Ebinyo Joseph does not know till date that he was one of the reasons I began writing actively. I was one class ahead of him at Nembe National Grammar School, Nembe. I was admitted in 1975. He came in the following year. When I was in form three, he was in form two. As his senior by one class, I was at liberty to punish him, if it came to that. It was a matter of telling him to kneel down and raise his hands for five or ten minutes, and he would do just that. But it never occurred to me to do any such thing.
That was because, from the first day I set eyes on Ebinyo, I took a liking to him and saw him as a younger brother. He was one of the smallest boys in the new class, perhaps the smallest in the entire school, and he was as plump and lovely to look upon as a well-fed puppy. He walked, ambled in fact, with the same casual grace, had the same friendly manners of a puppy, and his innocence was always on show for all to see without any effort on his part.
One day, when the bell had sounded after break time and everyone had rushed back to class, I found an exercise book on the grass lawn. It was the popular exercise book of the day, depicting the famous Olympic high jump gold medallist, Emmanuel Ifeajuna, stretched over the bar. I picked it up and saw the name Ebinyo on it. Clearly, the owner had lost it, and my duty was to return it to him. Purely on impulse, I turned the pages, and was surprised to see a play under construction, with names of characters and a robust dialogue underway. I wondered how a form two student could have the presence of mind to do what I had associated up to that point with Ene Henshaw, author of This is Our Chance, and Ola Rotimi, author of The Gods Are not to Blame.
I returned the exercise book to the owner, but Ebinyo did not think much of the content of what he had written. In fact, he seemed not to have missed his exercise book. On my part, however, I saw a challenge that had to be taken up. If that small boy could attempt to write a play, why shouldn’t I? And so, I paid closer attention to Shakespeare’s Macbeth, the play on my syllabus at the time, and began to sketch dialogues of my own. That propulsion led me, instead, to write what eventually began to manifest as individual poems.
A few years later, when I gained admission into the Department of English and Literary Studies, University of Port Harcourt, I was pleasantly surprised to find that Ebinyo and I were among the original twelve students of a class that eventually grew to become 15. In time, I was to discover that every member of that class shared a passion to become a creative writer. Two or three of them already had manuscripts of their own, and I wondered when I would be able to write my own manuscript.
Outside class work, I kept scribbling bits and pieces of poetry as they occurred to me. But it was only in 1986, our year of graduation, when I was denied a chance to go on youth service for failing to submit my undergraduate project on time, only then did I begin to write poetry consciously, out of a sense of rejection and dejection, until my first manuscript came to be what now ranks as my first book, Mantids. In 1995, I finally summoned the courage to enter the collection for that year’s edition of the Association of Nigerian Authors poetry prize, and my creative horizon expanded at once when the book won the star prize.
It comes to me as a puzzle today that, when I look back at the desperate efforts of my university classmates to become published authors of note, I can’t find a book written by anyone of them. I feel bad, in particular, that Ebinyo who provided an early spur for me in our younger days, did not think it necessary to pursue a writing career that might have proven beneficial to him if he had cultivated a talent that he obviously possesses. The farthest he went, as far as pushing the pen goes, was when he served as speech writer to former Governor Timipre Sylva of Bayelsa State, who incidentally was also our classmate at the University of Port Harcourt.
Kenneth Azeta was the one course mate of mine who had the manuscript of a novel at that time. I was overawed to know that someone who had written a novel was in my class, and I almost felt left behind. It turned out, however, that I didn’t have to worry. Azeta was not particularly excellent in class, and I felt better to know that I could beat him in a few courses. Those were the days when the Pacesetters series was making waves in Nigeria and the popular authors of the day included Kalu Okpi, Buchi Emecheta, Chuma Nwokolo, amongst others. After graduation, Kenneth Azeta formally relocated to Germany, and I have no way of knowing whether or not his novel saw the light of day.
Joseph Amuri, a fair-skinned Ikwerre chap with obvious brown teeth from smoking cigarettes, was another prospective writer who spoke about the novel he was writing at the time as though it had already been published. The title of the novel, Parapets of Misery was known by everyone in class. But I doubt if it ever got published, otherwise I would have read about it somewhere, or seen it in the catalogue of one library or the other. If I ever run into Joe Amuri again, I will not hesitate to mention the title of his first book, and ask for my personal copy.
Amongst the lot, Gift Baraoforiye was even more ambitious as a writer. I cannot quite remember the title of his book, but he had submitted his manuscript to a publisher in America, and we were all so proud of him. One day, he came to class with a long-drawn face, and told us that the publishers had sent him a rejection slip. But even that came to us like a big achievement. We took turns to peruse the letter which began with the very respectful opening: Dear Author. After that opening, no one really bothered about the content of the letter, and Gift simply came to be known by everyone in that class as Dear Author.
