Where have all magicians gone to?
By Jason Osai
Simplistic and perhaps rhetorical as this question seems, it demands deep thought informed by a sense of the social history of pre-independence, pre-civil war and the immediate post-civil war eras in Nigeria.
Incidentally, these periods cover my childhood, teenage and youth, respectively. I shall, therefore, take you on a journey down memory lane spanning the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s (up to 1973) in the Sombreiro Valley of Niger Delta, Nigeria; thereafter, I shall offer a very simple but highly worrisome answer.
One evening during the third quarter of the 1950s, I came home to the UAC staff quarters at Beach, Alinso Okeanu in the present Ogba/Egbema/Ndoni Local Government, Rivers State and received the beating of my life from my mother who was very dexterous with the cane and never spared it.
Why? There was a telltale patch of stew on my upper lip and my breath. At that stage of our national development in rural Nigeria, stew usually went with rice and rice was consumed only during Christmas, New Year, Easter and Salla, which we referred to as “Hausa Christmas” and it was not any of those seasons.
The answer? A sportily-dressed Arthur Ezenekwe, son of the manager of UAC, came home, gathered us in a hall near his father’s house in Kreigani and performed America wonders: he spoke in a rather strange but enchanting tongue not to us but to the four walls of the hall, snapped his fingers and a tin of “Craven A” cigarettes materialised; the adults quickly collected sticks of the cigarettes and smoked, so did some bad boys; then, Arthur requested for a white basin and someone quickly brought one; after another stretch of the strange tongue, he took a red cloth from his magic box, covered the basin with it, spoke further in that strange tongue to the four walls, mumbled some barely audible sounds then swiftly lifted the red cloth and we were staring at a basin filled with steaming hot rice decorated with equally hot stew and innumerable lumps of succulent-looking large pieces of meat. Goodness gracious! We were face-to-face with the feast of festivities. Our jaws dropped in unison as if choreographed; we were salivating, highly expectant and wondering if he would let us eat of it. He did.
Arthur and I had a pair of peculiar commonalities and are related, sort of: sandwiched between two girls, he is the only son of his mother, and I am also sandwiched between two girls and the only son of my parents; again, his mother, Margaret, is my baptismal mother, which was a very serious relationship during the embryonic stage of Christianity in the area; I was, therefore, his younger brother and he treated me as such. Expectedly, in choosing those to take the first shot at the feast, Arthur pointed at me and, like Adam of you-know-what-book, I ate thereof.
When the Orashi River ceased to be the aquatic highway for moving goods and materials, UAC closed its doors at Beach and the multi-ethnic population of about six thousand dispersed from the cosmopolitan trading post. My family moved northwards to Omoku, which is on Federal Highway 28 that runs from Oguta through Omoku and Ahoada to Yenagoa and had started attracting sojourners as a result of government offices, a court, post office, police station, a motor park, big market and primary schools that offered the First School Leaving Certificate examination.
One afternoon at St. Michael’s School, Omoku, we were hurriedly chaperoned to one of the halls and a magician by name Dr. Prince arrived with Lydia, a very pretty lady in black slacks bestriding the backseat of his Triumph motorbike to the amazement of the people. Like Arthur Ezenekwe, Dr. Prince was fair-skinned, very handsome, well dressed and had good command of the English Language, at least as far as our capacity to evaluate that allowed. Like Arthur, Dr. Prince spoke in that strange tongue and performed wonders to the fascination of all. Other than Dr. Prince, other magicians came and performed their art and that became a norm in schools, court halls and town squares in those days before moving and talking pictures entered the entertainment scene; this trend subsisted during the immediate post civil war years.
Today, there is absolutely no sign of the magicians of old on our streets and I wonder why; and this is the essence of this piece. Like the time traveler of Ecclesiastes, I gave deep thought to this question and returned to today, under the sun. My answer is that the magicians are still here with us as wolves in sheep’s skin; along with native doctors, they are amongst the anointed, speaking in strange tongues and plying their trade of wondrous works to the enchantment of their ensnared audience that are suffering from stress and socioeconomic hardship induced neurosis. Thanks to cosmetologists, they are all looking good; dressed in fancy clothes; living in mansions; driving SUVs and riding in motorcades instead of Triumph motorcycles; they are flying private jets. Where have all the magicians gone? I will concisely answer thus: they are harvesting the financial seeds sown by a gullible laity and the proceeds accruing from glossolalia and performing wondrous works on the pulpits of Pentecostalism.
A parting note: I have written severally that “the greatest hoaxes in humanity are embedded in the concretes of the obelisks, towers and domes of organised religion.” Let me add thus: the face of God is in our thoughts, utterances, actions and inactions; no man of God can pray for you better than you can pray for yourself if you judiciously apply yourself to the art and act of praying. Be you Jew, Hindu, Christian, Moslem or Traditionalist, God resides in the heart of each and everyone of us; praying without ceasing is being conscious of the presence of God in everything we do, every moment of our lives.
O. Osai is a professor at the Institute of Foundation Studies, Rivers State University, Port Harcourt.(jasonosai1@yahoo.com)
