10 REASONS WHY TO ATTEND THE TRUE AFRICAN HERITAGE AWARDS TAKING PLACE ON SATURDAY THE 26TH OF SEPTEMBER

1. AN OPPORTUNITY TO CONNECT, NETWORK AND ENGAGE WITH PROFOUND AFRICAN ROLE MODELS, SOCIAL ENTREPRENEURS AND PEOPLE MAKING A DIFFERENCE

2. AN OPPORTUNITY TO BUILD RELATIONSHIPS AND NEW PARTNERSHIPS WITH ESTABLISHED ENTITIES, START UP BUSINESS OWNERS AND SOCIAL ENTREPRENEURS

OUR MISSION

The James Ene Henshaw Foundation is a not-for-profit organization set up to maintain and promote the literary legacy of James Ene Henshaw, a pioneer and one of the foremost playwrights to have emerged from the African continent. The idea for the Foundation stemmed from the playwright’s own concern and desire for the literary works that reflect the experiences of African audiences, as well as encourage the appreciation and participation of young people in the dramatic arts. “…

In Nigeria, for instance, one occasionally sees well-known plays staged by good players, but the scenes of these plays always take place in surroundings far removed from the African’s own. Often, the things which are spoken about in the plays have no relationship with the problems which face the African audience.

Whilst it says much for these great works that they will always be staged in the world, there is nevertheless a need for plays to be written and produced in the African’s own surroundings and with characters familiar to the ordinary African. It is to meet this need that I present these three plays to readers and actors, especially in West Africa.” JEH, This Is Our Chance, 1956. To continue with this vision, the Foundation will seek to:

 Ensure that Henshaw’s plays, as well as the work of other notable African playwrights, continue to be accessible to a younger generation of audiences, as well as inspire people who do not normally engage with the Arts to become active participants.

 Encourage inter-cultural dialogue and literary debate.

 Promote emerging African writers.

 Initiate, and support projects where young people can engage in creative activities.

ABOUT THE ORGANIZATION

The Foundation was launched on December 13th, 2013 in Calabar by His Excellency, Barr Effiom Cobham, the Deputy Governor of Cross River State on behalf of the Executive Governor, Hon. Senator Liyel Imoke. The highlight of the occasion was the unveiling of the book, The Collected Plays of James Ene Henshaw.

The launch of the book helped raise substantial funds that will go towards the Foundation’s activities. The launch was followed by a major production of Henshaw’s seminal play This Is Our Chance at the Cultural Centre, Calabar with simultaneous broadcasts on Cross River State Television and Ebony Life TV.

This, perhaps, was the most elaborate production ever of this play, with a cast of over sixty-five, including dancers and drummers. Audiences were treated to a spectacle of colour, impressive costumery and sound, and of course the irrepressible Bambulu, one of the most recognisable characters in African Drama

BLACK AND WHITE

In the beginning,

It was black when the Lord moved over waters

It was the colour of Africa that hushed with distilled silence

Through the cordless spines of Nature

It was the night, commander-in-chief of dark forces

That needed federation which ushered the entrance of the sun.

We showed them the paths to thread on

The hungry streets yelling for chaos in frantic ululations.

At the end, it was white

Light touched the sky with fingers of beauty

White defined wisdom in seven ways

That called Black dumb, daft and dark

Light was good but White was rude

In the end, it was a war.

This war started in the middle

When Black became angry of White’s piercing needle

When White was made the cop chasing the fugitive called Black

When the list where names of terrorists are written is Black

When the hero was white and zero was black

When the hand that triggered the bullet that shot that black kid is White

When they said Black is the colour of the devil and White…

That of the God that created the Night.

This war started when Black was thought to be negative…

In the middle, it was grey

A mixture of black with white

A stereotype that shows us the pride of White men

Who saw nothing but war-rotten creatures?

They pierced us with hot bullets and cold steel

In the middle, racism started.

We, Black men, know it will never end

But we will remember at a point at this bend

Not the words of those who don’t know when their shadows cry

But the silence of our blacker fathers.