Edward Benstowe saw himself as the intellectual champion of the class. He was always prepared to enter into a debate on the finer points of criticism in much the same way that he would gladly begin an argument on the thematic imperatives of the novel on the study list, or the play under review, or else the poetry book up for analysis. He was loud and domineering in attitude, and his height as the tallest student in our class only served to underscore his overbearing spirit.
You could always be sure that Benstowe had read every book recommended for each course. He always proceeded from a point of certainty about whatever he had to say. Like Smoking Joe, he was very fond of his packet of Benson & Hedges until he developed a severe chest-grating cough that quite frightened everyone in class, and he was compelled to take a break from the habit. To be fair to him, he came top of the class, and felt quite offended when he graduated with a second class upper degree.
Benstowe’s closest friend was Godwin Ebikake. They were almost always to be seen together. Ebikake was particularly fond of high-sounding words, and whenever he raised his hand in class, there was bound to be a stir, and whoops of laughter to follow as he deliberately unleashed his polysyllabic bombshells. He was also noted for his peculiar dress sense. Ebikake, in fact, was the only male student who could be seen going to class in close-fitting bum shorts that left his rotund posterior as evident as that of a well-endowed woman. Added to the fact that he was a very healthy young man with shapely legs that drew the attention of many ladies, he could not be missed.
Yet this same Ebikake had a luxuriant moustache that he was fond of caressing as he popped out his explosive choice of words. He had also adopted a nickname for himself and came to be known by one and all as Chief Agbogidi. He was fascinated about the folklore of the Ijaw people, and had contributed a short story to the maiden edition of Ofirima, the English departmental journal which I edited. The central character of his story was Benikrukru, a mythical god figure, which only added to the hyperbolic tendencies we had come to associate with Ebikake.
Many years after graduation, Ebikake grew through the ranks of the civil service in the newly created Bayelsa State to become the most senior director in the office of the Secretary to the State Government, taking minutes in every meeting of the state executive council. It was easy to see that his fascination for creative literature had given way to a daily concern with carrying fat files shuffled from ministry to ministry. When last I visited him in his office, he was still reminiscing about his involvement with creative literature, and wondering when he would make out time to write his book.
Victor Ovie-Izibe, arguably the youngest boy in our class, younger than Ebinyo , also turned out to be a frontline civil servant who grew to become a permanent secretary in the Bayelsa State civil service. Ovie was always on the look-out for amusement in those days, and was more than likely to lead any outburst of laughter. He was readily tickled by every other utterance, especially if it came from Ebikake or Jude Iheanacho. Even if there was nothing to laugh about at the moment, Ovie-Izibe was sure to recall an incident or two after class that was bound to let him have the laughter he craved.
Even so, Ovie-Izibe was known for his steadfast attention to class work. Besides ensuring that he read every recommended text in the syllabus, he never toyed with his assignments. He would rather forego his meal, if it came to that, than miss out on an assignment. His studious devotion was evident from the black rings around his eyes, and I took early notice of him as a young man who took his responsibilities seriously. He could be depended upon to deliver his side of any bargain, so long as he had committed himself to it. Like every one of his classmates, Ovie-Izibe was keen about the prospect of writing a book of his own, but the passing years may well have eroded that dream.
Darlington Eziukwu was, without doubt, the cleanest and tidiest chap in our class. He was always neatly dressed, his shirts and trousers showing the pleats in straight lines, and his shoes sparkling in the sun. The thick moustache curved over his smile completed his dressing. Eziukwu could always be counted upon to raise one more question, no matter how explicit the explanations from the lecturer may be. He was a good example of the kind of student who does not let a lecturer talk for one hour without asking questions. He would always probe for more. He would engage the lecturer until the subject was exhausted.
Darlington took a break from asking questions for the first time when he came to class one day with a twisted face. His smile was obviously out of place, slanted at an odd angle as it was. He simply did not want to call attention to himself, and we wondered what might have happened. Before long, we got to know that he had a nervous attack that nearly left him immobilized. He struggled with it, and only by God’s grace was he able to survive it. He had suffered a partial stroke that left a part of his face drooping, and his mouth visibly bent. For over a week after that, Darlington came to class with a handkerchief over his face, and had very little to say.
Eziukwu scribbled in light, hurried ink, and I could see that he always spelt out every word, without abbreviations, and yet he got the kernel of the topic down on paper in understandable order. He could jolly well pass for a good stenographer, and I was pleasantly surprised to hear, not long after our graduation, that he had secured a job as Chief Press Secretary to the Governor of his home state.
A young man with a great deal of promise, he was evidently making a head way in life, and his network of friends had stretched out to include the political class. On 7 November 1996, while I served as Editor of The Tide on Sunday, I heard on the news that Ezuikwu was among one hundred and forty-four passengers who perished in the ADC airline crash of that day, which claimed the lives of prominent Nigerians, including Professor Claude Ake, one of Africa’s foremost political philosophers. I had every reason to feel the loss at a tragic, personal level.
