WEST AFRICA REVIEW

ISSN: 1525-4488

Issue 7 (2005)

West Africa Review

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO “QUEEN’S ENGLISH”: CREATIVITY AND INNOVATION IN WOLE SOYINKA’S COLLECTED PLAYS

Timothy T. Ajani

Abstract

This paper demonstrates, using examples from Wole Soyinka’s Collected Plays 2 (1974), how the 1986 Nobel Literature Laureate has succeeded in transforming the English language to communicate his ideas, beliefs and innermost thoughts to a wider world, and in that process creating a variety of English that alone can transmit his ideas without necessarily losing his authenticity and creativity in the process. This way, Soyinka, and other African writers are making important contributions to the English language in particular, and to the science of language in general.

Introduction

As the English language (EL) spreads its irresistible influence around the globe it has intermingled with local languages in different geo-cultural milieus to give birth to new varieties of EL with distinct features that distinguish them from that of Britain, or the United States. Thus, Wolfson (1989) rightly observes that although EL has gained worldwide prominence, it is not used exactly the same way everywhere. Ashcroft et al. (1989) reiterate that although British imperialism was a major factor in the spread of EL, usages differ around the world.

A close look at this alchemy reveals that creative writers are at the forefront of the process of nativization and acculturation of EL on non-native soils. In Nigeria, there abound a body of nativized EL literatures, ranging from the “less formal” writings of Amos Tutuola to the more formal ones of Wole Soyinka, Chinua Achebe and many others.

Soyinka: Creator, Innovator

It is practically impossible to talk about EL in Nigeria without mentioning Wole Soyinka–one of Nigeria’s best known writers, whose acclaim has transcended not only the geographical borders of Nigeria, but also the frontiers of the African continent. To crown his achievements in the world of creative writing, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in literature in 1986, the first African author to be so honored. With this singular achievement, Wole Soyinka has proved, beyond any reasonable doubts that EL is, in the words of Sridhar (1982), no longer the exclusive property and domain of its native speakers, but also of whomever uses it. Also, with this well-deserved acknowledgment of Soyinka’s writing skills, using EL as a tool, non-native writing in EL in the erstwhile British colonies seemed to have come of age. It has, as it were, become a symbol and a message to anyone who still may harbor any doubts that a non-native speaker can produce a work of significance in a language that is not their mother-tongue. Such argument also proves a lack of knowledge of history and of the writings of other famous non-native writers in EL such as Joseph Conrad, Vladimir Nabokov, and Salman Rushdie, to mention the most obvious names. To me, Soyinka’s winning of the Nobel Prize should have laid this kind of argument to rest, for good. The contention that to write in a language that is not one’s own is tantamount to a lack of patriotism Wa Thiong’O (1981) also no longer holds, unless such a person can adequately prove that (with all of his pro-democracy activities and anti-dictatorship stance – both verbally and in writing) Wole Soyinka is unpatriotic.

One cannot but make reference, at this point, to Chinua Achebe’s (1965) probing question: “Can an African ever learn English well enough to be able to use it effectively in creative writing?” Achebe’s answer then was a resounding “Yes!” This affirmative answer of Achebe’s in 1965 finds its ultimate validity in the Wole Soyinkas of today, Achebe himself being a master craftsman in EL, his famous Things Fall Apart having become a world classic. But Achebe did not just stop at the above question; he went on to ask yet another more probing question: “Can he [the African] ever learn to use it [the English language] like a native speaker?” His answer, again, was “I hope not.” Then he went on to say “It is neither necessary nor desirable for him to be able to do so.” This is exactly what Soyinka has done. He has found his own way of making EL bear the burden of his cultural, religious, and emotional experiences. But in doing this, he has, through many innovative features, some of which will be discussed in this paper, created an EL that alone can convey his thoughts and aspirations effectively; what Kole Omotoso (1996) will later refer to as “Soyinka’s privatization of language.”

According to Platt et al. (1984), the mark of creativity in the new Englishes include neologisms, extension of, or change in meaning, colorful idiomatic expressions, word for word translations and loan words from the background language into English. Some of these strategies will be discussed in this paper. It is important, at this point, to mention that Soyinka, being a Yoruba – and a proud one for that matter – has been greatly influenced by the Yoruba language (YL) and culture, as well as by Yoruba traditional beliefs (evidence of which could be seen both at the semantic and syntactic levels of usage). But he has also been influenced by the Christian religion and the Christian Bible (although these are not the object of this paper), and Soyinka has made the best use of this pluralistic background to enrich his works.

