The Song of Èkó
Adedolapo O. Grillo
CHARACTERS
Usman
Emeka
Banjo
Igah
The rest of the people in the bar are referred to as others and can range from at least 4 to 20 persons, including women. Several of the characters can serve as waiters for the bar. Out of these people, there is a music band, Shizzy and his band. This band plays the music for the bar.
Act One.
Lights.
There is a lot of buzz in the bar as the lights come on. Those drunk are shouting their opinions in that semi-conscious fashion that defines a person who has had several bottles of beer but is still aware of their environment. About one or two people are laying their heads on the table as though sleeping. Others are laughing. The band is playing, and there are some people who are dancing, including Usman, Emekam Banjo, and Igah. Suddenly, Usman sits down as though in drunken rapture, and is drawn into a posture of deep thought. His friends do not notice his abrupt reticence, and they take their time to rouse the bar and themselves into stupor, calling for more beer and pepper soup. After a while of merriment, Emeka calls for quiet at the top of his voice. The band and the bar quiet down to listen to him.
EMEKA: (Pointing at the band and speaking in a drunken slur) Youuuu…are too good… everyone, clap for Shizzy.
Everyone cheers and clap. Emeka calls them back to order. Hold on! Izz enofffh… Today, I wantt to show… show you something. Something great.
Everyone choruses their what in a different fashion. Some shouting, others raising their cups. Yes! Yes! Cam down. Shizzy izz good. But have you all heard Uzzsman sing? He asks the question as you would do something exciting and fun, emphasising the “sing” and laughs as he is interrupted by loud jeers and cheers from his audience.
BANJO: (Screeches) No, and I hope not to. Why will I listen to the croaking of the frog when a nightingale (points to Shizzy and smiles) is here? Everyone cheers.
EMEKA: (Shouts over the noise) Cam down everyone. Cam down. It’z because you don’t know what you’re talking abaut.
IGAH: Buh you do?
EMEKA: Yez, I do. I do. Let me tell you. You all know that I am the closest personn to Uzzman!
IGAH: Na lie… but kontinu. (Others laugh.)
EMEKA: (Hisses and continues in a slow and meticulous fashion that reduces his slurring) One day, we were together drinking az all good fwiendz do… as we all are… (Raises his cup towards them and cheers. Everyone cheers back to him. They quiet down as he continues) And he jus zang. It waz a magnifizent baritone. For a while, I even tought dat the legendary Bongos Ikwue waz right in front of me.
BANJO: (High-pitched) You do not mean it. Bongos Ikwue? (Laughs sarcastically) Tell me my friend, did you also hear the immortal voice of Ayinla Omowura? Since you now hear dead people singing?
Jeers.
IGAH: (Chuckles) Leave am na…pesin wey don high. Na this one’s crooked voice (points to Usman) he dey call mag…magfic…manga…woo…Englishhh haad.
Jeers and laughs from everyone, and some take the time to drink from their bottles including Emeka and Banjo.
EMEKA: Eeeiii!!! I am zerious. He’z hia (here)…ask him. (Turns to Usman and calls to him) Uzzman, tell dem. Eeii. Uzman.
(Usman starts at Emeka’s heavy taps.) Ahh…what happen? Whyy are you thinking so deeply?
USMAN: I’m sorry. What is wrong?
BANJO: Never mind. Emeka has been talking nonsense, but what is wrong with you? You know you can tell us. I mean no man of the bottle should be allowed to suffer his problems in silence, and we are your brothers in drink, are we not?
Everyone shouts Yes…brothers in drinks and cheer.
IGAH: Oya, tell us…wetin dey worri you?
Everyone drags chairs towards Usman and sit around Usman to hear him talk.
USMAN: (takes a swig of his drink and takes a deep breath) My friends! My heart is pregnant.
People exclaim in surprise but in soft tones) It is about to burst and spill its contents to the four winds of heaven. A song weighs down on me. I want to chant the lyrics to the world till I croak like the singing frog on the banks of the Pota River. Will you hear my song, my friends, and help me to chorus my song?
BANJO: Oh!
OTHERS: Ho! Ho!
The sound of the drum accompanies the HO! and the following dialogue, which becomes a chant.
BANJO: Our dear friend is full.
OTHERS: Full indeed! Full indeed!
BANJO: Let us hear him.
OTHERS: Ho!
BANJO: Let us hear him. (Cheers of assent from everyone and the drum stops. Everyone quiets down.) Sing, my friend. We will follow. Our hands shall beat the Bata till the drum cracks. Our waists will wriggle earnestly to the rhythm of the Iya Ìlú — our feet gliding slyly, softly, and stealthily with the beat. We shall dance swiftly and lithely. Our voices will chorus your song till we croak — only tell us what song we sing.
The drumming begins again in the same rhythmic chant format after this speech.
EMEKA: Yez! Tell uz!
OTHERS: Tell usssss!!
IGAH: We go dance…we go sing!
OTHERS: Dance and sing!!!!
EMEKA: Tell uzz! What song, Uzzman?
Drumming stops forcefully.