©tohQuality

I PRAY YOUR FORGIVENESS: O’ AFRICA, I HAVE BEEN A BAD SEED

(This story began when I started seeking for the truth of darkness and blackness. It came to light when I became worried of my life; a worry of how negligible I had become. After nights and nights of mornings weeps and cries, I have began seeking for forgiveness. Forgiveness not of those “Christian sins”, but of the wrongs I had allowed my  soul, spirit and mind to accept without reasonableness. Forgiveness of how I have not risen to life- from the dead-bed of wishing to abort my culture, traditions and see to the world beyond of bringing my African roots to extinction. This story was from the heart, the melanin… I hope Africa forgives me)

..
Well its like been a criminal today and being a hero tomorrow— simply, you saved a life whiles gang-robbing innocent souls. Between evil and good lies a Lame Island. An Island of sarcasm, of tribute and tributary. This is a scanned canker, an obliqued affirmative lies. Truth be told, but truth is of one colour— black perhaps, a peruse of western civilization would establish an unquestionable morale of evil and dogmatic sympathy.

.
— My heart aches
of sorrows that heads me.
–Will posterity judge me
if these generations find
this story under my coffin?…

.
..
As a son, a boy from the skies of African drums, I have for almost my life lived in slavery, slow unnoticed myopism of banditry and solitary self-denial. Until 1447, I recalled how my ancestry was real. Yes real of it appropriateness. We were humans; reasonable un-copied Africans. We were ourselves not guided by principles of a written injustifiable freedom and independence. Even in 1828, before the bond of 1844, along the coastal stretch to the forest belt; along the vestal canopy ring; men like my kind lived as communal coverings. I have for uncountable reasons and observations out of conscious scrutiny, realised how pathetic we (I) have become in despising my African Heritage. It was not for any other reason that any man born of an African womb retrogade his own birth canal. The exception is that such theatric calibration was (is) borne out of a weeping-sweepy self.

.   .
.   .   .
Whereas I have pitted myself for being too coward towards my family, friends, sympathizers, enemies (wrong indelibility) et al on why I would prefer to stand out from their line of western rhetorics, I have thus failed as a person, a reasonable spiritual soul, to collectively and holistically allow the “African-God-like” in me to outshine weeds of colonial weaponry. I am not to be trusted? What trust is there in for an abused who connive with the abuser to abuse the himself? what is the worth of a true royal, a direct stool inheritor, when he runs home for cover for fear of dying at battlefield?

.
—That which dies and
remaines in the soil
that which was killed
after warmongers faced,
—What shall be of me
when my kind extinct beyond?
.   .
.

I can vividly recollect these faded memories. Memories of my Grandfather, the Chief of Kurankye-Akyemfo, who was gunned in the leg by one slave master for fighting against dominance. He bled profusely but didn’t die. I recalled how his father, Nana Aselfi of Yamfredu had coined his own amulet of Ntrabado. Centuries before this story, lived this land. Our land of reincarnated souls. I was taught at a tender age the songs of farming, of hunting and fishing. That it were in these songs and buried memories that our roots multipled. That it were in these stories of the morning purifications by the River-Goddesses that life replenished in thousands. My late Grandmother, Ama Akua Yamba, the one who was criticised and shamed for being a witch by a malnourished servant of an european-colonial most high; how she lived in good health and state of mind before passing-out without return at 103 years. Even at age 100, she would call me, Nana Tsiwah, in the evenings in her abandoned hut telling me of stories that read wisdom and passed knowledge. She was indeed a blessing if there is anything of that travelled horizon. That blessing of not this era. One thing made me to cry the more; I was deceived by men, friends of a white-paper that I had been witched. On the day of her death, she told me of how this fate would dawn upon my head. That someday, if nothing at all, I shall recall her tongue why we are as a people have become diluted stagnant water, and how we shall gradually extinct into ashes akin of white mind and red-skins.

.
‘A man of a hard scrotum’, our elders who sat on kola eyes would say, ‘is thrice the heart of hunter’…
..

These stories of the many humans of my kind who were sold and stolen into slavery without any justification keeps me deflated like brown banana peels. I am in no ways myself— A holder of my own pieces in a tray. To be good I only see it in things of white linens; to evil, things of darkness (black). I was told and taught by the many teachers that every thing white is of divine nature (that european god) and that hell (satan) is of black. That is how our cultural and traditional values have been adulterated with these refined thread-fallacies. When an old person dies of grey white is worn, but when it is for a young person black is the gift. We are evil? I am sure by default of creation I am equally evil- for I am defined by my skin. An African has no God? Yes, he is not religious. For in other Gods he has found his heart and soul. The African like myself has no mind? Yes, even if he had one its no longer his. He lives in deep quaked valleys of ingrained hallucinations. That is why he is incapable of defending his own soul and defining the things of his own creation. He is paralyzed. He is for all surety has no civilization. That is why even in his masters’ classrooms they are taught of greek and roman roots— philosophies and literatures. He is a fool? Yes, a real folly wondering leaf, that is why he can’t tell his abusers and deceivers of colonial heritages that enough is enough!