Lexical/Semantic Creativity

This section explores Soyinka’s creativity at both the lexical and semantic levels. These include direct borrowing, cultural and religions loans and customs and indigenous norms.

Direct Borrowing

At the vocabulary level we witness a lot of direct borrowings from the author’s mother tongue. Soyinka must have resorted to these direct borrowings for want of anything better in EL to convey those ideas without losing their communicative value. As Platt et al. (1984) have rightly observed, most of these YL words come from the domains of food, clothing, as well as other indigenous products

(1) [Towards the end of this speech the sound of ‘gangan’ drums is heard, coming from the side opposite the hut. A boy enters carrying a drum on each shoulder. He walks towards her, drumming. She turns almost at once.]

AMOPE: Take yourself off, you dirty beggar. Do you think my money is for the likes of you?

[The boy flees, turns suddenly, and beats a parting abuse on the drums.] (152).

Soyinka could easily have said “the sound of drums is heard…” without any apparent damage to the meaning of the text, but this would not have done justice to what he is trying to convey in the passage above. This is because there are different types of drum among the Yoruba, and this particular type of drum is used to communicate specific messages to those whose ears are trained to decode them. This is obvious from the very next paragraph when we read “The boy flees … and beats a parting abuse on the drums.” The drummer boy definitely communicated a message here that Amope clearly understood. Obviously, this kind of drum is also used by those who are experts at them to sing praises of people as a means of livelihood. The boy had beaten a “parting abuse” on his drums because Amope had refused to acknowledge his praise by not giving her a monetary gift (tip). Therefore we see here that just simply saying “drums” wouldn’t have sufficed to bring out all the cultural connotations explained above. This is then not just any kind of drum; it is the “gangan” drum. To simply call it the “talking drum” (as many prefer to transliterate the word) also would have removed it from its socio-cultural context

(2) A man in an elaborate ‘agbada’ outfit, with long train and a cap is standing right, downstage, with a sheaf of notes in his hand. He is obviously delivering a speech, but we don’t hear it. It is undoubtedly a fire-breathing speech. (167).

Similar to the situation above, Soyinka prefers to use the original Yoruba name for this traditional Yoruba men’s attire, rather than use its quite inadequate coined English name – the “flowing gown” for, anybody can wear a flowing gown, however, among the Yoruba, “agbada” is a traditional male outfit, not worn by women. By putting these direct loans from YL in quotes, the author signals to the reader that he is using a “foreign” (indigenous) word.

(3) [As he goes in Ananias returns singing lustily and banging a tambourine. He is uniformed in what looks like a Salvation Army outfit except for the cap, which is the ‘indigenous’ touch, made in local material and ‘abetiaja’ style.’ The combination is ludicrous.] (206).

Here the author describes the military outfit of Major Isaac: a combination of Western style uniform and traditional Yoruba dressing. The “abetiaja” cap is worn with traditional Yoruba -- but not Western -- dress. This combination makes Isaac look rather ridiculous, thus Soyinka’s comment “The combination is ludicrous.” Soyinka thus uses this for comic effect. The very use of the Yoruba name for the cap worn on a supposedly military uniform makes it comical to Yoruba speakers.

(4) SILVA: [beginning to doubt his senses.]: Mr. Chume, if I tell you I understand one word of what you’re saying I commit the sin of mendacity.

CHUME: What! You no know wetin pepper be? Captain Winston, as soon as I say pepper ’e knows wetin I mean one time.

SILVA: I do not know, to use your own quaint expression, wetin musical pepper be, Mr. Chume.

CHUME: And condiments? Iru? Salt? Ogiri? Kaun? And so on and so forth?”

SILVA: Mr. Chume, I’m afraid I don’t quite see the relevance.

CHUME: No no, no try for see am. Make you just hear am. [Blows a straight note.] Dat na plain soup. [Blows again, slurring into a higher note.] Dat one na soup and pepper. [Gives a new twist.] Dat time I put extra flavour. Now, if you like we fit lef’ am like that. But suppose I put stockfish, smoke-fish, ngwam-ngwam . . .

SILVA: If you don’t mind I would just as soon have a straightforward rehearsal. We have no time for all this nonsense.

CHUME: Wait small, you no like ngwam-ngwam or na wetin? Na my traditional food you dey call nonsense?

