THERE ARE COUNTRIES that scare me (Afghanistan, Zaire, Germany), countries I love (Botswana, Sweden, Taiwan), countries I have to live with (United States of America, Zimbabwe), and countries which perpetually surprise me (Russia, India, Nigeria). These types of countries -- the surprising ones -- are the passionate countries; countries where all affairs (political, social, economic, personal) are conducted on an epic scale. It is no wonder that they have produced some of the greatest art in the world: India has its great directors, with Bollywood being second only to Hollywood in film production; and Russia has produced the world's greatest novels. More specifically, Nigeria has not only produced Africa's first major novel -- Amos Tutuola's Palm Wine Drunkard -- but Africa's first modern novel, Achebe's Things Fall Apart, not to mention international literary stars like Ben Okri and Wole Soyinka, who is the first black African to win the Noble Prize for literature.
Nigeria is to its West African neighbors (Ghana, Senegal) what China is (or at least was in the medieval ages) to Japan -- a wild, unpredictable brother, who despite being irresponsible and silly, is the source of much innovation and brilliance. The country has a population of 90 million (or 120 million -- no one knows how many people are in Nigeria), and though it is poor, it always thinks, acts, and operates on a grand scale. They have billionaires who own private jets, and rock stars with 40 wives, a fleet of Mercedes, and hit songs that are 45 minutes in length. And the corruption in Nigeria is legendary. Even as a boy, I recall hearing stories of the type of scams that took place in Nigeria. They were always larger than life -- like how an oil tanker (Nigeria is the ninth biggest oil producer in the world, and the transit point for 50 percent of the heroin that arrives in America) mysteriously disappeared. No one knows exactly what happened to the whole oil tanker; it left Lagos and vanished into thin air, into someone's Swiss bank account.
Because of Nigeria's bigness -- its spectacular scope and scale -- its writers have always impressed me as being equally passionate and powerful. When reading plays by Wole Soyinka in high school as part of my African literature requirement (a course that was dominated by Nigerians), I got the sense that I was dealing with a man from a great civilization. I felt belittled, as I came from a puny civilization, a small country (10 million people), and, to make matters worse, I was a minority in this small country -- a Manica, a race who claimed only a slender corner of this landlocked nation. Sure we produced the literary genius Dumbuzdo Marechera, but he was not epic, he was not a hero. He was existential, bleak, an alcoholic who never really finished anything.
Soyinka, on the other hand, was confident, revolutionary, outspoken, worldly, and mad (in both senses of the word). He was anti-colonialist, a nationalist, and a pan-Africanist, making bold new plays for African consumption (Dance of the Forest, The King's Horseman, A Play of Giants). He had the biggest dreams for Nigeria, and even bigger dreams for Africa. But then things fell apart. Nigeria did not become, as many people expected 30 years ago, one of "the greatest nations in the world." It instead fell into the hands of greedy generals, who devoured its wealth. These generals, the most recent being Abacha, were ruthless and cynical. They killed their political opponents, and had no problems even killing world-famous writers like Ken Saro-Wiwa (they also tried to kill Soyinka, who escaped death by slipping across the border).
At this low point in Nigerian history, exiled Wole Soyinka began to not only be critical of Western powers, but also of post-colonial African regimes. In his book The Burden Of Memory, he went so far as to say that even if Europe compensated Africa for slavery and the exploitation of its resources, it would not help, because the money would only wind up in the pockets of the generals and dictators.
But then one day the evil Nigerian General Abacha (whose CIA bio, Colin Powell once said, was the worst he had ever seen) died of a heart attack, and suddenly the nightmare was over. (Only in passionate countries can this happen, can one man's heart attack change the course of a country's history.) Elections were held, a civilian government resumed power, scores of political prisoners were freed, and writers who had been in exile -- like Achebe and Soyinka -- returned home.
At this very moment Nigeria is on the brink of something big, and this is why Seattle is so lucky to have Soyinka speak. It could not have happened at a better time: He is witnessing a major event, something that may transform not only Nigeria, but Africa completely. And Soyinka will certainly surprise us with what he has to say about these strange days.
