of Anna social history shortly after the women's routing of the desert Predators. Then, rampant, murderous struggles for succession among the "caretakers" of state apparatus dominated the land and stalled economic activities. Different classes and social groups jostled for power and fabricated countless myths of legitimation to back up their claims to authority. Some stories were invented by those who escaped to the desert with the fleeing Predators and then returned to Anna after they discovered that the desert people had no need for them but as slaves. The returnees, the "zombis," commissioned stories that gave "their particular enslavement a legendary glory" (27). The Cripples and the Askaris who hijacked power after the Predators left also invented fables of power and pomp. The disappointed Askaris cultivated secret wishes of destruction against us. These wishes they passed on to the first, the second and the third generation. Children walked among us believing secretly there had been an age of giants and doers of great deeds now gone, and that these doers of great deeds had been their fathers' fathers. They heard secret, nostalgic tales of a time when a brave man had no need to do the careful steady work of planting, watching, harvesting, but could in one sudden, brilliant flash of violent energy capture from others all the riches he craved, then like a python lie lazy through the length of coming seasons, consuming his victim's profit. (32) The power seekers knew that "the capture of the mind and the body both is a slavery far more lasting, far more secure than the conquest of bodies alone" (33). In a way, Two Thousand Seasons reads like the stories ordered by the Askaris and zombis in that it gives a glorious spin to a millennium of enslavement. But Armah's vigilant historians accuse those who commissioned the competing narratives of high treason. The sponsors of those other accounts are not followers of the Way articu- lated by Anoa. The accounts produced under their auspices cannot but be inauthentic. Armah and the Politics of Nativist Symbolism I do not wish for the preceding analysis to suggest that Armah's story is claustrophobic or narcissistic. Indeed, of all the much-discussed narra- tives of postindependence disillusionment and the succeeding combat-  98 Chapter 4 ive writing, none other comments more openly than Two Thousand Seasons on the governing themes of that genre in African fiction. In general, those stories deal with the failures of European models of democratic governance, the unjust economic disenfranchisement in- herent in capitalism, and the personal foibles of the operators of state power. In the usually Fanonist discussions of that phase of African fiction, the stories of despair are theorized as preludes to materialist, less localist conceptions of society and culture. Two Thousand Seas-"n "awakens," as Fanon says the fighting phase of radical postcolonial culture will. But Armah chooses a nativist theme instead of a Marxist narrative. Instead of reposing hope in the inevitable collapse of capital- ist and neocolonialist domination, Armah focuses on the sufficiency of a native heroine, Anoa, as the emblem of self-restoration. Fanon predicts that in the post-despair phase of African cultural development the true artist will weld the "modern techniques" learned in the most famous (Western) schools to "the whole body of efforts made by a people in the sphere of thought to describe, justify, and praise the action through which that people has created itself and keeps itself in existence" (223). Two Thousand Seasons takes up the challenge almost literally. Armah invents the Way and a nationalist muse and narrates in a self-aware style to elaborate on Fanon's projected theme. To my mind, when the narrators ask in the prologue, "How have we come to be mirrors to annihilation? For whom do we aspire to reflect our people's death? For whose entertainment shall we sing our agony?' In what hopes? That the destroyers, aspiring to extinguish us will suffer conciliatory remorse at the sight out of their own fantastic success?" (xii), Armah queries, from a Fanonist viewpoint, the gloomy mimeticism dominant in postindependence anglophone African writing. The last question, I believe, rephrases Fanon's conjecture that "no colonial sys- tem draws its justification from the fact that the territories it dominates are culturally non-existent" (223). For the fundis and for Armah, debat- ing the methods of retrieving and comparing narratives of the past are in themselves a postindependence problematic. Several accounts of the past contest for attention, and each must be tested about its sponsors and the sources of its content and styles. Armah's subjects are ex-slaves who have just liberated themselves from a shipment to the New World. They long for their people and the past certainties they used to enjoy in their homelands. The entire "text" of Two Thousand Seasons, composed by the participant-historians, rails 98 Chapter 4 ive writing, none other comments more openly than Two Thousand Seasons on the governing themes of that genre in African fiction. In general, those stories deal with the failures of European models of democratic governance, the unjust economic disenfranchisement in- herent in capitalism, and the personal foibles of the operators of state power. In the usually Fanonist discussions of that phase of African fiction, the stories of despair are theorized as preludes to materialist, less localist conceptions of society and culture. Toe Thousand Season' "awakens," as Fanon says the fighting phase of radical postcolonial culture will. But Armah chooses a nativist theme instead of a Marxist narrative. Instead of reposing hope in the inevitable collapse of capital- ist and neocolonialist domination, Armah focuses on the sufficiency of a native heroine, Anna, as the emblem of self-restoration. Fanon predicts that in the post-despair phase of African cultural development the true artist will weld the "modern techniques" learned in the most famous (Western) schools to "the whole body of efforts made by a people in the sphere of thought to describe, justify, and praise the action through which that people has created itself and keeps itself in existence" (223). Two Thousand Seasons takes up the challenge almost literally. Armah invents the Way and a nationalist muse and narrates in a self-aware style to elaborate on Fanon's projected theme. To my mind, when the narrators ask in the prologue, "How have whe come to be mirrors to annihilation? For whom do we aspire to reflect our people's death? For whose entertainment shall we sing our agony? In what hopes? That the destroyers, aspiring to extinguish us will suffer conciliatory remorse at the sight out of their own fantastic success?" (xii), Armah queries, from a Fanonist viewpoint, the gloomy mimeticism dominant in postindependence anglophone African writing. The last question, I believe, rephrases Fanon's conjecture that "no colonial sys- tem draws its justification from the fact that the territories it dominates are culturally non-existent" (223). For the fundis and for Arsah, debat- ing the methods of retrieving and comparing narratives of the past are in themselves a postindependence problematic. Several accounts of the past contest for attention, and each must be tested about its sponsors and the sources of its content and styles. Armah's subjects are ex-slaves who have just liberated themselves from a shipment to the New World. They long for their people and the past certainties they used to enjoy in their homelands. The entire "text" of Two Thousand Seasons, composed by the participant-historians, rails 98 Chapter 4 ive writing, none other comments more openly than Two Thousand Seasons on the governing themes of that genre in African fiction. In general, those stories deal with the failures of European models of democratic governance, the unjust economic disenfranchisement in- herent in capitalism, and the personal foibles of the operators of state power. In the usually Fanonist discussions of that phase of African fiction, the stories of despair are theorized as preludes to materialist, less localist conceptions of society and culture. Two Thonsand Seasons "awakens," as Fanon says the fighting phase of radical postcolonial culture will. But Armah chooses a nativist theme instead of a Marxist narrative. Instead of reposing hope in the inevitable collapse of capital- ist and neocolonialist domination, Armah focuses on the sufficiency of a native heroine, Anna, as the emblem of self-restoration. Fanon predicts that in the post-despair phase of African cultural development the true artist will weld the "modern techniques" learned in the most famous (Western) schools to "the whole body of efforts made by a people in the sphere of thought to describe, justify, and praise the action through which that people has created itself and keeps itself in existence" (223). Two Thousand Seasons takes up the challenge almost literally. Armah invents the Way and a nationalist muse and narrates in a self-aware style to elaborate on Fanon's projected theme. To my mind, when the narrators ask in the prologue, "How have we come to be mirrors to annihilation? For whom do we aspire to reflect our people's death? For whose entertainment shall we sing our agony? In what hopes? That the destroyers, aspiring to extinguish us will suffer conciliatory remorse at the sight out of their own fantastic success?" (xii), Armah queries, from a Fanonist viewpoint, the gloomy mimeticism dominant in postindependence anglophone African writing. The last question, I believe, rephrases Fanon's conjecture that "no colonial sys- tem draws its justification from the fact that the territories it dominates are culturally non-existent" (223). For the fundis and for Armah, debat- ing the methods of retrieving and comparing narratives of the past are in themselves a postindependence problematic. Several accounts of the past contest for attention, and each must be tested about its sponsors and the sources of its content and styles. Armah's subjects are ex-slaves who have just liberated themselves from a shipment to the New World. They long for their people and the past certainties they used to enjoy in their homelands. The entire "text" of Two Thousand Seasons, composed by the participant-historians, rails  Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story 99 against such nostalgia. At the metahistorical level, the fundis' address to the despairing guerrillas-the entire novel, that is-is Armah's thinly disguised note to fellow producers of postindependence African cul- ture to begin a visionary examination of the past. The fundis could have borrowed the following words of Fanon to summarize their thematic preoccupation: "the poverty of the people, national op pression, and the inhibition of culture are one and the same thing."" Unlike his Marxist compatriots," Armah seeks no theoretical coher- ence in dialectical materialism. He, instead, dives into (meta)fictions of history for envisioning an escape out of the neocolonial morass. Two Thousand Seasons answers Fanon's call for the formation of truly liberat- ing nationalist cultures but does so in the nativist fashion Fanon detests. That said, it is significant that Armah's narrative deorganicizes nativism (and therefore criticizes Fanon) by showing us the composition pro- cesses of the fundis' version of Anna national history. In Armah's nativism, a nationalist account, whether idealist or materialist, cannot but be a construction and a privileging of one self-justifying perspec- tive among competing others. Anna and the Way embody that privi- leged perspective for Armah's revolutionrvnarrators. Anoa and the Way serve as the narrators' figures of engaged nativist history. Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story 99 against such nostalgia. At the metahistorical level, the fundis' address to the despairing guerrillas-the entire novel, that is-is Armab's thinly disguised note to fellow producers of postindependence African cul- ture to begin a visionary examination of the past. The fundis could have borrowed the following words of Fanon to summarize their thematic preoccupation: "the poverty of the people, national oppression, and the inhibition of culture are one and the same thing."" Unlike his Marxist compatriots," Armah seeks no theoretical coher- ence in dialectical materialism. bie, instead, dives into (meta)fictions of history for envisioning an escape out of the neocolonial morass. Two Thousand Seasons answers Fanon's call for the formation of truly liberat- ing nationalist cultures but does so in the nativist fashion Fanon detests. That said, it is significant that Armah's narrative deorganicizes nativism (and therefore criticizes Fanon) by showing us the composition pro- cesses of the fundis' version of Anoa national history. In Armah's nativism, a nationalist account, whether idealist or materialist, cannot but be a construction and a privileging of one self-justifying perspec- tive among competing others." Anona and the Way embody that privi- leged perspective for Armah's revolutionary narrators. Anoa and the Way serve as the narrators' figures of engaged nativist history. Nothing Is Which Lacks a Story 99 against such nostalgia. At the metahistorical level, the fundis' address to the despairing guerrillas-the entire novel, that is-is Armah's thinly disguised note to fellow producers of postindependence African cul- ture to begin a visionary examination of the past. The fundis could have borrowed the following words of Fanon to summarize their thematic preoccupation: "the poverty of the people, national oppression, and the inhibition of culture are one and the same thing."'' Unlike his Marxist compatriots," Armah seeks no theoretical coher- ence in dialectical materialism. He, instead, dives into (meta)fictions of history for envisioning an escape out of the neocolonial morass. Two Thousand Seasons answers Fanon's call for the formation of truly liberat- ing nationalist cultures but does so in the nativist fashion Fanon detests. That said, it is significant that Armah's narrative deorganicizes nativism (and therefore criticizes Fanon) by showing us the composition pro- cesses of the fundis' version of Anoa national history. In Armah's nativism, a nationalist account, whether idealist or materialist, cannot but be a construction and a privileging of one self-justifying perspec- tive among competing others." Anna and the Way embody that privi- leged perspective for Armah's revolutionary narrators. Anna and the Way serve as the narrators' figures of engaged nativist history.  5 5 All That We Do Today Is Narrative Tomorrow Picturing Reality in Ngdgi's Devil on the Cross If Achebe's Arrow of Cod narrates the character of the incessant conflicts between agents of motivation and of interpretation in what looks like a straightforward nativist writing; if Okediji's Rr/e Rdn, written in an indigenous language for understandable reasons, has to tuck overt political intent inside "mad" proverbs; if Armah's Tee, Thoi ad se e r sons narrates the story of the selection processes im-ohIed in riting motivated histories, Ngugi's Devil on the Cress attempts a practical demonstration of how to abrogate what classical nativism regards as the potential of self-conscious artistry to block clear communication. In this chapter, I examine the influence of the literalizing (making real) aesthetics that Ngugi participated in formulating at the famous Kamirilthu Community and Educational Center (KCEC) on the novelist's first post-Kamirith work, Devil o the Cross (1981). This novel occu- pies a special position among Ngugi's works because it is the first he wrote after he repudiated "Afro-English" culture, embraced linguistic nativism, and started to write in Gikdyd. Ngdgi's priority in figuration choices in the novel appears to be the exposition of the ruthlessness of the capitalist postindependence state in its most "literal" form. I anchor my critique of the literalizing aesthetics in this pioneer Gikdyd novel with the YorhbA proverb "Gbogbo ohun ti a ba se 16nit itan ni 161a" (All that we do today is narrative tomorrow). First, I describe how Ngdgi attempts to make the literal meaningful in itself. I then return to the All That We Do Today Is Narrative Tomorrow Picturing Reality in Ngugi's Devil on the Cross If Achebe's Arrow of God narrates the character of the incessant conflicts between agents of motivation and of interpretation in what looks like a straightforward nativist writing; if Ok6diji's R/r/ Rin, written in an indigenous language for understandable reasons, has to tuck overt political intent inside "mad" proverbs; if Armah's Tweo Thos,n Srea- sons narrates the story of the selection processes invol-ed in writing motivated histories, Ngdgi's Devil on the Cross attempts a practical demonstration of how to abrogate what classical nativism regards as the potential of self-conscious artistry to block clear communication. In this chapter, I examine the influence of the literalizing (making real) aesthetics that Ngbg participated in formulating at the famous Kamirithh Community and Educational Center (KCEC) on the novelist's first post-Kamirithu work, Devil on the Cross (1981). This norel occu- pies a special position among Ngdgi's works because it is the first he wrote after he repudiated "Afro-English" culture, embraced linguistic nativism, and started to write in Gikyd. Ngdgi's priority in figuration choices in the novel appears to be the exposition of the ruthlessness of the capitalist postindependence state in its most "literal" form. I anchor my critique of the literalizing aesthetics in this pioneer Gikuyu novel with the YorubA proverb "Gbogbo ohun ti a bd se 16ni itin ni 16la" (All that we do today is narrative tomorrow). First, I describe how Nggi attempts to make the literal meaningful in itself. I then return to the All That We Do Today Is Narrative Tomorrow Picturing Reality in Ngigi's Devil on the Cross If Achebe's Arrow of God narrates the character of the incessant conflicts between agents of motivation and of interpretation in what looks like a straightforward nativist writing; if Okddiji's Rer Rin, written in an indigenous language for understandable reasons, has to tuck overt political intent inside "mad" proverbs; if Armah's Tro Thousand 'es- sons narrates the story of the selection processes involved in writing motivated histories, Ngugi's Devil on the Cross attempts a practical demonstration of how to abrogate what classical nativism regards as the potential of self-conscious artistry to block clear communication. In this chapter, I examine the influence of the literaiing- (making real) aesthetics that Ngdgi participated in formulating at the famous Kamiriithf Community and Educational Center (KCEC) on the novelist's first post-Kamiriith work, Devil on the Cross (1981). This novel occu- pies a special position among Ngfgi's works because it is the first he wrote after he repudiated "Afro-English" culture, embraced linguistic nativism, and started to write in Gikuyd. Ngdgi's priority in figuration choices in the novel appears to be the exposition of the ruthlessness of the capitalist postindependence state in its most "literal" form. I anchor my critique of the literalizing aesthetics in this pioneer Gikuy' novel with the Yornbd proverb "Gbogbo ohun I a b se Ini itan ni 161a" (All that we do today is narrative tomorrow). First, I describe how Nggi attempts to make the literal meaningful in itself. I then return to the  All That We Do Today Is Narrative Tomorco 101 reading proverb to emphasize how Ngfgi's attempt ends up fore- grounding figuration. Truthful Storytelling The story of Devil on the Cross begins at the Extra-Mural Kamirntthu Community and Educational Center (KCEC), where Ngfgi and other collaborators from the University of Nairobi sought to develop con- sciousness-raising methods of articulating Kenyan culture and history. At the center, scholars found a great opportunity to blend new theories and praxes of material culture that are most useful for helping working peoples to cultivate class awareness. Under the center's self-manage- ment approach to community development, core theatrical produc- tions incorporated functional literacy themes, encouraged the acquisi- tion of marketable vocational skills, and emphasized a materialist interpretation of local history. Because the center wanted to reflect the aspirations, past struggles, and betrayals of its clients in all its activities, it encouraged peasants and workers, who were its actors, musicians, set designers, and costume makers, to fabricate props from the material pieces found in their environment. The moment adjacent communities began to inquire about replicating the KCEC strategies, the Kenyan national government became worried. It feared that the center's consis- tently self-reflective theater workshop was promoting subversion. The authorities attacked the KCEC first with regulatory heavy-handedness and then, finally, with crude coercion. The state also made a symbolic sacrifice of Ngugi, the center's most visible participant, and locked him up for a year. Through Nghgi's testimonies in fiction and cultural commentaries, Kamirlith has become the symbol of progressive grassroots mobiliza- tion and the prototype of emancipatory cooperation among working peoples. In its short life span, KCEC succeeded in linking representa- tive producers of "high" and "modern" culture and the producers of "native" and "traditional" African cultures. The collaboration benefited both the politically progressive, highly educated, but largely theoretical salariat, and the ill-schooled, underpaid peasants and factory workers. For African literature at large, KamiCiithI rekindled the intense discus- sions about nativizing the languages of African high culture fifteen years after the Wali controversy that began in neighboring Uganda. For Ngf g, Kamiriith catalyzed his conversion to an advocacy of the ideo- logical significance of the material language of writing. KamiriithIl All That We Do Today Is Narrative Tomorrow 101 reading proverb to emphasize how Ngfgi's attempt ends up fore- grounding figuration. Truthful Storytelling The story of Devil on the Cross begins at the Extra-Mural Kamirith Community and Educational Center (KCEC), where Ngfgi and other collaborators from the University of Nairobi sought to develop con- sciousness-raising methods of articulating Kenyan culture and history. At the center, scholars found a great opportunity to blend new theories and praxes of material culture that are most useful for helping working peoples to cultivate class awareness. Under the center's self-manage- ment approach to community development, core theatrical produc- tions incorporated functional literacy themes, encouraged the acquisi- tion of marketable vocational skills, and emphasized a materialist interpretation of local history. Because the center wanted to reflect the aspirations, past struggles, and betrayals of its clients in all its activities, it encouraged peasants and workers, who were its actors, musicians, set designers, and costume makers, to fabricate props from the material pieces found in their environment. The moment adjacent communities began to inquire about replicating the KCEC strategies, the Kenyan national government became worried. It feared that the center's consis- tently self-reflective theater workshop was promoting subversion. The authorities attacked the KCEC first with regulatory heavy-handedness and then, finally, with crude coercion. The state also made a symbolic sacrifice of Ngugi, the center's most visible participant, and locked him up for a year. Through Ngbgi's testimonies in fiction and cultural commentaries, KamirithI has become the symbol of progressive grassroots mobiliza- tion and the prototype of emancipatory cooperation among working peoples. In its short life span, KCEC succeeded in linking representa- tive producers of "high" and "modern" culture and the producers of "native" and "traditional" African cultures. The collaboration benefited both the politically progressive, highly educated, but largely theoretical salariat, and the ill-schooled, underpaid peasants and factory workers. For African literature at large, Kamirfithf rekindled the intense discus- sions about nativizing the languages of African high culture fifteen years after the Wali controversy that began in neighboring Uganda. For Ngugi, Kamirithd catalyzed his conversion to an advocacy of the ideo- logical significance of the material language of writing. Kamirlithu All That We Do Today Is Narrative tomorrow 101 reading proverb to emphasize how Nggi's attempt ends up fore- grounding figuration. Truthful Storytelling The story of Devil on the Cross begins at the Extra-Mural Kamiriith Community and Educational Center (KCEC), where Ngfgi and other collaborators from the University of Nairobi sought to develop con- sciousness-raising methods of articulating Kenyan culture and history. At the center, scholars found a great opportunity to blend new theories and praxes of material culture that are most useful for helping working peoples to cultivate class awareness. Under the center's self-manage- ment approach to community development, core theatrical produc- tions incorporated functional literacy themes, encouraged the acquisi- tion of marketable vocational skills, and emphasized a materialist interpretation of local history. Because the center wanted to reflect the aspirations, past struggles, and betrayals of its clients in all its activities, it encouraged peasants and workers, who were its actors, musicians, set designers, and costume makers, to fabricate props from the material pieces found in their environment. The moment adjacent communities began to inquire about replicating the KCEC strategies, the Kenyan national government became worried. It feared that the center's consis- tently self-reflective theater workshop was promoting subversion. The authorities attacked the KCEC first with regulatory heavy-handedness and then, finally, with crude coercion. The state also made a symbolic sacrifice of Ngfgi, the center's most visible participant, and locked him up for a yeart Through Ngfgi's testimonies in fiction and cultural commentaries, Kamirilth has become the symbol of progressive grassroots mobiliza- tion and the prototype of emancipatory cooperation among working peoples. In its short life span, KCEC succeeded in linking representa- tive producers of "high" and "modern" culture and the producers of "native" and "traditional" African cultures. The collaboration benefited both the politically progressive, highly educated, but largely theoretical salariat, and the ill-schooled, underpaid peasants and factory workers. For African literature at large, Kamiriith rekindled the intense discus- sions about nativizing the languages of African high culture fifteen years after the Walt controversy that began in neighboring Uganda. For Ngfgi, Kamlrflthf catalyzed his conversion to an advocacy of the ideo- logical significance of the material language of writing. Kamltha  102 Chapter 5 provoked him to begin a novel-writing tradition in Gikuy and prompted him to launch the cultivation of a Kikuyu critical metalanguage. Kamiriithu led to his articulation of the compatibility of nativist activ- ism and progressive materialist thinking. Out of the Kamiriithu experi- ence emerged Detained, Devil on the Cross, Alother. Sinf, o Ie and Matigari, all of which, except for the first, were written initially in Gikuyt. In Detained, his prison reflections on Kenyan history and the agonies of political incarceration, Nglgi explicitly connects the politics and aesthetics of Kamirithf to the writing of Devil on the Cross. He recalls in the book that a prison warder's oblique address on the character of the "organic intellectual" reaffirmed his deductions that the government destroyed Kamiriithu because it smelled danger in the center's meth- ods. The guard said, "The trouble with you educated people is that tou despise your languages. You don't like talking to ordinary people. But what use is your education if it cannot be shared Nith your own people? . .. You may possess all the book education in the world, but it's we, ordinary people in tattered clothes with bare feet and blistered hands, who have the real knowledge of things" (129; emphasis added). The warder's expression of the pedagogy (and possibly aesthetics) of "real knowledge" confirmed for Ngigi the correctness of the Kamiriithu philosophy of reencoding the material culture of the downtrodden with counterhegemonic themes. After listening to the warder's ad- dress, Ngfgi says, "I sit at the desk and start the story of Wariinga [Devil on the Cross] in the Gikuyu language" (130). Just as it was with Kamiriithu productions, Nghgi intended for the truth about Kenyan culture to dominate the narrative: I had also resolved not to make any concessions to language. I would not avoid any subject-science, technology, philosophy, religion, music, political economy-provided it logically arose out of the development of theme, character, plot, story, and world view. Further I would use any and everything I had ever learnt about the craft of fiction-allegory, parable, satire, narrative, de- scription, reminiscence, flash-back, interior monologue, stream of consciousness, dialogue, drama-provided it came naturally in the development of character, theme and story. But content-not language and technique-would determine the eventual form of the 102 Chapter 5 provoked him to begin a novel-writing tradition in Gikft y and prompted him to launch the cultivation of a Kikuyu critical metalanguage. Kamiriitht led to his articulation of the compatibility of nativist act-- ism and progressive materialist thinking. Out of the Kamiriithf experi- ence emerged Detained, Devil on the Cross, Mother. Sing for ie, and Matigari, all of which, except for the first, were wsritten initially in Gikuyu. In Detained, his prison reflections on Kenyan history and the agonies of political incarceration, Ngugi explicitly connects the politics and aesthetics of Kamiriithu to the writing of Devil on the Cross. He recalls in the book that a prison warder's oblique address on the character of the "organic intellectual" reaffirmed his deductions that the government destroyed Kamiriithu because it smelled danger in the center's meth- ods. The guard said, "The trouble with you educated people is that you despise your languages. You don't like talking to ordinary people. But what use is your education if it cannot be shared with your own people? ... You may possess all the book education in the world, but it's we, ordinary people in tattered clothes with bare feet and blistered hands, who have the real knowledge of things" (129; emphasis added). The warder's expression of the pedagogy (and possibly aesthetics) of "real knowledge" confirmed for Ngfgi the correctness of the Kamiriithu philosophy of reencoding the material culture of the dontrodden with counterhegemonic themes. After listening to the warder's ad- dress, Ngugi says, "I sit at the desk and start the story of Wsariinga [Devil on the Cross] in the Gikuyu language" (130). Just as it was with Kamiriithu productions, Ngugi intended for the truth about Kenyan culture to dominate the narrative: I had also resolved not to make any concessions to language. I would not avoid any subject-science, technology, philosophy, religion, music, political economy-provided it logically arose out of the development of theme, character, plot, story, and world view. Further I would use any and everything I had ever learnt about the craft of fiction-allegory, parable, satire, narrative, de- scription, reminiscence, flash-back, interior monologue, stream of consciousness, dialogue, drama-provided it came naturally in the development of character, theme and story. But content-not language and technique-would determine the eventual form of the t02 Chapter 5 provoked him to begin a novel-writing tradition in GikuyG and prompted him to launch the cultivation of a Kikuyu critical metalanguage.' Kamtrifith led to his articulation of the compatibility of nativist activ- ism and progressive materialist thinking. Out of the Kamiriithu experi- ence emerged Detained, Devil on the Cross, Mother, Sino 5r i and Matigari, all of which, except for the first, were written initially in Gikuyu. In Detained, his prison reflections on Kenyan history and the agonies of political incarceration, Ngbgi explicitly connects the politics and aesthetics of Kamiriithu to the writing of Devil on the Cross. He recalls in the book that a prison warder's oblique address on the character of the "organic intellectual" reaffirmed his deductions that the government destroyed Kamiriithi because it smelled danger in the center's meth- ods. The guard said, "The trouble with you educated people is that tou despise your languages. You don't like talking to ordinary people. But what use is your education if it cannot be shared with your own people? . .. You may possess all the book education in the world, but it's we, ordinary people in tattered clothes with bare feet and blistered hands, who have the real knowledge of things" (129; emphasis added). The warder's expression of the pedagogy (and possibly aesthetics) of "real knowledge" confirmed for Nggi the correctness of the Kamiriithu philosophy of reencoding the material culture of the dos ntrodden with counterhegemonic themes. After listening to the warder's ad- dress, Nghg says, "I sit at the desk and start the story of Wariinga [Devil on the Cross] in the Gikuyu language" (130). Just as it was with Kamiriithu productions, Ngigi intended for the truth about Kenvan culture to dominate the narrative: I had also resolved not to make any concessions to language. I would not avoid any subject-science, technology, philosophy, religion, music, political economy-provided it logically arose out of the development of theme, character, plot, story, and world view. Further I would use any and everything I had ever learnt about the craft of fiction-allegory, parable, satire, narrative, de- scription, reminiscence, flash-back, interior monologue, stream of consciousness, dialogue, drama-provided it came naturally in the development of character, theme and story. But content-not language and technique woruld determine the eventual form of the  All' hat We Do Today Is Narrative Tomorrow 103 novel. And the content? The Kenyan people's struggles against the neo- colonial form and stage of imperialism! (Detained 8; emphasis added) In this declaration, the obviously language-conscious novelist views self-conscious artistry as a barrier to efficient communication. He vows to relegate language because he wants to privilege the raw experience of the Kenyan people's struggles for economic emancipation. The listed styles suggest a singular desire for transparent communication. At first glance, the catalog looks like a mere listing that is reflective of the mind of a furious Ngugi, whose will to speak truthfully is being thwarted. A closer examination and a comparison with the narrative of Devil oii the Cross reveal that Ngfgi systematically applies all of the above to explore how representative members of the different classes in neocolonial Kenya comprehend their place in the class nexus. The story, woven out of the experiences of Wangari (a peasant woman who fought in the maumau), Wariinga (a younger woman trapped in the city), Mfturi (a fiery revolutionary labor activist), and Mwireri and Gatuiria (two bourgeois nationalist intellectuals), reports deadly con- flicts with real property speculators, smugglers, politicians, and their transnational collaborators. In order to tell the instructive stories of these characters in accor- dance with his declared intention of making meaning as apparent as possible, Ngugi invents a doubling method that de-emphasizes opaque symbolism. He imposes on every significant narrative event a self- conscious "literal" double, on every genre a self-aware user, and on every abstraction a clear practical origin. All of his major characters make efforts to ensure that their versions of events are not misinter- preted. The novel, as a result, consists of self-explaining multiple narra- tors, a collage of easily decipherable parables, and even a lengthy discussion on the political character of representation styles. The "dou- bling" method, which begins with the substantiation of the fiction in Devil on the Cross through the reality described in Detained, extends to an affirmation of the Prophet of Justice's vision within Wariinga's story and includes Waringa's confession that she is Kareendi. During her weekend of misfortune, which is the chronological cen- ter of Devil on the Cross, Wariinga, the character Ngfgi envisions as a symbol of popular Kenyan resistance to domination (Detained 11), loses her job for not allowing her employer to write letters on the insides of All That We Do Today Is Narrative Tomorrow 703 novel. And the content? The Kenyan people's struggles against the neo- colonial form and stage of imperialism! (Detained 8; emphasis added) In this declaration, the obviously language-conscious novelist views self-conscious artistry as a barrier to efficient communication. He vows to relegate language because he wants to privilege the raw experience of the Kenyan people's struggles for economic emancipation. The listed styles suggest a singular desire for transparent communication. At first glance, the catalog looks like a mere listing that is reflective of the mind of a furious Ngngi, whose will to speak truthfully is being thwarted. A closer examination and a comparison with the narrative of Devil on the Cross reveal that Ngfgi systematically applies all of the above to explore how representative members of the different classes