Professor Kofi Nyidevu Awoonor told a story. It was the
story of his death. He talked about the ancient Arabian tale about death, where
an old woman went to the market and saw Death. She ran home and found Death
waiting her there. The day was Friday the 20th September; Saturday
the 21st Death was waiting for him at the market (Westgate shopping
Mall-Nairobi.) “I am not afraid of death,” he said, “When people reach may age,
we prepare for death, and there is one poem here I wrote about death.” He read
to us the poem in his usual jovial self making jokes here and there. He was
fascinating and very educative.
It was my first time to meet him but I felt like I knew him
long ago. He made us feel appreciated as he guided us in discussing, ‘The
Responsibility of the African Writer (The African Predicament.)’ at the
StoryMoja Hay Festival. He not only inspired a fire in us to start and grow
writing but also led us into path of our very own discovery as writers. Kofi is
like a book you buy and instantly fall in love with, flipping the pages and
smiling on every page. His words like himself, speak of years of experience and
wisdom. His physic and style is that of a man who already knows what destiny
real is; expect the unexpected and he seemed ready to take the unexpected with
an understanding heart.
The Story Moja Hay Festival, which is held annually, brings
together writers, publishers, and all artists in a common ground where those
experienced shed light to those who still have a distance to cover. And that’s
how I came to meet this extra-ordinary man who imparted wisdom and knowledge
garnished with humour that spilt a hearty laughter.
“I was born in 1935,” he said. I have 6 children, only one
of them is a girl. I have seven grandchildren, only one of them is a boy.” he added. He looked at his watch, which he
wore on the right, and asked whether he had kept time. The time keeper assured
him that he was still in time.
My perception of him was of a man who still had 5 or even
ten years to write and inspire, to guide and fire people’s imagination. He was so fresh and so very
confident. He talked freely on any topical question directed and his family
with an aura of a daddy and a good teacher. He even ridiculed colonialism and
their fallacy of discovery of DNA and yet Africans had known about it long ago.
He said that we inherited everything from our ancestors and that our ancestors’
blood flowed in us. He was saying this to refer to the scenario that as writer,
one needs to know where they call home.
He had started by asking us five questions which by the time
he was done, he had answered them all. I only came to realize that later.
As the world mourns this greater writer, though he does not
resonate like Chinua Achebe or Ngugi Wa Thiong’o, he deserves our appreciation
us a great literati who not only knew his language but also impacted either
negatively or positively to build the great umbrella of African literature. He
to me was the Christopher Okigbo I had met, greeted and inspired with. He
stands as a mentor to me and a father of the journey I have prophesed to take,
build and let it grow.
When I attended his tribute at The Amka forum (Space for
Women Writers), Dr Tom Odhiambo, a University of Nairobi lecturer dismissed the
claim that Awoonor could have foretold his death, this was in view of the fact
that, the poem quoted in some section of the media was written or rather
documented in Awoonor’s 1967 anthology. The media was not there, and never
bothered to ask, how did he premeditate on his death?
The truth of the matter is, he never saw his death like
Wahome Mutahi, but he met his death in the market like the story of the Arabian
woman he had told us. I don’t know whether to call it a premonition or a
coincidence. Another thing that came out clearly was, Awoonor is not that
widely read in Kenya like Achebe or Wole Soyinka, therefore, very few people
both in the media and outside had little knowledge about the person himself.
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