Afro-Scot ZEKE: Afro-Scot

By Michael Uzoramaka Jonathan

The author desired to write works dealing with sensitive social and political issues that people refrain from discussing daily. The author believes that writers must use their pens to capture and place a mirror in the dressing room of the zeitgeist. That is the raison d'etre for the compilation of the novel Afro-Scot ZEKE, the two short stories, Eyes for beauty and Miss. Toile and finally, the eponymous and first play by the author, the evangelic; Afro-Scot Church. We hope you enjoy the author's meditative prose, meticulously crafted to speak to the reader.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Uzoramaka Jonathan
• Release date: Oct 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9781739172503

Book preview

© 2022 AFROSCOT LTD Published by AFROSCOT LTD United Kingdom

Baltic Chambers, 2nd Floor, 50 Wellington Street, Glasgow, G2 6HJ afroscot.org

Printed in the United Kingdom

ISBN is 978-1-7391725-0-3

All rights reserved. No part of  this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the publisher's prior written permission. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Scripture quotations identified KJV are from the King James Version of the Bible.

Contents

Acknowledgments……….. 7  Introduction……….. 9 - 11

Afro-Scot Zeke……….. 12 - 225  Nsibidi……….. 226 - 227

Short Stories & Play - Preface……….. 229 - 233  Afro-Scot Eyes for Beauty……….. 235 - 280  Afro-Scot Miss. Toile……….. 281 - 337  Afro-Scot Church……….. 339 - 367  End Notes……….. 368

Acknowledgments

The acknowledgment, or thanksgiving, is my favourite part of  the writing process as it gives me time to reflect on the whole literary journey, from the idea to the research to the planning, execution, and publication. It allows me to show my gratitude to all who have helped me on my journey as an author. With this being my fourth book, I feel safe calling myself an author, especially from a back- ground and environment where no one has ever written a book.  But as my father says, I am a trailblazer, the pace-setter, and must get used to forging the untrodden path like a child eager to press his soles on the smooth, untouched snow beds. My Father is the first human I can give thanks to, as he was the one who inspired me to start researching Nigeria. He ignited the flames of  my interest in my heritage as an Igbo and Nigerian. He encouraged my interest in painting, writing, and all my endeavours. The choice location of the main character’s home life is my Father’s birthplace.

 My mother and Sister are great examples of  helpers as they are willing to sit and listen to me speak about my work no matter how incessant I talk about my interests. They advise and try to get into my work which encourages me greatly. My little brother is another advocate of my work. He advised me on the title of one of the short stories. My friends and family always show me love and make me see my writing talents. The Church has been a great encourager, always allowing me to use my gifts for God’s house and never shunning them away. I also want to thank my country, Nigeria, for its beautiful culture and people whose hope continues to inspire everyone worldwide.

The people who have bought my book have been a great

help in my journey, the bookshops which sell my work, and the supporters of  Afro-Scot with its ethos to show people through visual art that all our experience leads us to Christ, and with that, I would like to dedicate this book entirely to OUR LORD AND SAVIOUR JESUS CHRIST—the one whom I work heartily towards and revere.

Introduction

In the early years of 2020, I entered an artistic  crisis where I won- dered what my new directions would be. I had just finished an exhibition at the Mitchell Library where I produced various paintings on t-shirts and drawings, and it was a profound success for me and the Afro-Scot movement. However, now I started to sense a dry spell in my creative imagination and felt that I was soon drifting along to a world where art would become a back-burner in my human experi- ence. Naturally, whenever I felt this way, I plunged subconsciously into my research and my tireless interest in articles and history. Soon, I stumbled upon a brilliant website that detailed the Nigeria Civil War, which I had heard of but never delved into finding its true meaning and contents.

 I researched this intensely and found material for my paint- ings which I would produce for the next few months while slogging at my University. I set up an exhibition and party for my art and was invited to universities to show my work, but lockdown and disease hit the world and eroded many dreams. Uncertain times had a way of either discouraging one or uplifting one to their highest potential.  Gracefully, I was able to experience the latter and started

podcasts detailing African history from a positive point of  view. It enriched my knowledge of Africa and allowed me to understand more about Scotland’s connection with British history. I did not touch on the topic of the Nigerian Civil War until a fantastic  oppor- tunity to produce an exhibition involving a documentary, paintings, and essay’s on the Biafra war came to be, and God’s goodness and mercy led me to have a fulfilling six months working on the project as a living and profitable hobby. My Father primarily inspired the exhibition.