USMAN: Èkó! Dear friends. Èkó akéte, ilé ogbón. The song of Èkó arómisá lègbelègbe. (He stands and stares into space. He then begins to sing).
Èkó Akéte, Ilé Ogbón. Arómisá Lègbelègbe. Èkó Akéte, Ìlú Ìmò. Èkó oo. Èkó ee.
He calls the others into the chorus
Èkó oo! Èkó eee!!
OTHERS: Èkó oo!!! Èkó eee. Èkó Akéte, Ilé Ogbón. Arómisá Lègbelègbe. Èkó Akéte, Ìlú Ìmò. Èkó oo. Èkó ee.
Everyone sings and dance, except Usman. After a while, Banjo stops the singing and faces melancholic Usman.
BANJO: What about it? What about Èkó? Our fingers itch to drum the first beat of your song. Our legs tickle in anticipation of your chorus. Sing on, my friend, we are restless to hear your message.
USMAN: Patience! Dear friends. Your enthusiasm fans my thoughts. I want to sing of Èkó’s rivers and streams; of its arid lands and powerful forests; of the giant buildings and great houses. I want to sing of the greatness of that city — one that like Babel reaches to the sky. I want to sing about all of these, but…
IGAH: (Impatiently) But wetin? wetin? No be true sey Èkó great — sey the city big?
USMAN: It is! It is truly great. Its praise singers do the city justice. But then is it? I am confused, my friends. (sits and takes a swig of his beer).
EMEKA: Konfused? Haw? Hav we not zpoken of the rivas and streamz? Of itz mighty forestz? Don’t forget… the… the beautiful women who make yaur blood burn wit longing? Did we not sing of the mighty buildingz? What elze, my fwiend? What about Èkó makez you konfused? What about it makez you titter(titta) like a scared monki? Tell uz, we want to know!
Drumming resumes again in the chant-like format
BANJO: Tell us!
OTHERS: Tell us! We want to know!!!!
EMEKA: What abaut it?
OTHERS: All about it! Tell us! Tell us!
USMAN: Do we measure greatness with these?
Drumming stops abruptly, and Usman continues — this time emphasising questions with a painful stress on the last words
All that we have sung about? Yes, they are beautiful. Èkó is beautiful! But what of Èkó —the true Èkó? The underbelly of Èkó? The city within the city? Does it not rot, with maggots creeping in and out, polluting its god-like appearance?
IGAH: Rots? Wia? Haw? I no get?
USMAN: Look! I just know it rots! This seeming beauty she possesses is polished with the sweat of some persons, nameless and neglected — a part of an infinite and ruthless cycle. You see beautiful women? I see them too! Only they are burdened with gruesome deeds. You see great and mighty houses? I see them too! But I cannot not see the thatched, broken huts. You see rivers and streams, beaches and oceans? I see mud-clogged ponds on our roads large enough to house three Dangote cement trucks.
BANJO: Where…Where do you see these things?
USMAN: Look!
Points and everyone’s gaze follow the direction he points towards
Do you not see, or do you pretend not to see? See its people! Like walking skeletons. They are no more than phantoms. Never truly smiling; never truly laughing. Their eyes are cold, and their hearts as stone. Do you not see? These corpses that talk and walk; that laugh and dance? They act normal, are normal, and yet uncommonly abnormal. Am I the only one who sees these things?
OTHERS: (in matching with the drums — beaten not too loudly) Hmm! Hmm! Hmm! Hmm!
USMAN: What?! No speech? Say something my friends! Say something. You know it is these phantoms that polish Èkó. They make it shine. Like martyrs, they die for the love of it, toiling day and night, further impoverished. (Takes a violent swig of his beer) See them!!! Their eye sockets, empty! Always ready to fight just to survive. But do they even accomplish that task — their life very much drained by the machine they keep running? Beautiful? Great? Is Èkó arómisá truly great? They suffer! Don’t they? Or are they exiles of their beloved city — forced to wander, forever ignored? (Chuckles sarcastically and suddenly mellow) They are forgotten. All of them are alive and all of them are dead. See what I see? Only a few! Only a few are beautiful! Why do you not see it? The exiles, nameless as they are, suffer! Don’t you see? They smile with the wounds. They laugh at the scars. Don’t tell me you do not see!
OTHERS: (same as above) Hmm! Hmm! Hmm! Hmm!
USMAN: Is Èkó truly beautiful? What is beauty? What is greatness?
(Everyone mumbles to themselves on the questions…creating a loud hum) What defines these two concepts? These phantoms? Are they exiles? Are they not Èkó? Or is Èkó only the attractive? Who are they then?
IGAH: (drinking) Dem be Èkó …dem no be Èkó!
USMAN: What does that mean? So, you see what I am seeing?
BANJO: We see it! We see them! We are them! And we are not!
(Everyone assents) But what do we do? It is necessary for greatness that people like us should exist; that they should suffer. Them? What about you? Are you different? I am them; they are you. We are them! The nameless ones, remember? We feed the machine. Èkó is beautiful. We are a part of it. We are also exempt from it. It’s what makes it great. Happiness is useless in the wake of the troubles we face. So why be happy? We manage well enough with its copies. Phantoms of happiness and joy, if you will; for are we not phantoms of ourselves? Living corpses that move so Èkó may survive?
