Okot P'Bitek (1931–1982)

"My husband's tongue is bitter." Lawino is mashing white-ant paste (I'm no expert on the Acholi, but this is just one of the little suspicions I have of p'Bitek here in terms of canniness, of knowing what his audience wants from his African domestic epic--exoticism: his villagers eat a lot more white-ant paste and simsim butter and a lot less, you know, maize than you'd expect) and she's mashing hard, because she is pissed off at her husband, Ocol. Ocol is not a classy guy. "My head, he says / Is as big as that of an elephant / But it is only bones / There is no brain in it / He says I am only wasting his time.

"The woman with whom I share my husband." Ocol is seeing another women, and the other woman is a fucking clown, with her hair fried dead and her mouth painted like a wound. Bang other ladies, Ocol, by all means, son of the Bull. But this simpering cobweb you've chosen points to a deeper corruption, and Lawino is facing it for the first time. "How many kids / Has this woman sucked? / The empty bags on her chest / Are completely flattened, dried. / Perhaps she has aborted many! / Perhaps she has thrown her twins / In the pit latrine!"

"I do not know the dances of white people." Ocol is a fucking Oreo--it strikes me that that classic metaphor is better reversed, if only that were possible, because what happens to that kind of saccharine, sickly, preservative-filled racial climber is that they get twisted open and their insides licked out--and it's that core that disappears that's the real black man, the real Ocol, and the European clothes and habits that constitute the white shell. (The black outside is the black skin, I get it. I just think it's a shallowly literal-minded version of the metaphor. I guess the reason we don't have reverse oreos--I mean real cookies--is there's something in the human that recoils from that literal inner blackness as a putrescence--like cutting open a fruit and finding it full of bugs. The Heart of Darkness comparison now writes itself.) Anyway, Ocol wants to be white and modern and is a buffoon and Lawino is sad and spiteful. "You meet a big woman / She staggers toward you / And leans on the wall / And before she has untied her dress / She is already pissing; / She forces out the urine / As if she has syphilis." Lawino is too canny to come out and say that the woman's a white whore dancing too close with the men at the bar, but it's clear: she's birthed humongously from the sweaty walls and slimy kisses and "saliva/ Squirted by sneezing drunken sick / The many brands / Of wind broken." Even one whose done his share of dancing in gross bars craves a clean African fuck and a night under the stars.

"My name blew like a horn among the Payira." Lawino was the chief of the girls growing up, the one with the best breasts and the spikiest attitude. I encounter here the same feeling I had in West Africa with Things Fall Apart--in these warrior societies, healthy and happy and conformist and cruel like a pack of dogs, there are always dispossessed, not economically as in capital-counting Europe, but socially, kicked to the outskirts (and kicked again and again) by their inability to be certain that the common prejudices are best and just get along. They are the ones who join the colonial predator and make the empire happen, because they are weak, rejected, unnurtured; and Lawino finds weakness repulsive.

And you cannot sing one song
You cannot sing a solo
In the arena.
You cannot beat rhythm on the half-gourd
Or shake the rattle-gourd
To the rhythm of the orak dance!
And there is not a single bwola song
That you can dance,
(...)
And so you turn
To the dances of white people
Ignorance and shame provike you
To turn to foreign things!

Perhaps you are covering up
Your bony hips and chest
And the large scar on your thigh
And the scabies on your buttocks

"The graceful giraffe cannot become a monkey." This is the centrepiece in some ways. An extended comparison of Acholi and Western beauty and the things women do to achieve it. African women have never seemed so magnificent; Europeans and the unlucky other woman Clementine never so grotesque. "Her hair smells like rats!" (And the genius of the poem is how Europeans are held up as a foil for the attack on Clementine/Ocol/African Euro-sycophants generally--like, "this is fine for Europeans but you are just a wannabe"--European hair is monkey hair but Clementine is a rat. It makes it all the more viciously effective too when she drops the feinting and goes for the lined European turtle neck later on.)

"The mother stone has a hollow stomach." The stupidity and waste of it all. Even more than the bloody lips and saliva kisses, this is where we see that stepping outside of your tradition, losing your identity, leaves you without a means of sustenance. "The white man's stoves / Are good (...) for boiling hairy chicken / In saltless water. / You think you are chewing paper! / And the bones of the leg / Contain only clotted blood / And when you bite / The tip of th ebones of the leg / It makes no sound. / It tastes like earth!"

"There is no fixed time for breast feeding." Yes, why do we prefer reading the newspaper to having muddy fat children fall on our bosoms? We are gonna newspaper ourselves in extinction, and the world is gonna be filled with Ugandans watching Coke ads and be no worse off.

