By YINKA OLUDAYISI FABOWALE
Before writing, nay, journalism snatched me away from the stage, the theatre was my love, my world. Old school mates, past teachers, friends and family who had seen me display my talents and skills as a folk singer, dancer, drummer, actor and comedian right from childhood, through elementary and higher schools, till shortly after leaving the university had foreseen no other future for me but as a star in the performing arts/showbiz firmament.
But this wasn’t to be, as journalism, which I got into fortuitously, but also really loved, plotted the story differently. Journalism is a jealous profession. Though damn exciting, it does not allow any other interests, family, lover, friends share you with it, as you race from keeping deadlines and thinking up what next. Except, of course, you lack passion for it and are merely a bird of passage. But since the love for the arts won’t go away, I contented myself with being an art critic, in addition to being a general beat reporter, covering stage performances, art exhibitions, literary shows and events. This gave me opportunity to meet and relate with many icons and art enthusiasts.
One of these, of course, was late Chief Adebayo Faleti, veteran actor, playwright, director, broadcaster and poet, who passed on recently and was given a grand funeral climaxing in a church service and interment about a fortnight ago.
My encounter with Pa Faleti was particularly a defining and momentous experience for me! Here was a colossus who, together with his other illustrious contemporaries such as the late Duro Ladipo, Oyin Adejobi, Akin Ogungbe and Kola Ogunmola fired my interest in the arts as a child. As primary school pupils in the 70s, my siblings and I always struggled over who took the first turn to read the latest editions of Atoka, the popular didactic Yoruba photoplay magazine series which used to feature their plays.
Two of Faleti’s plays- Won Ro Pe Were Ni (Deemed Mad) and Idamu Padi Mikailu (The Dilemma of Rev. Fr. Michael) registered a great impression on me of Faleti as a master storyteller. The two plays were woven with such suspenseful plots, akin to those of foreign detective stories, that kept the viewer/reader guessing who the villains were among the various ‘chaste’ characters until the end when these were unveiled to one’s shock!
But more impressive was the beauty of Faleti’s style and expressions. He wrote mostly in verses, unearthing and exhibiting the beauty of Yoruba oral tradition, history and culture as he did in Basorun Gaa, another epic historical play based on intense power play that ended the despotism of a notoriously wicked, blood thirsty prime minister in the old Oyo Empire.
Some of these plays were also later produced for TV. For decades, Pa Faleti delighted TV viewers with his inimitable delivery as a newscaster/producer. When Nollywood birthed, the versatile and prolific artist remained relevant, writing/featuring in many blockbusters.
I had the opportunity of meeting and interviewing the veteran dramatist a couple of times. My main interest, at first, stemmed from learning that, although he wrote mainly and with such aplomb in his indigenous language, he actually read English studies from the University of Ibadan.
But when I met the old thespian, he told me honestly that he had been writing ever before he took the degree, which, he explained, he had to, only in order to enhance his career progression as a public servant. His literary and dramatic activities, he further told me proudly, he owed to his rich indigenous education and Oyo roots.
Unknown to me, for many years, I was a neighbour to this great African poet. His house was a mere 10-minute-walk from mine at Orogun, Ibadan, before I relocated from the area some years ago. Also our wives and children attended the same church, while one of my sons and his were mates in boarding school. Some of these only came to my knowledge when I went inquiring of him after he left office as the Chairman of the Oyo State Council for Arts and Culture. I’d sought his views on some policies and developments at the time, including the destruction of the bust (statue)of the late Sage and Yoruba hero, Chief Obafemi Awolowo at the intersection of Queen Elizabeth-Parliamentary- Mokola Road, in the state capital, by political thugs allegedly on the instruction of a notable politician. He was expectedly bitter as the sculpture was one of the proud legacies of his tenure as the Arts council boss. He agonised over how no replacement, contemplated after the public outrage that greeted the demolition, could ever meet the quality of the original sculpture, which he said, was commissioned to and done by one the best sculptors in the industry, using the finest of fibre glass imported from abroad.
You could feel the pain of betrayal, sense of patriotism and passion of the artist in the man, who sacrificed his rest and accepted to be drafted from retirement to do the job all for the sake of arts.
However, what I really found shocking was the humbleness of the house he lived in. Although a storey building, it was unpainted. The living room where he received me was also sparsely furnished, save for a multiplicity of award plaques that competed for space on the wall and shelf. I watched, outraged that the austere man who sat on one of the cushioned chairs before me, was the same legend and hero I’d revered. Seeing him in Ankara dress, I apologised that I did not warn him that the interview was to go with a photo session, and suggested a change of dress. The old man declined, saying the one he had on was good enough.
He also endured my serial impudent objections to his choices from a heap of traditional caps near him, until partially satisfied, I settled for one and asked him to put it on in his famous trademark style for the purpose of the photograph.
The caps appeared the only property he had in abundance. One expected to see a man of his fame and accomplishments in stupendous wealth and luxury. What happened to royalties from his works? How about the fees from his movie appearances? Does art pay?
However, as he fielded my questions, my respect for him grew in leaps and bounds, as I realised this was one of the last of a disappearing generation of genuine breed of artists who lived for arts for its sake and happy at having impacted their world.
The same views echoed in the sermon of Archbishop Ayo Ladigbolu, who preached at his funeral. The iconic clergyman and prince of Oyo, who is of the same blood line as the present Alaafin, Oba Lamidi Adeyemi, with who he shares the gift of the garb and a versatile mastery of Yoruba history customs, traditions and oral literature was reported to have held his audience spell bound, recounting the personal virtues and life stories about Pa Faleti that forces one to examine his soul and ask if what the cleric was saying didn’t relate to one’s life, as a mourner in the congregation had to say.
This Ladigbolu, a spectacle and dramatic phenomenon on the pulpit, who reminds me of what my teacher in drama class taught, that theatre arts actually evolved from ancient religious rituals and liturgical practices, impressed on the audience with practised pitch and tone, even as he juxtaposes the scriptures with servings from a repertoire of Yoruba lores, poetry and chants to entertain teach and exhort.
For instance, the preacher who, the deceased specifically chose before his death, to preach at his funeral, being one of the closest persons to him, reportedly spoke about Pa Faletis deep commitment to his art, his humility, kindness and generosity as well as his incorruptibility. In the Faleti household, it was said, there were always extra rations prepared in anticipation of visitors at meal times. Also, though the old thespian would think nothing of breaking his back to help others, he rejected any form of gratifications from beneficiaries of his kindness.
Although he’s gone, Pa Faleti had replicated himself in many accomplished and budding dramatists including his own children, whom he mentored. His prodigious works will, no doubt, continue to have impact on generations to come.
This child, who was not to be born, but survived after his mother had lost her first seven children in succession at birth, had proved that he was an Olu Omo (a phenomenal child, a genius) with his awesome accomplishments that the entire throng could probably never have achieved. As you answer the curtain call here on the earthly stage, we pray your performance, which, we daresay in our deficient judgment, was superlative, will be found worthy to recommend you for higher roles in the luminous realms above.