 I delved into this topic and was amazed at how little I knew about my home country of  birth. I was astounded by all our political figures, groups, and machinations that pushed us down a road of military and civilian up-and-down rule.

 I looked into information hidden from the public and my fellow Nigerians and felt a deep sadness for our people's plights and a reverence for their relentless courage to live and become something of themselves—Nigerians smile even when the  whole world is coming down as our faith was unyielding. I spoke to my Grand- mother regarding the war and felt connectivity to the past like never before. It was the first time I would talk to her in such an intimate way. I was inspired, and the exhibition was a great success.

However, soon after, I saw that our young people did not know much about our country. They instead join themselves to the west than their father's heritage. I remember a conversation with a friend who boldly stated they would rather be a Glaswegian than a Nigerian.  I found this deeply disturbing, especially when he did not

know much about the Nigerian Civil War or what Biafra entailed. I decided to implement ways to enlighten our fellow compatriots, and when experiencing the myriads of upsets at the Nigerian  High Commission and having to return there after various irritating crises, an idea hit me at 3 AM, an hour and a half before I had to wake up and drive to Central station for the train to London.

I was still working on publishing my third book, Afro-Scot

GL^, but this idea could not leave me for some reason, as if the Holy Spirit’s conviction was urging me to engage in another work. In hindsight, that conviction held. The statement did not just come to me suddenly; and it had been brewing in my mind for several weeks. It was a mixture of the upcoming Nigerian election, my  research into the many African leaders who were assassinated or disposed of their position in the 20th century (I wanted to call this book The 20th century Fall at first), the frequent visits to the high commission, the assassination of a Japanese politician, and my interest in the man Nnamdi Azikiwe. My Igbo heritage pushed me to write a story that expressed the opposing views Nigerians have of their  country, so at

3 AM, I wrote down the first three paragraphs of  this book as it flowed out of me like uncontrolled  perspiration. As I wrote, the voices of many Nigerians I encountered in my life spoke  like sooth- ing buzzing bees as their annoyance and aggression invoked a spirit of debate and contention. Like Lagbaja, the folk musicians said: ‘If there are Nigerians together, there will be the talk of  its problems.’  I fasted before the date to leave for London for a whole week and refused to eat during my train ride. Once I heard that the high commission was closed, the toll and stresses of writing my third book and my other business and personal ventures hit my body like a tsunami, and like the strong tides of such force, I collapsed under the pain.

 For the first time, I experienced the weight of a breakdown. I took a few days off from writing and doing anything strenuous but continued diligently researching Nigeria's topic whenever I sat between the soft covers of the hotel beds. Through  this research, I began to understand everything about Nigeria, and when we came home from London, I expressed to my family impatiently mixed with humour: ‘I wish I were two persons.’ I said this because as I inched closer to completing my third book, I also hungered to start the writing of ZEKE—a book that I believe displays the whole gamut of my writing and story-telling  ability.

 Although I am not living in Nigeria, the country’s blood flows through my veins. I thank the Lord and my Saviour, Jesus Christ, for his strength that aided me in finishing this book. I hope the words will emit this same strength each line, and each line at a time.

AFRO-SCOT ZEKE

Afro-Scot ZEKE aims to explore the multiple negative thoughts that reign within the mind of Nigerians  and to understand the complaints regarding their beloved country. At their breaking point, a man decides to do something about the protest.

ACT I

After finishing AFROSCOT ZEKE, see page 226-227 for more information on the Nsibidi symbols.

1

Dreams

I looked around my country, from the Yoruba and Hausa to the Igbos, and noticed a terrible division that shattered the trust that benefitted from unification. After seeing the strife that resulted in my uncle's death, a statesman who campaigned for the collapse of the present government, a burning flame of  resentment consumed my heart and drove me to madness. A madness brought about by my lack of control. My uncle was a strong man with compassion but lacked vision and knowledge. The knowledge I, Zeke, required to undertake my ends could not be attained through the books held within the limited scope of my country.  Deep in my heart, I knew I had to flee and venture into the foreign lands far in the west. I had to salvage the enemy’s ideas to bring my country back to its former glory. The glory I found in the first republic, and I must act fast before the corruption erodes the fabric and elements of my nation.