From here on, the responses are with the drums in the same rhythmic chant fashion
OTHERS: Phantoms! Yes, we are phantoms. Survive! Èkó must survive!
EMEKA: Awa (our) thatched and broken hutz are noffing, if Èkó haz ceilings and rufz.
OTHERS: Yes!
EMEKA: Our mud-clogged wataz are noffing, if Èkó haz golden streamz.
OTHERS: Yes!
EMEKA: Our pot-sized roads are nothing, if Èkó ’s iz smoot and safe. We are Èkó.
OTHERS: We are not Èkó.
EMEKA: Awa chilldren will liv like uz.
OTHERS: Yes!
EMEKA: They will undastand that to smile or lauf iz not important. We hav phantoms. We are fantoms.
OTHERS: You are one of uz! A fantom!
EMEKA: Only Èkó iz real.
OTHERS: Èkó arómisá. Èkó legebelegebe.
EMEKA: Only Èkó iz beautiful.
OTHERS: Èkó arómisá, Èkó akéte.
They sing the song again and dance this time in a fast beat than before.
Èkó Akéte. Ìlú Ogbón. Arómisá Lègbelègbe. Èkó Akéte, Ìlú Ìmò. Èkó ooo…Èkó eee…Heehhhh!
USMAN: Phantom? Me? I see. I am not blind. I see. I feel. I am no phantom!
BANJO: (Laughs) We all see! Who doesn’t? The filth; the stench. We see it all. The overflowing gutters; the hungered and diseased; we see it all! But it is our garment, you of all people should know! It is our clothing! We wear it with pride! The one who wears these tattered robes the longest is the ruler of all others. So, we must strive to outwear. We must fight to rule; to survive. We are tough, you know, tougher than nails, harder than iron. We see it all, my friend. We are not blind. Was it not of our making? And do we not continue in this folly? We are the machine. We feed the machine. We are food to the machine. We are the machine. The machine is us. You are us! You are the machine! And yet not the machine. Just as we are not!
USMAN: So, you see! The filth and stench! Are these what make us great? Is our darkness light? Is there no hope?
OTHERS: Hope! Hope! No hope?
IGAH: (Nonchalantly) Hope fit dey…like for future! Buh for today, na dead body we be. E fit be sey tomorrow, we go gallant, we go rise up like Jesus Christ, may we dey breet. Buh for naw, na fatom we be, abi wetin una dey call am?
BANJO: Phantom!
IGAH: Ehnn…phantom. We be fathom…we dey dance the fanthom dance…na we dey feed the machine wey Banjo talk. Come, my friend! No dey brood…no dey ovatink…you go jus kpai because na every problem you go dey see. Close your eyes…everything go easy.
USMAN: I can’t! I can’t. I want to do something! We can stop the machine. We can awaken, all of us. If only we try!
OTHERS: (beat) Try! Try! Let us try! He wants to try! Try! Try! Haaa!!!
BANJO: (points at him and raises his voice indignantly) You are not undead, corpse! You can try! But be sure to know, you battle against us. You battle against yourself. (Quiet his tone and demeanour) Perhaps, a sacrifice. A life sacrifice! A life for lives! Your life for ours. Can you do it? If you can, try it! If not, we do accept members. (Chuckles) There is a vacant spot. Just for you. Here, at this table…in this bar. Drink pepper soup. Gulp your beer. Let us continually dance this phantom dance. It is for Èkó akéte. It is for Èkó arómisá
OTHERS: Phantom dance! Phantom dance! Èkó akéte. Èkó arómisá!
Shizzy raises the Èkó akéte song by Fatai Rolling Dollars, and everyone begins to sing and dance. In the midst of the chaos, Usman stands clearly distressed
USMAN: Sacrifice? Me? Can I?
His four friends come to him and drag him to join the dance and music. One pushes a bottle of beer into his hands, while another shouts at him to forget his sorrows. Before, all of them, including Usman, are seen dancing and singing in reckless abandon.
Lights.
Adedolapo O. Grillo is a student of politics and literature with very large and lofty aspirations. He is a debater, poet, playwright, and writer who has been published by Realistic Poetry, Writer Space Magazine, Lumen, and other publications. The recipient of the JEHF playwriting competition for 2022 and a finalist of the Beetarts playwriting competition, Grillo has carved a rather small niche for himself in the competitive literary and debating landscape. He has served as a poetry judge for the SprinNG poetry competition for 2022 and has represented his school at various literary and debating competitions. His book Rhapsody? now rechristened A White Lily in the Desert earned a coveted spot on the longlist for the Quramo Writers’ Prize in 2022, adding to his accolades. Beyond his literary pursuits, Grillo is recognised as a SprinNG Fellow, a YLDP social advocate, a diplomat of the Model United Nations, and has served in several political and administrative roles in his school. He has working experience as both an academic researcher and a manager at Adept Writing Consult, and he continues to balance his commitment to academia with his studies in political science at Obafemi Awolowo University.
*Image by Dami Akinbode on Unsplash