in neocolonial Kenya comprehend their place in the class nexus. The story, woven out of the experiences of Wangari (a peasant woman who fought in the maumau), Waringa (a younger woman trapped in the city), Mituri (a fiery revolutionary labor activist), and Mwireri and Gatuiria (two bourgeois nationalist intellectuals), reports deadly con- flicts with real property speculators, smugglers, politicians, and their transnational collaborators. In order to tell the instructive stories of these characters in accor- dance with his declared intention of making meaning as apparent as possible, Ngfgi invents a doubling method that de-emphasizes opaque symbolism. He imposes on every significant narrative event a self- conscious "literal" double, on every genre a self-aware user, and on every abstraction a clear practical origin. All of his major characters make efforts to ensure that their versions of events are not misinter- preted. The novel, as a result, consists of self-explaining multiple narra- tors, a collage of easily decipherable parables, and even a lengthy discussion on the political character of representation styles. The "dou- bling" method, which begins with the substantiation of the fiction in Devil on the Cross through the reality described in Detained, extends to an affirmation of the Prophet of Justice's vision within Wariinga's story and includes Waringa's confession that she is Kareendi. During her weekend of misfortune, which is the chronological cen- ter of Devil on the Cross, Waringa, the character Ngfgi envisions as a symbol of popular Kenyan resistance to domination (Detained 11), loses her job for not allowing her employer to write letters on the insides of Alt That We Do Today Is Narrative Tomorrow 103 novel. And the content? The Kenyan people's struggles against the neo- colonialform and stage of imperialism! (Detained 8; emphasis added) In this declaration, the obviously language-conscious novelist views self-conscious artistry as a barrier to efficient communication. He vows to relegate language because he wants to privilege the raw experience of the Kenyan people's struggles for economic emancipation. The listed styles suggest a singular desire for transparent communication. At first glance, the catalog looks like a mere listing that is reflective of the mind of a furious Ngfgl, whose will to speak truthfully is being thwarted. A closer examination and a comparison with the narrative of Devil on the Cross reveal that Nghgi systematically applies all of the above to explore how representative members of the different classes in neocolonial Kenya comprehend their place in the class nexus. The story, woven out of the experiences of Wangari (a peasant woman who fought in the maumau), Warifnga (a younger woman trapped in the city), Mfturi (a fiery revolutionary labor activist), and Mwireri and Gatuiria (two bourgeois nationalist intellectuals), reports deadly con- flcts with real property speculators, smugglers, politicians, and their transnational collaborators. In order to tell the instructive stories of these characters in accor- dance with his declared intention of making meaning as apparent as possible, Ngugi invents a doubling method that de-emphasizes opaque symbolism. He imposes on every significant narrative event a self- conscious "literal" double, on every genre a self-aware user, and on every abstraction a clear practical origin. All of his major characters make efforts to ensure that their versions of events are not misinter- preted. The novel, as a result, consists of self-explaining multiple narra- tors, a collage of easily decipherable parables, and even a lengthy discussion on the political character of representation styles. The "dou- bling" method, which begins with the substantiation of the fiction in Devil on the Cross through the reality described in Detained, extends to an affirmation of the Prophet of Justice's vision within Warilnga's story and includes Wariinga's confession that she is Kareendi. During her weekend of misfortune, which is the chronological cen- ter of Devil on the Cross, Wariinga, the character Ngfgi envisions as a symbol of popular Kenyan resistance to domination (Detained 11), loses her job for not allowing her employer to write letters on the insides of  04 Chapter5 her thighs. Her boyfriend refuses to believe her account of why her boss sacked her, and her landlord ejects her from her tenement room because she cannot pay her rent. The perturbed Wariinga walks about the streets aimlessly until a young university student, who suspects in her the "trials of the heart," stops her and consoles her that her hisie alienation is typical of all citizens of countries that "have taken it upon themselves to learn how to run their economies from American es- perts" (15). To the earnest young man, Wariinga's psychological confu- sion signifies a national ideological directionlessness. He tells 1\ ariinga that Nairobi's soullessness is symbolic of a global condition: "The same is true of all the cities in every country that has recently slipped the noose of colonialism. These countries are finding it difficult to stae o ot poverty for the simple reason that they have taken it upon themselves to learn how to run their economies from American experts So they have been taught the principle and system of self-interest and h'ale been told to forget the ancient songs that glorify the notion of collective good" (15). Surprisingly, this condensation of political-economic theory draws a sympathetic response from a woman who had just been sub- jected to a sexist manhandling. Waringa says, "Your words have hi- den meaning; but what you say is true. These troubles have now passed beyond the limit of endurance. Who would not welcome change in order to escape them?" (16; emphasis added). The narrator marks the remoteness of the university student's lan- guage in his report of the effect of the words on Wariinga: she "did not understand all the things that were hinted at in the arcane lagra, of the young man" (16). With a folktale that allegorizes Wariinga's experi- ences, the narrator stops the young revolutionary's high theory from further translating Waringa's pain into a lifeless fragment of an inter- national capitalist tragedy. To redeem the Young man's dry theory. the narrator uses Waringa's tale of Kareendi, whose experience parallel- what Waringa has just suffered. She begins her tale of misfortunes with "take a girl like me ... Or take another girl in Nairobi. Let's call her Mahla Kareendi" (17). Several hours later, Waringa supplies the still more literal referents of her quasi-folk narrative. Today I've seen so many strange things that I now can't tell if I have been dreaming or if I've simply been ill and delirious. A man appeared to me in Nairobi at Kaka, near St. Peter's Clavers church. I was about to ... Let me say simply that I wasn't feeling 704 Chapters5 her thighs. Her boyfriend refuses to believe her account of why herr boss sacked her, and her landlord ejects her from her tenement room because she cannot pay her rent. The perturbed Warimnga walks about the streets aimlessly until a young university student, tho suspects in her the "trials of the heart," stops her and consoles her that her 'isible alienation is typical of all citizens of countries that "have taken it upon themselves to learn how to run their economies from American e- perts" (15). To the earnest young man, Wariinga's psychological confu- sion signifies a national ideological directionlessness. He tells \\ ar'inga that Nairobi's soullessness is symbolic of a global condition: "The same is true of all the cities in every country that has recently slipped the noose of colonialism. These countries are finding it difficult to stare outf poverty for the simple reason that they have taken it upon themse es to learn how to run their economies from American experts. So they have been taught the principle and system of self-interest and: have been told to forget the ancient songs that glorify the notion of collective good" (15). Surprisingly, this condensation of political-economic theo draws a sympathetic response from a woman who had just been sub- jected to a sexist manhandling. Warihnga says, "vour words have hid- den meaning; but what you say is true. These troubles have now passed beyond the limit of endurance. Who would not welcome change in order to escape them?" (16; emphasis added). The narrator marks the remoteness of the uriersity student's lan- guage in his report of the effect of the words on Waringa: she "did not understand all the things that were hinted at in the arcane language of the young man" (16). With a folktale that allegorizes Waringa's experi- ences, the narrator stops the young revolutionary's high theory from further translating Wariinga's pain into a lifeless fragment of an inter- national capitalist tragedy. To redeem the young man's des theory, the narrator uses Warfnga's tale of Kareendi, whose experience parallels what Warinnga has just suffered. She begins her tale of misfortunes with "take a girl like me ... Or take another girl in Nairobi. Let's call her Mahoa Kareendi" (17). Several hours later, Warnhnga supplies the still more literal referents of her quasi-folk narrative. Today I've seen so many strange things that I now can't tell if 1 have been dreaming or if I've simply been ill and delirious. A man appeared to me in Nairobi at Kaka, near St. Peter's Clavers church. I was about to .. Let me say simply that I wasn't feeling to4 Chapter 5 her thighs. Her boyfriend refuses to believe her account of rwy her boss sacked her, and her landlord ejects her from her tenement room because she cannot pay her rent. The perturbed Wari inga walk ahout the streets aimlessly until a young university student, tho suspects in her the "trials of the heart," stops her and consoles her that her sible alienation is typical of all citizens of countries that "have taken it upon themselves to learn how to run their economies from American e perts" (15). To the earnest young man, Wariinga's psychological confu- sion signifies a national ideological directionlessness. He tells Waringa that Nairobi's soullessness is symbolic of a global condition: "The same is true of all the cities in every country that has recently slipped the noose of colonialism. These countries are finding it difficult to stave off poverty for the simple reason that they have taken it upon them-e1% u to learn how to run their economies from American experts. So they have been taught the principle and system of self-interest and have been told to forget the ancient songs that glorify the notion of collective good" (15). Surprisingly, this condensation of political-economic theory draws a sympathetic response from a woman who had just been sub- jected to a sexist manhandling. Waringa says, "your words have hid- den meaning; but what you say is true. These troubles have now passed beyond the limit of endurance. Who would not welcome change in order to escape them?" (16; emphasis added). The narrator marks the remoteness of the university students lan- guage in his report of the effect of the words on Wariinga: she "did not understand all the things that were hinted at in the arcte lemgtiar e of the young man" (16). With a folktale that allegorizes Waringa's experi- ences, the narrator stops the young revolutionary's high theory trom further translating Wariinga's pain into a lifeless fragment of an inter- national capitalist tragedy. To redeem the young man's dry theot the narrator uses Wariinga's tale of Kareendi, whose experience parallels what Wariinga has just suffered. She begins her tale of misfortunes with "take a girl like me... Or take another girl in Nairobi. Let's call her Maha Kareendi" (17). Several hours later, Warfinga supplies the still more literal referents of her quasi-folk narrative. Today I've seen so many strange things that I now can't tell if I have been dreaming or if I've simply been ill and delirious. A man appeared to me in Nairobi at Kaka, near St. Peter's Clavers church. I was about to ... Let me say simply that I wasn't feeling  well in body or spirit. The man gave me back this very handbag. I had dropped it in River Road without knowing it. But his face, his eyes, his voice made me open my heart to him at once, and I told him all my problems, and by the time I had finished my story, I felt that my heart was lighter. (74) At this point, Boss Rihara and the other characters in W ariinga's tale do not merely symbolize aspects of Kenyan oppressive political economy, they also become her personal acquaintances. The Kareendi tale and its interpretation translate into an easily digestible form both Wariinga's "proverbial story" and the university student's far-fetched "prover- bial" theory. By making her own experiences both the content and the referent of her Kareendi tale, Waringa conserts both high political theory and folktale motifs into lived patterns. The theory and the folk narrative transfigure Waringa's literal "misfortunes" into aspects of a structural deficiency in postindependence Kenya: Wangari, the maumau veteran, is another of Nggi's agents of liter- alization. She is traveling to lmorog in the same van with Wariinga when, moved by the offer of the other passengers to pay her fare, she recounts how, while job hunting, she was arrested under colonial va- grancy regulations by the Nairobi police.' The arrest portends a tragic irony for Wangari, because she had decades earlier volunteered for the maumau anticolonial war, which was then envisioned as a struggle for freedom. Her semitragic autobiography contains three Wangaris: the young maumau volunteer, the job-seeking older woman, and the matatu rider. Each Wangari struggles hard to improve the life station of her successor. On every occasion, impersonal forces frustrate the efforts. The tiller/maumau volunteer was betrayed by post-Uhuru leaders who refused to tinker with inherited colonial economic orders. The political betrayal makes a job-seeking old woman out of her. The matats rider lends life to the tiller, the veteran, and the arrested heroine. Wangari the tiller gathers the betrayals of the downtrodden, and inside these betrayals the fate of Wangari the specific narrator takes on signifi- cance. Thus, the job-seeking maumau veteran's fate literalizes, in one more instance, the university student's too "arcane" story of post- independence tragedy. Indeed, another traveler, Mfuturi, nationalizes the autobiography: "Wangari, your story shows that this country, our country should have given birth to its offspring long ago" (46). The thieves' banquet at Ilmorog stages another forum for revealing well in body or spirit. The man gave me back this very handbag. I had dropped it in River Road without knowing it. But his face, his eyes, his voice made me open my heart to him at once, and I told him all my problems, and by the time I had finished my story, I felt that my heart was lighter. (74) At this point, Boss Kihara and the other characters in Warlinga's tale do not merely symbolize aspects of Kenyan oppressive political economy, they also become her personal acquaintances. The Kareendi tale and its interpretation translate into an easily digestible form both Wariinga's "proverbial story" and the university student's far-fetched "prover- bial" theory. By making her own experiences both the content and the referent of her Kareendi tale, Wartinga converts both high political theory and folktale motifs into lived patterns. The theory and the folk narrative transfigure Wariinga's literal "misfortunes" into aspects of a structural deficiency in postindependence Kenya. Wangari, the mausau veteran, is another of Nggi's agents of liter- alization. She is traveling to Ilmorog in the same van with Warlinga when, moved by the offer of the other passengers to pay her fare, she recounts how, while job hunting, she was arrested under colonial va- grancy regulations by the Nairobi police: The arrest portends a tragic irony for Wangari, because she had decades earlier volunteered for the maumau anticolonial war, which was then envisioned as a struggle for freedom. Her semitragic autobiography contains three Wangaris: the young maumau volunteer, the job-seeking older woman, and the matatu rider. Each Wangari struggles hard to improve the life station of her successor. On every occasion, impersonal forces frustrate the efforts. The tiller/maumau volunteer was betrayed by post-Uhuru leaders who refused to tinker with inherited colonial economic orders. The political betrayal makes a job-seeking old woman out of her. The matat rider lends life to the tiller, the veteran, and the arrested heroine. Wangari the tiller gathers the betrayals of the downtrodden, and inside these betrayals the fate of Wangari the specific narrator takes on signifi- cance. Thus, the job-seeking maumau veteran's fate literalizes, in one more instance, the university student's too "arcane" story of post- independence tragedy. Indeed, another traveler, Mtturi, nationalizes the autobiography: "Wangari, your story shows that this country, our country should have given birth to its offspring long ago" (46). The thieves' banquet at Ilmorog stages another forum for revealing well in body or spirit. The man gave me back this very handbag. I had dropped it in River Road without knowing it. But his face, his eyes, his voice made me open my heart to him at once, and I told him all my problems, and by the time I had finished my story, I felt that my heart was lighter. (74) At this point, Boss Mhara and the other characters in Warlinga's tale do not merely symbolize aspects of Kenyan oppressive political economy, they also become her personal acquaintances. The Kareendi tale and its interpretation translate into an easily digestible form both Wariinga's "proverbial story" and the university student's far-fetched "prover- bial" theory. By making her own experiences both the content and the referent of her Kareendi tale, Waringa converts both high political theory and folktale motifs into lived patterns. The theory and the folk narrative transfigure Wariinga's literal "misfortunes" into aspects of a structural deficiency in postindependence Kenya. Wangari, the maumau veteran, is another of Ngugi's agents of liter- alization. She is traveling to Ilmorog in the same van with Waringa when, moved by the offer of the other passengers to pay her fare, she recounts how, while job hunting, she was arrested under colonial va- grancy regulations by the Nairobi police.' The arrest portends a tragic irony for Wangari, because she had decades earlier volunteered for the maumau anticolonial war, which was then envisioned as a struggle for freedom. Her semitragic autobiography contains three Wangaris: the young maumau volunteer, the job-seeking older woman, and the matatn rider. Each Wangari struggles hard to improve the life station of her successor. On every occasion, impersonal forces frustrate the efforts. The tiller/maumau volunteer was betrayed by post-Uhuru leaders who refused to tinker with inherited colonial economic orders. The political betrayal makes a job-seeking old woman out of her. The matata rider lends life to the tiller, the veteran, and the arrested heroine. Wangari the tiller gathers the betrayals of the downtrodden, and inside these betrayals the fate of Wangari the specific narrator takes on signifi- cance. Thus, the job-seeking maumau veteran's fate literalizes, in one more instance, the university student's too "arcane" story of post- independence tragedy. Indeed, another traveler, Maturi, nationalizes the autobiography: "Wangari, your story shows that this country, our country should have given birth to its offspring long ago" (46). The thieves' banquet at Ilmorog stages another forum for revealing  106 Chapter 5 reflections on the literalizing poetics of the narrative work in Devil on the Cross. Several critics have remarked the centrality of that scene to Nghgi's thematic aim and have interpreted it as a savage satire of the shamelessness of the Kenyan ruling classes. Odun Balogun believes that the brash rogues are the contemptuous bourgeoisie-"Kensan capitalists still awaiting arrest, judgment and punishment" ("Ngugi's Devil on the Cross" 84). Bayo Ogunjimi praises the confessional dinner toasts as Ngfgi's assault on the exploitative alliance between local and transnational businesses. Both critics suggest that Nghgi refers to the businessmen's dinner as a gathering of thieves and robbers with the intention of revealing the "true" character of capitalist relations. Some passages in Detained offer important clues to the satirical con- ception of the banquet of the Ilmorog Chamber of Commerce and Industry in Devil on the Cross. In the preface to the prison memoirs, Nghgi speaks against those who reduce his criticisms of the Kenyan state to a distaste for the personal style of Mzee Kensatta himself: 'I have never tried to analyze the Kenyan situation in terms of morality of individuals and 'tribes,' as is the fashion in current scholarship. Capital- ism cannot be run on any basis other than theft and robbery and corruption" (xiv; emphasis added). He reiterates that summation in the section in which he discusses the trial of members of parliament jailed for coffee smuggling. Again, Ngf g rejects symbolic heroification or demonization and philosophizes on the jail terms for the lawmakers: "capitalism itself is a system ofunabashed theft and robbery. Thus theft, robbery, corruption can never be wrong under capitalism because they are inherent in it" (136; emphasis added). These passages provide keys to Ngfgi's literalization of the captains of industry and commerce in Devil on the Cross. The passages indicate that the novel's banquet scene is intended to betray the formalities with which predatory transformation of capitalism in Kenya is represented in conventional discourse. Going by the prison memoirs, the novel's portrayal of the self-possessed thieves, so confident of their skill and of the complacency of their victims, is intended to alleviate the numbness perpetuated by the deceitful names-developers, industrialists, busi- nessmen, etc.-that Kenyan comprador capitalists give themselves. By stylizing (which, ironically, is designed to be a literalization) capitalist business strategies as sheer roguery, Ngfgi takes away from the bour- geoisie the privilege of dictating political-economic terms: "profit," the novel says, is simple "theft." Nghgi, I think, intends for the "thieves" to 106 Chapter 5 reflections on the literalizing poetics of the narrative work in Deil on the Cross. Several critics have remarked the centrality of that scene to Ngbgi's thematic aim and have interpreted it as a savage satire of the shamelessness of the Kenyan ruling classes. Odun Balogun believes that the brash rogues are the contemptuous bourgeoisie-"Keny an capitalists still awaiting arrest, judgment and punishment" ("Ngugi's Devil on the Cross" 84). Bayo Ogunjimi praises the confessional dinner toasts as Ngugi's assault on the exploitative alliance between local and transnational businesses. Both critics suggest that Ngugi refers to the businessmen's dinner as a gathering of thieves and robbers with the intention of revealing the "true" character of capitalist relations. Some passages in Detained offer important clues to the satirical con- ception of the banquet of the Ilmorog Chamber of Commerce and Industry in Devil on the Cross. In the preface to the prison memoirs, Ngfgi speaks against those who reduce his criticisms of the Kenyan state to a distaste for the personal style of Mzee Kenyatta himself: "I have never tried to analyze the Kenyan situation in terms of moraitv of individuals and 'tribes,' as is the fashion in current scholarship. Capital- ism cannot be run on any basis other than theft and robbery and corruption" (xiv; emphasis added). He reiterates that summation in the section in which he discusses the trial of members of parliament jailed for coffee smuggling. Again, Ngugi rejects symbolic heroification or demonization and philosophizes on the jail terms for the lawmakers: "capitalism itseltf is a system of unabashed theft and robbery. Thus theft, robbery, corruption can never be wrong under capitalism because they are inherent in it" (136; emphasis added). These passages provide keys to Nghgi's literalization of the captains of industry and commerce in Devil on the Cross. The passages indicate that the novel's banquet scene is intended to betray the formalities with which predatory transformation of capitalism in Kenya is represented in conventional discourse. Going by the prison memoirs, the novel's portrayal of the self-possessed thieves, so confident of their skill and of the complacency of their victims, is intended to alleviate the numbness perpetuated by the deceitful names-developers, industrialists, busi- nessmen, etc. that Kenyan comprador capitalists give themselves. By stylizing (which, ironically, is designed to be a literalization) capitalist business strategies as sheer roguery, Ngfgi takes away from the bour- geoisie the privilege of dictating political-economic terms: "profit," the novel says, is simple "theft." Ngfgi, I think, intends for the "thieves" to 706 Chapter s reflections on the literalizing poetics of the narrative work in Devil on the Cross. Several critics have remarked the centrality of that scene to Nghgi's thematic aim and have interpreted it as a savage satire of the shamelessness of the Kenyan ruling classes. Odun Balogun believes that the brash rogues are the contemptuous bourgeoisie-"Ken an capitalists still awaiting arrest, judgment and punishment" ("Ngugi's Devil on the Cross" 84). Bayo Ogunjimi praises the confessional dinner toasts as Ngfgi's assault on the exploitative alliance between local and transnational businesses. Both critics suggest that Ngfgi refers to the businessmen's dinner as a gathering of thieves and robbers with the intention of revealing the "true" character of capitalist relations. Some passages in Detained offer important clues to the satirical con- ception of the banquet of the Ilmorog Chamber of Commerce and Industry in Devil on the Cross. In the preface to the prison memoirs, Nglgi speaks against those who reduce his criticisms of the Kenyan state to a distaste for the personal style of Mzee Kenyatta himself: "I have never tried to analyze the Kenyan situation in terms of morality of individuals and 'tribes/ as is the fashion in current scholarship. Capital- ism cannot be run on any basis other than theft and robbery and corruption" (xiv; emphasis added). He reiterates that summation in the section in which he discusses the trial of members of parliament jailed for coffee smuggling. Again, Ngugi rejects symbolic heroification or demonization and philosophizes on the jail terms for the lawmakers: "capitalism itselt is a system of unabashed theft and robbery. Thus theft, robbery, corruption can never be wrong under capitalism because they are inherent in it" (136; emphasis added). These passages provide keys to Ngugi's literalization of the captains of industry and commerce in Devil on the Cross. The passages indicate that the novel's banquet scene is intended to betray the formalities with which predatory transformation of capitalism in Kenya is represented in conventional discourse. Going by the prison memoirs, the novel's portrayal of the self-possessed thieves, so confident of their skill and of the complacency of their victims, is intended to alleviate the numbness perpetuated by the deceitful names-developers, industrialists, busi- nessmen, etc.-that Kenyan comprador capitalists give themselves. By stylizing (which, ironically, is designed to be a literalization) capitalist business strategies as sheer roguery, Nglgi takes away from the bour- geoisie the privilege of dictating political-economic terms: "profit," the novel says, is simple "theft." Ngfgi, I think, intends for the "thieves" to  All That We Do Today Is Narrative Tomorrow 107 mean what they say and, like a proverb, also say what they mean. The thieves' portrait is ironic or parabolic only in the sense that every representation is. Beyond that, reverting to the ostensibly "unrhetori- cal" and more literal language of sociology and political economy to decode the thieves' evil will amount to reinstituting the value-laden divisions of symbolism and reality that the novelist sets out to under- mine. Any derhetoricizing move that merely renames the revelers as ordinary businessmen can lead to an intellectual rehabilitation of roguery. The robbers' claim that "thieves are thieves" must be ac- cepted. They say what they mean and, I think, Ngdgi wants them to mean what they say. Ngfgi's unveiling of capitalism as literal roguery begins with his depiction of the adjudicating representatives of the International Orga- nization of Thieves and Robbers (IOTR) headquartered in New York. The IOTR delegation, the iconic jewel of the banquet scene staged to select the captain of Kenyan thieves, speaks for itself. The delegates' skins are red because they live on working peoples' blood. Their suits are made of the convertible national currencies of the country they represent: the leading delegate, who is from the United States, wears a jacket made of dollars, the British man's is made of pounds, the German's of deutsche marks, and the Japanese's of yen (91). The transparent representation of the delegates is best reflected in their headgear: "Each crown was decorated with seven metal objects shaped like horns, which gleamed so brightly that they almost blinded the eyes. All the crowns looked alike, but the leader's was a little larger than the others. The tips of the horns were twisted into the initial of the country that each delegate came from" (91). The devilish envoys are capitalist Antichrists. When the native robbers later take to the podium to proclaim their profit-making talents, they too carry their self-conscious grotesqueness with great pride as they try to match the emblems sent from New York. The local robbers boast with inspired frenzy. They extol real-estate speculation and political profiteering. They also praise criminal hoard- ing of consumer goods. The first-person accounts of their dastardly acts, which ordinarily would be confessional, give no hint of guilt' The series of narration and interpretation given by the Prophet of Justice, Warlinga, and Wangari and the literalness of the stylized rob- bers combine to fulfill Ngfgi's promise to unmask conventional forms of representing capitalism. The Prophet of Justice, who assembles the entire storytelling performance; Warimnga, whose plight provoked her All That We Do Today Is Narratave Tomorrow 107 mean what they say and, like a proverb, also say what they mean. The thieves' portrait is ironic or parabolic only in the sense that every representation is. Beyond that, reverting to the ostensibly "unrhetori- cal" and more literal language of sociology and political economy to decode the thieves' evil will amount to reinstituting the value-laden divisions of symbolism and reality that the novelist sets out to under- mine. Any derhetoricizing move that merely renames the revelers as ordinary businessmen can lead to an intellectual rehabilitation of roguery. The robbers' claim that "thieves are thieves" must be ac- cepted. They say what they mean and, I think, Nghgi wants them to mean what they say. Nghgi's unveiling of capitalism as literal roguery begins with his depiction of the adjudicating representatives of the International Orga- nization of Thieves and Robbers (lOTR) headquartered in New York. The IOTR delegation, the iconic jewel of the banquet scene staged to select the captain of Kenyan thieves, speaks for itself. The delegates' skins are red because they live on working peoples' blood. Their suits are made of the convertible national currencies of the country they represent: the leading delegate, who is from the United States, wears a jacket made of dollars, the British man's is made of pounds, the German's of deutsche marks, and the Japanese's of yen (91). The transparent representation of the delegates is best reflected in their headgear: "Each crown was decorated with seven metal objects shaped like horns, which gleamed so brightly that they almost blinded the eyes. All the crowns looked alike, but the leader's was a little larger than the others. The tips of the horns were twisted into the initial of the country that each delegate came from" (91). The devilish envoys are capitalist Antichrists. When the native robbers later take to the podium to proclaim their profit-making talents, they too carry their self-conscious grotesqueness with great pride as they try to match the emblems sent from New York. The local robbers boast with inspired frenzy. They extol real-estate speculation and political profiteering. They also praise criminal hoard- ing of consumer goods. The first-person accounts of their dastardly acts, which ordinarily would be confessional, give no hint of guilt' The series of narration and interpretation given by the Prophet of Justice, Waringa, and Wangari and the literalness of the stylized rob- bers combine to fulfill Nghgi's promise to unmask conventional forms of representing capitalism. The Prophet of Justice, who assembles the entire storytelling performance; Warunga, whose plight provoked her All That We Do Today Is Narrative Tomorrow 707 mean what they say and, like a proverb, also say what they mean. The thieves' portrait is ironic or parabolic only in the sense that every representation is. Beyond that, reverting to the ostensibly "unrhetori- cal" and more literal language of sociology and political economy to decode the thieves' evil will amount to reinstituting the value-laden divisions of symbolism and reality that the novelist sets out to under- mine. Any derhetoricizing move that merely renames the revelers as ordinary businessmen can lead to an intellectual rehabilitation of roguery. The robbers' claim that "thieves are thieves" must be ac- cepted. They say what they mean and, I think, Ngfgi wants them to mean what they say. Ngfgi's unveiling of capitalism as literal roguery begins with his depiction of the adjudicating representatives of the International Orga- nization of Thieves and Robbers (IOTR) headquartered in New York. The IOTR delegation, the iconic jewel of the banquet scene staged to select the captain of Kenyan thieves, speaks for itself. The delegates' skins are red because they live on working peoples' blood. Their suits are made of the convertible national currencies of the country they represent: the leading delegate, who is from the United States, wears a jacket made of dollars, the British man's is made of pounds, the German's of deutsche marks, and the Japanese's of yen (91). The transparent representation of the delegates is best reflected in their headgear: "Each crown was decorated with seven metal objects shaped like horns, which gleamed so brightly that they almost blinded the eyes. All the crowns looked alike, but the leader's was a little larger than the others. The tips of the horns were twisted into the initial of the country that each delegate came from" (91). The devilish envoys are capitalist Antichrists. When the native robbers later take to the podium to proclaim their profit-making talents, they too carry their self-conscious grotesqueness with great pride as they try to match the emblems sent from New York. The local robbers boast with inspired frenzy. They extol real-estate speculation and political profiteering. They also praise criminal hoard- ing of consumer goods. The first-person accounts of their dastardly acts, which ordinarily would be confessional, give no hint of guilt. The series of narration and interpretation given by the Prophet of Justice, Wariinga, and Wangari and the literalness of the stylized rob- bers combine to fulfill Nggi's promise to unmask conventional forms of representing capitalism. The Prophet of Justice, who assembles the entire storytelling performance; Warimnga, whose plight provoked her  108 Chapter5 mother to commission the prophet's tale; Wangari, whose sad autobi- ography gives depth to the duration of the events; and the boastful robbers all represent either in person or with responsible proxies, their experience of different aspects of Kenyan history. All of their accounts attest to the fundamental truth in the words of the unnamed university student. Nglgi organizes all of the characters' attempts at self-representation and self-validation with repetition, which is a primary narrative tech- nique in orature. All the agents of literalization discussed above de- ploy a structural repetition in which a story is told many times over (and in varied forms) for thematic reiteration. Wariiga sees the devil several times in her nightmares; all the travelers to Ilmorog receive forged cards in identical suspicious circumstances; and the Cicaandi Player recounts Wahringa's misfortune, already known to his charac- ters. Kareendi of the folktale duplicates Warisga; the W'aringa made up by the narrating Prophet resembles the Wariinga of Ilmorog and Nairobi, whose experience her mother sought to memorialize; and Wangari the tiller doubles Wangari the traveler. As if he were telling a folktale, Ngfgi presses cognitive goals upon repeated character types, persons, and events. In Devil on the Cross, the critique of capitalism takes on a nativist form. Truth Telling and Storytelling From the above, it appears Ngfgi's clarity design succeeds. In the remaining sections of this chapter, I want to focus on the theoretical implications of the novel's seemingly successful aesthetic of subordi- nating "language" to politically progressive activism. For that task, I am going to rely on the meaning of the metanarrative proverb in the title of this chapter: "All that we do today is narrative tomorrow,. I choose this conceptual ov