Afro-Scot ZEKE Act I

 What if I told you my goal  is to unify Nigeria one day? I laughed at that concept the first time it entered my mind like a disk into a player. Nigeria is unified, so why do I need to bring the country together? It is a question many asked but seized to delve further into practical solutions. Perhaps fear of  what could happen shook them. Comfort was deadly, and I promised not to fall. Turning a blind eye to our country's faults gave them a feeling of swallowing twenty laxatives. However, one knows the effects of such a binge, the turnover of  one's stomach.

This fire for unification did not start today. I was a frail

boy, afraid of my own shadow, until one day, I attended a church service with my mother and heard a guest minister proclaim a riveting speech. The speech rose the hairs on my pre-pubescent body and shook my cells into an intoxicated frenzy. The guest minister did not engage in religious emotionalism like many preachers in the country. No, that was not the reason for my excitement. It was his words.

He stood in front of the pulpit within the interior of a

dark wooden structure with ripped grooves that allowed the morning light to creep into its space. I sat at the far back with moist eyes as I controlled my flesh’s desire to slumber. I knew that closing my eyes would result in a sudden smack to the head from my mother, so I retained my appearance of transient concentra- tion. I usually observed my surroundings to keep myself  awake and found the rotting wood and damp smell of the space poignant enough to keep my senses alive. I continued to weave my eyes around while keeping my head still lest my mother sees me. I held a small King James Bible with a green cover in my hand but never took the time to read its contents. My heart was more suited to the

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Afro-Scot ZEKE Act I

world’s problem than some archaic narrative. I yawned silently with my closed mouth and ducked down while counting the time left to leave the church. However, I knew my mother was a nuisance and loved entertaining everybody with chatter that lengthened my perceived long church hours.

 Then I felt a flash of  lightning strike my nerves and rumble its neurons. I stared wide-eyed at the guest minister in a burgundy suit that looked like it had been pressed and tailored to utmost perfection. It was like he had picked it up from a launder- ette. He cleared his throat and touched the brim of his black glasses. The reflection of  the light on the mirror disappeared and revealed a veteran soldier's eyes. He said:

 ‘I am Dr. Ekwensi. I appreciate the Pastor for allowing me to stand here. Now, my topic for today is: who are we?’ He laughs momentarily as he times his following words: ‘Many of us do not know! We are the people of Ham! The Jews!  The chosen people! And we must understand this if we want to make Africa great again.’

 The silence in the room was indicative of the  profundity of Dr. Ekwensi’s speech. He scanned the room, looking at each person in the space from the front row to the back like a hawk observing its prey. He hunches his back, squints his eyes, and then solidifies his face as he says:

 ‘You still don’t know! Okay, let’s turn to Genesis Chapters 9 and 10.’

 For the first time, I would open the Bible, not because of my mother’s prompt but a desire to figure out why I felt like I had somehow dipped my hands into pandora’s box and pulled out my destiny. I searched diligently for Genesis and nearly gave up after a

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Afro-Scot ZEKE Act I

few sporadic books opened. Then as fate would have it or God, I found the chapter and skimmed my eyes around the old English text.

 ‘In chapter nine, if you read from verses nineteen to twenty-seven, you will see that Ham was cursed because he did not cover his father! But why? Today, many have used that as a reason to justify the evils perpetrated on us. However, if you turn  to chapter ten, verses six to twenty.’ I moved my eager eyes to the next chapter and searched with vigour for the passage. ‘It says that Ham’s grandson Nimrod was mighty upon the face of  the earth!’  Everyone looked up, and some hummed in deep contem- plation.

 ‘We Africans were the mightiest on the earth before the Gentiles, which came from Japheth, as you can see in verses two to five. Ham also occupies most of that chapter. What does that mean, young man?’ He said as his eyes stretched to look my way. He was speaking to me, and I knew he was. However, a man behind me stood up and said:

‘It means we are superior.’