SILVA: I had no intention whatsoever to insult you, Mr. Chume. (191)

Once more, as with the clothing vocabulary in (2) and (3) above, Soyinka could have used the known EL names of these condiments, but he still decides to resort to their traditional YL names (with the lone exception of “Salt”). For instance, he could have called ogiri “pap” and kaun “potash”, etc., but the very use of these direct YL loans heightens the communication divide between Chume, the Igbo man who is well-versed in Yoruba and Silva, the British expatriate. This mix of language (including code-mixing with Nigerian Pidgin English (NPE), increases the tension between them and further complicates the obvious misunderstanding between both of them, for, a little bit later Chume reacts quite strongly to Silva’s “We have no time for all this nonsense” with “Na my traditional food you dey call nonsense?” Silva pacifies Chume quickly by telling him “I had no intention whatsoever to insult you, Mr. Chume.”

It is quite obvious from this section that Wole Soyinka had more than just mere words in mind when he resorts to using untranslated YL words when he could have used their EL equivalents or transliterations. He therefore uses his bilingual background as a means for creative enrichment, mixing YL, EL and NPE in a seamless way. Sridhar (1982) speaks about the problem of nomenclature which the non-native writer in English faces – how to find appropriate words for “culturally bound everyday objects.” He then enumerates some of the devices used to overcome this obstacle, one of which is borrowing, a tool which Soyinka uses so well in the above quoted examples, and in his writings in general.

Cultural and Religious Loans

Apart from direct loans from his first language background, Soyinka also draws from Yoruba religious and cultural experience. A few examples are explored below.

(5) I am a Prophet. A prophet by birth and by inclination . . . I was born a Prophet. I think my parents found that I was born with rather thick and long hair. It was said to come right down to my eyes and down to my neck. For them, this was a certain sign that I was born a natural prophet. (145).

This is a paragraph loaded with superstitious religious overtones. Among the Aladuras (a religious sect common among the Yoruba), it is believed that a child born with thick and long hair is divinely consecrated to be a prophet, probably a belief linked to the biblical Samson, the Old Testament Jewish prophet who was known never to have shaved his hair, until his fatal encounter with Delilah. The author carefully draws from his rich Yoruba background to create the main character of his play. Henceforth everything else is going to revolve around this strong, self-deluded, prophet who will stop at nothing to acquire all that he wants and achieve his nefarious ambitions.

(6) A spotlight reveals the Prophet, a heavily but neatly bearded man: his hair is thick and high, but well-combed, unlike that of most prophets (145).

When Soyinka describes Jero this way, he seeks to set him apart from the norm. The very fact that Prophet Jeroboam combs his hair singles him out from the ordinary prophets. This act itself confers on him the role of undisputed leader among all the others of the same “trade.” And the word “trade” here is quite revealing, for, indeed, it is a trade, a very thriving business, especially along the beaches of Lagos, a Yoruba city as well as the commercial nerve center of Nigeria. These “prophets” can be seen wearing long, white robes, walking along the beaches and even in the townships where they are consulted by many who believe in their spiritual powers and abilities. This way, they extort a lot of money from unsuspecting people.

Although the above example is a religious loan, it comes from an imported, albeit owned and transformed religion. In the next example, the religious loans are taken directly from the Yoruba pantheon of deities, specifically from Sango, the deity associated with thunder and lightening; magical, medicinal and moral powers. Sadiku is seen here calling on Sango to restore Sidi’s wits for daring to question the wisdom of her suggestion to reconsider accepting Baroka’s invitation to supper

(7) SADIKU [recovering at last from helpless amazement.]: May Sango restore your wits, For most surely some angry god has taken possession of you [ . . . ].

SIDI: Ho ho! Do you think that I was only born yesterday? The tales of Baroka’s little suppers, I know all. Tell your lord that Sidi does not sup with married men (22).

In the excerpt below, Sadiku once again calls on Sango for help in enlightening the young Sidi’s mind, making her to see the wisdom of her persuasive arguments.

(8) SIDI: Wait Sadiku. I cannot understand.

SADIKU: You will, my girl. You will. Take warning, my masters . . .

SIDI: Sadiku, are you well?

SADIKU: Ask no questions, my girl. Just join my victory dance. Oh Sango my lord, who of us possessed your lightening and ran like fire through the lion’s tail . . .

SIDI: Stop your loose ranting. You will not move from here until you make some sense (31).

In the following excerpt from the The Trial of Brother Jero we observe another example of a cultural loan, albeit at the syntactic level (rather than at the lexical level, as in the previous examples). The words are English on the surface but are pregnant with Yoruba meaning. It is a transliteration (another device common in Soyinka’s writings) of the Yorubaism “O saaro.”