"I am ignorant of the good word in the clean book." There is also a "clean ghost," and Jesus is the "hunchback" for as-yet-undetermined reasons. She does a masterful job here, Lawino does, at exposing the hypocrisy of the European bait-and-switch of science and Christianity, using the one wherever the other doesn't work. People who eat their Lord have nothing to teach us about reason and civilization, she says, and she's right, Europe. You can't have ith both ways. Either you are better than them by your secular, civilizational lights, or you are better because your God is better, but you can't have both. (Oh, and Acholi style religion sounds a tad more fun: "The milk / In our ripe breasts boiled" v. "And when he belched / His mouth filled with hot beer / From his belly / And he noisily swallowed this back."

"From the mouth of which river?" From where does this water flow? From where do these words arise? When you execrate the language of your birth, you're not as bad as the guy who walks out on his family, Ocol, but you are about the most pathetic, desperate-to-please thing on Earth.

"The last safari to Pagak." It's actually this simple. My husband wears the rosary and forbids me to wear the elephant tail. So on a tribal war level, he's right with God. But his claims for his new, exotic tribal godfriend pretty much preclude the argument that Europeans have shit to give Africans except in, like, a fetishistic way that sees quinine and the steam engine in the belief that God gave us his onlybegotten Son etc. Matter of fact, Europe, death comes for us all, only you have the delusion that you can avoid it. Take that home from Africa.

"The buffalos of poverty knock the people down." Introducing a fucked-up movement that shouts "Uhuru!" but keeps its wives at home and execrates them. Lawino, and p'Bitek, are not shy about filleting their political leaders up the middle. And every epic should make room for that. I'm glad she said that some of them have "heads like lightning," though, or else this poem would have taken on a deeply conservative cast (old=good and the inverse); this just casts in East African terms the old thing about how the decent happy people are the ones who hold back progress and the gutless malcontents are the ones who twist it into an instrument of unintentional self-abasement. Are we left with no choice between Lawino, due to be chewed up and spat out by her nasty husband, and Ocol, due to lose himself in the struggle to feel proud (whilst kissing the ring of the new generation of leaders)?

"My husband's house is a dark forest of books"/"Let them prepare the malakwang dish." It's a double epigraph:

For all our young men
Were finished in the forest
Their manhood was finished
In the class-roms
Their testicles
Were smashed
With large books!

Let me dance before you
My love
Let me show you
The wealth in your house
Ocol my husband
Son of the Bull
Let no one uproot the Pumpkin.… (más)

"Woman, Shut up! Pack your things, Go!" with such harsh words begins the Song of Ocol. Ocol is the westernized husband of Lawino and he responds to her lament with unabashed cruelty. Okot p'Bitek's Song of Lawino is an African book for Africans. It is also a book for those of us who come from former colonies, a protest against the blind rejection of old beliefs and customs, an argument for faith over western empiricism. Lawino's speech is emotional and complex. She does not make her case constrained by an analytical framework. Rather, she lashes out at her husband's wholesale rejection of his people and their mores. In some places she resorts to logic and in others she snickers with innuendo.

Ocol's faith in the white man's religion is as irrational, or depending on your perspective, rational, as Lawino's beliefs in the ways of her people, the Acoli. She argues that Ocol has lost his individuality, he has become a dog of the white man, an obedient servant of no consequence. Ocol's sins are many but they amount to the same thing, a disdainful rejection of his community. He has fallen for another woman, who dresses and behaves like white women. He does not like the food he grew up eating, he hates the wailing of his children and he gives them bastardized western names.

Lawino's song has references to African culture and the introduction provides important context. There are many things to appreciate in Lawino's lament and there are things that you just cannot agree with. Her rejection of western medicine and of books for example.

Ocol's response to Lawino is interesting in several ways. First, it isn't really a different perspective, it is Okot p'Bitek pointing out the inherent absurdity in the philosophy of people like Ocol, through the Song of Ocol. Second, though Lawino's song is focused on Ocol, his response addresses the society and not her concerns. Of her, he is dismissive. If he had his way, Ocol would wipe the slate clean of African culture and start off with the "founders of modern Africa" Leopold II of Belgium, Bismarck, David Livingstone and the like. p'Bitek highlights Ocol's cognitive dissonance, who, while praising Bismarck and Livingstone, rejects communism by arguing that Karl Marx and Lenin were not from Africa. Ocol's ambition of building a new Africa on the ashes of his people's ancient systems seems blindly foolish and that's the message p'Bitek seems to want to convey.

I was recommended the book by an immigrant from Sierra Leone and I found in it many parallels with my own experiences. Recommended.… (más)