erview-"Gbogbo ohun i a ba se laii, itan ni 16la"-from the Yoruba corpus of proverbs mainhl because it aptly summarizes the relationship between time and narrative, the displace- ment of "literal" events into narratives, the differences between events and history, and the disjuncture between historical actions and their narrative records. All of these issues are, of course, important to Ngegi's composition philosophy, as remarked above. The Yornba proverb is also apposite because of its semblance to a Giklyu adage with which the old man of Bahati admonishes Gatuiria, the nationalist composer. In the episode I have in mind, Gatuiria seeks from the old man "tradi- 708 Chapter mother to commission the prophet's tale; Wangari, whose sad autobi- ography gives depth to the duration of the events; and the boastful robbers all represent either in person or with responsible proxies, their experience of different aspects of Kenyan history. All of their account attest to the fundamental truth in the words of the unnamed uniersity student. Nghgi organizes all of the characters' attempts at self-representation and self validation with repetition, which is a primars rrative tech- nique in orature' All the agents of literalization discussed above de- ploy a structural repetition in which a story is told many times over (and in varied forms) for thematic reiteration. Wart inga sees the devil several times in her nightmares; all the travelers to Imorog receive forged cards in identical suspicious circumstances; and the Gicaandi Player recounts Waringa's misfortune, already known to his charac- ters. Kareendi of the folktale duplicates Wariinga; the Wariiga made up by the narrating Prophet resembles the Waritga of Ilmorog and Nairobi, whose experience her mother sought to memorialize; and Wangari the tiller doubles Wangari the traveler. As if he were telling a folktale, Ngagi presses cognitive goals upon repeated character types. persons, and events. In Devil on the Cross, the critique of capitalism takes on a nativist form. Truth Telling and Storytelling From the above, it appears Nghgi's clarity design succeeds. In the remaining sections of this chapter, I want to focus on the theoretical implications of the novel's seemingly successful aesthetic of subordi- nating "language" to politically progressive activism. For that task. I am going to rely on the meaning of the metanarrative proverb in the title of this chapter: "Alt that we do today is narrative tomorrow.' I choose this conceptual overview-"Gbogbo ohun ti a b se 6ni, itan ni K6ta" from the Yorba corpus of proverbs mainly because it aptly summarizes the relationship between time and narrative, the displace- ment of "literal" events into narratives, the differences between events and history, and the disjuncture between historical actions and their narrative records. All of these issues are, of course, important to Nggi's composition philosophy, as remarked above. The Yornba proverb is also apposite because of its semblance to a GiktlyI adage with which the old man of Bahati admonishes Gatuiria, the nationalist composer. In the episode I have in mind, Gatuiria seeks from the old man "tradi- 108 Chapters mother to commission the prophet's tale; Wangari, whose sad autobi- ography gives depth to the duration of the events; and the boastful robbers all represent either in person or with responsible proxies, their experience of different aspects of Kenyan history. All of their accounts attest to the fundamental truth in the words of the unnamed university student. Nghgi organizes all of the characters' attempts at self-representation and self-validation with repetition, which is a primary narrative tech- nique in orature All the agents of literalization discussed above de- ploy a structural repetition in which a story is told many times over (and in varied forms) for thematic reiteration. Wariinga sees the devil several times in her nightmares; all the travelers to Ilmorog receive forged cards in identical suspicious circumstances; and the Gicaandi Player recounts Wariinga's misfortune, already known to his charac- ters. Kareendi of the folktale duplicates Warisga; the Wariinga made up by the narrating Prophet resembles the Warisga of Ilmorog and Nairobi, whose experience her mother sought to memorialize; and Wangari the tiller doubles Wangari the traveler. As if he were telling a folktale, Nghgi presses cognitive goals upon repeated character types. persons, and events. In Devil on the Cross, the critique of capitalism takes on a nativist form. Truth Telling and Storytelling From the above, it appears Nglgi's clarity design succeeds. In the remaining sections of this chapter, I want to focus on the theoretical implications of the novel's seemingly successful aesthetic of subordi- nating "language" to politically progressive activism. For that task. I am going to rely on the meaning of the metanarrative proverb in the title of this chapter: "All that we do today is narrative tomorrow." I choose this conceptual overview "Gbogbo ohun t a ba se loi, stan ni 16la"-from the Yorba corpus of proverbs mainly because it aptly summarizes the relationship between time and narrative, the displace- ment of "literal" events into narratives, the differences between events and history, and the disjuncture between historical actions and their narrative records. All of these issues are, of course, important to Ngugi's composition philosophy, as remarked above. The Yornba proverb is also apposite because of its semblance to a Gikfy adage with which the old man of Bahati admonishes Gatuiria, the nationalist composer. In the episode I have in mind, Gatuiria seeks from the old man "tradi-  All That We Do Today Is Narrative Tomorrow 109 tional" themes, tunes, and fantastic tales that could give a distinct cultural stamp to his compositions. He believes that operas answer to national labels according to the number of local motifs they use and that classical entertainment contains tales of classical times. But when Gatuiria begs the man he takes to be a repository of quaintness for information, the old storyteller chuckles at that nativist theory. He replies, "There is no difference between old and modern stories. Stories are stories. All stories are old. All stories are new. .4ll stories belong to tomorrow. And stories are not about ogres or about animals or about men. All stories are about human beings" (62). Although the meaning of the old man's atypical response eludes the university investigator for a long time, it is clear that the sage's statements articulate the novel's overriding poetic. All stories, the old man says, are about human be- ings. The gnomic statements-"All stories are new. All stories are old. All stories belong to tomorrow"- compress the commonplace notions that narratives subsist on new interpretation (such as Warlinga's por- trayal of Kareendi in her folktale) of "timeless" genres and that they order past events for understanding (as in the cases of Warfinga, Kareendi, and the university student's "arcane" theory). The Gfkhyf and Yoruhb sayings state that narratives make the un- derstanding of events possible because stories are the most enduring survivors of events. It seems to me that the inventor of the Yoruhba adage "All that we do today is narrative tomorrow" believes that the moments of action cannot coincide with that of its records. The proverb seems to suggest that time (¢Ia [tomorrow]) and the demands of genre (itan [narrative]) cannot but come between the occurrence of an event and its recollection (and preservation) in stories. "Today" is the time of actions, "today" marks the moment of the subjective coercion of nature, and "today," in itself, is random and unpredictable. Accidents, social actions, and physical domination-today's events-all take place in unpredictable fashion. However, between "today" and "tomorrow" the events, chaotic at the time they occur, will, under the aegis of speech genres, fall into a particular order. The Yorrhba proverb also implies that the human subject is the intersection of narratives (as a speech genre) and chaotic actions. Be that as it may, because the proverb leaves out the ordering mind in tomorrow's versions of today's human acts, I must qualify the point I make above and say that subjective consciousness is more prominent in acts than in narratives. I think the subject is omitted not because narra- All That We Do Today Is Narrative Tomorrow 109 tional" themes, tunes, and fantastic tales that could give a distinct cultural stamp to his compositions. He believes that operas answer to national labels according to the number of local motifs they use and that classical entertainment contains tales of classical times. But when Gatuiria begs the man he takes to be a repository of quaintness for information, the old storyteller chuckles at that nativist theory. He replies, "There is no difference between old and modern stories. Stories are stories. All stories are old. All stories are new. All stories belong to tomorrow. And stories are not about ogres or about animals or about men. All stories are about human beings" (62). Although the meaning of the old man's atypical response eludes the university investigator for a long time, it is clear that the sage's statements articulate the novel's overriding poetic. All stories, the old man says, are about human be- ings. The gnomic statements-"All stories are new. All stories are old. All stories belong to tomorrow"-compress the commonplace notions that narratives subsist on new interpretation (such as War inga's por- trayal of Kareendi in her folktale) of "timeless" genres and that they order past events for understanding (as in the cases of Wariinga, Kareendi, and the university student's "arcane" theory). The Gikfyu and Yoruba sayings state that narratives make the un- derstanding of events possible because stories are the most enduring survivors of events. It seems to me that the inventor of the Yorub& adage "All that we do today is narrative tomorrow" believes that the moments of action cannot coincide with that of its records. The proverb seems to suggest that time (rila [tomorrow]) and the demands of genre (itan [narrative]) cannot but come between the occurrence of an event and its recollection (and preservation) in stories. "Today" is the time of actions, "today" marks the moment of the subjective coercion of nature, and "today," in itself, is random and unpredictable. Accidents, social actions, and physical domination-today's events-all take place in unpredictable fashion. However, between "today" and "tomorrow" the events, chaotic at the time they occur, will, under the aegis of speech genres, fall into a particular order. The Yorrhb proverb also implies that the human subject is the intersection of narratives (as a speech genre) and chaotic actions. Be that as it may, because the proverb leaves out the ordering mind in tomorrow's versions of today's human acts, I must qualify the point I make above and say that subjective consciousness is more prominent in acts than in narratives. I think the subject is omitted not because narra- All That We Do Today Is Narrative Tomorrow I09 tional" themes, tunes, and fantastic tales that could give a distinct cultural stamp to his compositions. He believes that operas answer to national labels according to the number of local motifs they use and that classical entertainment contains tales of classical times. But when Gatuiria begs the man he takes to be a repository of quaintness for information, the old storyteller chuckles at that nativist theory. He replies, "There is no difference between old and modern stories. Stories are stories. All stories are old. All stories are new. All stories belong to tomorrow. And stories are not about ogres or about animals or about men. All stories are about human beings" (62). Although the meaning of the old man's atypical response eludes the university investigator for a long time, it is clear that the sage's statements articulate the novel's overriding poetic. All stories, the old man says, are about human be- ings. The gnomic statements-"All stories are new. All stories are old. All stories belong to tomorrow"-compress the commonplace notions that narratives subsist on new interpretation (such as Wariinga's por- trayal of Kareendi in her folktale) of "timeless" genres and that they order past events for understanding (as in the cases of Wariinga, Kareendi, and the university student's "arcane" theory). The Gikkyf and Yoruhbd sayings state that narratives make the un- derstanding of events possible because stories are the most enduring survivors of events. It seems to me that the inventor of the Yorub adage "All that we do today is narrative tomorrow" believes that the moments of action cannot coincide with that of its records. The proverb seems to suggest that time ((la [tomorrow]) and the demands of genre (itan [narrative]) cannot but come between the occurrence of an event and its recollection (and preservation) in stories. "Today" is the time of actions, "today" marks the moment of the subjective coercion of nature, and "today," in itself, is random and unpredictable. Accidents, social actions, and physical domination-today' s events-all take place in unpredictable fashion. However, between "today" and "tomorrow" the events, chaotic at the time they occur, will, under the aegis of speech genres, fall into a particular order. The Yornir proverb also implies that the human subject is the intersection of narratives (as a speech genre) and chaotic actions. Be that as it may, because the proverb leaves out the ordering mind in tomorrow's versions of today's human acts, I must qualify the point I make above and say that subjective consciousness is more prominent in acts than in narratives. I think the subject is omitted not because narra-  10 Chapter5 tives lack subjects but because stories have the ability to affect nonpar- ticipants in ways acts cannot. Acts and events must, by definition. impact upon participants. Narratives, on the other hand, are engen- dered by subjective beings who may or may not "suffer" from the consequences of their creations. Subjective acts are the topic foci of today's order, and their reordering in conventional structures is the order of tomorrow. Genre and conventions are the allies (and not just other physical subjects) of today's actors when tomorrow arrives. \\ith- out narratives (as consequential ordering, as genres), acts are inacces- sible. Acts do not preserve themselves outside the discipline of narra- tives. "We do not live stories, even if we give our lives meaning by retro- spectively casting them in the form of stories" (43), says Hayden White in a discussion of the intractably formal foundation of the writing of history. This summation comes to mind readily in a discussion of Dei of the Cross, because most of Nghgi's agents of transparent representa- tion repeatedly describe the accounts of their literal experience of Kenyan capitalism as stories. Wariinga, Wangari, and Maturi all accept that their autobiographical recollections are stories in a manner that re- sembles my earlier conclusions on nativist textuality. The vers first sentence of the Prophet's overture announces that the "truthful" events about to unfold disseminate the multigeneric fragments of different peoples' perspectives. "Certain people in Ilmorag, our Ilmorog, told me that this story was too disgraceful, too shameful, that it should be concealed in the depths of everlasting darkness" (7). The opening lines declare the Prophet's determination to liberate Waringa's multifaceted story from darkness. The enlightenment was commissioned by \\ ariin- ga's mother: "Gicaandi Player, tell the story of the child I loved so dearly. Cast light upon all that happened, so that each may pass judg- ment only when he knows the whole truth. Gicaandi Player, reveal all that is hidden" (7). But because the events are long gone, he must now produce a corrective narrative that is dependent upon other peoples' recollections. The commissioned story (today's response) must gather facts (of yesterday's acts) that will truthfully reveal all of the reasons for why Jacintha (Wariinga) murdered Gitahy. Chronologicallc, the Pro- phet's story succeeds Wariinga's acts. The Prophet confesses that his explanations must necessarily as- semble others' stories, and, accordingly, he acknowledges his sources explicitly in many places. First, after Wariinga has told her Kareendi 110 Chapter 5 tives lack subjects but because stories have the ability to affect nonpar- ticipants in ways acts cannot. Acts and events must, by definition, impact upon participants. Narratives, on the other hand, are engen- dered by subjective beings who may or may not "suffer" from the consequences of their creations. Subjective acts are the topic foci of today's order, and their reordering in conventional structures is the order of tomorrow. Genre and conventions are the allies (and not just other physical subjects) of today's actors when tomorrow arrives. \ ith- out narratives (as consequential ordering, as genres), acts are inacces- sible. Acts do not preserve themselves outside the discipline of narra- tives. "We do not live stories, even if we give our lives meaning by retro- spectively casting them in the form of stories" (43), says Hayden W-hite in a discussion of the intractably formal foundation of the writing of history. This summation comes to mind readily in a discussion of Deci! of the Cross, because most of Ngfgi's agents of transparent representa- tion repeatedly describe the accounts of their literal experience of Kenyan capitalism as stories. Wariinga, Wangari, and Muturi all accept that their autobiographical recollections are stories in a manner that re- sembles my earlier conclusions on nativist textuality. The ve first sentence of the Prophet's overture announces that the "truthful" events about to unfold disseminate the multigeneric fragments of different peoples' perspectives. "Certain people in Inmorog, our Ilmorog, told me that this story was too disgraceful, too shameful, that it should be concealed in the depths of everlasting darkness" (7). The opening lines declare the Prophet's determination to liberate Warilnga's multifaceted story from darkness. The enlightenment was commissioned bsy Wariin- ga's mother: "Gicaandi Player, tell the story of the child I loed so dearly. Cast light upon all that happened, so that each may pass judg- ment only when he knows the whole truth. Gicaandi Player, reveal all that is hidden" (7). But because the events are long gone, he must now produce a corrective narrative that is dependent upon other peoples' recollections. The commissioned story (today's response) must gather facts (of yesterday's acts) that will truthfully reveal all of the reasons for why Jacintha (Warlinga) murdered Gitahy. Chronologically, the Pro- phet's story succeeds Wariinga's acts. The Prophet confesses that his explanations must necessarily as- semble others' stories, and, accordingly, he acknowledges his sources explicitly in many places. First, after Wariinga has told her Kareendi 110 Chapter5 tives lack subjects but because stories have the ability to affect nonpar- ticipants in ways acts cannot. Acts and events must, by definition, impact upon participants. Narratives, on the other hand, are engen- dered by subjective beings who may or may not "suffer" from the consequences of their creations. Subjective acts are the topic foci of today's order, and their reordering in conventional structures is the order of tomorrow. Genre and conventions are the allies (and not just other physical subjects) of today's actors when tomorrow arrices. With- out narratives (as consequential ordering, as genres), acts are inacces- sible. Acts do not preserve themselves outside the discipline of narra- tives. "We do not live stories, even if we give our lives meaning by retro- spectively casting them in the form of stories" (43), says Hayden W% hite in a discussion of the intractably formal foundation of the riling of history. This summation comes to mind readily in a discussion of Dccl of the Cross, because most of Nghgi's agents of transparent representa- tion repeatedly describe the accounts of their literal experience of Kenyan capitalism as stories. Wariinga, Wangari, and Mturi all accept that their autobiographical recollections are stories in a maner that re- sembles my earlier conclusions on nativist textuality. The ser first sentence of the Prophet's overture announces that the "truthful" e ents about to unfold disseminate the multigeneric fragments of different peoples' perspectives. "Certain people in Ilmorog, our Ilmorog, told me that this story was too disgraceful, too shameful, that it should be concealed in the depths of everlasting darkness" (7). The opening lines declare the Prophet's determination to liberate Wariinga's multifaceted story from darkness. The enlightenment was commissioned by \ arin- ga's mother: "Gicaandi Player, tell the story of the child I loved so dearly. Cast light upon all that happened, so that each may pass judg- ment only when he knows the whole truth. Gicaandi Player, reseal all that is hidden" (7). But because the events are long gone, he must now produce a corrective narrative that is dependent upon other peoples' recollections. The commissioned story (today's response) must gather facts (of yesterday's acts) that will truthfully reveal all of the reasons for why Jacintha (Wariinga) murdered Gitahy. Chronologically, the Pro- phet's story succeeds Waringa's acts. The Prophet confesses that his explanations must necessarily as- semble others' stories, and, accordingly, he acknowledges his sources explicitly in many places. First, after Wariinga has told her Kareendi  All That We Do Today Is Narrative Tomorrow 111 tale to the university student, the latter responds, "That story of yours pierced my heart" (27). Mituri describes Wangari's autobiography simi- larly (46). Wangari says the same of Gatuiria's biography. In the narra- tive reframing of yesterday's acts, Warlinga uses the folktale, the thieves use the Catholic confessional, Wangari, Gatuiria, and Mwireri use the autobiography, and Mwaura and Mituri use Socratic dialogue. In Devil on the Cross, tomorrow's articulation of today's activities rests on ge- neric structures of replication. The representation of the robbers' dinner confirms the literal act and figural record equation. At the banquet, members of the local chamber of commerce wear the personae of grand thieves and boast about their unparalleled achievements in property accumulation. The dinner mim- ics a Catholic mass. Present are the priestlike master of ceremonies, the high table that looks like an altar, the transnational tOTR delegates that look like a contingent from the Vatican, the eager communicants of local businessmen, and the verbal testimonies of prowess in capital accumulation patterned after the confessional. Ngigi's thematic goal is transparent in placing literal thieves in a Christian temple. The Chris- tian formalities appropriated by the robbers show, however, that the literalization gesture is itself a figurative device. The literal thieves cavorting in what looks like a church emerge as parodies of both Chris- tian communicants and thieves. Being parodies, the robbers' exorbitant mimicry ends up displacing "literality." The most eloquent thief, the master of ceremonies, performs the role of the priest. He leads the introit that straddles a homily and a gospel reading. His opening speech, designed to convince the IOTR (the capi- talist Vatican) delegates of the readiness of the Kenyan parish for its "un-holy" charter, caricatures the biblical parable of the talents (Matt. 25:14-30). In the Bible, Jesus opens his narrative with the formulaic expression "For the kingdom of heaven is as a man traveling into a far country who called his servants, and delivered unto them his goods" (Matt. 25:14). The emcee adapts this formula as "For the kingdom of Earthly wiles can be likened unto a ruler who foresees that the day would come when he would be thrown out of a certain country by the masses and their guerrilla freedom fighters. He was much troubled in his heart trying to determine ways of protecting all the property he had accumulated in that country and also ways of maintaining his rule over the natives by other means . .. He called his loyalist slaves and servants to him" (82). The emcee equates the traveling merchant with European All That We Do Today Is Narrative Tomorrow Ill tale to the university student, the latter responds, "That story of yours pierced my heart" (27). Mfturi describes Wangar's autobiography simi- larly (46). Wangari says the same of Gatuiria's biography. In the narra- tive reframing of yesterday's acts, Warlinga uses the folktale, the thieves use the Catholic confessional, Wangari, Gaturia, and Mwireri use the autobiography, and Mwaira and Mituri use Socratic dialogue. In Devil on the Cross, tomorrow's articulation of today's activities rests on ge- neric structures of replication. The representation of the robbers' dinner confirms the literal act and figural record equation. At the banquet, members of the local chamber of commerce wear the personae of grand thieves and boast about their unparalleled achievements in property accumulation. The dinner mim- ics a Catholic mass. Present are the priestlike master of ceremonies, the high table that looks like an altar, the transnational IOTR delegates that look like a contingent from the Vatican, the eager communicants of local businessmen, and the verbal testimonies of prowess in capital accumulation patterned after the confessional. Ngigi's thematic goal is transparent in placing literal thieves in a Christian temple. The Chris- tian formalities appropriated by the robbers show, however, that the literalization gesture is itself a figurative device. The literal thieves cavorting in what looks like a church emerge as parodies of both Chris- tian communicants and thieves. Being parodies, the robbers' exorbitant mimicry ends up displacing "literality." The most eloquent thief, the master of ceremonies, performs the role of the priest. He leads the introit that straddles a homily and a gospel reading. His opening speech, designed to convince the IOTR (the capi- talist Vatican) delegates of the readiness of the Kenyan parish for its "un-holy" charter, caricatures the biblical parable of the talents (Matt. 25:14-30). In the Bible, Jesus opens his narrative with the formulaic expression "For the kingdom of heaven is as a man traveling into a far country who called his servants, and delivered unto them his goods" (Matt. 25:14). The emcee adapts this formula as "For the kingdom of Earthly wiles can be likened unto a ruler who foresees that the day would come when he would be thrown out of a certain country by the masses and their guerrilla freedom fighters. He was much troubled in his heart trying to determine ways of protecting all the property he had accumulated in that country and also ways of maintaining his rule over the natives by other means . .. He called his loyalist slaves and servants to him" (82). The emcee equates the traveling merchant with European All That We Do Today ls Narrative Tomorrow T11 tale to the university student, the latter responds, "That story of yours pierced my heart" (27). Mituri describes Wangari's autobiography simi- larly (46). Wangari says the same of Gatuiria's biography. In the narra- tive refraining of yesterday's acts, Waringa uses the folktale, the thieves use the Catholic confessional, Wangari, Gaturia, and Mwireri use the autobiography, and Mwaera and Muturi use Socratic dialogue. In Devil on the Cross, tomorrow's articulation of today's activities rests on ge- neric structures of replication. The representation of the robbers' dinner confirms the literal act and figural record equation. At the banquet, members of the local chamber of commerce wear the personae of grand thieves and boast about their unparalleled achievements in property accumulation. The dinner mim- ics a Catholic mass. Present are the priestlike master of ceremonies, the high table that looks like an altar, the transnational IOTR delegates that look like a contingent from the Vatican, the eager communicants of local businessmen, and the verbal testimonies of prowess in capital accumulation patterned after the confessional. Ngngi's thematic goal is transparent in placing literal thieves in a Christian temple. The Chris- tian formalities appropriated by the robbers show, however, that the literalization gesture is itself a figurative device. The literal thieves cavorting in what looks like a church emerge as parodies of both Chris- tian communicants and thieves. Being parodies, the robbers' exorbitant mimicry ends up displacing "literality." The most eloquent thief, the master of ceremonies, performs the role of the priest. He leads the introit that straddles a homily and a gospel reading. His opening speech, designed to convince the IOTR (the capi- talist Vatican) delegates of the readiness of the Kenyan parish for its "un-holy" charter, caricatures the biblical parable of the talents (Matt. 25:14-30). In the Bible, Jesus opens his narrative with the formulaic expression "For the kingdom of heaven is as a man traveling into a far country who called his servants, and delivered unto them his goods" (Matt. 25:14). The emcee adapts this formula as "For the kingdom of Earthly wiles can be likened unto a ruler who foresees that the day would come when he would be thrown out of a certain country by the masses and their guerrilla freedom fighters. He was much troubled in his heart trying to determine ways of protecting all the property he had accumulated in that country and also ways of maintaining his rule over the natives by other means ... He called his loyalist slaves and servants to him" (82). The emcee equates the traveling merchant with European  112 Chapter 5 colonial masters. He parodies the points of agreement between the story of the three servants and the postindependence bourgeoisie. Christ's parable dwells on the traveling master's interactions with his servants, and the emcee, likewise, details the negotiations between the colonial lord and his cronies. The two narratives turn on om and both refer to matters other than those about which they talk. But neither states what these referents are: the kingdom of heaven is like a traveling master and vice versa, the kingdom of earthly wiles is like a departing colonial lord and vice versa. In both are absent the positive characteristics of heavenly kingdom and earthly wiles, the themes of the two narratives. In Devil on the Cross, the articulation of today's acts in tomorrow's story in styles that minimize the distorting effects of narrative domi- nates several discussions. The sometimes incoherent and contradictor metadiscursive debates reflect the tension in the novel's poetics of aformality. The discussions about the meaning of cultural representa- tion take place in the vehicle of storytelling (literally so because a clear third of the novel is narrated in the matatu), which Wangari, W5ariinga. Mfturi, Gatuiria, and Mwireri ride to Ilmorog. In particular, Mturi's Socratic interventions within other peoples' narratives say the most about the novel's reflections on the relationship between events and narration. In one case, Mfturi, the underground labor organizer, dismisses Professor Mfkiraai's panegyric for the justness of the capitalist system of reward. "I say have you ever been to Heaven?" "No." "Or Hell?" "No." "So this picture you have sketched for us-where did you get it from? Isn't a picture, like the shadow of a tree? Where is the tree itself?" (78; emphasis added) For Mfturi, all signifying devices, no matter how old, complex, or fundamental, derive from human acts to which they can be retraced. An earlier altercation with Mwafra, the matatf driver, provides a clue to Muturi's materialist methods of tracking the picture back to the tree. He says, "our actions are the bricks that we use to construct either a good or an evil heart. The heart in turn becomes the mirror through 112 Chapter5 colonial masters. He parodies the points of agreement between the story of the three servants and the postindependence bourgeoisie. Christ's parable dwells on the traveling master's interactions with his servants, and the emcee, likewise, details the negotiations between the colonial lord and his cronies. The two narratives turn on cmi 1 and both refer to matters other than those about which they talk. But neither states what these referents are: the kingdom of heaven is like a traveling master and vice versa, the kingdom of earthly wiles is like a departing colonial lord and vice versa. In both are absent the positive characteristics of heavenly kingdom and earthly weiles, the themes of the two narratives. In Devil on the Cross, the articulation of today's acts in tomorrow' story in styles that minimize the distorting effects of narrative domi- nates several discussions. The sometimes incoherent and contradictory metadiscursive debates reflect the tension in the novel's poetics of aformality. The discussions about the meaning of cultural representa- tion take place in the vehicle of storytelling (literally so because a clear third of the novel is narrated in the matat), which Wangari, Wariinga, Muturi, Gatuiria, and Mwireri ride to Ilmorog. In particular, Mturi's Socratic interventions within other peoples' narratives say the most about the novel's reflections on the relationship between events and narration. In one case, Muturi, the underground labor organizer, disinsee- Professor Mfkiraai's panegyric for the justness of the capitalist system of reward. "I say have you ever been to Heaven?" "No." "Or Hell?" "No." "So this picture you have sketched for us-where did ou get it from? Isn't a picture, like the shador' of a tree? Where is the tree itself?" (78; emphasis added) For Mituri, all signifying devices, no matter how old, complex, or fundamental, derive from human acts to which they can be retraced An earlier altercation with Mwaira, the matat driver, provides a clue to Mituri's materialist methods of tracking the picture back to the tree. He says, "our actions are the bricks that we use to construct either a good or an evil heart. The heart in turn becomes the mirror through 172 Chapter 5 colonial masters. He parodies the points of agreement between the story of the three servants and the postindependence bourgeoisie. Christ's parable dwells on the traveling master's interactions with his servants, and the emcee, likewise, details the negotiations between the colonial lord and his cronies. The two narratives turn on com aris-n and both refer to matters other than those about which they talk. But neither states what these referents are: the kingdom of heaven i, like a traveling master and vice versa, the kingdom of earthly wile, is like a departing colonial lord and vice versa. In both are absent the positive characteristics of heavenly kingdom and earthly wiles, the themes of the two narratives. In Devil on the Cross, the articulation of today's acts in tomorros story in styles that minimize the distorting effects of narrative domi- nates several discussions. The sometimes incoherent and contradictory metadiscursive debates reflect the tension in the novel's poetics of aformality. The discussions about the meaning of cultural representa- tion take place in the vehicle of storytelling (literally so because a clear third of the novel is narrated in the matat), which Wangari, Wariinga, Muturi, Gatuiria, and Mwireri ride to Ilmorog. In particular, Mturi's Socratic interventions within other peoples' narratives say the most about the novel's reflections on the relationship between events and narration. In one case, Muturi, the underground labor organizer, dismisses Professor Mfkiraai's panegyric for the justness of the capitalist system of reward. "I say have you ever been to Heaven?" "No." "Or Hell?" "No." "So this picture you have sketched for us-where did you get it from? Isn't a picture, like the shadow of a tree?' Where is the tree itself?" (78; emphasis added) For Muturi, all signifying devices, no matter how old, complex, or fundamental, derive from human acts to which they can be retraced. An earlier altercation with Mwafra, the matat driver, provides a clue to Mturi's materialist methods of tracking the picture back to the tree. He says, "our actions are the bricks that we use to construct either a good or an evil heart. The heart in turn becomes the mirror through  A I hat We Do Toa Is Narrative Tomorro 11 All That we Do'Todav is Narra hva Tomorw7 7-. All That We Do Toda Is Narrative' Toorrow 773 which we can look at ourselves and our work on this Earth" (54). In Moturi's mind, all representations are superstructural. In the same exchange, he also voiced the apostasy that "the nature of God is the image of the good we do here on earth. The nature of Satan is the image of the evil we do here on earth" (57), thus identifying God as another ideological abstraction. Mturi believes that stories have no intrinsic value beyond that assigned by human subjective will. Narratives, to him, are ordinarily lifeless copies of human acts. They subsist totally on historical acts and events. All the thinly disguised biographical ac- counts of fellow travelers support that summation. Mwahra, the struggling matatf owner-operator who dreams of be- coming a rich man in the near future, complicates that picture. The self- employed driver detests all agitation that might preempt his bourgeois aspirations. He finds his long-term interests in the brutal acts of the bourgeoisie and, accordingly, subscribes to all its tastes. He does not spend too much time contemplating the unseemly side of wthat stories represent. Mwafra, unlike Mfturi, doubts the ability of images and reproductions