(9) TRADER [as Amope gets up and unloads her.]:Well, just remember it is early in the morning. Don’t start me off wrong by haggling

AMOPE: All right, all right. [looks at the fish.] How much a dozen?

TRADER: One and three, and I’m not taking a penny less.

AMOPE: It is last week’s, isn’t it?

TRADER: I’ve told you, you’re my first customer, so don’t ruin my trade with the ill-luck of the morning.

AMOPE [holding one up to her nose.]: Well, it does smell a bit, doesn’t it?

[ . . . ].

TRADER: It is early in the morning. I am not going to let you infect my luck with your foul tongue by answering you back. And just you keep your cursed fingters from my goods because that is where you’ll meet the father of all devils if you don’t. (151).

In this instance again, Soyinka delves into his cultural milieu for inspiration and inventiveness. The Yoruba believe that what transpires in the early hours of the morning dictates what the rest of the day will be like. In other words, if the day begins well, it will likely end well, just as the opposite is also true. This, translated into business terms, therefore, means that you had better not do bad business in the early hours of the day if you do not want to be followed by ill luck all day long. It is with this background that the trader’s warning to Amope quoted above becomes meaningful. When, a little later in the dialogueue, the trader further warns Amope “I’ve told you you’re my first customer, so don’t ruin my trade with the ill-luck of the morning (a further expansion of the expression ‘it is early in the morning’) the underlying meaning becomes even more apparent. The Yoruba have a lot of expressions, and even poems and songs to this effect. Some of the popular ones are “Owuro lojo” (the morning makes, or dictates the day); “Ma fowuro sere” (Do not fool around with the morning); “O saaro” (It’s the morning, i.e. get serious; it’s too early to start fooling around; don’t start the day badly). Thus Soyinka draws heavily from his knowledge of the Yoruba belief system when he puts this statement in the mouth of the Trader.

(10) TRADER: I leave you in the hands of your flatulent belly, you barren sinner. May you never do good in all your life.

AMOPE: You’re cursing me now, are you? (151)

This is another example of a direct translation from Yoruba. It is from the Yoruba expression “O ko nii se rere laye e.” Blessings and curses are a part and parcel of the Yoruba day to day life. Those who do well are blessed, and those who do evil, or misbehave are cursed, verbally. When children greet their parents in the morning, or even when younger people pay homage and respect to the elderly, they are rewarded with verbal blessings. The opposite can also incur either verbal abuse or curses, at worst. These blessings and curses are believed to be potent, so no one likes to be cursed, especially not in the early hours of the day. The trader in this passage is forced to curse Amope, since the latter is trying to bring her ill luck at the very start of the day. Amope in turn gets mad and retorts with “You are cursing me now, are you?” This creativity at the syntactic level will be further discussed in the next section, under syntactic level creativity.

Creativity at the Syntactic Level

The syntactic level seems to be the most dynamic, as it lends itself to much more adventurism, inventiveness and creativity than the lexical level, and Wole Soyinka does an excellent job at this too. Of course, there is much more that he has been able to accomplish at this level than can be revealed in just a few of his plays. Some of the strategies common at this level are repetition, the translation of proverbs from his mother tongue (L1) into the target language (EL) -- a strategy for which Achebe is probably the better known --; reduplication, direct translation of L1 structures into EL (a more common device used by Soyinka in this corpus) such that the apparent surface structure is dressed in the garb of an EL sentence but the underlying structure is from YL.

Direct Translation of YL Syntactic Structures into EL

(11) JERO: You do me great injustice, Brother Chume.

CHUME: Na so? And de one you do me na justice? To lock man inside lunatic asylum because you wan’ cover up your wayo. You be wayo man plain and simple. Wayo prophet! [Warming up.] Look, I dey warn you, commot here if you like your head! [Advancing.] (192).

Soyinka draws from his Yoruba background. The concept of “head” (ori) is all-pervasive in Yoruba religious, cultural and philosophical discourse. The whole idea of ori is linked to one’s destiny in life. In other words, to have a “good head” (ori rere) is to do good and become successful in life and to have a “bad head” (ori buburu, or ori buruku) is to have all sorts of mishaps and misfortunes in life. Thus, when Chume tells Jero to get out of his presence “if you like your head” he is saying in essence get out of my presence if you really want to fulfill your destiny in life. To put this in a more matter-of-fact way, don’t mess with me, if you do not want me to harm you in any way.