“.. i have failed to do
the things of nature
from bed to bread,
.. i curse my skin
and rub my face into mud
calling my foe a saviuor
and my brother an enemy”

This is the my story. A story of seeking for forgiveness. From my Ancestors and Ancestresses Spirits. That I am a failure. I hate herbal medicines. That even the traditional priests have availed themselves to mockery. They are liars in skirt and mini-jeans. I have failed my land, this land of a true Black-God. A God who would teach through dark folds and unravel mysticisms of non-colonialism and cultural hang-ons…

(If this Africa be told of me
If these lines be washed away
In rains and clapping thunder
I shall submit to my Africa.
Although I am a stranger
Not homeland but of mind,
When night falls out of roofs
And days drink of harvested rains
Submit my intestines to Africa
Till I am immortalised in black…)

…
..
.
If I don’t speak and write of Africa, who will?
Who shall write of my Africa
Who shall sing of this Africa
Who? If not me, then who?
I simply shall write of this lost Africa.

Written By;
Nana Arhin Tsiwah
(The Village Thinker)

The 26th of July 2015 was a historic day for AFRICAN MUSIC LOVERS in the city of London as The Joyful Noise production initiative organised and amazing event- The Kanda Bongo Man Live @RICHMIX – Celebrating 25 Years of JOYFUL NOISE.

We had the pleasure of interviewing one of AFRICA,S GREATEST MUSICIANS Sir Kanda Bongo Man – The King of Kwasa Kwasa who has implemented structural changes to Congolese Soukous Music

Watch this space for the full interview with Mr Kanda Bongoman on TheTony Tokunbo Fernandez Show . Many thanks to Mr Simba Smp another great ambassador and The Show producer for the day
Kanda Bongo Man was also honoured with our Africa4U OUTSTANDING ACHIEVEMENT AWARD for his profound contribution to AFRICAN MUSIC INDUSTRY and the legacy he continues to create

Toibudeen Olamuyiwa Oduniyi FBCS CITP is a Fellow of the British Computer Society and a Chartered Information Technology Professional. He attended the University of Lagos, South Bank University and the University of East London, where he studied Economics, Finance and Investment, and Business Information Systems respectively. He worked for several blue chip organisations across Retail, Banking and Technology sectors in the UK and Europe on numerous large IT Change and Business Restructuring programs with a focus on Information Security and Risk Management.

Deen is an avid Business Technologist with a passion for exploiting technology in solving our daily living challenges. He is a Digital Entrepreneur and runs Cyborg (UK & Nigeria) – a technology and consulting firm creating compelling online information services platforms and ecommerce channels. Some of their platforms in Nigeria includes 9jatravel, 9jafood, 9jahealth, 9jalegal, 9japroperty are consistently ranked as leaders in their respective sectors.

He launched 9jadiaspora in the UK last year – an online information platform connecting Nigerians globally. 9jadiaspora is a portal where Nigerians living in diaspora can promote their business, find information, share and exchange ideas, get advice and collaborate with each other. 9jadiaspora has proven to be a community champion amongst Nigerians in diaspora.

James Ene Henshaw was born on August 29, 1924 in Calabar, Nigeria. With his first play, ‘This Is Our Chance’, published in 1956 he was the first indigenous African playwright to be published internationally in the English language, preceding Achebe’s ‘Things Fall Apart’ and Soyinka’s ‘The Swamp Dwellers’ both published in 1958.

It has since become one of the classics of African literature, read widely and performed in schools and colleges throughout the English-speaking Commonwealth. A medical doctor by profession, Henshaw, in his words “strayed into writing. Born on 29 August 1924 in Calabar, Nigeria.