to concretize social divisions. He is initially dumbfounded when Mturi asks him whether mere representation possesses any potential at all to alter perception. But the folksy driver finally gathers his wits and recounts an anecdote that, to my mind, drives blunt materialism to a corner. Once when 1 was a child my grandmother told me a story about a sick lion which, after eating a donkey's heart, was cured of its illness. I was very sad. I asked my grandmother: "What will that donkey do when Jesus comes back and wakes the dead?" My grandmother told me: "Don't bother me with chatter; your ani- mals won't be resurrected...." The other day I came back to the very question I asked as a child when read in a newspaper ... that these days a heart can be removed from one person and planted inside someone else. The question is this: that person, is he the same man as the one who was there before, or is he now a new person as he has a new heart? When the Day of Resurrection comes, what will the two people do when both bodies claim the same heart? Think about the heart that has been shared by two bodies. Suppose the heart is upright, obedient, clean. What will prevent both bodies from scrambling for it? ... When a heart is transferred from one body to another, does it which we can look at ourselves and our work on this Earth" (54). In MEtori's mind, all representations are superstructural. In the same exchange, he also voiced the apostasy that "the nature of God is the image of the good we do here on earth. The nature of Satan is the image of the evil we do here on earth" (57), thus identifying God as another ideological abstraction. Maturi believes that stories have no intrinsic value beyond that assigned by human subjective will. Narratives, to him, are ordinarily lifeless copies of human acts. They subsist totally on historical acts and events. All the thinly disguised biographical ac- counts of fellow travelers support that summation. Mwahra, the struggling matat owner-operator who dreams of be- coming a rich man in the near future, complicates that picture. The self- employed driver detests all agitation that might preempt his bourgeois aspirations. He finds his long-term interests in the brutal acts of the bourgeoisie and, accordingly, subscribes to all its tastes. He does not spend too much time contemplating the unseemly side of what stories represent. Mwaura, unlike Mturi, doubts the ability of images and reproductions to concretize social divisions. He is initially dumbfounded when Muturi asks him whether mere representation possesses any potential at all to alter perception. But the folksy driver finally gathers his wits and recounts an anecdote that, to my mind, drives blunt materialism to a corner. Once when I was a child my grandmother told me a story about a sick lion which, after eating a donkey's heart, was cured of its illness. I was very sad. I asked my grandmother: "What will that donkey do when Jesus comes back and wakes the dead?" My grandmother told me: "Don't bother me with chatter; your ani- mals won't be resurrected...." The other day I came back to the very question I asked as a child when I read in a newspaper ... that these days a heart can be removed from one person and planted inside someone else. The question is this: that person, is he the same man as the one who was there before, or is he now a new person as he has a new heart? When the Day of Resurrection comes, what will the two people do when both bodies claim the same heart? Think about the heart that has been shared by two bodies. Suppose the heart is upright, obedient, clean. What will prevent both bodies from scrambling for it? ... When a heart is transferred from one body to another, does it which we can look at ourselves and our work on this Earth" (54). In Muturi's mind, all representations are superstructural. In the same exchange, he also voiced the apostasy that "the nature of God is the image of the good we do here on earth. The nature of Satan is the image of the evil we do here on earth" (57), thus identifying God as another ideological abstraction. Muturi believes that stories have no intrinsic value beyond that assigned by human subjective will. Narratives, to him, are ordinarily lifeless copies of human acts. They subsist totally on historical acts and events. All the thinly disguised biographical ac- counts of fellow travelers support that summation. Mwaura, the struggling matat owner-operator who dreams of be- coming a rich man in the near future, complicates that picture. The self- employed driver detests all agitation that might preempt his bourgeois aspirations. He finds his long-term interests in the brutal acts of the bourgeoisie and, accordingly, subscribes to all its tastes. He does not spend too much time contemplating the unseemly side of nhat stories represent. Mwafra, unlike Muturi, doubts the ability of images and reproductions to concretize social divisions. He is initially dumbfounded when Muturi asks him whether mere representation possesses any potential at all to alter perception. But the folksy driver finally gathers his wits and recounts an anecdote that, to my mind, drives blunt materialism to a corner. Once when I was a child my grandmother told me a story about a sick lion which, after eating a donkey's heart, was cured of its illness. I was very sad. I asked my grandmother: "What will that donkey do when Jesus comes back and wakes the dead?" My grandmother told me: "Don't bother me with chatter; your ani- mals won't be resurrected...." The other day I came back to the very question I asked as a child when I read in a newspaper . . . that these days a heart can be removed from one person and planted inside someone else. The question is this: that person, is he the same man as the one who was there before, or is he now a new person as he has a new heart? When the Day of Resurrection comes, what will the two people do when both bodies claim the same heart? Think about the heart that has been shared by two bodies. Suppose the heart is upright, obedient, clean. What will prevent both bodies from scrambling for it? ... When a heart is transferred from one body to another, does it  114 Chapters emigrate with all the integrity or wickedness of the first body, or does it assume the corruption of the new body? (49-50; emphasis added) Mwaara, most certainly in spite of himself, sketches out the danger that bodily grafting poses to fundamentalism. The conclusion catches Mturi totally off-balance. Thoroughly self-serving as Mwahra's intentions are, his story stirs some profound questions: if the "natural" flesh from which spiritual and aesthetic fundamentals derive can be reconstituted, what is the fate of the figural derivative? If all representations are pictures, what happens to the integrity of the pictures when the origi- nals themselves can be shown to lack an essential core? Figuration, Mwaara's story suggests, should not be tied to single origins because grafting might have occurred unknown. To Mtturi, there are two hearts, which must not be mixed up: the immobile physical heart and the malleable aesthetic heart. There is in man an organ called the heart. That organ is a kind of engine that pumps blood into the arteries and veins that carry food to all the cells of the body and remove the waste from all parts of the body. The organ co-operates with all the other organs of the body. These organs have to work together to make a human being see, touch, hear, smell, taste, talk, swing his arms, walk, start building his life. What he himself builds is the other heart. That other heart is the humanity we fashion with our hands, aided by our eves, our ears, our noses, our mouths. That other heart is the product of our twork and our actions, which are guided by our mind-the work and actions involved in modifying nature to make things to meet our needs, like shelter to keep out rain, clothes to keep out cold and sun, food to make the body grow and many other needs. (51-52) The two cardiac positions-Mwaara's and Mturi's-appear to be utterly irreconcilable. But Mituri almost agrees with Mwahra. In his second statement on hearts and social actions, Muturi excludes biol- ogy from his justification and now uses heart as a term whose relation- ship to its literal source is largely conventional. The ideological "heart," he now says, is not the "human" heart' In the Mwafra-Moturi dia- logue, the semiotician of the material signifier confronts the cultural materialist. 114 Chapter 5 emigrate with all the integrity or wickedness of the first body, or does it assume the corruption of the new body? (49-50; emphasis added) Mwafra, most certainly in spite of himself, sketches out the danger that bodily grafting poses to fundamentalism. The conclusion catches Mturi totally off-balance. Thoroughly self-serving as Mwahra's intentions are, his story stirs some profound questions: if the "natural" flesh from which spiritual and aesthetic fundamentals derive can be reconstituted, what is the fate of the figural derivative? If all representations are pictures, what happens to the integrity of the pictures when the origi- nals themselves can be shown to lack an essential core? Figuration, Mwara's story suggests, should not be tied to single origins because grafting might have occurred unknown. To Mituri, there are two hearts, which must not be mixed up: the immobile physical heart and the malleable aesthetic heart. There is in man an organ called the heart. That organ is a kind of engine that pumps blood into the arteries and veins that carrn food to all the cells of the body and remove the waste from all parts of the body. The organ co-operates with all the other organs of the body. These organs have to work together to make a human being see, touch, hear, smell, taste, talk, swing his arms, walk, start building his life. What he himself builds is the other heart. That other heart is the humanity we fashion with our hands, aided by our eves, our ears, our noses, our mouths. That other heart is the product of our work and our actions, which are guided by our mind-the work and actions involved in modifying nature to make things to meet our needs, like shelter to keep out rain, clothes to keep out cold and sun, food to make the body grow and many other needs. (51-52) The two cardiac positions-Mwafra's and Mituri's-appear to be utterly irreconcilable. But Mhturi almost agrees with Mwaura. In his second statement on hearts and social actions, Muturi excludes biol- ogy from his justification and now uses heart as a term whose relation- ship to its literal source is largely conventional. The ideological "heart," he now says, is not the "human" heart.' In the Mwaura-Mhturi dia- logue, the semiotician of the material signifier confronts the cultural materialist. 114 Chapter 5 emigrate with all the integrity or wickedness of the first body, or does it assume the corruption of the new body? (49-50; emphasis added) Mwafra, most certainly in spite of himself, sketches out the danger that bodily grafting poses to fundamentalism. The conclusion catches \t1turi totally off-balance. Thoroughly self-serving as Mwara's intentions are, his story stirs some profound questions: if the "natural" flesh from which spiritual and aesthetic fundamentals derive can be reconstituted, what is the fate of the figural derivative? If all representations are pictures, what happens to the integrity of the pictures when the origi- nals themselves can be shown to lack an essential core? Figuration, Mwaura's story suggests, should not be tied to single origins because grafting might have occurred unknown. To Mituri, there are two hearts, which must not be mixed up: the immobile physical heart and the malleable aesthetic heart. There is in man an organ called the heart. That organ is a kind of engine that pumps blood into the arteries and veins that carry food to all the cells of the body and remove the waste from all parts of the body. The organ co-operates with all the other organs of the body. These organs have to work together to make a human being see, touch, hear, smell, taste, talk, swing his arms, walk, start building his life. What he himself builds is the other heart. That other heart is the humanity we fashion with our hands, aided by our eyes, our ears, our noses, our mouths. That other heart is the product of our work and our actions, which are guided by our mind-the work and actions involved in modifying nature to make things to meet our needs, like shelter to keep out rain, clothes to keep out cold and sun, food to make the body grow and many other needs. (51-52) The two cardiac positions-Mwaara's and Mturi's-appear to be utterly irreconcilable. But Maturi almost agrees with Mwcara. In his second statement on hearts and social actions, Mfturi excludes biol- ogy from his justification and now uses heart as a term whose relation- ship to its literal source is largely conventional. The ideological "heart," he now says, is not the "human" heart.t In the Mwaura-Mhturi dia- logue, the semiotician of the material signifier confronts the cultural materialist.  All That We Do Todav Is Narrative Tomorrow 115 The reliance of Devil on the Cross on the dissemination of forged cards to rally the strategic alliance of labor, the peasantry, and progres- sive university students dramatizes in a much broader scope the les- sons of the Mwaura-Muturi debate. The dissidents' very successful replication and distribution of the thieves' invitation card in their mass mobilization against the robbers foregrounds the place of "heart" in transplants and reproductions. The dissidents appropriate the robbers' original design and graft their own provocative terms on it. Instead of the heading that announces a sumptuous dinner-"A Big Feast!" (77)- the dissidents use "The Devil's Feast" (28). In place of the convention- ally neutral "Come and see for yourself / Competition to Select Seven Experts in Modern Theft and Robbery" (78), the dissidents put the morally charged "Come and see for yourself-A Devil-Sponsored Com- petition to Choose Seven Experts in Theft and Robbery" (78). Where the original card promises prizes of "Bank Loans and Directorships of Several Finance Houses," its copy simply pledges "Plenty of Prizes." The original is "Signed: Master of Ceremonies," but "Satan King of Hell" dispatches the copy. The subversives redirect the "original" card into terrain never envisaged by its designers. Most importantly, the forgery canvasses more effectively than the authorized cards. The coun- terfeit cards generate the largest chunk-including the matati ride-of stories in the novel. I interpret the fate of the forged cards as the novel's acknowledgment of the generative capacities of "fictions." Had the forged cards failed, the novel's progressive intent, represented in the assault of the ragtag resistance on the Robbers' Den, would have been impossible. Language, Form, and Nativism I deliberately turned this analysis of Ngfgi's fully nativist work away from measuring the native language's ability to bear the weight of the material aspirations of ordinary Kenyans. I have also moved away from evaluating the problems and prospects of "orality" in the novel.' My discussion gauges the effect and function of narrative conventions in a trenchantly nativist text written by an insistent linguistic nativist because I want to demonstrate that the native figuration systems also contend with the unresolvable problems of mediation. The native text, even when prominently progressive like Devil on the Cross, is still bedeviled by the problems of literary language. The native text, even All That We Do Today Is Narrative Tomorrow 115 The reliance of Devil on the Cross on the dissemination of forged cards to rally the strategic alliance of labor, the peasantry, and progres- sive university students dramatizes in a much broader scope the les- sons of the Mwatra-Mfturi debate. The dissidents' very successful replication and distribution of the thieves' invitation card in their mass mobilization against the robbers foregrounds the place of "heart" in transplants and reproductions. The dissidents appropriate the robbers' original design and graft their own provocative terms on it. Instead of the heading that announces a sumptuous dinner-"A Big Feast!" (77)- the dissidents use "The Devil's Feast" (28). In place of the convention- ally neutral "Come and see for yourself / Competition to Select Seven Experts in Modern Theft and Robbery" (78), the dissidents put the morally charged "Come and see for yourself-A Devil-Sponsored Com- petition to Choose Seven Experts in Theft and Robbery" (78). Where the original card promises prizes of "Bank Loans and Directorships of Several Finance Houses," its copy simply pledges "Plenty of Prizes." The original is "Signed: Master of Ceremonies," but "Satan King of Hell" dispatches the copy. The subversives redirect the "original" card into terrain never envisaged by its designers. Most importantly, the forgery canvasses more effectively than the authorized cards. The coun- terfeit cards generate the largest chunk-including the matatu ride-of stories in the novel. I interpret the fate of the forged cards as the novel's acknowledgment of the generative capacities of "fictions." Had the forged cards failed, the novel's progressive intent, represented in the assault of the ragtag resistance on the Robbers' Den, would have been impossible. Language, Form, and Nativism I deliberately turned this analysis of Ngugi's fully nativist work away from measuring the native language's ability to bear the weight of the material aspirations of ordinary Kenyans. I have also moved away from evaluating the problems and prospects of "orality" in the novel.' My discussion gauges the effect and function of narrative conventions in a trenchantly nativist text written by an insistent linguistic nativist because I want to demonstrate that the native figuration systems also contend with the unresolvable problems of mediation. The native text, even when prominently progressive like Devil os the Cross, is still bedeviled by the problems of literary language. The native text, even All That We Do Today Is Narrative Tomorrow I5 The reliance of Devil on the Cross on the dissemination of forged cards to rally the strategic alliance of labor, the peasantry, and progres- sive university students dramatizes in a much broader scope the les- sons of the Mwafra-Mtturi debate. The dissidents' very successful replication and distribution of the thieves' invitation card in their mass mobilization against the robbers foregrounds the place of "heart" in transplants and reproductions. The dissidents appropriate the robbers' original design and graft their own provocative terms on it. Instead of the heading that announces a sumptuous dinner-"A Big Feast!" (77) the dissidents use "The Devil's Feast" (28). In place of the convention- ally neutral "Come and see for yourself / Competition to Select Seven Experts in Modern Theft and Robbery" (78), the dissidents put the morally charged "Come and see for yourself-A Devil-Sponsored Com- petition to Choose Seven Experts in Theft and Robbery" (78). Where the original card promises prizes of "Bank Loans and Directorships of Several Finance Houses," its copy simply pledges "Plenty of Prizes." The original is "Signed: Master of Ceremonies," but "Satan King of Hell" dispatches the copy. The subversives redirect the "original" card into terrain never envisaged by its designers. Most importantly, the forgery canvasses more effectively than the authorized cards. The coun- terfeit cards generate the largest chunk-including the matat0 ride-of stories in the novel. I interpret the fate of the forged cards as the novel's acknowledgment of the generative capacities of "fictions." Had the forged cards failed, the novel's progressive intent, represented in the assault of the ragtag resistance on the Robbers' Den, would have been impossible. Language, Form, and Nativism I deliberately turned this analysis of Ngfgi's fully nativist work away from measuring the native language's ability to bear the weight of the material aspirations of ordinary Kenyans. I have also moved away from evaluating the problems and prospects of "orality" in the novel' My discussion gauges the effect and function of narrative conventions in a trenchantly nativist text written by an insistent linguistic nativist because I want to demonstrate that the native figuration systems also contend with the unresolvable problems of mediation. The native text, even when prominently progressive like Devil on the Cross, is still bedeviled by the problems of literary language. The native text, even  116 Chapter 5 when written to de-emphasize language and form, still depends on language and form for its effect. Devil on the Cross shows that the connection we make between today's acts and their memorialization tomorrow is made possible by narrative formulas. Without a narrative, without a literary language, tomorrow's acts will be shapeless (and mindless) repetitions of today's acts. 116 Chapter 5 when written to de-emphasize language and form, still depends on language and form for its effect. Devil on the Cross shoes that the connection we make between today's acts and their memorialization tomorrow is made possible by narrative formulas. Without a narrative, without a literary language, tomorrow's acts will be shapeless (and mindless) repetitions of today's acts. 116 Chapter5 when written to de-emphasize language and form, still depends on language and form for its effect. Devil on the Cress shoes that the connection we make between today's acts and their memorialization tomorrow is made possible by narrative formulas. Without a narratie, without a literary language, tomorrow's acts will be shapeless (and mindless) repetitions of today's acts.  6 6 Figuration and the Limit of Local Knowledge Osofisan's "Proverbial Story" of Postindependence Fiction in Kolera Kolej Kolera Kolej, Fimi Os6fisan's lampoon of typical postindependence fic- tion, is different from all the other texts discussed thus far. Unlike Devil on the Cross, it does not attempt to downplay form; instead, it plays with established forms in order to draw attention to the meaning- making conventions of anglophone African fiction. Unlike Two Thon- sand Seasons, it does not mimic believable discourses. The novella shows no need for the "protective" rhetorical maneuvers of Rdri Rdn, and its sad conclusion lacks the pathos produced by Ezeulu's tragedy in Arrow of God. Os6fisan's story, which was published by Abiola Irele's New Horn Press during the Nigerian oil boom-the same economic boom that surrounded the birth of Rdre Rn-seems to have consciously avoided the "seriousness" of the other works. Using the oral traditional narrative devices that are praised in classical nativism, Os6fisan isolates the generic representations of postindependence political reversals for a hilarious critique. In a simultaneously meaningful and absurd narra- tion, the story coerces the reader into reconsidering the relative signifi- cance of the mimetic structures of anglophone African postindependence fiction. Its amoral and alogical ordering of events seems to indicate that realistic exposition does not, on its own, carry superior ideological knowledge. In this chapter, I analyze Osofisan's tragicomic critique of the knowledge claims of nativist figuration. Figuration and the Limit of Local Knowledge Os6fisan's "Proverbial Story" of Postindependence Fiction in Kolera Kolej Kolera Kolej, F6mi Osofisan's lampoon of typical postindependence fic- tion, is different from all the other texts discussed thus far. Unlike Devil on the Cross, it does not attempt to downplay form; instead, it plays with established forms in order to draw attention to the meaning- making conventions of anglophone African fiction. Unlike Two Thou- sand Seasons, it does not mimic believable discourses. The novella shows no need for the "protective" rhetorical maneuvers of Rer/ Rdn, and its sad conclusion lacks the pathos produced by Ezeutl's tragedy in Arrow of God. Osofisan's story, which was published by Abiola Irele's New Horn Press during the Nigerian oil boom-the same economic boom that surrounded the birth of Riri Rin-seems to have consciously avoided the "seriousness" of the other works. Using the oral traditional narrative devices that are praised in classical nativism, Osofisan isolates the generic representations of postindependence political reversals for a hilarious critique. In a simultaneously meaningful and absurd narra- tion, the story coerces the reader into reconsidering the relative signifi- cance of the mimetic structures of anglophone African postindependence fiction. Its amoral and alogical ordering of events seems to indicate that realistic exposition does not, on its own, carry superior ideological knowledge. In this chapter, I analyze Osofisan's tragicomic critique of the knowledge claims of nativist figuration. Figuration and the Limit of Local Knowledge Osdfisan's "Proverbial Story" of Postindependence Fiction in Kolera Kolej Kolera Kolej, F6mi Os6fisan's lampoon of typical postindependence fic- tion, is different from all the other texts discussed thus far. Unlike Devil on the Cross, it does not attempt to downplay form; instead, it plays with established forms in order to draw attention to the meaning- making conventions of anglophone African fiction. Unlike Two Thou- sand Seasons, it does not mimic believable discourses. The novella shows no need for the "protective" rhetorical maneuvers of Reri Rdn, and its sad conclusion lacks the pathos produced by Ezeulu's tragedy in Arrow, of God. Os6fisan's story, which was published by Abiola Irele's New Horn Press during the Nigerian oil boom-the same economic boom that surrounded the birth of R/rd Rdn-seems to have consciously avoided the "seriousness" of the other works. Using the oral traditional narrative devices that are praised in classical nativism, Os6fisan isolates the generic representations of postindependence political reversals for a hilarious critique. In a simultaneously meaningful and absurd narra- tion, the story coerces the reader into reconsidering the relative signifi- cance of the mimetic structures of anglophone African postindependence fiction. Its amoral and alogical ordering of events seems to indicate that realistic exposition does not, on its own, carry superior ideological knowledge. In this chapter, I analyze Osofisan's tragicomic critique of the knowledge claims of nativist figuration.  118 Chapter 6 The Metanativist Tale History-making events dominate Kolera Kolej: independence, inaugural elections, parliament, and official opposition. In the story, a college campus in Mother Country is hit by a severe cholera epidemic that struck earlier in Gabon and Ghana. It has killed many students and top university administrators, including the bursar and the expatriate %ice- chancellor. The fear that the epidemic might spread to other locations drives the Mother Country into granting the college a qualified sover- eignty. After a hurried election, the college receives a charter of free- dom. The independent college commissions a national anthem, adopts a flag, and designates a group of professors to be the official opposition. The disease persists after self-rule. For diversion, the now-ruling pro- fessorial class launches a campaign to change the school's name. Later, a putsch executed by the field hockey team topples the first "republic" during a nationally televised cabinet deliberation on the name change. The disease persists, and the college fumbles for solutions until the end, when the ruling professor, Queen Abeke Paramole, suddenly succumbs to cholera herself. The weird plot and chronology, which together read like a folktale, retell the outbreak of independence as poor public health engineering and symbolize postindependence political and economic stagnation as an incurable epidemic. The disease, as it were, forms the solid founda- tion upon which the state, so preoccupied with devising means of making the epidemic acceptable to the population, erects its super- structures. The state devotes all of its attention to the subterfuge-pure violence and name-change contests, for examples-needed to make the deadly cycles of epidemic into sociological routines. The correspondences between events in Kolera Kole and general developments in African postcolonial history suggest that the author probably wants the novel to be read as a proverbial (or allegorical) tale. Cholera, in that context, is the novel's name for the structural base of colonial and neocolonial relations. Cholera, the fundamental cause of independence agitation and postindependence unrest, will be Osfisan's name for the origin of daunting instabilities in postindependence po- litical economies. Of all the actions in the story, the treaty of continued cooperation and friendship between Mother Country and the college, the "Yandi [literally 'ostracize' in Yornbd] Convention," reveals best the central importance of cholera to the nation's postindependence history. In the treaty, the college agrees "(1) Never to undertake the 118 Chapter 6 The Metanativist Tale History-making events dominate Kolera Kolej: independence, inaugural elections, parliament, and official opposition. In the story, a college campus in Mother Country is hit by a severe cholera epidemic that struck earlier in Gabon and Ghana. It has killed many students and top university administrators, including the bursar and the expatriate v5ice- chancellor. The fear that the epidemic might spread to other locations drives the Mother Country into granting the college a qualified sover- eignty. After a hurried election, the college receives a charter of free- dom. The independent college commissions a national anthem, adopts a flag, and designates a group of professors to be the official opposition. The disease persists after self-rule. For diversion, the no -ruling pro- fessorial class launches a campaign to change the school's name. Later, a putsch executed by the field hockey team topples the first "republic during a nationally televised cabinet deliberation on the name change. The disease persists, and the college fumbles for solutions until the end, when the ruling professor, Queen Abeke Paramole, suddenl succumbs to cholera herself. The weird plot and chronology, which together read like a folktale, retell the outbreak of independence as poor public health engineering and symbolize postindependence political and economic stagnation as an incurable epidemic. The disease, as it were, forms the solid founda- tion upon which the state, so preoccupied with devising means of making the epidemic acceptable to the population, erects its super- structures. The state devotes all of its attention to the subterfuge-pure violence and name-change contests, for examples-needed to make the deadly cycles of epidemic into sociological routines. The correspondences between events in Kolera Kolej and general developments in African postcolonial history suggest that the author probably wants the novel to be read as a proverbial (or allegorical) tale. Cholera, in that context, is the novel's name for the structural base of colonial and neocolonial relations. Cholera, the fundamental cause of independence agitation and postindependence unrest, will be Osfisan's name for the origin of daunting instabilities in postindependence po- litical economies. Of all the actions in the story, the treaty of continued cooperation and friendship between Mother Country and the college, the "Yandi [literally 'ostracize' in Yornb] Convention," reveals best the central importance of cholera to the nation's postindependence history. In the treaty, the college agrees "(1) Never to undertake the U18 Chapter 6 The Metanativist Tale History-making events dominate Kolera Kolej: independence, inaugural elections, parliament, and official opposition. In the stor, a college campus in Mother Country is hit by a severe cholera epidemic that struck earlier in Gabon and Ghana. It has killed man vstudents and top university administrators, including the bursar and the expatriate v ice- chancellor. The fear that the epidemic might spread to other locations drives the Mother Country into granting the college a qualified sorer- eignty. After a hurried election, the college receives a charter of free- dom. The independent college commissions a national anthem, adopts a flag, and designates a group of professors to be the official opposition. The disease persists after self-rule. For diversion, the now-ruling pro- fessorial class launches a campaign to change the school's name. Later, a putsch executed by the field hockey team topples the first "republic" during a nationally televised cabinet deliberation on the name change The disease persists, and the college fumbles for solutions until the end, when the ruling professor, Queen Abeke Paramole, suddenly succumbs to cholera herself. The weird plot and chronology, which together read like a folktale, retell the outbreak of independence as poor public health engineering and symbolize postindependence political and economic stagnation as an incurable epidemic. The disease, as it were, forms the solid founda- tion upon which the state, so preoccupied with devising means of making the epidemic acceptable to the population, erects its super- structures. The state devotes all of its attention to the subterfuge-pure violence and name-change contests, for examples-needed to make the deadly cycles of epidemic into sociological routines. The correspondences between events in Kolera Kolej and general developments in African postcolonial history suggest that the author probably wants the novel to be read as a proverbial (or allegorical) tale. Cholera, in that context, is the novel's name for the structural base of colonial and neocolonial relations. Cholera, the fundamental cause of independence agitation and postindependence unrest, will be Os6fisan's name for the origin of daunting instabilities in postindependence po- litical economies. Of all the actions in the story, the treaty of continued cooperation and friendship between Mother Country and the college, the "Yandi [literally 'ostracize' in Yornba] Convention," reveals best the central importance of cholera to the nation's postindependence history. In the treaty, the college agrees "(1) Never to undertake the  Figuration and the Limit of Local Knowledge 119 manufacture of vaccines, but to procure them directly from the Mother Country; (2) Never to manufacture arms or build an army, provided the Mother Country kept its soldiers where they were at the moment of Independence, that is, at the College's borders; (3) Never to consciously revert to barbarity, for instance, using its own indigenous language instead of the language acquired from the Mother Country" (36-37). The Mother Country anticipates that the epidemic will persist and ensures that it shall continue to benefit from its internal spread without suffering any deleterious effect. The second clause exacts from the professors a promise that they will quickly contain radicals who might wish to infect the Mother Country. The preposterous clause that pro- hibits the college from using its arcane vernacular ascertains the per- petuation of the other two. The Mother Country foresees the threat of a genuine nativism and thwarts it before it grows. Political, economic, technological, and cultural stagnation set in after freedom because formal independence instruments sabotaged native initiatives in ad- vance. I could continue, ad nauseam, with an interpretation of Os6fisan's critique of the betrayal of the college by those who negotiated the terms of colonial disengagement. However, I am not sure that such appor- tioning of blame is the novel's main goal. I will restrain myself from following the predominant practice of converting every fabula into a sujet, as the Russian formalists used to say, and cease pursuing the correspondences between the silly struggles in Cholera College and thematic matters in canonical African fiction. The novel's critical sig- nificance, to my mind, rests on its relentless denial of that kind of classical thematic reading and in its favoring a deliberate play on the figurative processes of the genre of anglophone novels of disillusion- ment to which it belongs.' Traditions and the Metanativist Tale The evidence of a strong devotion to the precolonial performance and narrative tradition is one major reason for Biodun Jeyifo's uneasiness in his generally friendly assessment of Osofisan's impatience with writers who invoke ideological necessity to justify incompetence. Jeyifo be- lieves that tsofisan's commitment to the "special laws of art," includ- ing those that govern the precolonial traditions, "considerably compli- cates his leftist, realist" allegiances ("Femi Osofisan" 50). Jeyifo detects in Osofisan's work a split attention to leftist activism and latent aes- Figuration and the Limit of Local Knowledge 119 manufacture of vaccines, but to procure them directly from the Mother Country; (2) Never to manufacture arms or build an army, provided the Mother Country kept its soldiers where they were at the moment of Independence, that is, at the College's borders; (3) Never to consciously revert to barbarity, for instance, using its own indigenous language instead of the language acquired from the Mother Country" (36-37). The Mother Country anticipates that the epidemic will persist and ensures that it shall continue to benefit from its internal spread without suffering any deleterious effect. The second clause exacts from the professors a promise that they will quickly contain radicals who might wish to infect the Mother Country. The preposterous clause that pro- hibits the college from using its arcane vernacular ascertains the per- petuation of the other two. The Mother Country foresees the threat of a genuine nativism and thwarts it before it grows. Political, economic, technological, and cultural stagnation set in after freedom because formal independence instruments sabotaged native initiatives in ad- vance. I could continue, ad nauseam, with an interpretation of Os6fisan's critique of the betrayal of the college by those who negotiated the terms of colonial disengagement. However, I am not sure that such appor- tioning of blame is the novel's main goal. I will restrain myself from following the predominant practice of converting every fabula into a sujet, as the Russian formalists used to say, and cease pursuing the correspondences between the silly struggles in Cholera College and thematic matters in canonical African fiction. The novel's critical sig- nificance, to my mind, rests on its relentless denial of that kind of classical thematic reading and in its favoring a deliberate play on the figurative processes of the genre of anglophone novels of disillusion- ment to which it belongs.' Traditions and the Metanativist Tale The evidence of a strong devotion to the precolonial performance and narrative tradition is one major reason for Biodun Jeyifo's uneasiness in his generally friendly assessment of Oscjfisan's impatience with writers who invoke ideological necessity to justify incompetence. Jeyifo be- lieves that Os6fisan's commitment to the "special laws of art," includ- ing those that govern the precolonial traditions, "considerably compli- cates his leftist, realist" allegiances ("Femi Osofisan" 50). Jeyifo detects in Os6fisan's work a split attention to leftist activism and latent aes- Figuration and the Limit of Local Knowledge 719 manufacture of vaccines, but to procure them directly from the Mother Country; (2) Never to manufacture arms or build an army, provided the Mother Country kept its soldiers where they were at the moment of Independence, that is, at the College's borders; (3) Never to consciously revert to barbarity, for instance, using its own indigenous language instead of the language acquired from the Mother Country" (36-37). The Mother Country anticipates that the epidemic will persist and ensures that it shall continue to benefit from its internal spread without suffering any deleterious effect. The second clause exacts from the professors a promise that they will quickly contain radicals who might wish to infect the Mother Country. The preposterous clause that pro- hibits the college from using its arcane vernacular ascertains the per- petuation of the other two. The Mother Country foresees the threat of a genuine nativism and thwarts it before it grows. Political, economic, technological, and cultural stagnation set in after freedom because formal independence instruments sabotaged native initiatives in ad- vance. I could continue, ad nauseam, with an interpretation of bofisan's critique of the betrayal of the college by those who negotiated the terms of colonial disengagement. However, I am not sure that such appor- tioning of blame is the novel's main goal. I will restrain myself from following the predominant practice of converting every fabula into a sujet, as the Russian formalists used to say, and cease pursuing the correspondences between the silly struggles in Cholera College and thematic matters in canonical African fiction. The novel's critical sig- nificance, to my mind, rests on its relentless denial of that kind of classical thematic reading and in its favoring a deliberate play on the figurative processes of the genre of anglophone novels of disillusion- ment to which it belongs> Traditions and the Metanativist Tale The evidence of a strong devotion to the precolonial performance and narrative tradition is one major reason for Biodun Jeyifo's uneasiness in his generally friendly assessment of Osofisan's impatience with writers who invoke ideological necessity to justify incompetence. Jeyifo be- lieves that susfisan's commitment to the "special laws of art," includ- ing those that govern the precolonial traditions, "considerably compli- cates his leftist, realist" allegiances ("Femi Osofisan" 50). Jeyifo detects in dsofisan's work a split attention to leftist activism and latent aes-  120 (hapteru thetic canserv atismn. But Osffisan has ate avsretised the receit ed traol haons for nontraditional purposes. He proposes tha to nation fret- lscnsreas mnetaphorsaof testual apen-endedness anid pro,4e - pragnastkcatian;- ntakes Morkrmr, the Yoruba mx thicaol heroine of b1- erationa geniuosscial transformatonnindAltxrutolum andlunsptie. popular tanes at their trite tyrics in Otte npon F-our 11. 