(12) TRADER: [ . . . ] And just keep your cursed fingers from my goods because that is where you’ll meet the father of all devils if you don’t. [She lifts the load to her head all by herself.]

AMOPE: Yes, go on. Carry the burden of your crimes and take your beggar’s rags out of my sight . . . (151).

To “meet the father of all devils” is a “Yorubaism.” When the trader discovers that Amope isn’t serious about buying anything from her and is trying to bring her bad luck by haggling early in the morning, she tells her to take her hands off her goods, else she’ll “meet the father of all devils.” The trader is simply telling Amope something very familiar to all Yoruba speakers. The message is simple, quit this nonsense or you’ll get into serious trouble! Esu is considered the “father of the devils”. He is known to be a trickster and a trouble maker of the highest order, thus to meet the father of the devils is to have an unpleasant encounter with Esu himself!

(13) JERO: To fraternize with those cut-throats, dope-peddlers, smugglers, and stolen goods receivers? Some of them are long overdue for the Bar Beach Spectacular. (176).

Here, we have an example of nominalization of phrases (a hallmark of Amos Tutuola’s writing strategies), a process quite common in YL, where a whole sentence could be lexicalized. In the passage above, Jero, referring to other “prophets” not in his circle of influence, calls them names and one of them is “stolen goods receivers.” Here, a whole phrase has been frozen into a single lexical item.

Repetition and Reduplication

(14) CHUME: I n’ go beat am too hard. Jus’ once small small.

JERO: Traitor!

CHUME: Jus’ this one time. I no’ go ask again. Jus’ do me this one favour, make a beat am today….

CHUME: All she gave me was abuse, abuse, abuse . . (155,156).

In YL (and indeed in many West African languages of the Kwa group), repetition and reduplication are used for intensification, or emphasis. In fact, Chume’s small, small in the above quote is a direct translation from the YL “die die” which in free translation means “just a little.” A free translation of “all she gave me was abuse, abuse” will be “all she did was rain insults on me.” Thus, in both instances, we have the transfer of a YL syntactic devise into EL.

(15) AMOPE: Ho! You’re mad, You’re mad.

CHUME: Get on the bike (165).

In this example, Amope repeats the phrase “You’re mad” to intensify what she is telling Chume. In other words, she is saying to him “You are really mad; you must be out of your mind.” Again, this is the Yoruba way of emphasizing what is being said – through a repetition of the same structure.

(16) AMOPE: Kill me! Kill me!

CHUME: Don’t tempt me, woman!

AMOPE: I won’t get on that thing unless you kill me first (165).

Another example of repetition for intensification is found in the above example, when during a scuffle with Chume Amope yells “Kill me! Kill me!” What Amope is telling Chume here is “Do your worst”, for there is nothing more final, or worse than to take the life of someone else.

Creativity at the Discourse Level

Examples of creativity at this level include code-switching and code-mixing, as well as transfer of YL communicative strategies, such as indirectness, punning, riddles, proverbs, common Yoruba sayings and other rhetorical devices. Soyinka’s mastery of Yoruba culture and customs is best seen at this level. Although these transfers are mostly cultural in nature, one must go beyond the simple lexical and sentence levels to discover them at play, and Soyinka is a master at this discourse level transfer. The examples at this level are also more subtle, and a good knowledge of Yoruba culture is required to be able to capture them. One particular play of Soyinka’s – The Lion and the Jewel – is replete with such instances.

Culture and Custom

(17) SIDI: But my bride-price must first be paid. Aha, now you turn away. But I tell you, Lakunle, I must have the full bride-price. Will you make me a laughing-stock? Well, do as you please. But Sidi will not make herself a cheap bowl for the village spit.

LAKUNLE: On my head let fall their scorn.

SIDI: They will say I was no virgin that I was forced to sell my shame and marry you without a price (8).

In the above dialogue between Sidi and Lakunle, Soyinka brings in the Yoruba custom of bringing brideswealth to the family of the bride by the bridegroom-to-be before a marriage could be contracted. But not only does Soyinka bring this into play in this exchange between Sidi (the village belle) and Lakunle (the village teacher); he also emphasizes its importance in Yoruba society. Another important thing to note here is that in most Western cultures, it is the bride (and not the groom) who brings the wealth, known as the dowry. Sidi, in the above dialogue makes it clear that if Lakunle is indeed interested in her he must be ready to bring her family full brideswealth (bride-price). To do this is indicative of the high value Lakunle places on her person. Among the Yoruba, to bring less than the full brideswealth for the bride is indicative of the low value the groom-to-be and his family place on the bride-to-be. On the other hand, to bring the full brideswealth shows that the groom and his family place a very high value on the person and worth of the bride-to-be. This explains why Sidi “will not make herself a cheap bowl for the village spit.” She wouldn’t let the people of the village look down on her for having been married with less than adequate brideswealth.