He attended missionary schools, Sacred Heart School, Calabar and Christ the King College, Onitsha before going on to read medicine at the National University of Ireland, Dublin and the University of Wales, Cardiff, United Kingdom where he qualified as a chest physician. Back in Nigeria, he went on to an illustrious career in medicine serving as Senior Consultant-in-charge, Tuberculosis Control, Eastern Nigeria (1955 – 68), and finally as Director of Medical Services in the former South Eastern State of Nigeria.

He served in various professional and public service positions, and earned several honours including Officer of the Order of the Niger (OON) and Knight of the Order of St. Gregory (KSG) by his Holiness Pope Paul VI. A prolific writer, he went on to write more memorable plays including Children of the Goddess, Medicine for Love; Dinner for Promotion, and many scholarly articles in national and international journals.

In his later years, he lived quietly in his home town Calabar, receiving writers, scholars and young student dramatists from around the world. Henshaw died on 16 August 2007, while working on his last project, translating Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar into his native Efik language

THIS IS OUR LAND
(Song Of A Native Son)

This divine song of our Tano
And of the mystic hymns of Nile
Have never soften my feet from dancing.
The songs in the rhythms of Adowa,
Of Kete, Kpanlogo, Borborbor, Adgbadza
Have kept me to this fate of a hunter.
I,
In lonesome night
Hunts with a single arrow
Killing wild falcons;
Slaying talons of evilmen
Under the Mighty Oyina.

They say,
This land is of our Masters
That we are mere transient papers
For examinations and certifications.
I looked into the eyes of the Eagle
And hearing flustering calls from the Ancestral-land
I,
Hit my chest with cowries
Shouting till Tutu and Aggrey
Return from Exile…

For, we, bladders of Anokye
We, the claws of Amenfi
We, the sons of Kushi and Agorkoli
Are ourselves reincarnated!
We are the sons of Tohazie
We are the ancient gizzards of Ndewura Jakpa
We are the daughters of Asantewaa
But couldn’t Shaka’s Zulu not have redefined divination?

An,
Enemy has defiled this land
He has poisoned our lakes with Cyanide
Our,
Enemies have infiltrated the shrines
They have spilled excrement to cover the Gods
They lay in helpless solitude
of sanctuaries defiled before harmattan.

They say;
This land is of Barbarians
A land of clowns and cowards
A land where gold is in abundance
Yet we love to worship Whiskey
And castrated Cigarette smokes
That it is in the cup of-Modernity
We ought to intoxicate to folly
That it is in the eyes of the Roman-god
We ought to purify our hearts as Saints
But I ask the winds and the towering sea
Are we not the sons of Oburumankoma
Are we not the brave hearts of Tweneboah Kodua and Agya Ahor?

I,
Weep of Bloody Demagogues
Who oil our drums with lies
I,
Cry of Flying Bullets
Which sing of Midnight coup de’tat in Faso’
I, the son of Tafari’s Abyssinia
Where the songs of Resistance keeps a stare
I, the Grand-son of Musa’s Timbucktu
Where wealth keeps riddles as vows
I, the Grand-saliva of Sunni Ali’s Gao in far away Songhai
I, the son of Freedom not of Justice
Where Kwame declares with tears in 1957
Weep of falling volcanoes…

This land is ours’
Brethren, this vast land of Empires
This land of beautiful lizards
A land where the Savanna breastfeeds the Sahara with dews
It is the land where
We,
Shall go and return through the eyes of Kwasamba..

Let this song reach the wet bird
Let this song rhyme on uneven lenses
That someday, before miles shorten…
I, am the native son
The son of Aselfi
whose liver milks the sun
And dances to the chants of the sea
Shall come home from the mind of battle
Reminding these marked imprints that
I am the seed of this land.

© Nana Arhin Tsiwah

LET IT NOT BE
.
Let it not be
That after my struggle under the scorching sun
I depart, for my soul to dine with everlasting torment.
.
Let it not be
That I live with great visions embedded in me
But kiss the dust, unfulfilled.
.
Let it not be
That memories of my existence,
Would be a thorn in the flesh of men
.
Let it not be
That when the Son of Man returns in glory
My garment would be found filthy.
.
Let it not be
That when I sow good seeds on fertile land
I live not, to reap its bountiful harvest.
.
Let it not be
That my enemies triumph over me and
Cast my destiny into absolute darkness.
.
O, let it be
That I live a blessed life pleasing God,
loving my neighbours as myself,and at last,make Heaven.

WRITTEN BY THERESA OGUCHE GLITTS