101e. 0'.'rx'ae tosvisions convert familiar and, in traditinnat prngessie thought, cm promised" consentions and make theor reterant taecontenmporars po- litical issues. F-or Kolero K-olaj. xOsfisan appropriates stort elemnts ftom the.o modern Afriean narratirv' traditins: the targets ora tolktole narrative the tratnsformation of the foltate irn the Yoruba fore.t ado oxnttoe nae insvented ho D. 0. Fagsnwa, and the adaptation of the 1atri h Englhsh-.language novels of Amos Tutuoll.' The bes.t.-knowto practi- tionors of the folktate noset, Faguno a, Tutuola, and, most eenttt, Bost Okri, use weird chronology, clsaracterization, allegorical noxes, anl didactic, indirect discourses. 1'Is~fisanuses these soritten and ots' stox sources for neew effects. Hen-eons the folktole norvelanud it'. deioot from idealist themes bv using the form to tell the stortt of past-inte peno- deuce disillusiotnment. By. jtoiting the folktale easel tor theeoto lt' associated rwilk the realist narratire ofo classical natioisot, itr,.at reflects hack on the latter tradition rtse coor entionaliot oftt loai-t rhetoric. The separatons of tine folktalr nosel trot ts coarstntional idealistic themes and the story of postiodepeodence roalais.e teatm real- ism reveals thse importance of material natir e fuorms to hark gentre. Knlera Koli retvises hulk the folktale estructure and the adaptation practkces of Fdgunwat and Tuthgld, too preeminent praotitiater. ox what dOffisan himself calls "total prose." Wthereas Tutuoa sloopt, wholly the weird chronology and the marooelos platting ,of th oral tradition, Ospfisao forvrots tmodfern and more ohs iouslo politicallo c' nificant substitutes for all thne characteristic features of the tradtao'rofor a queshing hero, he substttes an oncurahle epidemic. toe enchings forests,he usesoadiseased universi'tycampus;andkinseadlofunpredict- ahle and fantastic plot turns, he fabricates uoimagtnable prooesorial follies. ~Onlisao, himself a professor at Nigeria's Ibadan Loot eo to theater department, hreaks ranks with hors colleague'. aol sot, a "folktale" notvel in the relatsvels "oneduoated" Tutola faso. Th0 formalistically radical slursy-defined ho the critics' laoL or odequlsato terms to descrihe if -uses acadtemia to svmholize thse misfortun tof tea Chnapterv6 thetic consersatism. But Osofisan htas alwasres ted tire receidtradi- tdons for nontraditional purposes. He proposes that lit irationo.ooo'.x loscanuserve as meta.phonrsof textualnopen'.endednee'.oandprtote.'.o prognostication;' makes Moemi, te'Yorubaotthscleroinerit- eration, ageoisofscialtrasfrmatinin Mwt' ouutoo andemtie popular tures of their trite lyrics in Ottoe triont Potr Rloll o' 1. eu'.o-an. revisionscnvsertfamiliar and, in traditional progresstive thought. om- promhsed" convntnsand make tetnrelevatto cotespoao po- liticaltsus For Kolerm Kalet. Osdfisan approtpriates stor eeentx rmthe moern African nearrativ e traditioes: tire largelorstal fsolktale- tortihe the transformtion ofi the folktale ins the Yorubah iferest sdvtur o invented ho D. 0. Fdgunwa, and the adaptoaati oh latter mio e English-language notvels of Amos Ttuola.' The 0e-rtkoon practi tionsers of the folktale notvel, Faguinna, Tustuola, andu, mos estceolo. Blen Okri, use weird chronology, characterilotkon, allegorsical nam,, sod didactic, indirect discourses.' Oshfisan usses thsese turitten and noooso' treot sources 0-sr new effects. Hen weons te foelktale otel rod its doervtio,ot from idealist themes 0-p using the torus to tell the stoers of poost-oll0 ideoe-ece disillusionment. B> joining thse folktale natel to theme- otua a associated wtith thre realist narrastiv es of classical nsatit osm Oo oot, reflects hack on the latter tradition the conentiotnalits of it ocai, t rhetoric. The separation at the folktale sooel from its socoetonal idealistic themes and the story of postindependence malaise fraom el ism reveals the importance of material natmsve farms to both gentre. Kol,'ra Kolej revises bonth the folktale structuree atnd the adaptaors0 practfces of Faguowa and Tutfula, two preemnttn' prac tirtionr or what Oshlisan himself calls "total prose. - Whereas Tutuol 0 adoi't- wholly the weird chroology and the mseroelous plotting of ohe oral teadition, Osufisan inv'enhs modern and msore ohsviously politicallt ig- nikocant suhstitutes toe all the ckheracteristic features at rte toadiioo: too a questing kern, he substitutes an incurahle epidenmic; 0-or ecatn forests, he uses a diseased univ ersity campus; and instead of unpredict- ahle and fentastic plot turns, he fabricates unimaoginable pretsosia folies. Osffan, himself a professor at Nig'rita's 10bsdan 0- 00cr i theater department, breaks ranks swith his colleagues aol woite-o "folktale" novel in the relativ els "uneducated"- Tutuoala fasion. The formalistically radical stors-definoed by> the'cri'tics' lack oi adequsate terms to descrihe it.-uses academia to sosohalior the moisfortutne sot t20 vusgm,-o v t0heconsersvatsm. But Qsdkisan has alwa'.s rex fsrd te trteive tradel hions for nontraditional purposes. He proposes that livto tor - las cansser'e as metapors of testual open-endlednes. and lro,''ses progosthcahon;' makes Moremsi, the Yoroba nstical heoinof or eratin, a genius of social transformation in V>trtmtto ,hi, andsolie popular tunes of thseir trite lyrics inC One upson Pout li.> 01,, i'.at resisioos extovert familiarased, in tradiIi sooal peetgressite thastgit'cm promised" consvenkions mnd snake them reles ant tocontsempaorar po- litical issnes. Par 0-olera K-okej Os~hsao appropriteso skeet elemtents fr'om tttee modern African narratisve traditions: the lavgelt oral folktal r io ai, the traensformahioo of the folktale so the Ysorubao forest advtersbr, c ins-ruled by 0. 0. Fdguowa, and the adaptation ,of the latter in tt Pnglish-language norvels of Amos Tutuola.' The best-ko'n pratt- tianers of the folktale novel, Faguonwa, Tuotola, and, moost reentl1, Boo 0Okri, use neird chronologo, ch'.racterizatio, allegooral namne, anod didactic, indirect discourseso. Ofsae uses these toritIten and nonoroovso soureces for ntew effects. Hes weas the folktale novel aol it-' deoiextio'. from idealist themes hy using the farm to tell sloe start at pxo-'t-po' idpndencesillusionemeot. B> joining the tolktale noosel totee ua associatedswith the realist naratisofolssicalatosm, O,'.ox'.o'. reflects hack en thre latter tradition ltessonetionoalit sot it'- l,',e rhetoric. Thse separation of the folktole nsoxel from its coovtonal idealisthc themes and the story of postindependence etalaise fromr real imreseals the importance of material native forms to boath genrto' Kolera Kalef rerises bhl the folktale strutuore ansd' tloe adlaptaton peachces of Fagdn'a and Tuthola, Iro preemi nent pro'.titisoner. o whoat Oshlisan himself calls "total prose."' Wheorea Tuxtuola ado'p". wholly the weird chronology and the marsvelous plotinog or the oa tradition, Ordhosan ins-ruts modern and more ohs ionoi> political coi> nificant suhstitutes far all the characteristic features of the traditiono' a questhug kern, he substitlutes an incurable epideomic; for enckooim forests, hruses adieasedouiversityvcampus;andfinsteadf unpreict- ahle and fantastic plot turns, he fabricates unimoaginable perofe'.-, ooil follies. l'.shfisan, himself a professor at Nigeria's 10balan Lofyr~t e'. theater department, beeaks ranks w ith his collragues and torites'a ".folktale" sorel 0-s the eelathselv "uneducated' Tutua fasion. hc formtalistically radical sloe> defiseed by he enitoes' lack of adequate terms to describe ft'-uses academia ho ssmhnoe the oristorruno ,of  Figuration and the Limit of Local Knowledge 121 independence. The hurried elections, the bombastic campaign speeches, the halfhearted economic indigenization schemes, the coup d'ftat, the detention camps, and the cultural revolutions repeat familiar themes in African postindependence fiction. But now, the locale of the gross insanity is a university campus, the normal home of reasoned critique. Osofisan's shuffling of the characteristic features of folktale fiction makes Kolera Kolej a "proverbial story" (an allegory, or iton oldwe in Yoruba). For a proverbial story to succeed, its readers (or listeners) must be aware of the motivations of the thematic, linguistic, and liter- ary inventory out of which the particular performance emanates. The self-conscious artist who wants to highlight the place of form in con- ventional "proverbial" structure exploits that awareness by redirecting his performance to other than its generic purpose. The deliberately misdirected "proverb" alerts the audience to both the existing conven- tions and the new use. The way Kolera Kolej parodies the thematic idiosyncrasies of modern anglophone African and Yoruba fiction signals the author's proverbial design. Os6fisan converts the narrative and linguistic manipulations of the folktale novel for a story about political ineptitude. He questions the methods of "reasonable" acts and narratives by placing "unreason- able" acts and narratives in a university. He mocks the thematic ear- nestness of classical nativism with an endless series of ironies. The Landless Nativist Tale Kolera Kole marks its "proverb" status by collapsing its subject matter and referent-the history of a fabricated cholera epidemic and the history of a fabricated Cholera College-into one hermetic rhetorical entity, making referencing very difficult. Mother Country, the imperi- alist territory from which the college is expunged, is located some- where between the alliterative Gabon and Ghana. Osdfisan further complicates referencing with the college's lingua franca. The cultural references in both the college and its Mother Country are apparently Yoruba. All the college professors bear distinctly Yorub names that summarize their physical characteristics, stations in the academic hier- archy, and outlook on life. Professor Gedunyajd (As-if-he-were-a-log- of-timber) is broomstick-thin until he becomes the minister of nutrition and finance; Knkute (Stumpy) is short; Comrade Ijimere (Simian) nur- tures a monkey beard; Dr. Paramdle (a poisonous snake, literally "the treacherous one") leads the first coup d'etat; Professor Jilala is as tall as Figuration and the Limit of Local Knowledge 121 independence. The hurried elections, the bombastic campaign speeches, the halfhearted economic indigenizafion schemes, the coup d'etat, the detention camps, and the cultural revolutions repeat familiar themes in African postindependence fiction. But now, the locale of the gross insanity is a university campus, the normal home of reasoned critique. Os6fisan's shuffling of the characteristic features of folktale fiction makes Kolera Kolej a "proverbial story" (an allegory, or itan olate in Yorubd). For a proverbial story to succeed, its readers (or listeners) must be aware of the motivations of the thematic, linguistic, and liter- ary inventory out of which the particular performance emanates. The self-conscious artist who wants to highlight the place of form in con- ventional "proverbial" structure exploits that aw areness by redirecting his performance to other than its generic purpose. The deliberately misdirected "proverb" alerts the audience to both the existing conven- tions and the new use. The way Kolera Kolej parodies the thematic idiosyncrasies of modern anglophone African and Yoruba fiction signals the author's proverbial design. Osofisan converts the narrative and linguistic manipulations of the folktale novel for a story about political ineptitude. He questions the methods of "reasonable" acts and narratives by placing "unreason- able" acts and narratives in a university. He mocks the thematic ear- nestness of classical nativism with an endless series of ironies. The Landless Nativist Tale Kolera Kolej marks its "proverb" status by collapsing its subject matter and referent-the history of a fabricated cholera epidemic and the history of a fabricated Cholera College-into one hermetic rhetorical entity, making referencing very difficult. Mother Country, the imperi- alist territory from which the college is expunged, is located some- where between the alliterative Gabon and Ghana. Os6fisan further complicates referencing with the college's lingua franca. The cultural references in both the college and its Mother Country are apparently Yorhbs. All the college professors bear distinctly Yorui names that summarize their physical characteristics, stations in the academic hier- archy, and outlook on life. Professor Geduyaju (As-if-he-were-a-log- of-timber) is broomstick-thin until he becomes the minister of nutrition and finance; Knknte (Stumpy) is short; Comrade Ijimere (Simian) nur- tures a monkey beard; Dr. Paramole (a poisonous snake, literally "the treacherous one") leads the first coup d'etat; Professor Jrlala is as tall as Figuration and the Limit of Local Knowledge 121 independence. The hurried elections, the bombastic campaign speeches, the halfhearted economic indigenization schemes, the coup d'etat, the detention camps, and the cultural revolutions repeat familiar themes in African postindependence fiction. But now, the locale of the gross insanity is a university campus, the normal home of reasoned critique. Osnfisan's shuffling of the characteristic features of folktale fiction makes Kolera Kolej a "proverbial story" (an allegory, or stan oldwc in Yorubs). For a proverbial story to succeed, its readers (or listeners) must be aware of the motivations of the thematic, linguistic, and liter- ary inventory out of which the particular performance emanates. The self-conscious artist who wants to highlight the place of form in con- ventional "proverbial" structure exploits that awa reness by redirecting his performance to other than its generic purpose. The deliberately misdirected "proverb" alerts the audience to both the existing conven- tions and the new use. The way Kolera Kolej parodies the thematic idiosyncrasies of modern anglophone African and Yornba fiction signals the author's proverbial design. Osofisan converts the narrative and linguistic manipulations of the folktale novel for a story about political ineptitude. He questions the methods of "reasonable" acts and narratives by placing "unreason- able" acts and narratives in a university. He mocks the thematic ear- nestness of classical nativism with an endless series of ironies. The Landless Nativist Tale Kolera Kolej marks its "proverb" status by collapsing its subject matter and referent the history of a fabricated cholera epidemic and the history of a fabricated Cholera College-into one hermetic rhetorical entity, making referencing very difficult. Mother Country, the imperi- alist territory from which the college is expunged, is located some- where between the alliterative Gabon and Ghana. Osofisan further complicates referencing with the college's lingua franca. The cultural references in both the college and its Mother Country are apparently Yorubd. All the college professors bear distinctly Yoruba names that summarize their physical characteristics, stations in the academic hier- archy, and outlook on life. Professor Geddnysjd (As-if-he-were-a-log- of-timber) is broomstick-thin until he becomes the minister of nutrition and finance; Kfkhte (Stumpy) is short; Comrade Ijimere (Simian) nur- tures a monkey beard; Dr. Param6le (a poisonous snake, literally "the treacherous one") leads the first coup d'etat; Professor rilala is as tall as  122 Chapter 6 his name announces. Like the professors, Mother Country rulers "speak" Yorrba, bear Yoruba names, worship Yorhbd deities, and use Yoruba ethnic slurs. But both nations-Cholera College and Mother Counter are not Yorib ethnically. In one instance that epitomizes the story's dissociation of Yoruba figuration and a YorrhbA "reality," the minister who represents the Mother Country at the charter-granting ceremonies to the college justifies the third clause of the Yandi Convention to his ministerial colleagues by saying, "If you want to rule a people for ever, teach them your own language as the Yoruhbs did at tfe" (37). The man's unmistakably Yorubd name, Ekiti, clashes with his nonreflexie reference to Yorhbi history. Osofisan's separation of ethnographic facts from geographical space breaches a tenet of anglophone African fiction. In this novel, ethnic paraphernalia of characterization are mere helpers of representation. The Yoruba-ization of the characters, unlike the practice in contempo- raneous writing, does not make the narrative a Yonb story. With the incongruous juxtaposition of recognizable ethnographic materials and a fictive geographical placement, Kolera Kolej isolates for us the relative insignificance of ethnographic fidelity in generic representation. The novel seems to be saying that cultural contexts, even in identity -laden African literature, is a structural piece in the poetics of place. Os6fisan's grafting of Yoruba "worldview" on the eccentric college indicates that neither realist nativist imagination nor ethnographic fidelity in itself defines the essential character of the African narrative of political en- gagement. The strangeness of the Yorhba-speaking imperialist minis- ters and the fantastic, Yoruba-speaking professors of Cholera College does not reduce the novel's satire of political chicanery, because the well-known protocols for postindependence fiction concerning rever- sals of fortune override ethnographic consistency. In other words, mat- ters which pertain to representation and figuration but are not com- pletely exhausted by mimetic accuracy are at play even in socially conscious, postindependence African writing. Phenomenal representation displaces referential content in the fol- lowing report of the proceedings of a press conference called by the interim vice chancellor to deny the outbreak of cholera in his territory. This hilarious paragraph opens the story. When the journalists had assembled, in the freshly pruned garden near the Women's Hall, the acting Vice Chancellor mounted a t22 Chapter 6 his name announces. Like the professors, Mother Country rulers "speak" Yorhba, bear Yorhba names, worship Yorhba deities, and use Yoruba ethnic slurs. But both nations-Cholera College and Mother Country- are not Yorubd ethnically. In one instance that epitomizes the story's dissociation of Yorhbd figuration and a Yorhb& "reality," the minister who represents the Mother Country at the charter-granting ceremonies to the college justifies the third clause of the Yandi Convention to his ministerial colleagues by saying, "If you want to rule a people for ever, teach them your own language as the Yorubas did at Ife" (37). The man's unmistakably Yoruba name, Ekiti, clashes with his nonreftexie reference to Yorhb history. Osofisan's separation of ethnographic facts from geographical space breaches a tenet of anglophone African fiction. In this novel, ethnic paraphernalia of characterization are mere helpers of representation. The Yorhbd-ization of the characters, unlike the practice in contempo- raneous writing, does not make the narrative a Yornbd story. With the incongruous juxtaposition of recognizable ethnographic materials and a fictive geographical placement, Kolera Kolej isolates for us the relath-e insignificance of ethnographic fidelity in generic representation. The novel seems to be saying that cultural contexts, even in identity-laden African literature, is a structural piece in the poetics of place. Os6fisa n's grafting of Yornbd "worldview" on the eccentric college indicates that neither realist nativist imagination nor ethnographic fidelity in itself defines the essential character of the African narrative of political en- gagement. The strangeness of the Yorbbd-speaking imperialist minis- ters and the fantastic, Yorihd-speaking professors of Cholera College does not reduce the novel's satire of political chicanery, because the well-known protocols for postindependence fiction concerning rever- sals of fortune override ethnographic consistency. In other words, mat- ters which pertain to representation and figuration but are not com- pletely exhausted by mimetic accuracy are at play even in socially conscious, postindependence African writing. Phenomenal representation displaces referential content in the fol- lowing report of the proceedings of a press conference called by the interim vice chancellor to deny the outbreak of cholera in his territory. This hilarious paragraph opens the story. When the journalists had assembled, in the freshly prued garden near the Women's Hall, the acting Vice Chancellor mounted a 122 Chapter 6 his name announces. Like the professors, Mother Country rulers "speak " Yoribd, bear Yorubd names, worship Yorba deities, and use Yorhba ethnic slurs. But both nations-Cholera College and Mother Country- are not Yoruba ethnically. In one instance that epitomizes the story's dissociation of Yorhba figuration and a Yorubd "reality," the minister who represents the Mother Country at the charter-granting ceremonies to the college justifies the third clause of the Yandi Convention to his ministerial colleagues by saying, "If you want to rule a people for ever, teach them your own language as the Yorubds did at Ife" (37). The man's unmistakably Yorhba name, Ekiti, clashes with his nonreflexise reference to Yornbd history. Osy6fisan's separation of ethnographic facts from geographical space breaches a tenet of anglophone African fiction. In this novel, ethnic paraphernalia of characterization are mere helpers of representation. The Yorbbi-ization of the characters, unlike the practice in contempo- raneous writing, does not make the narrative a Yorhbd story. With the incongruous juxtaposition of recognizable ethnographic materials and a fictive geographical placement, Kolera Kolej isolates for us the relative insignificance of ethnographic fidelity in generic representation. The novel seems to be saying that cultural contexts, even in identityladen African literature, is a structural piece in the poetics of place. Osifisan's grafting of Yorubi "worldview" on the eccentric college indicates that neither realist nativist imagination nor ethnographic fidelity in itself defines the essential character of the African narrative of political en- gagement. The strangeness of the Yoruba-speaking imperialist minis- ters and the fantastic, Yoruba-speaking professors of Cholera College does not reduce the novel's satire of political chicanery, because the well-known protocols for postindependence fiction concerning rever- sals of fortune override ethnographic consistency. In other words, mat- ters which pertain to representation and figuration but are not com- pletely exhausted by mimetic accuracy are at play even in socially conscious, postindependence African writing. Phenomenal representation displaces referential content in the fol- lowing report of the proceedings of a press conference called by the interim vice chancellor to deny the outbreak of cholera in his territory. This hilarious paragraph opens the story. When the journalists had assembled, in the freshly pruned garden near the Women's Hall, the acting Vice Chancellor mounted a  Figuration and the Limit of Local Knowledge 123 small rostrum and adjusted his glasses. And it was then that a curious thing happened. The VC was suddenly seen to double up, so suddenly in fact that his chin hit the lectern-and, even before the journalists could record this spectacular manner of beginning a speech, he had straightened up again and just as suddenly, his arms spread out beside him like a bird about to take off. Cameras flashed at once. The VC had definitely invented a novel form of rhetoric. And once again, he had done it, bending forward to hit the lectern and straightening up, with the same precision and the same re- markable swiftness. And for a third time. The gathering cheered, incredulous. But at this stage the VC seemed to have reckoned that the performance was getting monotonous, for this time, as he came up again, arms outspread, he added a low growling rumble of undecided decibel from somewhere low down under his aca- demic gown. The journalists recorded fast: the VC had added a subtle variation-he had farted. (9-10) The principal enlightenment officer of the university wants to deny that an epidemic is ravaging his campus. He presents himself as one whose position as the chief gatekeeper of knowledge and discovery qualifies him to organize truth, replace "rumor" with reality, and cure the public of its delusion of a diseased campus. The motivation be- comes totally irrelevant when the rhetoric of reality sneaks up on the vice chancellor, who does not know that he has been hosting the "truth" virus, cholera. The vice chancellor's performance, the narrator's reportage, and the press corps's acquiescence transgress rumor and reality, honesty and lying, figuration and literality. The narrator, ostensibly the most objec- tive participant at the scene, reports the vice chancellor's suffering as an integral part of the conference and defers observations on his mortal pain. The narrator "pretends" a naivete that prevents distinguishing between "scripted" performance and tragic accidents. This witty ob- server notices unprecedented patterns in the vice chancellor's suffering but files them away as inventions-"a novel form of rhetoric." Feigning to know no more than the journalists, the narrator reports the press corps's frenzy to keep an accurate account of the truth-asserting event. Without any hint of sarcasm, the narrator matter-of-factly reports the vice chancellor's fight with his restless bowels as a variation on the Figuration and the L Limt ocal Knowledge 123 small rostrum and adjusted his glasses. And it was then that a curious thing happened. The VC was suddenly seen to double up, so suddenly in fact that his chin hit the lectern-and, even before the journalists could record this spectacular manner of beginning a speech, he had straightened up again and just as suddenly, his arms spread out beside him like a bird about to take off. Cameras flashed at once. The VC had definitely invented a novel form of rhetoric. And once again, he had done it, bending forward to hit the lectern and straightening up, with the same precision and the same re- markable swiftness. And for a third time. The gathering cheered, incredulous. But at this stage the VC seemed to have reckoned that the performance was getting monotonous, for this time, as he came up again, arms outspread, he added a low growling rumble of undecided decibel from somewhere low down under his aca- demic gown. The journalists recorded fast: the VC had added a subtle variation-he had farted. (9-10) The principal enlightenment officer of the university wants to deny that an epidemic is ravaging his campus. He presents himself as one whose position as the chief gatekeeper of knowledge and discovery qualifies him to organize truth, replace "rumor" with reality, and cure the public of its delusion of a diseased campus. The motivation be- comes totally irrelevant when the rhetoric of reality sneaks up on the vice chancellor, who does not know that he has been hosting the "truth" virus, cholera. The vice chancellor's performance, the narrator's reportage, and the press corps's acquiescence transgress rumor and reality, honesty and lying, figuration and literality. The narrator, ostensibly the most objec- tive participant at the scene, reports the vice chancellor's suffering as an integral part of the conference and defers observations on his mortal pain. The narrator "pretends" a naivetc that prevents distinguishing between "scripted" performance and tragic accidents. This witty ob- server notices unprecedented patterns in the vice chancellor's suffering but files them away as inventions-"a novel form of rhetoric." Feigning to know no more than the journalists, the narrator reports the press corps's frenzy to keep an accurate account of the truth-asserting event. Without any hint of sarcasm, the narrator matter-of-factly reports the vice chancellor's fight with his restless bowels as a variation on the Figuration and the Limit of LocI Knowledge 123 small rostrum and adjusted his glasses. And it was then that a curious thing happened. The VC was suddenly seen to double up, so suddenly in fact that his chin hit the lectern-and, even before the journalists could record this spectacular manner of beginning a speech, he had straightened up again and just as suddenly, his arms spread out beside him like a bird about to take off. Cameras flashed at once. The VC had definitely invented a novel form of rhetoric. And once again, he had done it, bending forward to hit the lectern and straightening up, with the same precision and the same re- markable swiftness. And for a third time. The gathering cheered, incredulous. But at this stage the VC seemed to have reckoned that the performance was getting monotonous, for this time, as he came up again, arms outspread, he added a low growling rumble of undecided decibel from somewhere low down under his aca- demic gown. The journalists recorded fast: the VC had added a subtle variation-he had farted. (9-10) The principal enlightenment officer of the university wants to deny that an epidemic is ravaging his campus. He presents himself as one whose position as the chief gatekeeper of knowledge and discovery qualifies him to organize truth, replace "rumor" with reality, and cure the public of its delusion of a diseased campus. The motivation be- comes totally irrelevant when the rhetoric of reality sneaks up on the vice chancellor, who does not know that he has been hosting the "truth" virus, cholera. The vice chancellor's performance, the narrator's reportage, and the press corps's acquiescence transgress rumor and reality, honesty and lying, figuration and literality. The narrator, ostensibly the most objec- tive participant at the scene, reports the vice chancellor's suffering as an integral part of the conference and defers observations on his mortal pain. The narrator "pretends" a naivete that prevents distinguishing between "scripted" performance and tragic accidents. This witty ob- server notices unprecedented patterns in the vice chancellor's suffering but files them away as inventions-"a novel form of rhetoric." Feigning to know no more than the journalists, the narrator reports the press corps's frenzy to keep an accurate account of the truth-asserting event. Without any hint of sarcasm, the narrator matter-of-factly reports the vice chancellor's fight with his restless bowels as a variation on the  -< capr. it Pier 1E I corferenre scriptgliaycatch,,sup wih te croiieof tith In- cluding the narrator) when Ilt rexpresses itselfland scuttles A the intellectual and physical prps set uip by the vice chancellor and the witless media. The narrator absolves himself of possible charges of oruitiing by making the journalists and the vice chancllor his accomplices in the coventioss of Itbt making and forging The patpical obseeter shows tire vice chan~cellor exercising his presumed political and i-t1l lectual authorityrmcertifyakuowledge and bo~th. Tte gatheredpress corps believes, like the narrator, that the sire chancellor is merely pefoenting hils duty, and a segmnent of the popular audience poreet at the conderence weighs in as Use ultim ate customrers or troth traffickinrg. The veryveyxicall(ornmove)fnarralor occupistatiny butfcrucialspot in the circle and ods as mnetowhonm all the follies and taibles soem logical tthesraelavv Whent .