In the next quote, another important custom of the Yoruba can be observed – that of polygyny (generally referred to as polygamy in the literature). This is a common practice, especially among the royalty, those with chieftaincy titles and the rich

(18) SADIKU: Sidi, have you considered what life of bliss awaits you? Baroka swears to take no other wife after you. Do you know what it is to be the Bale’s last wife? I’ll tell you. When he dies – well, when he does, it means that you will have the honour of being the senior wife of the new Bale. And just think, until Baroka dies, you shall be his favourite. No living in the outhouses for you, my girl. Your place will always be in the palace; first as the latest bride, and afterwards, as the head of the new harem . . . (20).

Apart from the obvious reference to the custom of polygyny, one also observes another element of Yoruba marriage custom in Sadiku’s statement “Your place will always be in the palace; first as the latest bride, and afterwards, as the head of the new harem…” This refers to the custom whereby the next king or chief “inherits” not only the throne, but also has the responsibility of taking care of the youngest wife and children of the previous sovereign. This youngest wife of the former chief, or king then becomes the most senior wife of the new harem. This custom is called “isupo” among the Yoruba.

(19) LAKUNLE: [ . . . ] And why! Mock an old man, will you? So? You can laugh? Ha ha! You wait. I’ll come and see you whipped like a dog. Baroka’s head wife driven out of the house for plotting with a girl (50).

In the above comment addresses to Sadiku, Lakunle introduces an expression borrowed from the Yoruba polygamous institution, that of a head wife, a title reserved for the first of many wives in a polygynous family. Thus Lakunle reminds Sadiku that it would be a very shameless thing for her (Sadiku), the first and leader among the wives of Baroka, to be associated with plotting against the chief. The head wife is also referred to as the senior wife (20). She is supposed to be very powerful and influential, as an honored and respected leader among the other wives of the harem.

(20) SIDI [giggling. She is actually stopped, half-way, by giggling at the cleverness of her remark]: To husbands his wives surely ought to be a man’s first duties—at all times.

BAROKA: My beard tells me you’ve been a pupil, A most diligent pupil of Sadiku. among all shameless women, the sharpest tongues grow from that one peeling bark—Sadiku, my faithful lizard! [. . . ]

SIDI [backing away, aware that she has perhaps gone too far and betrayed knowledge of the ‘secret’.]: I have learnt nothing of anyone.

BAROKA: No more. No more[. . . ] (42-43).

Baroka’s response to Sidi: “my beard tells me . . . ” reveals yet another widely held belief among the Yoruba in which old age (symbolized by the beard here) is associated with wisdom and ability to resolve problems and solve difficult riddles. Sidi quickly responds to his accusation that she is being tutored by someone else with a rather weak and retreating “I have learnt nothing of anyone.” This reaction of Sidi’s goes to confirm the age-old prescient wisdom of the elders. Sidi is seen here backtracking, knowing that she has been found out.

(21) SADIKU: [wheedling.]: Come on, school teacher. They’ll expect it of you…The man of learning…the young sprig of foreign wisdom . . . You must not demean yourself in their eyes…you must give them money to perform for your lordship. . . .

[Re-enter the drummers, dancing straight through (more centrally this time) as before . . . Male dancer enters first, . . . He and about half of his pursuers have already danced offstage on the opposite side when Sadiku dips her hand briskly in Lakunle’s pocket, this time with greater success. Before Lakunle can stop her, she has darted to the drummers and pressed a coin apiece on their foreheads, waving them to possession of the floor. Tilting their heads backwards, they drum her praises . . . ] (51).

In the quote above, we see another traditional practice of the Yoruba in which professional drummers, known as praise singers, drum and sing the praises of someone as a means of livelihood. The person whose praise is sung is expected to dance towards them and begin to press money on the forehead of the singers–the more money they are given the more and the longer they sing the praises of their benefactor. Not to give them money is tantamount to belittling oneself and tainting one’s image in the society. As Lakunle is not ready to give money to the singers, Sadiku, wanting to save his face, plunges her hand into his pocket and takes some money for them, anyway.

Yoruba Communicative Strategies

At this level, one observes strategies such as indirectness, punning, riddles and proverbs, and Soyinka’s uses these abundantly. In this section, we shall take a close look at some of these.