Gabriel Iwerito would read up to this point, and wonder why I had not mentioned his name so far. He would also wonder what I would have to say about him. Iwerito was numbered in our class as a gentleman, and there is no way to miss him out at all. He was on the short side, even if he would argue with you over that, a smile breaking out from the sides of his swollen cheeks. His eyes would reduce to pinpoints behind the thick lenses of his bogus reading glasses, and then he would assert his place in the very quiet, mature manner of a self-assured negotiator.
Iwerito also had ambitions to be a creative writer, just like his fellow kinsman, Gift Baraoforiye of the Dear Author fame, but I never got to know the title of Gabriel’s book. If a printed copy of Gabriel’s book were to get into the hands of Prof. Chidi Maduka, one of our lecturers, Maduka would articulate his surprise at the eventuality and pronounce Gabriel’s surname in that slow, distinctive tone of his, putting all the stress on the last syllable of Iwerito.
Maduka’s idiosyncrasies never failed to amuse Jude Iheanacho, another classmate of mine. Jude, in fact, found fun in everything and everyone around. He found something to laugh about Maduka as much as he found in the antics of Prof. Charles Nnolim or, for that matter, Seiyefa Koroye, our lecturer in dramaturgy. Jude himself could easily pass for a clown. His legs were longer than his torso, precisely because he had a haunch back he couldn’t be bothered about. He had Coke-bottle thick lenses over his eyes, and was in the habit of shifting the frame up and down the bridge of his nose as he spoke. His large front teeth were readily bared in a Cheshire-cat smile.
Jude, Victor and I had something in common when we chose to start a mock radio station on campus in our final year. We wrote out news stories, and took turns to read them aloud for anyone who cared to tune in, but the reach of the radio was limited to a single room in the hostel block at Nelson Mandela Hall where we practiced. Jude and I took the experimentation more seriously than others. That was how we woke up one morning and heard a news commentary on Radio Rivers, Port Harcourt, and the script being broadcast was written by our own Jude Iheanacho.
The only snag was that Boma Erekosima, when signing off after the pidgin translation of the news, told the world that the script was written by “our sister, Judy”. We were all very proud of Jude, but from that day we began to address him in female terms. Jude could never stop laughing at his new appellation, and till we graduated from the university he was simply known, called and addressed as our sister Judy. Needless to say, I took the radio even more seriously and went on to write more commentaries, and actually began to take the news live on Radio Rivers many years later.
Even the two ladies in our class, Esther Akpan and Elizabeth Nwachukwu, were understandably glad to know that Jude had joined their female rank. They could not stop teasing Jude about his sex change, and Jude simply found all of it so funny. Esther was the pride of our class as far as ladies go. She was light-skinned, had straight, hairy legs that she gladly exposed, and could easily pass for a sex symbol. To watch her stroll from the hostel block to class and back was to witness an enchanting cat-walk such as you are not likely to see at a beauty pageant. She stepped out with a self-conscious gait, her high-heeled shoes knocking on the pavement. A pout was always to be seen on her thick, red lips. She had since classified herself as a poetess, and we would often look out for the next poem from Esther’s collection. In the end, though, I doubt if it was published at all.
Elizabeth was a sharp contrast to Esther in body size and in carriage. Much lighter in complexion, Lizzy was less fashion conscious. She was so visibly skinny that her clothes invariably seemed to hang on her, and the wide-brimmed skirts she wore swayed from side to side as she walked to and from class. She could easily pass for the ascetic, religious type, what with her head scarves and her quiet, isolated disposition. Like every one of our classmates, Lizzy had an ambition to be a creative writer with particular regard to poetry. But, again, I am yet to read a book written by Elizabeth Nwachukwu, and I will be truly glad to hold such a book in hand.
That was the composition of our class in the literature programme at the University of Port Harcourt. But one day, while we sat in class, a very light-skinned man walk in unobtrusively, dressed in a white short-sleeve shirt on grey trousers, his feet shod in brown leather sandals. If not that he was obviously bald-headed, he could pass for an energetic young man.
He took a seat at the back of the class, and throughout the period I knew him, he remained shy about taking a seat upfront. His name was John Ironkwe. At first we wondered whether he was some kind of spy, but when he began to do the same class assignments with apparent enthusiasm, and submit his papers to the same lecturers for marking, we concluded that he was a late entry student.
Ironkwe took a particular liking to me over time, and we became friends, especially when he noticed my active involvement with the media. At that time, as a sophomore, I had started writing my first scripts for The Tide newspaper, and he wondered when I had the time to do that, in spite of the heavy workload demanded by the many courses we took in the department.
The day my story appeared in a national newspaper, The Guardian no less, Ironkwe felt he was falling behind time, and wanted me to coach him. I told him he could do even better, if only he would put his mind to it. I could not really tell whether he had strong literary ambitions of his own, and I did not ask him.