-dened truffibosthrou~mgh Rially, the norm- fur sharply reports it as another conventonal devcice . The objective wcotder observes tartdy sht "the VC had definitely osventeda new foto rhetoric when tse pctor man is actually gaspieg for life. Although it is tueclear erhether Use narratr users "rhetoric' asa "floer of rhaghtr rsa"ien[ of truth, or asa'veleotthotght and truth, an a ens of the distinctionbewnrltoiadis otesstarrm tlura acer' description of the sime chancellors pair- In thenaraVr' straight-faeretresions, U sn rtyreti' statment "fue VC had defirirlv inventd ae new faoro reorc implier an unprecedented act that bridges intention and peeake ThenatdratreogNizes in thevceTesscenr'saniesayi~ neitforttfmae form and subjecttmer on oalee Tberorrtrstrrevealsta knowl- edge of Usevery c affinity between ltre rhetoric re of lferality ard Use thetoric of i Wheoyal(con rentinizedl tuth in thevicectneor petformance. When litealityfrces itsfrm upon the prearrangedtheo- htic e Use uncnall ablr y surprises of fotrth l urnu th e dissemator himself into a fantstic spctace.tThis episode, like the narrtv it introdce, ttratizc and vtlfsrtciestuhsm tauory )5fnUsscvrs anncdent that wououldrudnrilvittt . stsa he the leacity oftrstnd the kaer the comsqe)e of dacf eption inta philopt'tal theater. After the discovery of cholera in cthe cilegein the Mother Corustry esroncafls an emeercy celaietmee nglswich "took onlya week o tsassemble') toe dicuss tlte fate of its infeste prviture. The prnetirister opens the meetig, saying conrence script Reali'ty catches up w'ith the chroniclers of rom (tn- eluding the narmaoe twhen litralit expressr itelfmatd scuttles all the intellectual and physical props set op by the sice chaitellor and the ositess media, 'fle narrator absolves himself of possible ebauters of actificing hr ruacsing the journalists and tse sice chancellor huis aceoteptices itt the conv ns i'f trth mating and forgng. The pattoptial eobserver shows the rice dhanceller exercising his presumed political and inlet Inetialt automry to certy knosledge and frth. The gothred press corps belieses, like the narator, that Use vice chancellor is merely performting tos duty, andsa segment of the popudar audience presnti at the conoertence sweighs in as the l'Iimtar hammeorrs in truth rttfckinig. Thevanycynind(ornsav)lnarratoro),copies a iiny butceucial spoti Usedwirand acts as one to reboot alt the folles andmfobles seem logical is tfaek rsw he unamod ornd both bursts hicortgh finally,Use nara- for supply repsrts it as atnother conrinat device, The objectire recorder observer partys tha-t "Use VC had definitely invented anew form of rhetorc" erhe the poor man is actually gasping for life Aidnhoat it is urclear whother fue normrt uces "rhetoric" or a ntisr'Uth ooghaw tof tkene"ftratoasshce ftout rort a aua w rstofthe distincumtin betenrhetoric and its others islear from Use nar-frs decri ptio of the cicechaclo' stteen "teC had defiitl inventedonew form oftetr impliesnarnunprem dentedact that bridges intenbors and performance 'Fhenamatrrcogticsinthesvi chancelior rsnttcre an effort tomake fovrm and subject manatrrols Thenharrtr's temrerealsatouowl- edge fofte tor y close a ffinity between Use rhetoric of literality and Use reorkice inshrtonal (conventinalted) truth n theM Vice chanceitot's performance When literalit frics ltsmitntho epreamarnges rheto- ri, the eacrtryla surprises ofimat R turwn the disseintor himself int a fartan lstispco This et pisoe, ike Use narmc oe it isreucers, airirciiec and at eaicistet simultaneouly- otiis thus cvrts an icetshot would ordinbaridcely iltniate the tenacity of trothi and the psodyi consucs of dception into uphilosophica tscater ae the dilsovr of chegaora in the college, the Mohr aontry goverfcoit a ktn atll an emerec cass meeting (which " took onlya week to assemble") to discuss the fate of its irfested province, The prime mnster opens she meeing, saying: conferece scipt, Reality catcher up with tse chaotuicirs of teash (in- cluding shenarrtor) when lacality espesses itself and scuttles all the intellctual ard phuysical props set up by the vice citancellor anyd the witless media- The namatar obsolves himoself of possible charges of artihdng by nmaking Use joornalists und the vice chancellor his accomplices in she menrmous of truth making and forging. The panoptnd obsrer shows Use vice chancellor eserisng his presumed pottitical and intel- leemtal auiltoriy to ceriffy kno-l edge and trush. T'Ihe gatheredl press ,crps believes, like the errator, Usat the vice chancellor is mewtly perfaraing his diuty, and a segmtent of Use popualar asudiencre present at she conference weighs it as she ultiosate customer in truth foafficking The ver cynical(ortsas) narator occupiss atiny btatcrocial spot in rho circle and asasore to wshom all Use follies and foibles seem logical is 5hosssltes Whearnamced cruth burs t firogh finally, the narra tor simply reports it as anther counenutional deice The objective rcorder obseres tarty that "fur VC had delinitely invented a new focoxof rhcoetoic when the poor mar is actually gasping for life Although it is unclear whethr the narrator rises "rhetoric' as a "lowerc'of thought, asa "krne" oflnbats, oras avehuicle"of thought and troth an aseareneas of tlue distinctior between rhetoric ard its otsers is clear math Ue narara' description of ilhe vice ehaucellor's pal.in lurhorrratsstraga'facedprefttisru,thencttalysaratc statement "the VC had defiutly inverte a nest form of rhetoric implies an unprcedented at that bridges intentinand performonce. The narrator recrgia .%inthe vice chancedloe antimat effort to stake form and subect atercnaies,. The narttrsterm revals a kntarl- edge of Use very donse affinty between Use rhetoric of literaliy aaud the rhetoric of institutout cosvenbEnalized) trufh fin Use vice chancellor's prfomrance. Aqrenltferaty forcesikfarrs upon theprearranged rhteto- ric, she umnkollabte soorprvs of truth thrn Use dissersinatosr himoself itm oafantastic spectacle This epsoe, Ilke Usem narchs itinrdcs Hicpand rtreforcias truth simulttaneously, O adaftan thus converts aniciderrihat would ordinarily itlfestrate the tearyof truth and ithe karric conrsequences of deception into aphiosophicalitheatr Ateer the discovery of cholera in the colleg, te Masher Coutry govetorret rails an emergency cabinet meeting (which 'took only a week to asmbley "to discus the fate of its fofostm pr'isce. Th phemisiser opent the meeing. sauntre  ti-ieath¢ItS c 1S1 Sw~a 125d I -un.o elrILNKwdel6Fg - WNtWt f11Koldel I "Gentlemen of the cabiee,.. I'm sure you're oil heard the news Asorinus situattonbaes developed in one of our colleges. Cholera seems to have akrn over powertoherNow wluhalul weeds?" tavn eforehefiioes, one of hiskiinseswas onnsfel "lisa le!" he shorted angrily, and so frousc seas he that for some seconds fthe Cabiet saw his heavy lowes working up and down rapidly like seme engine gone our of order, without any coherent words coming throughh, He was aon Ekiei man, of ill-tOiO"s back- grund, bertever tsser his student days Inchad never hemn able to control his fits at temsper. (1l) The takiti minisler lakes the prustne stinislee's personification to be an allusion to his srnal indiscretion and therefore objects violently. If a proverb appears inlended for one, ard one fails torespond mard- igl, tiat person, gaesa Yarirbisayng, is onlycafrd oftagenllenrany tootle. The fleditn' knows he Is nota disease, but he alto know s he in a phrilanderar. To move tie meeting lanyard, the Pime Ministe battened to rettate tne subject, takin great cae to explain thns lime stat the cholera he was rearing to was, intfact the epidemic, and had nothing so do wsith Ike Mutnister't moral obligations" (i2). The prisme nine', in effect, denes the fignaral status atfIsis personification to peaty his lil-inded colleague, whlo takes tne frope's suprpls signi' fior 10 mean personal effrontery. Ther se litterer respous ocuswhen the cabinet resumes de- libeaation alter lunch TMe prime nminifter, who loves orate speeches, eLlaws, "see many win do ar blowing, winds of change, and tie caln upon no now is.I spread our sails tBurtde 'oettion that arises is tnis: do we have enough courage.t face orr choices, or thall weabe coinent mserely.i drtft?" (15). Vdh the othrs in the room frow'n as the prime mininter's imagey, tie Okitpupa snlnse., aipparentl of u ammaein people, "smiled wite ndesrensian, with the knowsing air of one ac- eustoneedto sails and driftisg Whathe didnatmseeoweve'sthe relevancen o uch tsings,asinethere wan bootin heroam'"fib7-The Okitipapsi man lesoos the details of ailing but ties only one meaning in them, Due to circumstances at birhl, he knows the tedchalt of winds andsailshbuthaos never attachedhtoisnyconiwsness- deenlerng potential Hence, the primee mrinster's imageries make no se 1the Oktipupa fellow new retmos-ed from hi saquatc locale into the rarfied air of ltre cabinet room. "Gzenlemen of ethe cabinet, --I'm sure 'sour e all heatrd theenews A serious situation has developed itt ore of out colleges. Choler fomso bave taken over power three- Now what sheall we do?" Even beirre htnishes, one of les Mittisters was on Isi feet "Ts a biee" tee shouted angrely, and son fmus was he tisat for some secnds the Cabinet sam his hreacy jowls working up nd dawn rapidly ikeeome engine gone out of orde, witlsout any coherent words coeg throueh. He was an Ekti man, of Iustos back- ground, butf ever since his stuadent days toe had neverkbeen able to controthi fits of temper. (11) The fkirt meinister takes the prime ministers persotnification so be an allusioneo hitosexual indiscretion andteerefore objects violently If a proverb appeasn intended for one, and one fatls to respond accord- ingly, thot peront goes a Yorfrbb saying, is only afraid at a gentlesuranl Isrle The fositi man knows haenoadsease, isutbe al knows bets a phei asderer, To move the srectitng forward, "thre Prime Mirister hastened in restate the subjecl, taking gert care to esplain this time tmat tne chsolera be was reftrris.t woo, in focI, the epidemic, and had odifins do cith the Minster's moral obligations" (12), The piee mmtIn effect dee tine figuaral status of tin petesonifiains to pacifyils lieral -Midedcolleague,whotakes lhe tope 'sstsrplsgni- tication to mean personal effrotery The reverse lltrue response oc rem when the cobinet resume de- liberation afte lunch. The prime neinster, who loves ornte sperches, bellows, "so mans winds are blowing, winds of chsarge, and the call upon us cotta to spread our calls Bust the question tina .arss is anis do we have enosebg couage to face our choices, or shall we toe contere merely to dri? f(int, While the olhets tonltre ear frown at tie prime hasuimsers imeagery, the Okisipupa minister, opparently of arive re people, 'snetled witn condecension, rwith ale knowing alr of one ac- cusemdto eal and driftng, Whabe didenot see however was the relevance ofsrhliegs, sincelihadrwas no boat in the room (1).TMe Okiippa uran knonws tine details of sailbug but tars coely one meaning to them. Due to drumsances of birth, he knows the alenialtties of winds and ails buf teas never' altached to them any cesiunes derentering potental. Hence, the prime minsters imageris make no tense in the Okitipupa keflw now removed fri his aquatic locale in the noracnar ofthe cabinet rom, "Cetlenuon of the cbinet.. I'mnsure you've all heard thesets, A serious simosan has developed inone of aoc colleges Cholea seems to have taken over power there Nowy whatfihal we do?" Evenhbefore he finishes, one of his Minister, was on his fet. "T'sa lie!" he shouted angrily, and so furious was he that for some seconds the Cabinet saw his heavy jowls working up and down rapidly Uke some engine gone out at orde, without ans coherent ssards coming thrugh He wa an Tied man, of illustrious hack- goand, betevet-sitece his student days hehaid never benable to control hes fits of temper (11) Mhe iNt nrirster takes the primee sninisters perenifimbto obe an Altusn. tohi sexual indiscretion and thaerfore objects violently If a proverb appears tiremened for one, and one fails to respond acornd- uegly, Ihat peann, goes a Yomfbd saying, is ony afaid ofa sprsmanty tussle, Thef Pit man knows hefts nt a discoese u he also knowsh bes a philanderer, To move ltre meetin forseard, "the Prime Miniser hasened torestate the aud ecn, takn, greatrare .teapinmntisttne thast the cholcea he was teferittg to seas, in fact, thne epidemic,,and had noting to do with ftne Ministers moral obligohos" (12). The primne miitr effecta, denres the figurat ioons of his pesntimation in pacify trio hieal-nrinded cotleaguar who Tk et the teoe's suplus sigr- fimalOn.,.eanpBeishaeffrontry. The mvede listener respo omeno when the cabinet resumes de- liberation alter Iranh. The prime mitrster who loves snemmae speeches, bello's, "so fnny winds are blowing, wntds of charge, nnd The yeil upon us nowisi. spread amr sails. Buf the quaesin that arises is this, dowe ha'se eough courage.nfaceoar choices, or shall webe cnt mrely tsr intr" (If> While the others in theroom frown at theprime tnites's innageou tBe Oktipopa minister, apparently of arihaer peepe, "smile with coniescensiom, with the knowing air of one ae custoteed r naids and drifting. Winat he didt not see however was the relevance of such thrings, since there was no boat in the rom" (16), The Okitipupa man knows the details of sailing butte only one meaning to them, Due to circumstaeces of birth, he knows tine techn'calities of winds and sails but hasneseratacheditnthem any consciousess dreenteing potnetiaL- Hence, the prime mriter's imageries nmake no sense.t the Okitipupa fellow non'vrmoved from his aqtt 0 c lcale into the essd ale of the cabinet room.  126 Chapter 6 This exchange is significant because it demonstrates that experien- tial affinity to the sources of figuration does not on its own guarantee accurate comprehension. The Okitipupa minister's knowledge of locale does not relieve him of the anxieties suffered by his Ekiti colleague. The Okitipupa minister's knowing smile is no more reassuring than the Fkiti man's apprehensions. The biographical and cultural circumstances of the two ministers do not lend them special advantages in decoding the prime minister's deeply contextualized turns of speech. In this episode, the use of native tropes disrupts the comprehension of locally' significant events. In other parts of the novel, Osofisan uses tropes of referential coniu- sions like sarcasm, euphemism, allusion, and "unstable" ironies-fig- ures of speech that complicate reference-to highlight the dependence of accurate representation on rhetoric. The following instances are in- structive with respect to these patterns of referential confusion. In one, the narrator laments the death of a professor of religious studies who was trained in Dublin, Ontario, and Kontagora (19). Here, Kontagora, a prominent stop on the Nigerian railway system, confuses the mimetic significance of Dublin and Ontario and remarks the mere seriality of the named university metropoles. In another case, the Mother Country education minister, who died despite his being "thoroughly vaccinated and revaccinated" against cholera and treated by an armada of ambu- lances loaded with brilliant doctors "trained in Israel, Taiwan, and Bangladesh" (41), was eulogized as a very brave and selfless "friend of the oppressed peoples of the world to the very end, who had given his life in order that the wretched of the College might be free" (40-41). In another incident, the narrator reports that after the first coup d'etat "hope was rekindled in the land ... and the people could begin to die again with renewed fervor" (105). Death by cholera is a constant in Cholera College, and any opportunity it has for spreading preserves a national pastime. At another point, when "hunger was a pretty com- mon thing in the land, some unscrupulous, unpatriotic persons still contrived to die of it" (53). The vice chancellor punishes the corpses by ordering that they be left to rot on the streets. Here, the narrative emphasizes raw numbers with the logic that abundance, even of hun- ger, should satisfy demand at an extremely low rate. The unpatriotic elements seem to be unaware of that law and choose to die of plentiful hunger. In the days after independence, malcontents are unable to feed their families "with abundant want" (54). 126 Chapter 6 This exchange is significant because it demonstrates that experien- tial affinity to the sources of figuration does not on its own guarantee accurate comprehension. The Okitipupa minister's knowledge of locale does not relieve him of the anxieties suffered by his Ekiti colleague. The Okitipupa minister's knowing smile is no more reassuring than the Ekifi man's apprehensions. The biographical and cultural circumstances of the two ministers do not lend them special advantages in decoding the prime minister's deeply contextualized turns of speech. In this episode, the use of native tropes disrupts the comprehension of locally significant events. In other parts of the novel, Os6fisan uses tropes of referential confu- sions like sarcasm, euphemism, allusion, and "unstable" ironies-fig- ores of speech that complicate reference-to highlight the dependence of accurate representation on rhetoric. The following instances are in- structive with respect to these patterns of referential confusion. In one, the narrator laments the death of a professor of religious studies who was trained in Dublin, Ontario, and Kontagora (19). Here, Kontagora, a prominent stop on the Nigerian railway system, confuses the mimetic significance of Dublin and Ontario and remarks the mere seriality of the named university metropoles. In another case, the Mother Country education minister, who died despite his being "thoroughly vaccinated and revaccinated" against cholera and treated by an armada of ambu- lances loaded with brilliant doctors "trained in Israel, Taiwan, and Bangladesh" (41), was eulogized as a very brave and selfless "friend of the oppressed peoples of the world to the very end, who had given his life in order that the wretched of the College might be free" (40-411). In another incident, the narrator reports that after the first coup d'6tat "hope was rekindled in the land ... and the people could begin to die again with renewed fervor" (105). Death by cholera is a constant in Cholera College, and any opportunity it has for spreading preserves a national pastime. At another point, when "hunger was a pretty com- mon thing in the land, some unscrupulous, unpatriotic persons still contrived to die of it" (53). The vice chancellor punishes the corpses by ordering that they be left to rot on the streets. Here, the narrative emphasizes raw numbers with the logic that abundance, even of hun- ger, should satisfy demand at an extremely low rate. The unpatriotic elements seem to be unaware of that law and choose to die of plentiful hunger. In the days after independence, malcontents are unable to feed their families "with abundant want" (54). t26 Chapter 6 This exchange is significant because it demonstrates that experien- tial affinity to the sources of figuration does not on its own guarantee accurate comprehension. The Okitipupa minister's knowledge of locale does not relieve him of the anxieties suffered by his Ekiti colleague. The Okitipupa minister's knowing smile is no more reassuring than the Ekiti man's apprehensions. The biographical and cultural circumstances of the two ministers do not lend them special advantages in decoding the prime minister's deeply contextualized turns of speech. In this episode, the use of native tropes disrupts the comprehension of locally significant events. In other parts of the novel, O6fisan uses tropes of referential confu- sions like sarcasm, euphemism, allusion, and "unstable" ironies-fig- ures of speech that complicate reference-to highlight the dependence of accurate representation on rhetoric. The following instances are in- structive with respect to these patterns of referential confusion. In one, the narrator laments the death of a professor of religious studies swho was trained in Dublin, Ontario, and Kontagora (19). Here, Kontagora, a prominent stop on the Nigerian railway system, confuses the mimetic significance of Dublin and Ontario and remarks the mere seriality of the named university metropoles. In another case, the Mother Country education minister, who died despite his being "thoroughly vaccinated and revaccinated" against cholera and treated by an armada of ambu- lances loaded with brilliant doctors "trained in Israel, Taiwan, and Bangladesh" (41), was eulogized as a very brave and selfless "friend of the oppressed peoples of the world to the very end, who had given his life in order that the wretched of the College might be free" (40-41). In another incident, the narrator reports that after the first coup d'6tat "hope was rekindled in the land ... and the people could begin to die again with renewed fervor" (105). Death by cholera is a constant in Cholera College, and any opportunity it has for spreading preserves a national pastime. At another point, when "hunger was a pretty com- mon thing in the land, some unscrupulous, unpatriotic persons still contrived to die of it" (53). The vice chancellor punishes the corpses by ordering that they be left to rot on the streets. Here, the narrative emphasizes raw numbers with the logic that abundance, even of hun- ger, should satisfy demand at an extremely low rate. The unpatriotic elements seem to be unaware of that law and choose to die of plentiful hunger. In the days after independence, malcontents are unable to feed their families "with abundant want" (54).  Figuration and the Limit of Local Knowledge 127 In the bizarre descriptions, Osafisan preempts symbolic interpreta- tion by making the absurdities "true" in themselves. The vile observa- tions restylize through literalization the squalor, the hopelessness, and the definitive pervasive corruption of African critical realist fiction. More than the realist narratives, however, Kolera Kolej instructs that both fantastic literality and positivist realism are functions of figura- tion. The novel forces on readers the literal illogicality of the college by means of alogical descriptions and arguments that reflect the absurd developments that abound in the college. The narrator's grammatically correct narrative syntax (as a story of postindependence disillusion- ment) rescues for pleasurable-specifically, comedic-reading the novel's semantic alogicality (through figures of speech that confuse referencing)." The narrative in Kolera Kolej shows that absurd-i.e., mockingly unrhetorical-literality prevails when correct order defies mimetic logic, and a ground for founding a conventional semantic platform seems impossible to construct. When grammar denies seman- tics a constitutive ground, the material signifier, like the pretentiously unrhetoricized phenomenal happenings in Kolera Kohej, dominates the speech. Syntactically, such utterances, like proverbs, mean what they say. But the structure of proverb usage also teaches that a completely literal statement is impossible. Proverb dynamics teaches that all cita- tions take place in classifiable conditions. S Os6fisan's rhetorization of literality calls attention, unlike Devil on the Cross, to the formality of meaning-making stories. As Odun Balogun and Adewale Maja-Pearce have shown, Kolerc Kolej belongs to a definite (i.e., conventional) the- matic and historical class in African fiction. Maja-Pearce identifies two "African" thematic preoccupations in the story: "the relationship be- tween master and client which, in the larger world, doomed the conti- nent to failure even as Independence was being granted ... and the way in which the ensuing political machinations with the new creation, the jockeying for power and with it the gradual erosion of democracy, played directly into the hands of the departing colonial overlord" (66). Balogun believes Osofisan wants to show that good governance in the postindependence state depends less on the educational credentials of the politicians than on the cultivation of an acute "socio-political aware- ness and the willingness to forego class exploitation that goes with this awareness" ("Kolera Kolej" 324). While do not disagree with these readings, I submit that the novel's Figuration and the Limit of Local Knowledge 127 In the bizarre descriptions, Os6fisan preempts symbolic interpreta- tion by making the absurdities "true" in themselves. The vile observa- tions restylize through literalization the squalor, the hopelessness, and the definitive pervasive corruption of African critical realist fiction. More than the realist narratives, however, Kolera Kolej instructs that both fantastic literality and positivist realism are functions of figura- tion. The novel forces on readers the literal illogicality of the college by means of alogical descriptions and arguments that reflect the absurd developments that abound in the college. The narrator's grammatically correct narrative syntax (as a story of postindependence disillusion- ment) rescues for pleasurable-specifically, comedic-reading the novel's semantic alogicality (through figures of speech that confuse referencing).' The narrative in Kolera Kolej shows that absurd-i.e., mockingly unrhetorical-literality prevails when correct order defies mimetic logic, and a ground for founding a conventional semantic platform seems impossible to construct. When grammar denies seman- tics a constitutive ground, the material signifier, like the pretentiously unrhetoricized phenomenal happenings in Kolera Kolej, dominates the speech. Syntactically, such utterances, like proverbs, mean what they say. But the structure of proverb usage also teaches that a completely literal statement is impossible. Proverb dynamics teaches that all cita- tions take place in classifiable conditions. So Os6fisan's rhetorization of literality calls attention, unlike Devil on the Cross, to the formality of meaning-making stories. As Odun Balogun and Adewale Maja-Pearce have shown, Kolera Kolej belongs to a definite (i.e., conventional) the- matic and historical class in African fiction. Maja-Pearce identifies two "African" thematic preoccupations in the story: "the relationship be- tween master and client which, in the larger world, doomed the conti- nent to failure even as Independence was being granted ... and the way in which the ensuing political machinations with the new creation, the jockeying for power and with it the gradual erosion of democracy, played directly into the hands of the departing colonial overlord" (66). Balogun believes Os6fisan wants to show that good governance in the postindependence state depends less on the educational credentials of the politicians than on the cultivation of an acute "socio-political aware- ness and the willingness to forego class exploitation that goes with this awareness" ("Kolera Kolei" 324). While I do not disagree with these readings, I submit that the novel's Figuration and the Limit of Local Knowledge 127 In the bizarre descriptions, Os6fisan preempts symbolic interpreta- tion by making the absurdities "true" in themselves. The vile observa- tions restylize through literalization the squalor, the hopelessness, and the definitive pervasive corruption of African critical realist fiction. More than the realist narratives, however, Kolera Kolei instructs that both fantastic literality and positivist realism are functions of figura- tion. The novel forces on readers the literal illogicality of the college by means of alogical descriptions and arguments that reflect the absurd developments that abound in the college. The narrator's grammatically correct narrative syntax (as a story of postindependence disillusion- ment) rescues for pleasurable-specifically, comedic-reading the novel's semantic alogicality (through figures of speech that confuse referencing).' The narrative in Kolera Kolej shows that absurd-i.e., mockingly unrhetorical-literality prevails when correct order defies mimetic logic, and a ground for founding a conventional semantic platform seems impossible to construct. When grammar denies seman- tics a constitutive ground, the material signifier, like the pretentiously unrhetoricized phenomenal happenings in Kolera Kolej, dominates the speech. Syntactically, such utterances, like proverbs, mean what they sayv. But the structure of proverb usage also teaches that a completely literal statement is impossible. Proverb dynamics teaches that all cita- tions take place in classifiable conditions. So Os6fisan's rhetorization of literality calls attention, unlike Devil on the Cross, to the formality of meaning-making stories. As Odun Balogun and Adewale Maja-Pearce have shown, Kolera Kolej belongs to a definite (i.e., conventional) the- matic and historical class in African fiction. Maja-Pearce identifies two "African" thematic preoccupations in the story: "the relationship be- tween master and client which, in the larger world, doomed the conti- nent to failure even as Independence was being granted ... and the way in which the ensuing political machinations with the new creation, the jockeying for power and with it the gradual erosion of democracy, played directly into the hands of the departing colonial overlord" (66). Balogun believes Osofisan wants to show that good governance in the postindependence state depends less on the educational credentials of the politicians than on the cultivation of an acute "socio-political a ware- ness and the willingness to forego class exploitation that goes with this awareness" ("Kolera Kolej" 324). While I do not disagree with these readings, I submit that the novel's  128 Chapter 6 most enduring value is its critique, in a localist idiom, of anglophone African literary criticism's privileging of nativist themes over formal significance. Unaware nativists claim that their closeness to the politi- cal and cultural terrain grants them a greater insight to the natie signs. Like interpretive anthropologists (Pecora 259), they flaunt their knows- edge of local histories (sometimes their firsthand experience of the historical events) in defending the superiority of their cultural symbols. They essentialize their knowledge of local terminology, fauna and flora, and customs and mores without acknowledging how their contingent interests overdetermine the specific discoveries they wave as markers of superior knowledge. Nativism and Conventionality Os6fisan's little story denies the native sign an unquestionable natural land of its own. It uses the Yoruba folktale template to parody the major preoccupations of African postindependence fiction. It deethnicizes the Yornbd folktale form and proverbializes, i.e., converts to conventions of storytelling, some of the methods and factors considered essential to Africanized postindependence fiction. With the folktale template, the novel acknowledges the generative promise of nativist defenses of African culture. With the same format, it betrays their already conren- tionalized relationship to stories about the native land. In Kolera Kalej, anticolonial agitation expresses itself as an epidemic, and independence brings no relief because the virus is not treated. Like the unschooled politicians in the more realistic stories, all the govern- ing professors grope from one ineffective solution to another. The "landless" tale makes a story out of the correspondences already estab- lished in classical nativism between African postindependence realist fiction and African historical development. By functioning like a pro- verbial story of postindependence African politics and of the post- independence disillusionment novel, Kolera Kolej conventionalizes, i.e., denativizes, the correspondences. Its cynical "objective" narrator and hilarious intellectual know-nothings beckon for interpretation accord- ing to already established patterns. The meanings they signify also speak volumes about the device inventory that constitutes the African postindependence fiction. 128 Chapter 6 most enduring value is its critique, in a localist idiom, of anglophone African literary criticism's privileging of nativist themes over formal significance. Unaware nativists claim that their closeness to the politi- cal and cultural terrain grants them a greater insight to the native signs. Like interpretive anthropologists (Pecora 259), they flaunt their knowl- edge of local histories (sometimes their firsthand experience of the historical events) in defending the superiority of their cultural symbols. They essentialize their knowledge of local terminology, fauna and flora. and customs and mores without acknowledging how their contingent interests overdetermine the specific discoveries they wave as markers of superior knowledge. Nativism and Conventionality Osofisan's little story denies the native sign an unquestionable natural land of its own. It uses the Yorhbd folktale template to parody the major preoccupations of African postindependence fiction. It deethnicizes the Yorbba folktale form and proverbializes, i.e., converts to conventions of storytelling, some of the methods and factors considered essential to Africanized postindependence fiction. With the folktale template, the novel acknowledges the generative promise of nativist defenses of African culture. With the same format, it betrays their already com-en- tionalized relationship to stories about the native land. In Kolera Kolej, anticolonial agitation expresses itself as an epidemic, and independence brings no relief because the virus is not treated. Like the unschooled politicians in the more realistic stories, all the govern- ing professors grope from one ineffective solution to another. The "landless" tale makes a story out of the correspondences already estab- lished in classical nativism between African postindependence realist fiction and African historical development. By functioning like a pro- verbial story of postindependence African politics and of the post- independence disillusionment novel, Kolera Kolej conventionalizes, i.e.. denativizes, the correspondences. Its cynical "objective" narrator and hilarious intellectual know-nothings beckon for interpretation accord- ing to already established patterns. The meanings they signify also speak volumes about the device inventory that constitutes the African postindependence fiction. 128 Chapter 6 most enduring value is its critique, in a localist idiom, of anglophone African literary criticism's privileging of nativist themes over formal significance. Unaware nativists claim that their closeness to the politi- cal and cultural terrain grants them a greater insight to the native signs. Like interpretive anthropologists (Pecora 259), they flaunt their knowl- edge of local histories (sometimes their firsthand experience of the historical events) in defending the superiority of their cultural symbols. They essentialize their knowledge of local terminology, fauna and flora, and customs and mores without acknowledging hoN their contingent interests overdetermine the specific discoveries they wave as markers of superior knowledge. Nativism and Conventionality Osofisan's little story denies the native sign an unquestionable natural land of its own. It uses the Yorubd folktale template to parody the major preoccupations of African postindependence fiction. It deethnicizes the Yorbbd folktale form and proverbializes, i.e., converts to conventions of storytelling, some of the methods and factors considered essential to Africanized postindependence fiction. With the folktale template, the novel acknowledges the generative promise of nativist defenses of African culture. With the same format, it betrays their already com-en- tionalized relationship to stories about the native land. In Kolera Kolej, anticolonial agitation expresses itself as an epidemic, and independence brings no relief because the virus is not treated. Like the unschooled politicians in the more realistic stories, all the govern- ing professors grope from one ineffective solution to another. The "landless" tale makes a story out of the correspondences already estab- lished in classical nativism between African postindependence realist fiction and African historical development. By functioning like a pro- verbial story of postindependence African politics and of the post- independence disillusionment novel, Kolera Kolej conventionalizes, i.e., denativizes, the correspondences. Its cynical "objective" narrator and hilarious intellectual know-nothings beckon for interpretation accord- ing to already established patterns. The meanings they signify also speak volumes about the device inventory that constitutes the African postindependence fiction.  