Indirectness Strategy

Among the Yoruba, and in most of Africa, it is not socially and culturally appropriate to confront people directly, especially when they are older. Thus, the age factor (i.e. respect for age) always require certain discourse strategies to avoid face threatening acts, as well as to save face. Respect for age is so deeply rooted in the Yoruba society that a younger sibling dares not call an older sibling by name, or it will be considered disrespectful. The examples below reveal some of the strategies used to avoid direct confrontation.

(22) BAROKA: [ . . . ] As I was saying I change my wrestlers when I have learnt To throw them. I also change my wives When I have learnt to tire them.

SIDI: And is this another . . . changing time for the Bale? (39).

The above dialogue between Baroka and the young Sidi is a good example of indirectness strategy. Apart form being far older than Sidi, Baroka is also the village chief. Instead of using the second person pronoun to address Baroka, which would bave been too direct and confrontational, Sidi rather uses Baroka’s title, as she addresses him as ‘the Bale.’ As the dialogue between Sidi and the Baroka continues (in the excerpt below) we observe yet another strategy of indirectness, but this time around, it is the older (Baroka) who employs it for the younger Sidi, in order not to sound too condescending toward a beautiful young lady he is wooing for marriage.

(23) BAROKA: Who knows? Until the finger nails have scraped the dust, no one can tell which insect released his bowels [. . . ].

SIDI: A woman spoke to me this afternoon.

BAROKA: Indeed. And does Sidi find this unusual –

That a woman speak with her in the afternoon? (39).

Here again, we see another form of indirectness strategy. Instead of using the more direct “Do you…” Baroka addresses Sidi in the third person – “Does Sidi…” this is Baroka’s way of returning the favor (respect shown him by Sidi). Thus, in both instances the duo try to avoid using the more direct “you” to address each other. A closer look, however, reveals that Baroka’s use of the third person is also a distancing device, to keep the conversation rather formal. We find this same strategy in the following dialogueue between Sidi and Lakunle, the village teacher. Although this is a face to face conversation between the two, Sidi addresses Lakunle as “the School Teacher” rather than use the more direct “You.”

(24) SIDI: The school teacher is full of stories this morning. And now, if the lesson is over, may I have my pail?

LAKUNLE: No. I have told you not to carry loads on your head. But you are as stubborn as an illiterate goat. It is bad for the spine (3-4).

Other Rhetorical Devices

In the following conversation between Lakunle and Sidi, Lakunle resorts to using a Yoruba riddle to respond to the latter when she asks him if he had no shame.

(25) LAKUNLE: Let me take it.

SIDI: No.

LAKUNLE: Let me. [Seizes the pail. Some water spills on him].

SIDI: [Delighted]: There. Wet for your pains. Have you no shame?

LAKUNLE: That is what the stewpot said to the fire.Have you no shame – at your age Licking my bottom? But she was tickled just the same.

SIDI: The school teacher is full of stories this morning. And now, if the lesson is over, may I have the pail? (3).

The Yoruba are very fond of playing on words and drawing upon the pool of many commonly shared sayings, proverbs and riddles from the rich oral tradition for which they are widely known. Thus, in an argument or conversation, it is the best orator who wins the day. When Sidi asks, rhetorically, “Have you no shame?” Lakunle seizes the occasion to demonstrate his verbal skills by drawing from the pool of common YL riddles and jokes: “That is what the stewpot . . . ” to which Sidi responds with an aloof indirectness “The school teacher is full of stories this morning.”

Code-switching and Code-mixing

Soyinka’s plays are rife with code-switching and code-mixing, a deliberate device by the playwright to indicate societal stratification in terms of status and level of education. Different lectal ranges are thus indicators of social status, and, or level of education of the speakers. This strategy is particularly evident in the “Jero Plays.” In these plays, Brother Jero, the more enlightened and higher in status, uses a more standard dialect of EL, while Chume, the underdog, uses a less standard code. Also, whereas Jero speaks more in standard NE, Chume code-switches and code-mixes instead–an indication of an inferior educational level of attainment. The following excerpt provides a good example of this phenomenon.

(26) JERO [not opening his eyes]: Pray with me, brother. Pray with me. Pray for me against this one weakness… against this one weakness, O Lord. . .

CHUME [falling down at once]: Help him, Lord. Help him, Lord.

JERO: Against this one weakness David, David, Samuel, Samuel.

CHUME: Help him. Help him. Help am. Help am.

JERO: Job Job, Elijah Elijah.

