In his response to Taban, Okot called attention to the richness and diversity of African oral literary heritage as a legitimate mode of literary expression. Around that time, two stubborn academics at Makerere University, Austin Bukenya, and Pio Zirimu, added another word to the glossary of literary terms. That word was Orature. If Okot, Bukenya, and Zirimu dismissed Taban’s claim with the defense of orature, this article seeks to debunk the same claim with a reminder of the written literature that existed as hidden Oases in Taban’s so-called ‘literary desert’. If Okot diagnosed acute ‘literary deafness’ in Taban’s intellectual schema, this article points out Uganda’s chronic literary blindness.
Even in the sphere of ‘written’ literature, East Africa, and Uganda in particular, was no desert of letters. Just next door in Tanzania, Shaaban bin Robert was writing in Kiswahili from as early as 1948. Till that time, the profile of East African letters was dominated by Elspeth Huxley’s Flame Trees of Thika, an expatriate work whose representation of the East African experience was a typical case of the paradox that Achebe referred to with the metaphor of the hunter, and not the hunted, telling the story. It is a familiar truism that Kenya’s Ngugi wa Thiong’o wrote and published East Africa’s first novels – Weep Not, Child (1963) and The River Between (1964). Up to date, Ngugi still enjoys the (undeserved) prestige of a pioneering novelist.
These two works of fiction depict the African experience in colonial Uganda and give us a sense of the social landscape of the times. These pioneering novelists reconstruct Uganda’s history by undermining the official colonial meta-narratives that came to define our cultural, economic and political experience under colonial rule. Using subversion and quasi-negritude benchmarks, these novelists de-center the Eurocentric tradition of fictional aesthetics and elude the legacy of the ‘civilizing’ mission that the colonial project claimed as its ambition. Both Okot and Nyabongo use the traditional African lenses to explore the social, economic and political terrain of Uganda then.
Akiiki Nyabongo’s Africa Answers Back evokes the nostalgia of pre-colonial social order by underlining the harm that colonial hegemony put on Africa’s socio-cultural fabric. In recasting the religious wars that happened at the end of the 19th century, the novel points out the turmoil and disruption that the European occupation of Africa had on its capacity for social cohesion and cultural growth. This novel is an effort at asserting the voice of the native Ugandan by telling their own story (by themselves). The title says it all. Much like Achebe’s Things Fall Apart, Africa Answers Back is a novelistic response to Europe’s depiction of Africa as inherently barbaric and in dire need of civilization. In reading Nyabongo’s novel, I was reminded of W.E.B Du Bois’ book The World and Africa. In The World and Africa, Du Bois takes a historical perspective to highlight Africa’s contribution to the development of the modern world: through slavery and colonial occupation. If Du Bois’ book highlights the fact that Africa positively impacted the West, Nyabongo’s underscores the idea that the West jammed Africa, in the same measure as Walter Rodney argues in How Europe Underdeveloped Africa.
Almost a similar mapping can be made of Okot’s Lak Tar / White Teeth. Okot p’Bitek’s White Teeth is located in the colonial atmosphere. It can be read as the source of Okot’s commitment to quotidian narratives. Like in the famous songs he wrote later, Okot’s literary expression in White Teeth is anchored in a deeply Afrocentric aesthetic tradition. His consciousness is rightly tuned, almost effortlessly, to the linguistic and figurative fabric that can be conceived as ‘genuinely’ African. At a time when most of the African elite were hopelessly Westernized, Okot’s mode of reasoning and literary craft showed in White Teeth a deeply Africanized terrain of contemplation and style of expression. In his basic idiom of thought and intellectual thrust, Okot has an impressively Africanized mind. No wonder, therefore that he spends the first page on the narrator reciting his mwoc, a praise poem that also constitutes the protocol of introduction. One’s mwoc gestures one’s identity and individuality. Most amazing is that Okot published this at the young age of 22. By any standards, Okot could pass for a child protégée – a sort of Fresh Kid talent of the 1950s. Someone whose craft comes to them with the utmost ease.
Even after auto-translating the work, the English version still sounds familiarly African. To use Gabriel Okara’s phrase, the language of White Teeth is “English words, African speech”. Okot’s courage and success in exploring the linguistic experiment are felt more in Wer pa Lawino / Song of Lawino. Using the same formula (Acholi first and English last), Song of Lawino has positioned itself as one of the greatest wonders in the world of African literature. It amply illustrates Africa’s authentic idiom of thought. But Song of Lawino finds its roots in White Teeth / Lak Tar. White Teeth is the most original, if not the foundation, of Okot’s literary idiosyncrasies. For instance; the cynical, sarcastic jokey and humorous texture of Okot’s style is very visible right from the start. The novel’s rhythm flows with a poetic beat. It can be described as poetic prose. Okot’s natural instinct for orality and song-like expression is interwoven in the narrative.
The initial cultural friction upsets his peace and places him squarely at the periphery of the new world. Even his interaction with Kampala’s landscape and the material environment is a jittery experience. When he tries to cross the road, he is frightened by the speeding automobiles: “Each time I made to cross the street, vehicles came towards me with an intention to kill.” He is completely alienated by the pattern of life in the city. Whenever he tries to apply his tested skills of Acholi survival craft and valor, it backfires with serious ramifications. When the crowd and police surround him after he accidentally knocks an Indian down, he challenges them to a duel drawing his knife and professing his mwoc. All he reaps from this stunt is jail time and a trial in a court of law.
White Teeth implicitly portrays the colonial condition of feeling ‘un-homed’. To be un-homed is to not feel at home within your own home because you are not at home within yourself. Unhomeliness causes a psychological refugee to mix their two cultures. Ladwong’s cultural identity crisis makes him a psychological refugee. That is the ambivalent space in which the colonial contact left us in. We can relate to Ladwong’s experience.
Can these two texts teach us a thing or two about the literary canon that defines the Ugandan novel? Can the aesthetic tradition in which Okot’s and Nyabongo’s works is anchored be replicated, adapted and modified to suit the style of contemporary fiction writers? Can we trace the link between the colonial past and the post-colonial present in lieu of shaping a better future? My belief is: Yes, we can. Let’s go back and dust the old shelves of our literature and map out a way of reliving the legacy of the ‘Lost Ugandan novels’.