Conclusion Plenty Words Do Not Fill up a Basket At the present time, several active scholars who work from within African universities complain, like Obi Wali in 1962, against the un- discriminating application of critical principles devised in American and European institutions to texts addressed to the African condition. For example, Niyi Osundare, an important poet and critic at the University of Ibadan in Nigeria, writes against what he calls the "poststructuralising" theories of culture such as deconstruction and postcolonialism. He believes that these theories are incapable of nam- ing the true conditions of reality outside of imperialist Europe and America and that they cannot but further the material interests of the political economies within which they are produced and given promi- nence. These interests, Osundare argues, are not the same ones that drive existence in places like Africa. Osundare protests not the loca- tion of the origination of ideas but their cavalier applications. He complains against "the ease and complacency with which Western theories take over the global literary and intellectual arena" and "in- scribe themselves as though the other parts of the world were a tabula rasa" (6). Kwesi Yankah, a linguist at the University of Ghana, has written about the same issue. Although less combative than Osundare, he too laments the imperialism of metalanguage in academic discourse. He says that the academic institutions of affluent countries prescribe "the paradigms and metalanguage in which our reality should be ordered" ("Displaced Academies" 8; emphasis added). The requirement made by prestigious European and American forums of scholarly exchange that African scholars should write in the language of contemporary Conclusion Plenty Words Do Not Fill up a Basket At the present time, several active scholars who work from within African universities complain, like Obi Wall in 1962, against the un- discriminating application of critical principles devised in American and European institutions to texts addressed to the African condition. For example, Niyi Osundare, an important poet and critic at the University of tbadan in Nigeria, writes against what he calls the "poststructuralising" theories of culture such as deconstruction and postcolonialism. He believes that these theories are incapable of nam- ing the true conditions of reality outside of imperialist Europe and America and that they cannot but further the material interests of the political economies within which they are produced and given promi- nence. These interests, Osundare argues, are not the same ones that drive existence in places like Africa. Osundare protests not the loca- tion of the origination of ideas but their cavalier applications. He complains against "the ease and complacency with which Western theories take over the global literary and intellectual arena" and "in- scribe themselves as though the other parts of the world were a tabula rasa" (6). Kwesi Yankah, a linguist at the University of Ghana, has written about the same issue. Although less combative than Osundare, he too laments the imperialism of metalanguage in academic discourse. He says that the academic institutions of affluent countries prescribe "the paradigms and metalanguage in which our reality should be ordered" ("Displaced Academies" 8; emphasis added). The requirement made by prestigious European and American forums of scholarly exchange that African scholars should write in the language of contemporary Conclusion Plenty Words Do Not Fill up a Basket At the present time, several active scholars who work from within African universities complain, like Obi Wali in 1962, against the un- discriminating application of critical principles devised in American and European institutions to texts addressed to the African condition. For example, Niyi Osundare, an important poet and critic at the University of Ibadan in Nigeria, writes against what he calls the "poststructuralising" theories of culture such as deconstruction and postcolonialism. He believes that these theories are incapable of nam- ing the true conditions of reality outside of imperialist Europe and America and that they cannot but further the material interests of the political economies within which they are produced and given promi- nence. These interests, Osundare argues, are not the same ones that drive existence in places like Africa. Osundare protests not the loca- tion of the origination of ideas but their cavalier applications. He complains against "the ease and complacency with which Western theories take over the global literary and intellectual arena" and "in- scribe themselves as though the other parts of the world were a tabula rasa" (6). Kwesi Yankah, a linguist at the University of Ghana, has written about the same issue. Although less combative than Osundare, he too laments the imperialism of metalanguage in academic discourse. He says that the academic institutions of affluent countries prescribe "the paradigms and metalanguage in which our reality should be ordered" ("Displaced Academies" 8; emphasis added). The requirement made by prestigious European and American forums of scholarly exchange that African scholars should write in the language of contemporary  theory subsumes "Africa's intltectual paradigms under receired ft e'i- ern hegemonies and academic tyrannies" (8). The imposstion ofiihs discorsise langoage ofia specific location on people from other p1ace' teads to "thesirtual uisurpa tion of the center oflacademicnauthority and suhsequentty the systematic mueginctication of Afirica's intellcul and their academic agenda" (8). For a critic oi African literature otto corks ini one of the metropoli- tan locabaons where the culprit theories are heing ins ented, theirord- of Osundare and Yankah hasve soerring etiectr. They remind the Ais can critic that the need for nativism exists still. TIheir rd re\ rasal_ against thre frequent sneers directed at natisvisim, that a scholar car s"till claim a geopolitical immediacy outside of the academs hr rrhich he belongs and for wich his wsork speaksrswith sinceritc. Their personrrl possessiveproinouny("our") and the ohject ofteir complaintsrel ity," presuime descrihahle condiioss. They sac that the character at theory matters because theories are namingand classifving desicer. In Yoruiba popular wisdom, Osundare sas' it is "arty nod peopleih do not mind the namesthe are caled, orc ho rerusetorseethediffer- ence hetueen thre tames they choose to hear arid tire ons ifse irorrld prefers to call them by" (3). However Iam notsuredif heAfrican criic-icludingrthe, sins" that wcorks wnithin African institutioirs-con, in this age or deliherareli shiftless capitalismr, stilt use the rhetoric of a nrationalist inecersits tor contest the applicability ofia body of theory. The old optinrirsm srsthin which the passion at early eatitvism was formulated dorr nor xs anymore. Moreover, to speak of oir reality today is so speak as tic preseisce of isonnative operatises of the Wtorld Bank rod the bIr'a- baonal Monetary Fund (IMF) in ousr central banks. At the same time, it is untenable for the critbc-especiall ithe ifl- endta ones who work hr rich Furopean and American instituiioss is keep uriting as if the crithque of naiistrhetoric itself haos nrheorc Thse metropolitan crithc who has the crtest intellectual language at hisn' her disposal cannot feign a direct knownledge of the true character as culture and its discourses. That moliginant pretession, to rise Achebe' w'ord, iscwhat, I tink, prosokes Osundare andsYnka. Ironss 'c- reftesir ity, metafictison, strategic cuses of convrenrtionss, rise cosvts ional- fin of strategies, and cultural hisbriditn are rhetorical apparatu'r' too: and none of them, as dsis bock has shown, is comsplte absent ir nativist thought and writing. Thai is w'hy, eiven as I deplos decons- theory subsunres "Africa's intellectual paradigms under recess ed ft'- ern hegemonies and academic tyrannies" (8). Thc' imposition or h discursive language of aspecific location on people frons other place' leads to "thesvirtual usurpabioni ofthe center of academic authority :and subsequerntly the systematic mrarginaoliaationrof Africa's intellectuals and their academic agenda" (81. For a criticalf African literatusre uho uworbs in one of the nmetrcopol- tan tocations where the culprit theories are being ins ented, tire siard' of Osundare and Yankah hare sobering effects. They remind the Afik can erritic that rise need for naivsismr exists stilt. Ther ciordl'rcoai, against the frequent streets directed at robism th iat a scholasr can 'sill claim a geopolitical imomediatcy outside of the academrs tos which lie belongs and forrnwhhhisonkspeaks citb sbncerity. Their pecrsal passessie pronoun ("our") andithecobject ofheir complains, "'eal- ity," presume describable conditions. They say that dre character or theory matters because theories are ncaming cod classify ing des ice'. In Yorubbrpopular wisdom, Osundare says, itis "ontrnmad peoplecyho doinotinrdhe namesteyae clled, orrwhos'refse to seethe diie- ence between the names dies chuose to beor and dth' ones ike c arld prefers tos call them hr" "(3). Houever, t am notisure ifhe African critc irsciudingtrn z..s that works within Afnicanrinstitutions-cans, in ts's age of ceirat ie shiftless capitalismi, stilt use the rhetoric of c nationaslist ssecessits iso coniest the applicability' ofia body of thseory . Thse old optimsisms ihi uhich the passion of early nctisismr was formsulcted d oesnorteis anymore. Mareosver, to speak of oisr realirs todas is to speak ofih presence of nonnatise operatises of the Worl~d harsh ansd the Inienas'- tional Monetary Fund IMF)inorccentralibanks. At tire same time, itris uintenable ifst the critic--especiall rise isnfls- ential ones who work in rich European and Anmerican isttiorns-to keep wcriting as ifthe critbque of nativisi rhetoric itself has so rheto ric. Tihe nmetropolitanr critic whs has the latest intellectural langusage at lis or her disposal cannot feigncadirect knowsledge of the lnechra,.cro' culture aind itis discourses. That mnalgnant pretenson, touse Achbbn cord, is what, I think, provokes Osundare and anikah. Iconysut reflesis un, mtetahiction, strategic uses of cansventions, rho com entional ity of strategies, and cultural hybridity cre rhetorical aparues too; anrdnoneofithem, asihishookhas shown, iscmpletel abscntins nabivist thought and wribing. That is ohy', even as I deploy decon- theory subsumes "Africa's intellectual paradigms onlet recect ed %ra'r- era hegemonies cod academic tycoon ies' (8). The inmposion afthe discursiv e language ofiaspecific locatbn on people item asker ploae leads to 'thes virtual usurpations of the center of academic athorits' and subsequently the systematic marginaizeation at Attica's biellectual and their academic agenda" (8). Forra crithc of Afnican lerature who works in one of she msetropoli- tan locations uhere the culprit theories are briny-ins ented, she is ord- ofiOsundare and Yankah have sbeing effect. Thetyremnd the Afi- can critic that the treed far tsatismn esists still. Thecir woard' rei al, against the frequent sneers directed at notirismr, that a scholar can -ill claim a geoporlitical immediacy outsidfe of thre acaderrs to whiich heo belongs and for whichbhis incekspeaksowith suncerits. Thc'ir psersoal possessise pnonoun ("conr") and the object of their comrplaints, "real- ity," presume describable conditions. TIe isa scidat the character 'it theory matters because theories are namung andclassifing dcs hr Yorba pupular w'isdom, Osundare says, ir is "cots road peopsle i be do not mind the nones they ,rre notled, or wra trifune to-se the difft- ence between dhe names they choose to beor cud the ones the iirl prefers to call them by" (3). Howsever, Iam notsre ihe Africncritic-icudingthe'. ,/ thar works within Africon institutiocur-can, in this sage at deliberately shiftless capitalism, still use thre rhetoric sri a natisonalist neccs'its tos contest the applicability ofia body of theorr. Tire ald optiominm siti which the possion of early nodsvism cos formoukated does cot enis anynrore'. Mcreaser, to speak of orrreality today cis -peak or bre presence of nonnotie operatiues or the Wornld dank and sthe Inserc-- baonal Monetary Fund (IMP) in win central banks. At the same time, ir is umntenaoble fist the critic-especialthe rinfluric- rial ones whr work in rich European and America i sstirchion- in keep wsriting as df the critique of natbvist rhetoric itself harsorhetorc. The moetropolitan critic who hos the latest intellecteol languaoge orhi o her disposal cannot feign adirect knowledge of due troe character.of Culltire and itsdiscourses. Thatlmalignant pretensions to semnactiabc word, is chat, I think, prnocokes Osundate and ltankob. Ir',rrse- reflexisvity , moetaficios, strategic uses ofi cotsentisr rho cnnio'sirs- ity of strategies, and cultural by bridity are rhretorical aipoaramursa' too; and noneofithem, asthishokhas shon,is completek oh-enc in tratisist dhoughrt and writing. That is whv, emven as I deploy decon-  'lenty Words Do Not Fill Up a Basket 131 structive reading strategies in this book, my critique of classical nativism emphasizes the determinant role of political will in nativism's deploy- ment of the rhetoric of necessity. That is why I do not equate nativist realism to the irresponsible condition of the vice chancellor of Cholera College. In this work, I have used the proverb to stand for the native material text around which ideological codes circulate. The Yorba proverb, in my usage, symbolizes not just the aphoristic energy of texts, as Derrida would say, but also the textualist energy of aphorisms. To speak of the proverb as a material figure of speech is to recognize the primacy of its textual and ideological character. However, to study the proverb, especially Yorhbn metaproverbs, without recognizing its ap- parent deconstructive orientation is not to defend the speech of nativism. In my reading, the proverb is a form that enables the creation and dissemination of other forms. In my understanding, the indigenist thrust of nativism has always been open to dialogues with theories in "other" places. Hence, my analyses have been directed at linking the kind of metropolitan theories and metalanguage-deconstruction in particular-that Osundare and Yankah decried to African texts. I have found in African nativism, for instance, a certain kind of activism that swings between the view of figuration as an ideological code and as a material letter. The overwhelm- ing ideologization of the material figure in African literary criticism was not achieved without tension and, as Paul de Man says, "resis- tance" from within the texts themselves. It is clear in the way the authors of R/re Run and Arrow of God use proverbs that the meaning dilemmas that can be caused by figuration styles are borne by a trope traditionally assumed to be a tireless facilita- tor of authorial intention. In the two texts, the expression of progressive and patriotic themes cannot be stated straightforwardly, and neither can they be deciphered without learned efforts. "Muddy" language and "cluttered" expressions are prominent features of the texts that are nativist in thematic orientation and language choice. The other texts, Two Thousand Seasons, Devil on the Cross, and Kolera Kolej, also compli- cate the application of axiomatic categories in African nativist criticism. The virtues of the progression from orality to literacy, the simplicity of reading in the alleged translucence of popular forms, and the pre- sumed alien character of solipsistic and self-reflexive forms are all crossed out. The orally delivered story in Two Thousand Seasons projects a "writerly" consciousness. Explicit discussions of the role of form in Plenty Words Do Not Fill Upa Basket 131 structive reading strategies in this book, my critique of classical nativism emphasizes the determinant role of political will in nativism's deploy- ment of the rhetoric of necessity. That is why I do not equate nativist realism to the irresponsible condition of the vice chancellor of Cholera College. In this work, I have used the proverb to stand for the native material text around which ideological codes circulate. The Yoruba proverb, in my usage, symbolizes not just the aphoristic energy of texts, as Derrida would say, but also the textualist energy of aphorisms. To speak of the proverb as a material figure of speech is to recognize the primacy of its textual and ideological character. However, to study the proverb, especially Yorhbd metaproverbs, without recognizing its ap- parent deconstructive orientation is not to defend the speech of nativism. In my reading, the proverb is a form that enables the creation and dissemination of other forms. In my understanding, the indigenist thrust of nativism has always been open to dialogues with theories in "other" places. Hence, my analyses have been directed at linking the kind of metropolitan theories and metalanguage-deconstruction in particular-that Osundare and Yankah decried to African texts. I have found in African nativism, for instance, a certain kind of activism that swings between the view of figuration as an ideological code and as a material letter. The overwhelm- ing ideologization of the material figure in African literary criticism was not achieved without tension and, as Paul de Man says, "resis- tance" from within the texts themselves. It is clear in the way the authors of Rere Rdn and Arrow' of God use proverbs that the meaning dilemmas that can be caused by figuration styles are borne by a trope traditionally assumed to be a tireless facilita- tor of authorial intention. In the two texts, the expression of progressive and patriotic themes cannot be stated straightforwardly, and neither can they be deciphered without learned efforts. "Muddy" language and "cluttered" expressions are prominent features of the texts that are nativist in thematic orientation and language choice. The other texts, Two Thousand Seasons, Devil on the Cross, and Kolera Kolej, also compli- cate the application of axiomatic categories in African nativist criticism. The virtues of the progression from orality to literacy, the simplicity of reading in the alleged translucence of popular forms, and the pre- sumed alien character of solipsistic and self-reflexive forms are all crossed out. The orally delivered story in Two Thousand Seasons projects a "writerly" consciousness. Explicit discussions of the role of form in Plenty Words Do Not Fill Up a Basket 131 structive reading strategies in this book, my critique of classical nativism emphasizes the determinant role of political will in nativism's deploy- ment of the rhetoric of necessity. That is why I do not equate nativist realism to the irresponsible condition of the vice chancellor of Cholera College. In this work, I have used the proverb to stand for the native material text around which ideological codes circulate. The Yoraba proverb, in my usage, symbolizes not just the aphoristic energy of texts, as Derrida would say, but also the textualist energy of aphorisms. To speak of the proverb as a material figure of speech is to recognize the primacy of its textual and ideological character. However, to study the proverb, especially Yoruba metaproverbs, without recognizing its ap- parent deconstructive orientation is not to defend the speech of nativism. In my reading, the proverb is a form that enables the creation and dissemination of other forms. In my understanding, the indigenist thrust of nativism has always been open to dialogues with theories in "other" places. Hence, my analyses have been directed at linking the kind of metropolitan theories and metalanguage-deconstruction in particular-that Osundare and Yankah decried to African texts. I have found in African nativism, for instance, a certain kind of activism that swings between the view of figuration as an ideological code and as a material letter. The overwhelm- ing ideologization of the material figure in African literary criticism was not achieved without tension and, as Paul de Man says, "resis- tance" from within the texts themselves. It is clear in the way the authors of Rare R n and Arrow of God use proverbs that the meaning dilemmas that can be caused by figuration styles are borne by a trope traditionally assumed to be a tireless facilita- tor of authorial intention. In the two texts, the expression of progressive and patriotic themes cannot be stated straightforwardly, and neither can they be deciphered without learned efforts. "Muddy" language and "cluttered" expressions are prominent features of the texts that are nativist in thematic orientation and language choice. The other texts, Two Thousand Seasons, Devil on the Cross, and Kolera Kolej, also compli- cate the application of axiomatic categories in African nativist criticism. The virtues of the progression from orality to literacy, the simplicity of reading in the alleged translucence of popular forms, and the pre- sumed alien character of solipsistic and self-reflexive forms are all crossed out. The orally delivered story in Two Thousand Seasons projects a "writerly" consciousness. Explicit discussions of the role of form in  732 Conclusion expression turn Devil on the Cross, a novel that, out of nativist and ideological motivation, was written to de-emphasize language, into a reading delight. In Kolera Kolej, oral traditions are appropriated and prominently marked as verbal forms that have been written already in the indigenous languages. I started this project with two large aims. I wanted to show that nativism's privileging of the political significance of the cultural sign depended on a rhetoric of necessity: "I can't help it," were Achebe's words. I also wanted to show that through a close reading of native tropes one may be able to locate principles of textuality that can sustain a rhetorical criticism. 132 Conclusion expression turn Devil on the Cross, a novel that, out of nativist and ideological motivation, was written to de-emphasize language, into a reading delight. In Kolera Kolej, oral traditions are appropriated and prominently marked as verbal forms that have been written already in the indigenous languages. I started this project with two large aims. I wanted to show that nativism's privileging of the political significance of the cultural sign depended on a rhetoric of necessity: "I can't help it," were Achebe's words. I also wanted to show that through a close reading of native tropes one may be able to locate principles of textuality that can sustain a rhetorical criticism. 132 Conclusion expression turn Devil on the Cross, a novel that, out of nativist and ideological motivation, was written to de-emphasize language, into a reading delight. In Kolera Kolej, oral traditions are appropriated and prominently marked as verbal forms that have been written already in the indigenous languages. I started this project with two large aims. I wanted to show that nativism's privileging of the political significance of the cultural sign depended on a rhetoric of necessity: "I can't help it," were Achebe's words. I also wanted to show that through a close reading of native tropes one may be able to locate principles of textuality that can sustain a rhetorical criticism.  Notes Chatpter 1: My Signi~fier Is Mor Nattive 1tan Yours Wtlit retport, it prited Gabriel Okara't "Africant Speechi ... Entglish Wortds" spontdtstttfomNovember 963 toJanuay964inctlude BaryRekod, Gerad 3.re WOote, oink, enis ilimJonClrAutnlhlon.dPu 4.ars F Walict Swotoa bejotnder tothedy tihsm tbifth th th D hcembe " Acc3ssu- di2.c iThe orn"dtt in iait olediscoredt by nth ecerlyte toempiorally "eet" to ttiot.e viitoo Otewol Nceabeo Eciurioea oflutcestt"Mod. e.rSe Brtats histdtoctoalt Aticanit o Yincluhe Saktesitt."e, the ittktho thepBtishct paliaetthiyetwaleduthveityMcha "besoty" thatiatppnt veirhe ent thattet clud idfostacabl tthe See oona bicb'ties.l~ ~ A.clen e icttto egins ther tudyio th th eieio thtte " hte Ama-cit 7.hSme "Lvokeg oonitentyi led udrdb the Dttttitt equMoti"n(331e S.e preumediiitrat kparictho biettwe pcarer"andl A"euty" btht tit scietos- edlythtzedih ctte petpbtttilhstoligbistc tstTh ootheertoitet Notes Notes Chapter 1: My Signtifier It More Natitte than Yotrt 1. Transtitiotstoked the cottroversyfttrttbottttoyttts.cIthesameisoeas Wolits tttptttt, it printed Gttbritl Okttrt's "Africatt Speetch ... Fttglish Wttrds" tttd Mphithlele't "Africott Litett roe antd Uttivttsitits." Othttr poblishedre spontdenttsltttomcNttv'tembert1963ttjtto tvnur 1964 ittcludt Bacrr' Reckttrd,CGerald Mttttrt, Wttlt Sttyittka, Dtttttit Williamsc, Jtthtt Clttre, Attttitt Sheltont, antd Pool Edwartds. Wait wo'tt tt rejttittdtr ttt the cr'ititismsc int thtt Dttecber 1963 issttt. "recentt" btthtiiotsttfthettoldtrceabhitt o Euopettttinfloetes. "Med- ettt" ttrtifacts in hitotical Africattit discttttse include Shaktttpeartt, thtt Bible, thtt British parliamenttt, thtt wa'llttd tttitttctity, Michattl Jocksot, Kttfhtt, ottd Tttlstttv. "Traditionttl" culttetl itemstar otttftent hybridizattittts mttade ttp ttf di- 3. See Olttttde, ftte etxattple. 4. Flotettee Stttttt begint bet tudy tith thtt belief thttt the "httmee" Amaei- diumtte inotkes to consfidtetly it alreatdy sunsderetd by thet gender questtions the seeks to artitolatte. Stte alott Obitttma Nnaiemtekat's criticistt ttf Strattonc. 5. Sttt Bttbattttdt Locwol, "Stttmt Aspettts ttf Yttr'tba Attesttetitcs" thittk tht the presumtted litttral parity btweentt "charactr" antd "bttautty" that it sopptts- etdly themattized int the prtoerb faitt it lintguistic test. The formcc of thet vertb to be netithttr it phettttmetttl tttt ideattionatl ttus. See Attittbld't "ilwapele: The ConcteptoflGootd Charactte"for anteplaatnottf iwa aeebig. S. Sttt Jamestt Currtty, Alan' Hill, attd Ketth Satttbetttk for aStief glimtpte into Athebt't itmpottantttt ttt thtt fttrtmatittt tti thtt ttditoiatl style ttf the infiluetttial 7. hett "Lantguage tttd tbtt Destitty ttf Mttt" (33). S. Rhsetttrititttt kttttw thttt littltt it pttttliarly Afrttttabtotthit'cittw'tt tctttttiv'ity. Atttttdittg ttt Tritth MittS-ho, for ttxactplt, "cltear excprestiont, oftett ttqutetdtwithtttrectt etpressiont, haslottgbetttttetlforthtinthetettisestot Chapyter 1: My Signtifier It Mttte Nativee thant Yotrs 1. Transcitiont stoked the cotroversy for atbout twto yearse. Int thet samte issuet ast Wolis tttportt, it printttd Gobrie Okartt's "Afeitcan Speech ... Enggith Wordt" ittd Mphahleltt't "Afitoan Literttttrt ansd Unieitiet." Othttr pueblishedre tptondett fomt Noemttber 1963 tt Jttnteary 1964 ictluet Barrv Rtttkord, Gttcald Mooett, Wole Soyineka, Dttenis Williamsc, Jtthtt Clarct, Austtitt Sheltone, teed Pttol Edwattd. With wte it rejtittder to the teitititset it the Detetbe 1963 itso. 2. The"moertnt"intAfticaistdicourste is not ncessearoily thetemtptclly "rcenttt" btthe iions ofthe wrld tc eaboltte toEopeaneiflente. "Mod- tern' arctifats it hitorticol Aficistit discouset inclttdtt Shakesptaret, thtt Bibl, the British pareliamett, the twotled untivetsity, Michael Jackso, Kttfkai, antd Ttlttoy'. "Trttditionail" tculturatl ittets itrt tftett hybridiztttiotts made op ti di- verseteeets thot ittled fortts tritteable to t prcttoloneial timtes. 3.9,,e Oloodt, ft, texattple. 4. Flortene Strttont heginst httr tudy with thtt belief that the "hoe," Atma- diuettt inokes to confidenttly it itetdy suntderetd by the gettder questtiont the sees to artitlatte. See itlto Obiotta Nnaoemtekat's criitictsm tf Steotto. 5. Ste Babatunsde Lawatl, "Sotte Atpett of Yoreubo Aesthtics." I thittk thtt thetpretsumtediteral parity betwetent"haractter"ottd "ety" that istsuppot- ttdly thtemittized int thtt proerb (tilt it littgoitic tett. The iform of thtt terh to btt inethistsayittgisttictlyatopla(acompisonoretattphto)ad ttpresset tteither it phetomenttl not ideittiotal ttto. Set Abittbftd't "lte'ply The Conctept of Goed Character" for ant explanaoion of ioa ast being. 6. Sttt Joctttt Currtty, Aloes Hill, ottd Keith Samtbtook foet brief glicmpte into Achebets ittpotaet to the formaction of the editociol ttylt of the insfluential Heiemn tt ries. 7. Seet "Loangttogt tand thtt Dettitty of Mitt" (33). 8. lRhtteticianse know thot little it peculiarly Afcicoan aoot thit tiew,, of cteativ'ity. Actotding to Teitth Mienh-So, foe ttexample, "cltarcetptttttiot, often equaitedtewith corrcttettpesio,htlongbtetttet forthbintthtretttitssto  1,34 Net,, 134 Notes 134 Notes colonization of Africant Literature'. Ph3ilosoph3ical an4 factual challenge3 to hi plan3k cnbe fountd int James,~ Gib3bs" 'L,',413, ith a Difference" antd Antho44, Appiah's "Topoltogies." 9. The3different4uses of3otality and31literac33 paradigmstti lttin the 3olu- tiont of Africant cul1tural consc3iousness co4stitu~tesnohe inf3luen3tt143''.4 Fo n vriew of, the tetrmt,se the fitrst two chap3ters ot Lileent 14 4n bo'. Abiola t,,,3' "Te AricanttImaginationt"; and Harold SchtetbA'A Re34; o 10. 1 atm indetbtetd to James Clifford's1 appropriationt of43 idsntino "wrtitittg" ("Ott Ethnotgtraphic Alegory" 11718). t1. Seet Ketu Katrak 19-20. 12. Appiah3 int "Topologies," Amtat int Theory~ of 31i,.t, 'i.c' L Nla." 13. SeeArmaht, "Masks1and1Marx." 14. More otenthan no3t,thowevr, 4Africn4Marxstsfin tt difftcult to fus their'Aicattist andterttialist identities'.1Thefurtet3,Mrxit33r4,to,'u- turatltivimtistan expans'ionttf Fratz4Fanon'ttcrtique4oflntionaismt (Fanon 148-248; 1ee44lso Ono~geand1Hun't. also3tIsola,4whoas,33"Dott't4'iters have4ta3moral obl33gaton3to gi3 ttehin4 16. Remarka33bly, this, rather fatalistic344 vi 1 ofhiit-~ does' ntt3 extend3beyon language choic. Achebe3' not too3impcit itiism'oftNglgi and3other , "44"' ti1 ttativits itself~ takes' liber'ty wtith history: if Achebe 334s been bilinual or4a tttttily. 37. F~ortxaple, he ma3kes1a vtr itriguintg '4uggestiont that th4 Mlink31 Malinke, speech3is"already3 d14plicitous' betraya of4silence4 (1364; 38.4 04e43 Edwad Si"' "Represettting the4 Colonized,3." 19. Tbe distant tbird-worl cri~tics o the cosmo3tt3politanpttclnl critic34 43. Chapter 2:,The4ProverbIs3the Horse~ of Words1 1. Alt the Yoru'ba terms3 are taken fro the first volume33 o3 Y,3',!' 31c i languag4: 033 17443 Yorub3,, comtpiled3 33y 333e Yortuba Stttdies Associ3tionof Nigeria and3 ed1ited1 by Ay3, 44ttgb434. 2.Whtin3gthimslfwrte4a1comprehens,'ive'def1niion:."a 74r343rb is a444 rhe4toric, whose4aim was to4order3discourse so4as to persuade"'(16) See N 14,,134h's "Poettics and theMythiImgiation4" and1 Sovinka's "N44T4,4,t,34 for3re sponses1o the34rhetoricalrecommendttonst4of4the4authors. ofToy 1.'?43. colon3izaio3333f African, Li3teatur. Ph3ilosolph3icl1 and f113441 133414434' 34 their Appiah3's "Topologie." 9. The~ differentt uses 4f oralit3' and4literac3 paradigms, in471433343th1.3 '4 For 44 o3erview' of the terms, see the4 first two4 chapt3ers 333 Eiee Julen3 book: Abiola 14413's "The4 African Imagittation"; 444 Harold 1313344, A- 443ie 343 African3 0ral Traditions 4and Literature." 10. 1 am indebted 3o (44341 Clifford3's ap8porion34 41 D434i34' no4tion4 4 "wr4itittg" ("04 Etbhnographic Al1,egory" 117-18). 11.44e Ketu Ka433a3319-20. 12. Appiah int "Topologies,," Amtt in Th3eo4y o,46ic3,3 1,c Maz-.. 14 Kunene,4and1Daniel Kuttene'have4llcommte43d4on3thedeining parameter' '3 the4ir Africa4tist 4431 materiist4 identities. The, furt334s3 Marxists, eer i4nto cul- tural natiism isan4epanion43of Frantz Fanon3's ciique33 4,of 44 naioals 041,333 148-248; see141so0O4o44431 Hunt3). 35.8See M4,,4i 4431 Gikand3i 33or in-depth3 discuss',ions of ho4, 333e concepts . nations1, cultures434,t3,4an3mmuictniterrelate4343i4postcoloaltica'.3See also4Isola,t3who4asks, "D4on34 writers have4,34 a31434 34ra obia4nt i3e4'4n343h34 back 1to he iterar ecosytem fromtwich they raw thei inspiration43,7, 33- 16. Remark3ably, 333istrather3ftal3ist,ic , i3ew33 of ,4344 3 hitr344 otetndbyn langu4ge1334ice. Ache4be's 441144o iic3it critbcism4 o1 Ngul an31 o3ther lingui t8c4n3t1vist itself 343341 lberty wi33 historyv: if Achebe4has been3bilinguil 44or3434 long4ashe remembers,4it is3because3he3grew4upin3a4nascent4middle-clas family. 37. 744 44443734, 334 makes4 a veryin3tiguing suggestion 3333333 theM13ink c413444 cont44dicts 3334 me4347333sics 41 s744133 34 4,443 European cul3434, In Malinke3, 1744133 islred a4341 4d1plic3itous be43r43414 of34 31ece 3163. 18. See Edward,3 Said's "Repr4es433i34 th34 Colonized." 19. The3isan third3333-4'orld3 critic 31 now 333e cosmopolita4 pot1lonia 3crit33 See Ant Dirlik3 on when3, how~, 4431 why3 the~ transformat4ion occurred Chapter 2: The Proverb, Isth 3bHorse of Words4 1. All 333e Yoruba33 terms1 are taken, 1344, 333e first 34144me of Y,3, .l 4, 33 1433333431 034 17eri Yo43313, comp7iled 33y 333e Yor3433 Studies Associat3on '3 Nigeria 4431 edited by Ay 9 B443g334l. 2. Whitintg himse4lf 44434 4 comprethensive 4definition: "a pro4erb1is an v, rhetoric,4wh4s4 aim, was13o4o3143313sco43s443oa333743144314' (16)3 See 41444134(3 "7443tic43 and3th Mytbic 14344in4t344' and344334 Soik'\4434344433fo3334' spo34s4s 333 3134 rhetorical recommen4dations of(433334 the .uto 3 ofTcad 3e"L colonizion43 4of African Lit4ratur. Ph3iloso4phical 4431 factual challenge43 3o 3the3 p1a133can33414443d in3 (Jam4s Gibbs's "33441444' wi3tha Difference" 433 Anthony1 Appiah3's "To3pologies." 9. The 3131143443 uses of orality 4431 literac3 paradigms' 13 p1433343 the34,3u 3il4 131 Afican4 14134441 consc1iousness1 constitutes4334 4a1444334 inlunta str4 744444444view144' h 413343443,34433343343st3tw31134731314ofLile Jule4 book4.3.4 Ab3iola frele's "TheAfrca Imgintin";an Harold33' 44Sc433131341's "A 7143333 i4 Af4ican 0341 Trad1itions 4431 Literturet." t0. 1 44, i4314bt343 34 James C13114331's appropriation 43 13e,,ida' not4ion o "writintg' ("Ott Ethno3graphic Allegory" 117-133. 11.844e Ketu1Katrak319-20. 12. Appiah3 in "Topologies,"' Amuta3 in4her of44 Afr1 a .l I 33 1',3t;- 11,34 Kunen,34and3Dan3ielKunene4ha3e3all commented on4the3deftniig4paramete13.of Af33ic14 literatur. 13T See Armah4, "Masks and431x 14. Mor3o4e 4th44 3334,ho443344, African3 Marxists, 33431 33333. difcl tofuse the4ir Af3ica4ist 4431 materialist ident3ities,. T1he 3443334s3 53434is3, veer ino3u tural nativ'ism4 is an expans1ion4o 4104443 13444' crit3que of nationalism 3043344 148-248; see4also(Ono4444nd Hunt)3. 15. S44 Mazru4i 4431 Gikand3i fo in-depth dissions34 of34 how3the3concept. o nations3,culture,and1communiation,3interrelat in 34 potcloia Arc. See 41s4 Isola, who3 4333s, "Do't wr3ite31 have3a 4mo434 obliga4tion t34444oet back33t teiterar4eoy stem,',3f3om43wich33the4 rw3 hi inspirat313373on.'" ' 13. Remarkabl33y, 333313433343 fatalitiview, of hitr d3443 not14 extend3be3ond 14444443 choice. Ac33334334n443344 implit crit3cism4 43 \'gugi and the4344. i 3ic nat3ists3 i31411 takes4 1334r37 w3ith 33is33343 if Ache4be 33as been, bilingual3 for3a long ashe3 emebert4isb ecauseie1grewup4in4 nascent midd44344333l-..s family. 17.7Forexampl, 334 ma4334344437 intriguing sugg4411343 31343 3334 Malinke cutue33 nraics4 h metaphysics3 333 43434733 h'4l71lin344 0441443 E 4rop 44n 14trI Malinke4,speech3 is "already1 a31upli1it441 betrayal o1 silence" (1361- 18. 94403144331Said1's "Represent1ng 333e Coloized1. 19. The~ 31is3tt 333rdwo31 444131 33is now 444' 31333 mopoli4tan postcolonia ritic( SeArif Dirlik on wh, hw,33and41why the~ transformation occurred Chapter 237The4P44443b Isth Horse44,44f Words1 1. Allthe4Yoru4b43termsare3taken1from3t3e3irst,4volume333of 11ru,. language:3 73e (7443 Y4o3313, compiled 33y 333e Yo43433 9343134s Asoito of Nigeria 4431 ed1ited3b Ay' 43184433341. 2. Whitittg himself11wrote a comprehens4ive 4eiiin "a1391. pr'4 r 73333. an 4  Notes l; pression which, owing to its birth to the people, testifies to its origin in form and phrase. It expresses what is apparently a fundamental truth,-that is a truism,-in homely language, often adorned, however, with alliteration and rhyme It is usually short, but need not be; it is usually true, but need not be. Some proverbs have both a literal and a figurative meaning; but often they have but one of the two. A proverb must be venerable; it must bear the sign of antiquity; and, since such signs may be counterfeited by a clever literary man, it should be attested in different places at different times" (302). I take most of my quotations of the old documents from Whiting because his is the most compre- hensive compilation of those ancient and, in most instances, rare definitions. However, the interpretations, except where so stated, are mine. 3. Kwesi Yankah's findings in "Proverb Rhetoric and African Judicial Pro- cesses" contradict Messenger. Yan kah says, "proverb speaking, like the execu- tion of all verbal art, does not constitute an automatic fulfillment of the performer's wish, even where all the felicity conditions for performance are satisfied" (281). See also Ojoade's "Proverbial Evidences" and OmonlyiAdewoye, "Proverbs as Vehicles of Juristic Thought." 4. B. J. Whiting concurs: "to offer a brief, yet workable definition of a proverb, especially with the proverbial phrase included, is well nigh impossible" ("Prov- erbs" 331). 5. Variants of equational sayings (A is B) are "He is A is B," "When there's A and B there's a C,'" and the verbless equations "many men, many minds" and "like father, like son." The basic formula of oppositional saying is "A is not equal to B." 6. Ojoade, "African Proverbs" 20; Whiting, "The Origin of Proverbs" 65. 7. I am aware of the expression "Oro lo so, o 6 pur6" (You have spoken the word, you told no lie), in which the opposition of 6r6 (the word) to ir6 (lie) suggests that the former contrasts with the latter. But 6rb is used in this expression to mean unembellished utterance. 8. As Gayatri Spivak has said, "the 'self' is itself always production rather than ground" (In Other Worlds 212). My analysis here agrees with Spivak's discussion of the "writing" character of "rumor" in subaltern ity. Rumor, Spivak says, "is a relay of something always assumed to be pre-existent" (214). 9. Professor Abi6dn told me in a personal communication that or (the word) is praised in one oriki poem as "ajepo ma pon 6n" (that which consumes the red palm-oil and is not colored). Professor Abidn said the oriki refers to the elemental status of the word. I think the epithet reiterates the meaning of rbr as a material signifier. It functions here like rain (1jo) in the saying "Oj koI bini kan sor6; eni elej i n pa" (The rain befriends no prtc persons; the torrential one lashes whoever it sees). 10. Pa also means "to kill." ITam unable to make the connection between pa as figuration and pa as killing. 11. As in the expression "Imo won ni" (It is their sinister plot). pression which, owing to its birth to the people, testifies to its origin in form and phrase. It expresses what is apparently a fundamental truth,-that is a truism,-in homely language, often adorned, however, with alliteration and rhyme It is usually short, but need not be; it is usually true, but need not be. Some proverbs have both a literal and a figurative meaning; but often they have but one of the two. A proverb must be venerable; it must bear the sign of antiquity; and, since such signs may be counterfeited by a clever literary man, it should be attested in differen pt times" (302). 1 take most of my quotations of the old documents from Whiting because his is the most compre- hensive compilation of those ancient and, in most instances, rare definitions. However, the interpretations, except where so stated, are mine. 3. Kwesi Yankah's findings in "Proverb Rhetoric and African Judicial Pro- cesses" contradict Messenger. Yankah says, "proverb speaking, like the execu- tion of all verbal art, does not constitute an automatic fulfillment of the performer's wish, even where all the felicity conditions for performance are satisfied" (281). See also Ojoade's "Proverbial Evidences" and Omoniy i A dewoye, "Proverbs as Vehicles of Juristic Thought." 4. B. J. Whiting concurs: "to offer a brief, yet workable definition of a proverb, especially with the proverbial phrase included, is well nigh impossible" ("Prov- erbs" 331). 5. Variants of equational sayings (A is B) are " He is A is B," "When there's A and B there's a C," and the verbless equations "many men, many minds" and "like father, like son." The basic formula of oppositional saying is "A is not equal to B." 6. Ojoade, "African Proverbs" 20; Whiting, "The Origin of Proverbs" 65. 7. I am aware of the expression "Oro to so, o 6 pure" (You have spoken the word, you told no lie), in which the opposition of 6r6 (the word) to ir) (lie) suggests that the former contrasts with the latter. But 6ro is used in this expression to mean unembellished utterance. 8. As Gayatri Spivak has said, "the 'self' is itself always production rather than ground" (In Other Worlds 212). My analysis here agrees with Spivak's discussion of the "writing" character of "rumor" in subalternity. Rumor, Spivak says, "is a relay of something always assumed to be pre-existent" (214). 