CHUME [getting more worked up.]: Help am God. Help am God. I say make you help am. Help am quick quick.

JERO: Tear the image from my heart. Tear this love for the daughters of Eve…

CHUME: Adam, help am. Na your son, help am. Help this your son.

JERO: Burn out this lust for the daughters of Eve.

CHUME: Je-e-esu, J-e-esu, Je-e-esu. Help am one time Je-e-e-e-su.

JERO: [ . . . ]: God bless you, brother. [Turns around.] Chume!

In the following lengthy dialogue between Prophet Jeroboam and Chume, it can be observed that the more enlightened, better educated Jero speaks only in standard English, while the less educated, blue-collar Chume mingles standard English (NE) with Nigerian Pidgin English (NPE), and even Yoruba on occasion. Chume, in the above example, both code-switches and code-mixes, mixing Yoruba with NPE. In the next dialogue between the two-some, one witnesses yet another instance of code-switching. Chume begins in perfect NE, but then almost suddenly begins to switch and mix codes, oscillating between NE and NPE.

(27) CHUME: Brother Jero, you must let me beat her!

JERO: What!

CHUME [desperately.]: Just once, Prophet. Just once.

JERO: Brother Chume!

CHUME: Just once. Just one sound beating, and I swear not to ask again.

JERO: Apostate. Have I not told you the will of God in this matter?

CHUME: But I’ve got to beat her, Prophet. You must save me from madness.

JERO: I will. But only if you obey me.

CHUME: In anything else, Prophet. But for this one, make you let me just beat am once.

JERO: Apostate!

CHUME: I n’ go beat am too hard. Jus’ once small small.

JERO: Traitor!

CHUME: Jus’ this one time. I no’ go ask again. Jus’ do me this one favour, make a beat am today.

JERO: Brother Chume, what were you before you came to me?

CHUME: Prophet…

JERO [sternly.]: What were you before the grace of God?

CHUME: A labourer, Prophet. A common labourer.

JERO: And did I not prophesy you would become an office boy?

CHUME: You do am, brother. Na so.

JERO: And then a messenger?

CHUME: Na you do am, brother. Na you.

JERO: And then quick promotion? Did I not prophesy it?

CHUME: Na true, prophet. Na true.

JERO: And what are you now? What are you?

CHUME: Chief Messenger.

There are many more instances of code-switching and mixing in the rest of the play, but these two alone are clearly sufficient to drive home the point I am trying to make in this final section of this article. As mentioned earlier in this paper, it is obvious that it is at the discourse level that Soyinka’s creative genius is best observed.

Conclusion

In the above analysis, I have attempted to demonstrate, using mainly lexico-semantic and syntactic devices Wole Soyinka’s creative strategies, based on a few of his plays. It thus goes without saying that I did not – and obviously could not – do full justice to all the strategies employed by the master craftsman for creativity and inventiveness. One would have to look at all of his other plays, including the narratives, to be able to assemble a more comprehensive list of his adventurism with language. However, the few I have been able to garner in this article point to a man who is not afraid to bring his rich background – linguistic, cultural, religious – to bear upon his writings. It is in doing this that Soyinka, Achebe, Ngugi, and many other African creative writers have contributed, using various creative strategies and devices, to positively change the face of the English language, not only in the way it is used in their communities, but also internationally, since their works are read and studied far beyond the frontiers of Africa. Thus, we see that Africans, and creative writers in particular, have made, and still are making positive contributions to enrich the English family of languages worldwide.


Bibliography

Achebe, Chinua. “English and the African Writer”, in Transition 18, 1965: (27-30.

Ashcroft, B. et al. The Empire Writes Back. London: Routledge, 1989.

Omotoso, Kole. Achebe or Soyinka?: A Study in Contrasts. London, New Jersey: Hans Zell Publishers, 1996.

Platt, et al. The New Englishes. London: Routledge and Keagan Paul Publications, 1984.

Soyinka, Wole. Collected Plays 2. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1973.

Sridhar, S. “Non-native English Literatures: Context and Relevance”, in B. B. Kachru (ed.), The Other Tongue. Urbana, Illinois: University of Illinois Press, 1982.

Wa Thiong’O, Ngugi. Decolonizing the Mind: The Politics of Language in African Literature. London: James Curry, 1981.

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Citation Format:

Timothy T. Ajani. “Whatever Happened To “Queen’s English”: Creativity And Innovation In Wole Soyinka’s Collected Plays,” West Africa Review: Issue 7, 2005.