 It was my Uncle, Akuko. Everyone turned to look at my rugged uncle, whose steely eyes, tattered t-shirt, and jeans revealed a man tired of dishonour. A dishonour bred by our leader’s inabili- ty to self-sacrifice for our nation.

 ‘That is right!’ Said Dr. Ekwensi as my uncle took his seat.  I turned to look at my uncle’s steely gaze and rough mous- tache. To me, he signified what it meant to be a man. Dr. Ekwensi then walked away from the pulpit and stood in the space between the separate four by six seats that held the church's inhabitants. His shiny black slacks and slender appearance spoke of a polished

18

Afro-Scot ZEKE Act I

refinement unknown to small town dwellers like me.  ‘Have we forgotten Nnamdi Azikiwe? The man who brought independence, glory, and freedom to us! Ah, how can we forget that man.’ He said.

 I had never heard of Nnamdi Azikiwe. But the reverence this man who oozed charisma had for him induced me to listen more intently to his following expression:

19

2

Tremendous Glow

‘Without him, there would be no independence in Africa! There is a spiritual principle! The principle of the pattern.  If you follow a man’s footsteps, you can become like him. I came here today because I want more liberators, more passionate youth to see their country come out of  its ruins!’

 My eyes shone with tremendous glow and verbosity. My mother turned to me with her usual scowl, but I noticed her face softened to a delicate delight. Her eyebrows rested, and her eyes widened. Even I knew her thoughts: ‘What has gotten into this boy?’ After the service, I stood up and approached the preacher as he sat at the very front. Many in the church did not make conver- sation with him. I believe it was due to his eccentric look and stern demeanour. However, I felt my soul pulling and pushing towards him.

Afro-Scot ZEKE Act I

I stood up, pressed the soles of my leather sandals on the sandy ground, and felt my heart pump faster, and my fingers sweat. It would be the first time I would embody courage. I stood by his side, and he turned his head slowly to look at me.  ‘G-g-g-good afternoon s-s-s-sir. I-I-I liked your preaching.’ I said.

 I wasn’t a stammer, but I wasn’t used to speaking to guest ministers. I tried to hide my shivering legs and trembling lips, but from Dr. Ekwensi’s top-to-bottom scan, I knew he had dissected and analyzed my current state of  emotions correctly. He looked up into my eyes and said:

 ‘Thank you. What did you like about the speech?’  He placed his left hand on my shoulder while he smiled. I felt goose-pimples parade my skin, but my nerves slowly halted like an out-of-gas car. Like a man in such a car, opening his door to stand on the curb, exhaling a solemn sigh, I began to breathe normally again and said:

‘Nnamdi Azikiwe.’

 The smile on his face stretched wider. He took his hand off my right shoulder and turned  to his right. He then turned again with a book clasped to his right hand.

 ‘It’s not every day a young boy comes and says he likes my preaching. It’s my favourite book on Nnamdi Azikiwe. Renascent Africa.’

 I turned to check for my mother, whose eyebrows pressed against each other. I swerved my head to refuse his good-natured gift, but the man insisted by pushing the book closer to my hand. A male adult in the church approached us and said:

‘What are you doing!’ He turned to Dr. Ekwensi with a

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Afro-Scot ZEKE Act I

forced smile: ‘Sorry, sir, these young kids, eh.’

 I could see my mother walking toward me, and I prepared myself to dash from the scene, knowing that a pull of the ear or conk to the top of my head was imminent. Dr. Ekwensi sighed out of his nose, brushed  his left thigh with his left hand, and then stood up, towering over the male adult. My mother paused her strut.

 ‘There’s no issue here. Just a young boy whose desire to know ignited.’ He pushed the book towards me again and said:  ‘This is a fine gesture from my old generation to you. Make us proud.’

 I took the book and felt its hardback cover brush the sensitive nerves on my fingertips. My mother’s lips turned upwards for some time before she stood beside me and thanked the preach- er.

 ‘Thank you, sir! I dey happy you able to excite my pikin. He no like Bible, but now he dey read in church. We thank God.’  ‘Don’t worry! He’s the next generation.’ He picked up his leather suitcase. ‘Well, I’ll be leaving now. Thank you.’ He said while the male adult escorted him out of  the church.

 I watched him as he left and grasped the book closer to my chest as