There’s a lot to cry about, and so much to scream out in frustration in Nigeria, and across the world. But there’s a bucket list of good things to be thankful for, as our reviewer found out looking through a collection of poems by Emman Usman Shehu.
By Nathaniel Bivan
The moment I saw the title ‘The River Never Returns’ I unconsciously added ‘dry’ as my mind went to Ameerah Sufyan and sixteen others kidnapped right in the heart of Nigeria’s capital city Abuja, days ago. I can’t exactly put my finger on it, but there’s something about the metaphor of a river and the fact that it never returns that pricks my skin until I almost literally experience pain. Maybe I’m relating it to little things humans do that later haunt them, or the manner in which it seems like the government of my country is unaffected by the sorrow that’s swallowing up its people and yet feel it will never have a resounding counter-effect. Or maybe it’s just me being affected by this title so much.
And of course, it’s not just Ameerah on my mind – it’s the train passengers kidnapped on March 28 on the Abuja-Kaduna line, and the incessant incidents of terrorism that plague Nigeria as a whole. But let’s forget about my musings and ‘return’ to this ‘river’ that flows into multiple possibilities. It could be a traveller with adventures neatly folded in his luggage, a hiker backpacking somewhere where there are mountains and ships set to sail. Emman Usman Shehu’s titular poem is most likely not talking about a return to the past, but a future filled with possibilities, whether good or bad, smooth or rough.
The collection of poems, ‘The River Never Returns’ is made up of 75 poems not divided in parts or limited by themes. In the opening piece, ‘Rising,’ the author pays tribute to poetry, dwelling on its power to transport us to places known or unknown, on page 12:
a poem takes us
without a ticket
without a visa
without a passport
without biometrics
a poem
takes us
somewhere
near here
far out there
or some latitude
between
It’s probably no secret that poetry is the first port of call for many writers, where they express themselves and learn how to string words and language together. Some remain faithful to the art, but others cheat on it by exploring other genres, while others remain eternal monogamists. Whether Shehu is in the latter category is left for readers to judge. However, his work so far in the genre continues to remind us that he’s not a tourist poet. Not when you recall the experience with ‘Questions for Big Brother,’ his debut collection, ‘Open Sesame,’ ‘Icarus Rising,’ and several more, including those featured in other publications.
It’s said that one needs to know the rules in any art before he or she can venture out to break it. Shehu has most likely earned that right, and is probably breaking it in more than a million pieces, yet remains consistent to a great level in the manner his lines and verses are arranged.
For one, as an African and then a Nigerian, it’s impossible to write an entire collection without pouring out your hurt as regards the present undiluted terror in the land – from Borno to Yobe, from Yobe to Adamawa and from there to the north-western region where terrorism eats into Zamfara, Kaduna, Katsina and Sokoto. Then there’s the separatist type of terror in Eastern Nigeria and the corruption that seats in places of power like cow dung bent on smearing the buttocks of every politician and public servant privileged to hold a high position.
But the poem ‘Break the Spell,’ is dedicated to Bello Buba Jangebe, and points an accusing finger at the hypocrisy in the land. On March 20, 2000, one of Jangebe’s hands was amputated for stealing a cow in Zamfara. This, in a country where corrupt politicians loot billions and are ignored or granted pardon, where hypocrisy dipped in a bucket of religion is like an intoxicating incense that blurs the essence of life itself. On page 70, it reads in part:
trammelled by manipulators,
impoverished after cyclical
ballot-box ritual,
maimed by hypocrites
wearing masks of piety,
mocking adornments
of moral rectitude.
O Zamfara,
When will the push-back
Break the cistern of lack
And be your lifeline?
Still, Shehu has many reasons to smile, and it’s the beauty of Nigeria even in this present darkness – this is evident amid the chaos in cities like Lagos despite its gory history of jungle justice, the splendour in Abuja’s topography, the “mishmash of civilisations” in Abeokuta, the “ghosts of pyramids” and lush history carved into Kano. Benin, Lokoja, Port Harcourt, Enugu, Awka, Yenagoa, Gusau, Jos, Makurdi…
In nine pages, Shehu serves us the beauty that is Nigeria in the midst of a dark, dark time characterised by general insecurity, and it’s a reminder of a people’s much hoped-for unity (and beauty) in a sweeping current of armed violence and ethnoreligious division. Maybe we are not ugly or wicked. Maybe we’re simply dry, thirsty for a kind of love we’re yet to know.