9. Professor Abidn told me in a personal communication that 6o (the word) is praised in one oriki poem as "ajepo ma pn 6n" (that which consumes the red palm-oil and is not colored). Professor Abi6dnn said the oriki refers to the elemental status of the word. I think the epithet reiterates the meaning of 6rb as a material signifier. It functions here like rain (ojo) in the saying "Ojo kao b6n! kan sore; eni eji rf leji n pa" (The rain befriends no particular persons; the torrential one lashes whoever it sees),. 10. Pa also means "to kill." I am unable to make the connection between pa as figuration and pa as killing. 11. As in the expression "Ima won ni" (It is their sinister plot). pression which, owing to its birth to the people, testifies to its origin in form and phrase. It expresses what is apparently a fundamental truth,-that is a truism,-in homely language, often adorned, however, with alliteration and rhyme. It is usually short, but need not be; it is usually true, but need not be. Some proverbs have both a literal and a figurative meaning; but often they have but one of the two. A proverb must be venerable; it must bear the sign of antiquity; and, since such signs may be counterfeited by a clever literary man, it should be attested in different places at different times" (302). I take most of my quotations of the old documents from Whiting because his is the most compre- hensive compilation of those ancient and, in most instances, rare definitions. However, the interpretations, except where so stated, are mine. 3. Kwesi Yankah's findings in "Proverb Rhetoric and African ludicial Pro- cesses" contradict Messenger. Yankah says, "proverb speaking, like the execu- tion of all verbal art, does not constitute an automatic fulfillment of the performer's wish, even where all the felicity conditions for performance are satisfied " (281). See also Ojoade's "Proverbial Evidences" and Omoniyi Ad waye, "Proverbs as Vehicles of Juristic Thought." 4. B. J. Whiting concurs: "to offer a brief, yet workable definition of a proverb, especially with the proverbial phrase includ ed, is well ni gh impossible" (" Prov- erbs" 331). 5. Variants of equational sayings (A is B) are "He is A is B3," "When there's A and B there's a C," and the verbless equations "many men, many minds" and "like father, like son." The basic formula of oppositional saying is "A is not equal to B." 6. Ojoade, "African Proverbs" 20; Whiting, "The Origin of Proverbs" 65. 7. I am aware of the expression "Oro lo so, o o pur6" (You have spoken the word, you told no lie), in which the opposition of r (the word) to ire (lie) suggests that the former contrasts with the latter. But 6r6 is used in this expression to mean unembellished utterance. 8. As Gayatri Spivak has said, "the 'self' is itself ahvays production rather than ground" (In Other Worlds 212). My analysis here agrees with Spivak's discussion of the "writing" character of "rumor" in subalternity. Rumor, Spivak says, "is a relay of something always assumed to be pre-existent" (214). 9. Professor Abi6dd1n told me in a personal communication that 6r6 (the word) is praised in one oriki poem as "ajepo md Pon on" (that which consumes the red palm-oil and is not colored). Professor Abf6ddn said the oriki refers to the elemental status of the word. I think the epithet reiterates the meaning of br6 as a material signifier, It functions here like rain (bjo) in the saying "Ojn ko beni kan sor6; eni eji ri leji n pa" ('the rain befriends no particular persons; the torrential one lashes whoever it sees). 10. Pa also means "to kill." I am unable to make the connection between pa as figuration and pa as killing. 11. As in the expression "lmb won ni" (It is their sinister plot).  136 Notes 136 Notes 12. In The Signeifyicng Monkhey, Octe cme'erclose to making chis point cchen he calls Pi the Yoruha ged ef uceteicty, 'Ol6etc d o the on 'ho tranltes, weho ecplinsc or 'who looses kncocledge."' He cise calls the deity the "interpteter of the text of dicieetill." Hald he furthet teesltterted keece - edge" as plot or conspircyt he twouid hae sclarized Eec"s metaphesc and lintked it toeverydayvYorubiHc-ecalsoe wud haee'otied thatleu",i'ne dutiescresemtble wehat naceators do evety ticme thee tell sois 13. BcthlabhiyiYceeine"Deiationtcaedctetetclett' (7-8)eadtKiieBarbterei "YeorthatOtktand eectrcthe Crithcismt" (507-12)hace exploeditheqeteon ofi"interseectn" inctheeanalysiscofgenteeandtetsinYorubaiorl potc'. 14. hee pcages 76-78 of Margareet Drewacl's Yorebaetaleee let descriptionec the hermceetch flctuathonc in diveinathon pretocols. Chttpter 3: Textualt Preverhs in Proerbiatl Tets t. Achehe hitmcelf uced those ctegoeies tc 'The Atfric \\ riter ted the Englich Lcangccge" (5f). 2. Fortnceriewe of proerbhceiticsmic Aehehees fiction see Aee; Cairec' Grciffiths; Linedfcrs, "The telmecOil"; Oghbaa tt1-43; ced Scheltee, "The 'Pc/ce- Oil' of Laneguage." 3. The pechihiticn of the chief prest frcom ctcc'ing ect cf Ut uar c fcot tetn etended peiodof timeisdesigedhco preentthistkhcdlfctrouhle. 4. Umuarecsccetinly cptrierchct tciett. Buthecausce i sas eulcn it de cct tahe cny indiv idcal pateiatch's wocrdf, tee mattee heow grect cc' ahtctcte. Eveep faether, the societe heliev es, hac his ceve stort to tell, and etcn the chief priest's father's naerativ e hasn uctqcesctionahlecsupeioreoeee 5. The lickage heteen the Nigeticc cit hbcom and the culteedl ehclliece ot that timte hac cot yet heec stcdied heyond the inflcece ot the citi vro secccd-genertaticc Nigerian wriing ice Ecglith. The etc I am refeintto her hegcc epprctimately wcith Nigetic's hocting of the second All Attieca Gamtee tee t972 ccnd ecded ptchchly ic the meiddle of the Shehc Shagati pesidec in t983. Ptcomisicg puhlishers thct emtetged ice that era icludc e Foureth Dtctecnsioc int Enugu and the Ethiope Pchlishing Hocce ie tBecic Cite' Other preee. scch ascAecomolraneand Ocihenoje,hebomheeded thecschool textheoksect. %biola tee'ec highhtctw Newc Hortc Preects waseftred dcticg thee era. 6.hSeeEbuntlar'sHuerteOgndecand BidunJeio' he 1nLtet/t.e"u r Traveelling Theate. 7. tcsuspect that the ceitical acdientcceca moscclikelychccedin theccniete- noct hecause the pcpclar caudiece it naive ahoct political theater, hct hecause the atleged viclahto of realisme heing decried de cot contlict teeth pepclat formse. Acsimilarcdiiion ccucrs incthe eliteccnd pplreeceptinceo eic/c'e O pera W3'itypei, wchich was wcritten at ahoct the 'seame timce. lee hececnke' cThe Critic acd Scciety" t56-6t. 8. lee Ogundipe-Lesthe's "The Poeeicsof Fictenc andi 3 cc '"Ont Omoleacea t2. tc The hignityitg Moneye, Gctet ccmes v'ett clote tee makingc this poit wchec he cellc ttc, the Yoeiuha gcd of ccceteict, "Olceecece cc the oce cc h teecstiee, wche explaics, ce 'c'ho lccecs hcccwledge." "He c/ce calls thc deite thee"inteepreter ofi the teteof divine will." Hdhe futhetcaliertedi 'kno'tlc edge" as plot oe conspiracy, he cecld hav e seculceizedi Etc' taphe tic" and linked it tc everyday Yoruha. He clte ecocld heave coticed thct Eec e h cce duhtieeethle wchat caeratcrc dc eveec' tceme thee tell sois 13. Bcth Qldhiyi Yet in "Deciioe acd tctettecctciy (7-h/ acd Kaein Barein "Yoecha Otic and Deconectvee Crcismit" (507-12) haceexcploreh the questcon of "inttereti'cs" intheecnlysis of genre and tects c' cYoeeba oral petn- t4. lee pages Ph-7i cf Margaret Drec'al's Yoeruha i/ce c/ieee desccriptioncoe the hereetitc gcuctuationc ie dhiinatioc pectcols. Chaptee 3: Textualt Proerbs'h in Prerbeeiat Texts 1. Achehe himseelf uced thcectegcrieec 'nThe Afrecan l~t e and the PEnglith Lacguage" (56) 2.Pcorccct'erewfprov erb criticsm in Achebeh efictieon ee Aee; Cairnc Grifiths; Linedfcec, "The Palme-Oil"; Oghaa 111-43; acd hhelton, 'The 'Pcace- Ol' of Language." 3. The prohihitiont of the chief pres't fromc stachng tect of LUmuaro fore an extended periodcoftimte isdesignedtcpreetcthiskindcof teech/e. 4.t.Umuaroeitcertainlapatiarchaltsciet.lButhecacse itiscalsorepubh/can it dcec not take any ichi'idcal patriarch'cseeocds, no mere hctet grtt. ahcclute. Every father, the ccciety heliev ec, has his owne storc teltell, andi ec the chief priest's fatheecs narreative has cno ucqesctionahle tsuperioefoetc 5. The lichage hetweec the Nigeciac oil hbocm ccnd the cultural ehbullience oc that timte has not yet heec studied heyocd the eilcecce of the cl i/ceo secccd-geceraticc Nigeriac cwritineg it Ecglish. The era I amc refeteing to' here hegac approximattely wteih Nigeria's hosticg of the secccd All Africa Gaese ic 1972 and ended peehahty ice the mtiddle cf the Shehc Shagaci pesethcty ice c9i3. Prcomising pchlicherc that emteeged ic that etc icclcde Eccrth Dimensticc inc Ecnugu acd the Etheicpe Pubhishicg Houcce tee Benint City. Othet preseeecscch astAromotlaranand Oiconcje,hcbomharded the schccl tecxhtooc ceccore A'iet teele's highhbrow Newc Hcrc Pes ccat iformed duricg thee era. 6. lee Ehbun Clark's Hcbert Ogetete acd gicdcc Jet icc' The ] cc' .e Travelling Theate. P. Icsutpect that the critleal audiece was moset likelyehaeteinte the uteeceety not hecacce the populat audiencee it ntaicve ahcut pocliticael eheatee, hut heccue the alteged victatioc of eatitcm heing dcrtied does not ccnflictewith pepc/cr formsc.A simciardivision ccurscinthe eliteand ppularerecepteles te oviee' Opeea Wyif which was crittec ct ahcut the tsace timce. hee hec ecke' e The Ceitic and Scciety" 15h-h1. 8. lee Ogcccdipe-Leslie's "The Pcehecs of Fic'n etch Yai's "Oc Omolarac 12. Ic The Signifgying Mone, Octet comes erye cloee tocmking chic pcolet cchec he callc ELu, the Yoruha god of uccetainty, 'Olctccee cr the on' e rhot teactlatec, cho explaie, cr 'who loosecs knoee'cdge.' 'He clte callc the dleite the "icterpreteecif the text of divice wcill." Had he fuethec tracsliteratei kcc't ]- edge cc plot or cocspircyp he would havee secularized Feet' metaphsct and licked it tce eccerydaye Yorcuhh. He clte woculd haceecociced theeat E hit ie dctieseembcle cwhat carratorsc do eceet timte the3 tell sois 13. Beth Qliii Yet in"Dev'iaioc acd tcteetectccli," (7-4/ and hKaret Bareen "YoruchcOrtld ad DecontcteCritcm"(57-12/ hace ecploed the .1ce~teec ofi"interectns inthecanalysiscofgenrecacd tetsiYorubahoral/poeets. 14. lee pagec 76-78f iMargaret Dcecalts Ycruha Rituacl foraeecrciptionctoe the hcerc'ecetic flcctctioncs ic divicatioc protocolt. Chapter 3: Tecxtuat Ptoerbs in Proverhial TecHs 1. Achehe hicmself csed those categoies in "The Afeicac lt titee acni thc Ecglish Lacguage" (56). 2. Po ae ov erciewe of protverh cciticiscm ic Achehe' fition see Aeee Car Geifiths; Licdfors, "The Palme-Oil"; Oghaa 111-43; ccnd hheltotn, 'The 'Plm-c Ott' of Lacgcagc'." 3.Thteproehiiceofthe chiefipretfromctaying outeof ccccte orean extecded peicd of timee it decigned to prevenct this ind of trouche. 4. Umucceciceretaiclyeaptiarchl societ. Bucthbecause it ite loepuhlticat it does cct take acy indiiedual patciacch's cwceds, co ccatterhIF-egreata absolute. Fere fathec, the tociect' heliev ec, bet his mec toe t eeo ell and ece the chief priest's father'c caertive has no ccnqcestiocahle tepeeitrttcee 5. The tickage hetcween the Nigeriac cit hbcom acd the cultcra/ ehullieence'tf that ticce hac not yet heent stcdied heyond the icflence Ot the cit tl car onee ceccnd-geneeaticc Nigetiac w'eiticg ic Ecgish. The era I cam ceferrich to here hegac apprcciccately cwith Nigeria'c hcsticg of the cecond All Africa Gaee ic t1972 ccnd ended prohahly ic the meiddlecof the Sheh hagaei pesieicc ic t98. Promcicicg pchhishec that eccceged ic that era icclcde Focrth Dicentteoc ine Ecegu acd the Ethiope Pubhishicg Hocse ic Beccc Cit1. Other pressee, such astArcccolarancacdOihcje,bomharded the school tecthcok sector _Ahte'/ Irele'schighbrowcNewcHorncPresscwasiformedhduinghtera. 6. lee Ehuc Clarc't Huerto O'icce andBidu hecjcevte'c The Ic/cPetebt Trav~ellingi Theatee. 7Tcccsupectthat the critcaltaudieccec'ac ccstlihely'hasedhintheechcvehsit not hecacce the pcpctae acdiencce ic caice ahoct political theater, hut hecacce the allegedeilatioc of ealiscc hehng deecried detnot conflictewith popclae icoccs. Asiccilaredic'isioccurse ic the elite acd pcpclarreceptinccof SOcttck' Opeea Wghce, cchich ccac weittec ct ahoct the cscce ticce. lee SoIca' "c~cThe Celtic ccnd Scciety" 15f-1. . lee Ogunipe-Leslie's "The Pcetcs of Picthoc" ccnd cait sOct Octel/ee  Notes 13, Notes 13 Notes 137 0gun43p3Les336e" for 3633 cri33cal im3plicat33ons of Fguw s' creation.f scr3ba "narra33tive distancing" an4 the couplin3g o oral ad literate stor3yteling traditions. 9. Fauw knw that the36334133 printe 6333e wil3haealanuag-wide77audience not odiniy avilable3tote3oral typerformance3. 10.9SeeAdeeko's"Plottng3las3Consiousnss i 3the AfianRadical Novel." 11. The othersongs, ";r 663633733 33" and "Ta3 313 so3 33 a33333633633" re333f3orce 3673333ff33333936eme3of "Erb' and4346 adlt auo Chapter374:39Nothing33s Which3 Lac3ks3 aStory 1.3333tkok7t3e7proverb3from3a3response3of37an l7333r33(Nigeria)6chitf to Deir4re La3Pin's3usinso h meanin33333637333gM of stoie in3the3Yor3b f33k 3trad433ion (106). 7La33in glosses the 33i373333ck as 3imp33ying3 36ha3 stor7373 '33re3747 al33 creations in the3 sam337363333633he] 37emai3n in 36he wake 33616633" (107). 2. On3 16e 633s33 333 337333 alone, Achebe 4333333733 7333 7333333333 9333s3333 3733u- bling, d3333333 i33 posit333e reconstruction3333 333 an African past3 ("An3 Intevie" 2093. He 33333433333 333336 333333333337 theme33 of pos~t3ndependence3 4333333333333 ment33 portrayed33 with3 gripping33 effect3 in Armah's first novel3 6333 3633 use3 of a potent333al33 alienat333n3 existent3,iait 333333333333. Achebe3 33733333333c33 A7rmah's fu- sion3 333 alle~gorica33 3333 realisic descriptions3 333 The Beauti33f3l 03333 Ar33 Not3 733 Born3"ick"3and4"modern33"63becausete tory3"imp[oses3 so3much33ore33gn7meta- p633333 363 3333333331e 33 363333373333 63 633n 373333eae t btu" 3(M3333333 733 263. 6333 333333 Laau 224; Lindfors7, "A7333336 Histories3 " 39-90; Wr73gh63232-33. 3. 677 Wright63(227). 3333333333 3333333333 3331333 3374ica naivst 3nd 7r-3333734333, 33333333333363 and3 fem3~iitdscsin of 33Armah3 do not3 consider7 633 ob63i3333 3333333363333 avefinss 3333773 a3 6333333337363333 333.33., 933733363, My th 106-37; E33333; Lan3g). 4. 3363 337is reie 333333v333 Niane's 6333333333, Armah3 33339333 out3 for 333336333t333 3333333333-334337e337337333ment 6 piee 3313e Mamado4u33 Kou3yate:3 "Listen 36337,333333333 Maicil3313 th lapepe,3634773363633n63333337333733 wor3d333,637r I 33m3g3333333333333337333 3335333433333" ("9333333333" 993. 3333 363336373733337333733336n Armah33's 333373333337, "3633 613336 [33333313 reer to3333 paricla [ au7ie333333 3334 o7337 of Mali" and3 t633 Anoa3 33333337333363333, respect33vel. 5. "Amog 333 no3 [7e73i33s333 is 3373733sary 333 do 33urs3elve7 333333" (98), says 3333333333 6. 9333 An3yidoho3 310-36; 3133333ns 127-31; D33 Man3, A33leg33333 37-73; 3133336 139-43; and34Hut3c67on3106-23. 7. See Amuta6, "AMi Kwei Armah3" 84-85; 6333333733222-24; 333343773336233. 8. T6he 33393333333 333 367 3337333io33 333 3633 Pred74a3337 and3 t67 D33st3733777 6733r3 33 33tr33ng 773773633333373 West Afric's contact with33Arab6 and [Eu73337ea3 civi633a- 3333333 9. Man o mnatr eet h aey 3733333333333333337333 333333356333373333373733333333333363 3333737 333 633y 333337337 3n 367 63333377 333 Anoa. 3I63 3633336 3333333333333333337sl 33333333373337333333737363433333333633 by Anoa3's3nmtooi 733733333333333. 033334333-67367e" 33333h 36333763333 imp331c3336337 333 3333333 3'3 c333333333 333 33336333 "narrat363'e distancing" 33334367333333333333333333333333333433333733333 in 33333333333333463n. 10.9See Adeeko3's3"Plott333ng CsC onsciousness in3333 the 36African33RadicalNovel3." 11. T633 33367333333333 "(633353373333" 3333 "'133333333333333363363," 733333333333 3633333337333333633737333"373" 3333434333337733333333. 367333373733337363333363373333733333333336733336773333" 33073. 2. 033 3633 633333 33333 33333337on, Achebe 4eclare T333 76333s3333 533333333 33333- bling, 433333333 36s 3333633333333333633 333ntrcto 333 an 333333a333333("An3 33333333333" 2093. He3333733 333363333333333673 33333334373433 th oua hm fpsi eednedsluin 3333333363333 3313333333333337333333ia336333na77333373. Ac6767 3373333333337 A77333'3 fu- 3333337333337333224; Lindfors3, "A373336 H333337333" 69-90; 37333363232-33. 3. 6333 Wright 32273. 333 33333733333 3333333 3333633333 33334st 3633 third-worldist, 33337336333 333 33333333673 f337337 33 3333363337 333.33.. 933733363, M3yth 106-17; 6333333 4. 333 66s revie esa on3 Niane' Sundiata63333333, Armah33 333333333 out 63373333363336333 33333 33333-a47773333733333 piece by D'e1i Mamadou4 K333373333 "L33373336333,333333333 3339333433333" ("9un43ata' 933. 336333636333333o33337333333333 Armah33's narrators333, 333377i033 63333, 373337363vel3. 6. 9333 An3yidoho3 130-16; 313333333 327-31; 07 Man3, Aleore 57-78; 3133336 139-43; 3333 Hutcheon33 106-23. 7. See Amta "A7i3Kwei3Armah3"384-63; 7333333733222-24; an33 Wright 239. 8. The37sequence3of33the3invasions33of3the3Predators33and6tDe3Destro3ers63333333 9. Manty 3337333333333333s 4333733 367 3373333333 33333333 giving 3331 hi 333333333333336333bl na33333 333 677 [33377333 333 36336333333733 Anoa3. 13333336 3337333333333333313uousl 33113333773333733333737363343333333633 by Anoa3's3nmtooi 3333733333333 e3. gundipe33-L731" 3333 367 37333337333333333 333iaton [of Fiun a' cret3 o 3733633 333r373633 "narrat363ve 43337336333" 73436333333333633333333763333433377333733337371333333g33334363333. 9. Fauw k3373633337334337316333 t333333t3 the4 prntd33433333333lagugewdeauiec not3 33343333361 33733433613 3to 367 33733 story 337rf33rm73n333. 10.977e Adeeko's "3313336333311333331333333333333333333336 Af3ican3 53343333 N33e33." 11. The33other33songs,'FL633j47m3333nd"Ta1316s33Ipe3a3373baba,"73reinforce 3633 suffering33 367733333 "7336" 3333433331333343333w3. 316333373343:93336633 It 633363 [333633353tory 1.333333636733333r73633337333733333333333336333 163333333 (Nigeria) 363333 333 D3364333 73333333393373633333333363733333333353333333333333333633Y'3376633o333363334t3333(33063 733733 5373373 367 wisecrack3 333 3733373333 3633333336333 "3333333343 3311 33373363333 3in the 333733333337363333367] 7337333333333333333363333133" 33073. 2. 033 366333 333i 33f3 333333333n, Achebe delae 7Tw3 Thusn Seasons3 3trou- 633333, 47e33333 3ts 3333667337733333333336333o333f333 Af36ican 33333 ("An 3737erv3333" 2093. He 33333437333 333363 33333133 36773333333333333334333333343333333e4333313333333 7333nt 333333ra3733 wi333 33ri3333333 effect 3in Arma's 6333t novel3 6333 367 3337 333 33 33333333333317331333333333333333333333333133t33337333333. Achbeprnoncd rmh' 3333333334333333- 333333313333333 333333133 473333333333333 763 reali33st333 description inTh5333333OnsAr Nte Bo'rn36333'33733'73333 363333333 '3733333rn3333337333336333333333333733363oreinmet- 3363733 363 33633333h 6333 363333333333 3363 373333ti casstob tu" (Morning3 7333 263. 6333 333333733333333224; 733343337, "A77333'3 63333337333" 69-90; Wright 232-33. 3. 6333 Wright 32273. 333otrs 333333333 3133363331 3333633333 3333 third-worldist, comparat7st3an3 femini4 3337333363 s 43333333 3Armah3 do no33 c333334333 633 33636333 3333nt763333 373333733633 33337333 33 333331337 33.5., 63336n633 63336 106-IT; 733333; 6333333. 4.333633773337ie733373333on533337363333433333, A373336333333733333333337333333333333 33ne s66334773637737333 piec3767 Djeli Mamadou33 6333333333 "7Li37en 36733, sons3 333 MMa1i, 3661473333333633613336373333133,1333333333737333374,3371r337333333333333333117333 3336333433333" ("333333333" 933. 336333636333637o333373333 3333 Armah6's narrators333, "367613336337333313" re333333 333 3333336333333 3333d7333333333 "son 633333" 33334367e33333 33337333331363333,73333333363331. 5.3333 3333333333337363rmiss 63333333333337a 3334333333ourse773333333" (98), says 333333333. 6. 677 Anyidoho3 310-36; 313333333 327-31; D33 Man Allegories~ 97-76; 3133336 139143; 33334Hu33367333106-23. 7.Se Amta, "Avi Kwei3 Arm73h"4-85;3Lazarus33222-24; 3374 Wright 239. 8. The sequence3 of 36he 3inv33sions 333 36he [7edators and the Destroy33ers 6733rs a 33333333 3373773133333 333 West3 Africa' contact33with Arab6 and3 Europ3ean3civiliza3- t333ns. 9. Many 3337373773333333473733367337337337333f33givin63h3sto3ri13lly333ecognizab61 names7 3to key 331337333 633 367 66333377 333 Ar373a. 3333 3633336333333333333333333317 333333337733333333737333363346u3336633 by 6333333 onomatopoei[c3'3 sty133  138 Notes 138 Notes 138 Notes 10. There aretoo man obvious 8parallelsbtween8 36833>, characterization the 31361133 phase of A6f3ic33 post38dependence8an T,34o 26o.4 vd to h 483aile4 her. See8Fanon 226-35. 11. 6Se3 Ngugi, 138338e88838/ and Writ3.s 3n Politic; Onoge, 1'Th Cri Consciousness" 12.2 Armah3. also 8 raises 3883336 toatertcllvlte"fiait oino ea physical connec33483,ss, which Soyinka8 summarizes88 as 363 itr-rnsu 388on 8o38 essenc-4383 a84 8383erialit 3(Myth 26). Arma3h rewrites3 that conce33 ' the3metphysica crleinte and raive look3ps pun in the st. -." 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I 6' Dialog'u6, and Outrage,6 by Wole56S667)666.1664666676666 616666, 1966. 16> 766666766 16646766 PoplarTraelingThetr6ofNigri. La696: N)96666 '61444 z6)66e, 6984. Julien6, E)166666. 4Af666666 No666466 666' the6Quest6on6of0641666. Bleoomingt'on6 66d6666 Universit6665ess,61992. Katrak, Ketu6.74ole669yinka46nd6Modern6Tra1edy:(66474 56,of6Dramatic4Thoo. 7it6, 7666c56>66 New ork G6666 e0666666,66641956. Kna677666, 666.-665566. 166666)6)46 13)(1965)6 5-6. (66666666, Daniel61P. "Af6ican-Lagage6Literature:66Tra6gean4op. 66640676 0, in6African-Literatures623,6n. 1)67669ng1992)67-15. Kune666e, Mazisi "76ob6166,in )6Afican (6666666666." 'es6a6ch6,9666-19>66 eI(6>6, 23,66n6. 1)(S76)6691992)6 27-44. Lang66,0Ge69g. "Text6, 1466666)6,6664 Di)66f6re6nc66 7666666 Ouologuems's66 L6- Dc-c de Vioence66andAy)KweiArmah6's6Two6Thousand,47,>66> 6-6667.6..:. L::- erat66666 15664)6624,666.41987)6 357-402. Lapin6, Deirdre6Ann6. Story, Mediu,,andMasque: The 6-dea66 and At of o66: Stoyelling. Ph.D. 4)66., 066)ve66s6)5 66 Wisconsin6, Madison, 1977.66 A466666.r Uni)6666i6576Microfilms6166566r665)6666, 1977. 6-66,66, 96661666646. "96666 Aspects7 66 7666666 Aesthetics6." B666666,1 (6u,6. A,65t6656c6 14,666.3)966umme6661974)6 239-49. 146 Bibl1i6g6aph7 566616, Abiola. "The6 Af6)ican Imagin66t6o6."0 Reea6c 666 Afrcan 666r 666. - 21. no6 (Spring9 1990)6 47 67. '6"Narratv6,066str,66645the6Afican1Imgination.6 '666666,66.6 (May 1993) 156-72. .'Tradition6and4the6Yoruba6Writer:6D.0.66g6666a, AmoeTut-a,4 4666 W6169So66inka." Odu:4(A66ourna666- 7666 African Studies 66.'. 1161,6664419666 75-100. Isola, Aki66wu666.'"TheAfrican17Writer'6Tonge." Reearchvi4 -1 6')" c 23,666.1)9766)669 1992) 67-26. Jablo,Alt. Yes6and6No:619,1666i66te0 .6 Folklo 66e 7666ic. e '66ork:0Hor6zon 1961. (66666666,6666646666.766o96666d6666666;6 or,0the 6C4ual-ogi'ofLat Cap4tali6.6 136669666 136ke University5 766666, 1990. ."Thirdold64aue nthrao Multinat)65i6666ona6)6l5666 Cap6ita6is6. _-.i 1666515 (1966)66 68. Jeyifo, 56664666 '76666) 0646666n 66 66 Lite6666 0666i 4664 Theorist'. (6-6.6..- 2 (19876:47-91. .'"On6Eurentric CriticaThe66r6:7Some6Paradgm6s6fr6m1theTut6-66nd Su6b-Texts' 66 Post-Colonial1Writing9." (6664467611,666. 1 (199): 101" ' Traged4y, H616665,64 14666665)og.' 967136.6666.666)f46c66.46 6-6 '6' 6646664 by 066669 M. 06966666ger669-64109 Trenton66, NJ.:frc 4566)6614614e76 1995. "76616 9S7)66(a 6664 She Tro6pes6of 13661)666666666 1665664466646. n 66 6. 1366996666666d0Outrage,-by Wo1le9Sovink.664666676666 06666, 1968 .6-bYrbaPplr rvlin are76f 176666666 Laos 7666664 6-966766646 - z6ne6, 1984. Julien66,7Eileen. African 746666466 an ,te Q66est6i6n of6666 014666669666 166464664 Inian University6 7666667 192 K61666, (665. 76666 9So9)nk0 a64 63646666 1664566646 A16 Stud 646 of ra 6t,.'eo Prctiee. N66w 766k6 Greenwood66, 1996. (66996666, (666. Letter66. Tr6nsi)5)6n 13 (1965): 5-6. Ku66ene6,3aniel1P. "Arican6Language6Literature:Tra6gedy and4Hp."Rsn in64African-Literatures23,6o. 1(Spring91992):67-15. Kunene66,61Mazisi. "7666666ms6)66A6)66661)56666566,." Re',6ea6666h 666 6-,car L'.66.'' 23,6no. 1 (996)6919926 27-44. Lang6, 06666696. "Text5, 146666656, 6664 Difference:666 Yambo66066166966666 : De: 13 4d6 Violeneand4Ayi1Kwe6)Armah66'eTw1Thosand66,,I u. 6,666 6-666, L- 666645666Studies624,6. 4 (197:387-402. La69i, Deird466 Ann. Story, Medium, 4664 M4sque: The 6464 66646 Art-of,66,6, 5Storytellin. 76.13. diss., Universit6576 of)Wisconsin, Madison,6 197'. A1666 '9669,66 Universit)15 Microfilms6 166566n661)6666, 1977. Lawal6, Bab6656664. '96,66 Aspects 66 766r666 Aesthet66cs." B6.itish lcr. Aesthetics4 14, 666. 3 (Summer666 1974): 239-49.  Bibliography' 1T' Lazr, Nl. Reistace n otolnaAfrian Fiction. New Haven:YaleUni- verty rss, o,1990. Lindfors, BerotS. "Africt Vernacular Styles in Nigeriano Fiton." CLA (ournal 9, o.S3 (1966): 265-73. "Atoah", Histories." 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Ka6a Githwairi.8" Ya.11,o 7.>' of Criticism 4,8no. 1 (1990): 271-82. 6888 £8818888 £88898is:Esay. £883o8, Hei8emann, 1981. Nk8o, Lewis. £8sk8 and Masks. London: Longmant 1981. N888888k8, Obioma8. "Feminism8, Rebel1ious Wome, 883 Cultural Boundaries: Rereading £1888 Nwaopa a83 Her Comatrio8ts." Res8arch 8in Africa88 Lirz tures 26, 88. 2 (Summer888 1995): 8-113. Norrie~k, 08a1 R. How8 Proverbs Mean: Studies i8 08gli9 Proe, N88 'o88£ Mouton8, 1985. Nwan8kwo, Chimalum1. "Ngug8' 08De8il88 the Cross: A £8min888t89n8o1 Chaos. Com8onwealth £s88ys a83 888388s 10, 8no. 1 (Aououo8 1982): 119-22. 09iechi8a, E. N. "Cultural Nationa1ism 88 Modern African 8 88888 e7Litera ture." Africa8 Literat8ure £03891 (196): 24-35. £8989 883uag 298nd Theme: Es8y on88 Afrianitertur. W8ashi8g888, D.C. Howar8d University £8es8,1998. ."Narrative £188886s in the African Nove8l" Oral Traitin ,,08 o. (1892): 197-238. 0g98a, Kalu. Go38, 08a888s, 883 Divina1tion:, Folkw88898 Chin ua Achebe, N0e Trenton, N.J.: Africa World Pr888, 1992. Ogunba, 0yin. The Mo8vement of £ra8s8tio8, A Study8 of)te Plays of3 8hole 38,8,88. 1bada88 1badan University £re8s, 1929. Ogundipe-Leslie, 0Omol188. "The 9oet6cs of £8c6i8n by Yoruba 89881888 The Case of Fagunwa's Ogboju Ode N)88 Igbo81888888)8" O3du 160818c 1922): 98-96. 0988)8888, Bay8. "0889889£, 0881 Traditio, and 988881 Vision6 in9Nugi' Dc.': o8 the Cross." Dlfa9888 14,88o 1 (1984): 56-70. 098nsina, Bisi. Thte Developm8ent of the0Yoruba'do, el. 8ba3888 008p8) £8886 M188 si88 9ress, 1992. 098818, Ezenwa8. "Poetic £189888888 The Coneept of Madntess 88 Igbo Pr8,- erbs." £8888898um82 (1990): 287-19. Ojoade, 01low8. "African £r8v8r98 88 Proverbs." Folklore08or8 80,o. 3 (8in- 188 1977): 20-23. 148 Bibliography Muokherjee, Arunt P. "W-hose Post-Colonialism 883 Whose Pos8t38e8n8sm'' World Literature Wrtitteo 88 Eoglish 38, 88. 2 (1990): 1-9. Nagashimao, Nobuhiro. "A Reversed8 Wo8113: Or Is It?" to AMode of~ Tht 838183 by Robint Horton and Ru1h F88n89an. London: Faber ood Faber, 89'> Nogen3o, John.0"Conferenc Notebook." T888881888 2,oo. 58)1962888F-8. Nguogi, J. T. "A Kenyan ot the Coo)ference." £r88881888 2,88o. 59(1962):7 Ngugl88oThiong'o. Detained8AWri'8£PrionDiary.Lodon: Heinema8n, 181. Deedl on the Cross. London: He888emann, 1981. . Hoecomin8g: Essays on African and Caribbean £ite8a88e, Cutue, .88.8 Polit8cs. £883888 Hinemaoon, 1922. ."Kiin~geretha Rutthioni Rwao Thi Yoothe? Kobo Githwairi." 8.8.8 (88888.8 of Cr886868 4,88o.1 (1990): 221-92. .Writer 88 Politics: 088a98. £883o8. Heinemann8, 1991. Nkosi, £8888-> £8898 a83 Masks. £88488, £8898888, 1991. Nnaem8eka, 0988888. "Feminism8,9Reb1llious-Wome, ood 0081ur88 £08838888,: Rereading Flora Nwapa8 and Her0Comptriots." Research8 in8 46cm Li,, ,i- faes 26, 88. 2)90ummer81995): 80-113. Norriek, Neal R. How8Proverbs6Mean:Studies8in808glis Prove.o 08 New1otO Moton~8, 1999. Nwaonkwo, Chimalum8. "Ngug8'8 08evi8 onte Cross: A Feminization o8 Cho.' Comtonwealth Es80y8 883 8183ie8 18,88o. 1 (Autumn8 1992).:119-2>. 09888hi10, 0. N. "0ultu881 Nationalism 88 Modern African 0888ti88 Litera- ture." Africon Litoerature £8389 1)(1968): 24-35. .88 8 Lanuag a 88n 8 Theme: 08ay on 8 Afri8n8iteatue.DWashington, D.C.: Ho8a8d83088888i17 9res8, 1998. ."Narrative Proverbs in the African Novel." Oral Tradi0,tio -o. (1992): 197-230. Ogboo, Kalu. 0od3, 0racles, a83 Divinati1on: £08k8898 888 0)hin8a Achebe, No"0 Trentton, N.J.: Aftica World £re88, 1992. 0gu86a,0Oy88. The Movement of £ra8888688: A 88t83y of the £0898 of ol, 688888£) 1983888 198388 Universi1y 98e8s, 1929. 0gu83898-Leslie, 0Omo18r8. "The £886ic88998ic688 by Yob 89881888, The 0ase of 9008888880Ogbmu Ode Ninu Ig68 88888888)." Odu81698' 1977)' 859-96. 0gunjimi,0Bay. "Language,08Oa Tradition,and Social Visio8in8809898De>0 i 08 the Cross." fahamu8 14, 80. 18(1984): 56-70. 09888888, Bisi. 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Amsoteedam:o Editioos Rodopi, 1991  Index Index Index Abiodun, Roland, 42-44, 135n.9 Achebe, Chinua, x, 132; ond evoolu- tiono of classical nativismo, 7-13; "TheoNoveolistasTeacher," 8-; "Cbolonialist Criticfism," 9-10; "The Troth of Pictioo," 10-11; ond bkfdiji, 50-51, 80-81; and use of poverbs, 51; Arowo of God, 51-64 Algor, Willioom, 32 Appioh, Anthony K., 4-5, 26 Armah, Ayi Kweoi, x, of, Two T'hou- sand Sonsoo,582-99 Arowoo of God, 51-64 Boalogun, Odunt, 7, 127, 139n.6 Booboo, Karin, 136n.13 Booafi, Lawroeooo, 130-31 Booton, Riohord P., 33,41 Chinowoioo, Ihoelhokwu Moduboike, 12-1 3 Delooo, Isooc 13., 40 DeMan, Pool, 131, 139n.8 Dorrida, Jacques, 39-40,131 Devil on tho Coss, 100-116, inofluence of KCEC ono, 100-102; doubling narratie method in,103;oond Detaiooed, 106 Dorewal, Margare, 136n.14 Dunodes, Aloo, 35-36 Evans-Pritchard, E. E., 37 Faguiowa, D. 0., 65-65, 120 Faoo, Frooto, 98-99,1l38n.6 Pirth, Royonod, 37 Gotes, Hoooy Loois, Jo., 24-25, 26, 47, Griffiths, Goreth, 62 Holloo, Boooy, 47 Hoyford, Cosely, Of Honock, Richord, 36, 39 Howeoll, Joamos, 30 Irol, Ahiolo, 117, 134o.9, 139n.3 Jomono, Foederic, 23-24, 25, 26 Jeotfo, Oonwoohoekwo, 12-13 Jopifo, Biodoo, 115-20 Jolion, Eileeo, 134o.9 Koloro Kolej, 117-28; ood pool- indepondooce dioillooionmeno, 115, 139n.1;ondonativis nrtivesho, 120-21; osoo"pooerbiol story," 121 Abiodoo, Rowolond, 42-44, 135n.9 Achobo, Chinua, x, 132; ond evolu- 1ion of cloosicol ootfiiom, 7-13; "The Novelist os Teocher," 8-9; "Coloniolist Criticism," 5-10; "The Tooth of Ficohon," 10-11; ood Ok6djf, 50-51, 80-61; ood oso of poverobs, 51; Arowo of God, 51-64 Algeo, Willioom, 32 Appiob, Anthooy K., 4-5,26 Armah , Ayi Kweoi, x, of, Twoo Then- sond Seosooo, 82-99 Arowo of God, 51-64 Bologouo, Odouo, 7, 127, 139x.6 Booboo, Kooin, 136n.13 Boodi, Loawoooco, 130-31 Buono, Richood F., 33, 41 Chinweofou, Ihoohukoou Modohoiko, 12-13 Delano, Isooo 0., 40 DoMoo, Pool, 131, 139n.8 Dotoido, Jooqoos, 39-40, 131 Dovil 00 tho Coss, 100-116, iofluonoo of KCFC 00, 100-102; doobliog narratbveomethod in,103;oand Detainod, 106 Droewol, Moogaro, 136x.14 Duodoo, Aloan, 35-36 Evoos-Poitchood, E.0E., 37 Faguowd, D. 0., 68-69, 120 Faon, Pootz, 98-99,138n.6 Firth, Rayonod, 37 Gotes, Hoooo Loofs, Jr., 24-25, 26, 47, 49 Crfffiths, Goreth, 62 Hofloon, Boroy, 47 Haoyfood, Cosoly, 18 Hdonook, icfhood, 36, 35 Howooll, Joamoo, 30 Irole, Ahiolo, 117, 134o.5, 135o.3 Jomono, Frederfc, 20-24, 25, 26 Joeofe, Oonwuohekwao, 12-13 Jcyifo6, Bioduno, 115-20 Jolieo, Filooo, 134n.9 Kolooa Koloj, 117-26; oand poot- iodopeodoooo disilluonmenooot, 119, 139n.1; ondoatfviotooarrotioos, 120-21; 0s00 "poverbhial sory" 121 Ahiodoo, Rowolood, 42--44, 135o.9 Acheho, Chionuo, x, 132; ond evolu- tioo of clossfool nativisom, 7-13; "The Novelist 0s Teoohoo," 6-5; "Coloofolfot Critfociom," 5-10; "Tho Tooth of Piion," 10-11; aod fdkfdj, 50-51, 80-fl; ood ose of pooorbo, 51; Arowo of God, 51-64 Alger, Wiliamt, 32 Appioh, Anothooy K., 4-5,26 Aromoh, Ayf Kweoi, o, of, Towo 3Toon- soand Seonsoo, 62-55 Arowo of God, 51--64 Baloguo, Oduo, 7, 127, 139n.6 Booboo, Korfo, 136n.13 Boodf, Loawrenoe, 130-31 Booton, Richard F., 33, 41 Chinweizou, Iheohukwuo Modohofiho, 12-13 Dolono, Isaoc 0., 40 DeMao, Pool, 131, 139n.8 Derrido, Jacqooo, 35-40, 131 Deoil on the Coso, 100-116, influonco of KCEC 00, 100-102; doubliog naoratveomethodin, 103;oand Dotainod, 106 Drewaol, Morgaret, 136n.14 Dunde, Alao, 35-36 Evooo-Prftchard, E. E., 37 Faghonwh, D. 0., 66-65, 120 Faon, Fraotz, 98-99, 138o.6 PFirth, Rayond, 37 Gotes, Henory Loufo, Jo., 24-21, 26, 47, 49 Griffiths, Goroth, 62 Holloo, Booty, 47 Hoyfood, Cosely, 18 Hooeck, Richord, 36, 35 Howelfl, Joomoo, 30 Irol, Ahiolo, 117, 134o.9, 139o.3 Jamono, Fredorfc, 23-24, 25, 26 Jotoof, DOwuohekoo, 12-13 Jeyifo, Biodon, 115-20 Julien, Eileeo, 134n.9 Koleoo Koloj, 117-28; aod pool- fodepoodonce dioilluonmenot, 119, 139n.1;oandnatiis narroohves, 120-21; 000a "poveobial story," 121  I.54 Index 154 ledex 154 Index 1La77in, Deirdr, 45, 137n.1 Sindfors, Ber77th, 162 Loeb7, Edwin, 33-34 Maj-Pearce,, Adewale,7 127,139n.6 Messen7ge, John, 32 Mil1er, Chitohr 24-25, 26, 134n7.17 Milner7, G.8B., 35, 36,1335n.5 Mphahlele7,, Ezekiel,,1, 4, 5 Nativism77,1 i711i, 1-27,7classical, ix, 6, 7-13; structuralist7, 6,14-18; 1linguistic, 7,18-21; and74idealism and4 pragmatism 11 in77 African77 litear cr17itcism 21-23; and747contempora77.77 171iterar 6,7 th 7774 and 7177ticis , 23-26 Nglgi wa Thion7g'o7, 2,;777411i77771711c nat71vism7, 18-21; "Return to171777 1771171s," '16; "Church7,Cu11ur,,and7 Politics," 197 137i on7 777 777, s', 17777116 Norric7kNealt 31, 34 Ob66'77i71,(7Emmanuel7', 5-6 5 0777777479-177777 07777ar71, 8,736- 37n7.8 (37777757777.Bayo7, 139n7.9 0(774757,0117481,7; 1777 Achebe, 50-557 807-81; and7 use of7 77roverbs716, 507; 1437 78, 64-807 0kri, Ben77, 1207,139n7 4 0777117771, Kole, 64, 1357777 (3sofisan7,7'Fem7, ,, oc Ko,j, 117-287 07777717777, Nisi, 125-31 (7wom7777777a, (37 an 767,34 Proverbs,7x,28-19; 7777617177777 1717771i717ics, and7 1777677777l7717747 7 377' meaning7 of, 7 36-40;1777437777617 677771717777 langua7ge,7 40-41) and77 conception77of7stile7 in77377776 w7iting7, 68-69;7 an7d67 the7p-,7"77 777777' 277 737 7777777777,,64770; pro"e7band dramaturg77 7 of, 67677-70 a777 Afrc" 777777717 peu7.77rveb 77'4-'7 7S7he77,1(77old4134177 577771 77777, 37 6ekv(-Otu (3777 S7,4 6777ka 777\7 73, 177 4; n .777,3 "777.. 7ati677m7714-1: 9777vak, (Gava777 C. 73;n.. Ta177r 7Archer7, 33, 37 17777h Richard7C., 37 177717771 Amo7,7 731 120 Ta7,770777,7771 Se7.77. 7777,nntnst-ti 77 7- and7 167\ a" a17 7' 17 777'. ', 79171, (3677j77177 .7 3-4 7W6767777 B7.7,40, 734I-3572 13n. Y'i, (la.n6177 7377..3 Y.777(77 (.777777 40, 12'-" 'll?-. Yo77b, 677,7a7ti y67I, 7 ,a7-e7747)_7 L17777,077747r,,45, 1377.1 (77746or7,78,77777, 162 Lo777,4Ed77, 33-34 Ma7ja-Pe71777777 Adewale7,, 727,1397.6 Messen77g, J1761, 32 Mill11,,Cris7717p6er, 24-23, 26, 7347717 Milner7, (7. 77., 35, 36, 135775 Mpha7hlele,, Ez17,,7,1,4, 5 Nat77vism7, ix-x777,1-27,77117777ic17,77x,6, 7-13; 71tr77771777171776,14-18; 777777777767,7,18-21; 17174747176777 and pramais 771771767 n7 Afia litera677177 77,776777sm, 21-23;7and cont1empora7177 61it717ry776eo177177747776777777, 23-29 Nggi7717 Thio7ng77,2;17 777777777677i 77177777ism, 18-21; "177,777777777777, 1771177," 18; "C677777,77777177,, and7 7777777777' 19;0 Devil o7777677477777 1007-1 16 Norric'7k, Neal,731, 34 0Obiechina1,67Emmanuel7,7, -6~, 51 Ogundipe7-Leslie, (O77o11771,98, 736- 3777.8 0777775777778Bayo, 139n7.9 0(774757.7771745,7x; and7 Ache,76 7 5-5, 807-81; and use of77 pr7ov7e7rbs7, 507; 77777 Ru,764-807 Okr,Ben,,1204,139.4 73,r4'+, Kol,,64,17397.7 0Oso767san, Femi7, x,7xi;7<.(.77Kol41 117-28 07sunda17r, Nivi7, 729-31 Owomovela,717.Ovekan,7 34 7717777767 x,79-47. in rhetor,77 ling77777677717774777767777777747 7 36;77meaning7 of,3(7-40;7,5 a '777o6b f77gurat777ve 717777171777 47-41) 7777 7riting, 68-69; an77 7677 pr7 '7 77 77777,25,727 7777; R7 n 67777774-80; proer 7. and767" dramat71777g777of, 7 66 7 '7' an .7ri leftist 7 wr77777g, 970 and77,,,u- 477'7 777777l17 proyerbs 7776 4--- Schaub7, 0177,77 734749 Seit,7 Petri7 37 9,7(77-07, 7777 74 Sov71n(a,77,77,7,14; and74st777 7 i, nati7is,714-4 77 Spi6ak(Gav.77i4., "777. 0749 or ,he, 3, 377 17777776 RichardC. 37 1Tutuola1,4777os, 13 120 T.7' 77777747747.4,, 2 nativist s7bo77sm1in177- - 7all, Obijum~'a,3 -4 Whiting7,7B.7,40, 134-35n.'_, 774 3177 (3777677, 136, '1a7kah7,7777,0, 721)37 -5r Yoruba f61g7ra77.77 .77 777 41 La77in,0Deirdr,45, 137n7.1 (77747177, Bernth77, 162 Loe,Edwin7, 33-34 Maja-Pearc777. ,77717777, 727,13977,6 Messen77ge, John7, 32 Mil7777946777177767924-25, 26, 134n7.17 Mi877,7,,4 77B,35, 36, 1357,5 Mphahl67l7,6Ezekiel7, 1, 4,5 Nativism77, 77-777, 1-27,77177777717,77x,6, 7-13; 7777777777717777 6, 14-18; 677777i,747.8-2171777474,7177777 and4 pragmatism777 in7 Afia 6777ra7y criticism7, 21-231777n71777777777777771 literary77theory7and74crit6c77m, 23-28 Ngu7gi wa17Thio7ng'o,2; 17774777787777777 nativism, 18-21; "Return, to 11776, Roots,77" 1 8; "4677r777, 4Cult7u7e, and7 Po71777777" 19; Devil7 on7 76he 4777s, 17777116 Norri,77Nel,7731, 34 Obiechina7,77Emmanel,7,7 56, 51 0gundipe-Lesie, Omlar,077717780,136- 37n.87 0g77j7777Bo,771 ,39n7.9 (7(774777. 1adj7 x; and7 47767767, 507-51, 807-81;,7and7use1of7prov7rbs,790;7R74e R7777, 64-807 0(77,7Ben,71277,139.7.4 (3mo7777s7, Koe 64,173977.6 077767177,7m,77,7,77,777m6447(7 17729 (77777417777 Niv7, 129-31 (3771mo177771, ('77,(17, 34 7777777776 x, 28-49;7 7in rheto7,ic linguist7c, and41777thropolo.'7 36777771777777777 36-7177743.77o figurative777language77740411;- 7 1 concept7o6 of7 s7 tyle in 3 o,; 6 77776777968-69;7a7d7the9pro7e77 7to777 29, 121 77777.7777764-8; 7777777761777 dramaturgy of,7 777.70; anti,, 47 177'is wrtig 6 7 77 9-7277 and La 7717'1 peclia 77677 bs 7717775".4-7 Sc777717, 01777777, 1 347 9 77477777ete7 777 677(77hs (377, 774 So7inka,777576,71447a477777 a. nati777ism, 14-177 6777 17k, 4177tr 7C7., 13577" 1177679 Arch,6 35, 36 Trench,9Richard4C7, 3 1,77,74,94Amos,7"12 7,,77,7.7777h, 7 7717777on - hi77oric771signific7. 77.7'31-y 41777.06717777717773-4 Whiting,7.7., 47, 734-35777 15. 3177 04677vl 1736n3 Y1777kah,677777,40, 77777, 11 Yoru7175figurati777la7(771777744-