Kola Johnson
“Dem kill my mama; dem kill my mama; dem kill my mama; political mama; ideological mama; dem kill my mama; dem kill my mama; dem kill my mama”…
Hmmmmh! That was vintage Fela Anikulapo Kuti, the Afro-beat wizard, at his quintessential best in his stirring pathos of elegy, “Kalakuta Show,” dedicated to
her mother, Mrs.Funmilayo Ransome- Kuti, in ineffaceable remembrance of the tragic Kalakuta Invasion at which a detachment of grimly armed soldiers invaded his Kalakuta empire and threw the aged 77-year-old mother of the maverick musical idol all from the Up-storey building of her son, to land with devastating fatal kiss on the bare ground, resulting in her lamentably untimely exit for the other-wordly sphere of the world beyond.
To be sure, Fela was certainly not alone in this evocative passion for motherhood. In this connection, one remembers the celebrated “Sweet Mother” by Nico Mbarga of blessed memory, the chart bursting ”Iya lalabaro” by Olalekan Olorode, among other melodious variants by the Miliki maestro, Chief Ebenezer Obey, Hubert Ogunde, the theatre wizard, eulogizing the sublime virtue of motherhood to high heavens.
For those familiar with the irresistible allures of these inspirational melodies, one discerns with unambiguous clarity, the indisputable truism of the endemic riddle in motherhood.
Call it the mystery or enigma of sweet motherhood – that is for those tickled by semantic fancy – and you sure have not missed it, as creative variants of same idea.
Motherhood evokes a surreal ecstasy, inexplicable sentiment defying verbal expression. No wonder, the popular saying that motherhood is divine.
It is against this background that one remembers with emotional pathos of grief, the death of Madam Elekia Giwa, mother of Dele Giwa, the brilliant and charismatic founding Chief Executive and Editor-In-Chief of the Newswatch magazine, now defunct – at that moment of tragedy, as her beloved son, emotionally entrapped in irresistible mournful fit, re-echoed from his incorporeal abode in heaven, a lamentative mimicry of “Dem Kill My Mama”, as his darling mum joined him in re-union.
Going down the memory lane, one recalls that particularly dark moment Sunday of October 19, 1986, exactly 39 years ago, when the sepulchral great ripper, abruptly put paid to his life, via an official parcel bomb, which re-invented, with the most brutal sadism, his ebullient frame, hitherto brimming with life and vigour, into a mangled piece of shattered flesh, in a scenario that would make even the butchery green with envy.
Tears flowed in unfettered torrents, as dark pall of mourning enveloped the landmass, waxing in its chimeric grotesqueness, across the vast global space.
On this particular feast of horror, one person stood out in eminently conspicuous terms. She was Madam Elekia Giwa, the one who harbored him in the womb; nurtured him in the emotional closet of her tender bosom, and who in affectionately motherly empathy, doubled in spirit, soul and body with him, at every dimensional frame of time.
One remembers as if it were just yesterday, the horrifyingly bee- blubbered imagery she conjured in the wake of the gory sadism unleashed against her beloved son by savage blood hounds who in a conspiratorial code of omerta, hitherto unyielding to forensic scrutable intelligence, in its enigmatic elusiveness, dispatched her son to the distant world, beyond almost ken of mortal existence, as Elekia Giwa’s world collapsed, almost immediately, and never to remain the same again.
What a tragedy?
Would you now see why Elekia Giwa had remained crying ever since? Why she cried to her grave, and why even in her grave, she defies in inconsolable whiff of agitation, the healing balm of time, in her lachrymal canticles, that would simply refuse to let go – just as her darling son Dele, also continues to cry – haunted by the depredatory savagery of his State-inspired annihilation and the frustrating dosage of sadism on her mum by same terror machine of the power cabal of the moment.
But for anyone that might wish to argue to the contrary – that Madam Giwa and her darling son Dele, had since stopped crying – that would be on the condition that the hard truth be told on some attenuating balm of gestures, of which the most significant in this context could only worthily have emanated from Dele’s supposed coterie of bosom pals; with particular emphasis on the inner circuit bracket of the Newswatch fraternity of old.
In this regard, five cogent points which come pertinently into play are: To what extent were Dele’s close pals – in a relationship bordering almost on alter-ego intimacy – able to keep faith with the memorandum of understanding binding individual members, with regards to prompt defrayal of dividend rightfully accruable to their founding Chief Executive and Editor-In-Chief, who exceedingly more than the other three inner-circuit of the four -man directorate- namely Ray Ekpu, Dan Agbese and Yakubu Mohammed – personified the then top flight outfit, now moribund, with the natural charisma, organisational leadership, supreme faith, exceeding breadth of horizon, exposure and experience on account of his American academic and professional background – all of which he brought to bear in projecting it to eminence among its compeers in the media arena.
And considering the fraternal Bond of friendship amongst them, and a particularly endearing relish and esteem bordering beyond sheer pretensive affectation as they would have us believe, even if outwardly, to what extent would these inner circuit buddies of the slain media mogul beat their chest in confident affirmation that they often related with his mother, Elekia Giwa, not only in consistently regular frequency, but with substantial gift to boot, following the demise of her dear son, until the mother bade bye for the world beyond
Thirdly, to what extent if any, was Dele Giwa’s case factored into consideration, at that crucial moment of negotiation for the transition of Newswatch to a new phase of ownership.
Fourthly, how much could the strategic media-related organizations like NUJ, NPAN, NGE and the likes, boast of a relentless resolve to unravel the gordian knot of Giwa’s dastardly murder 39 years ago, on that celebrative feast of unprecedented brutishness that remained more than ever, the height of man’s inhumanity to man.
Fifthly, Would they suppose in a curious fit of unconscionable resignation, that all is so well that there would be no need for a meaningful gesture to immortalise the memory of this redoubtable gad fly and exemplary inspirational colossus of the formidable fraternity of the pen?
It is after they might have posited ostensibly credible explanations that I could veritably be swayed that Madam Giwa is no longer crying in their celestial abode in the world beyond.
*Kola Johnson is a writer and journalist
