than blame, in the face of tragedy that reduces men to misery and defeat. “It is enough/ You know now that each day we live/ Hints at why we cried at birth.” Here is the moral essence of the tragic condition. The urgency in this play does not rest with the external cultural conflict, though this is often mentioned. The conflict between human passion and moral duty provides the trigger for the inescapable disaster constantly prophesied by an old woman who leads the neighbors in the role of Chorus. Cassandra-like, she issues warnings that are perceived but not heeded. This makes for absorbing drama in the classic tradition.

The richness of the language more than sustains the tension of the events. Clark-Bekederemo enjoys the long, extended poetic metaphor. Ebiere’s unpregnant womb is compared to a “piece of fertile land—run fallow with elephant grass,” an analogy he carries through to extreme development. This technique connects with the Ijaw preference for the riddle when matters are too intimate to be spoken of directly. There is the almost Shakespearean invective: “You lame thing, you crawling piece/ Of withered flesh.” Clark-Bekederemo also employs the profoundest declamatory poetry. “You may well cry. But this is nothing/ To beat your breast. It was how/ We all began and will end.” Here is something rare on the contemporary stage—a modern tragedy, a form that Western playwrights have only rarely achieved in the twentieth century.

The Masquerade

The Masquerade is closely linked with the earlier play. It is essentially similar in mood and structure. One of the chief characters derives from Song of a Goat. It is now determined that Ebiere died giving birth to Tonye’s son, Tufa. The earlier play spoke of her surviving a miscarriage. That minor point indicates that the two plays were not conceived originally as part of a single cycle. Tufa grows up and travels from his home, hoping like Oedipus to escape from the curse of his illegitimate origin. The play begins with a sense of foreboding. Without knowing the reason (“as far as I know no feasts have been left out,” says one), the villagers see ominous signs: “The tilt [of the moon] is prominent,/ It is never so but there is disaster.”

Into this situation comes Tufa. Titi is the local belle. A neighbor’s description of her almost parodies the famous report of Cleopatra by Enobarbus: “Her head high in that silver tiara so/ Brilliant it was blindness trying to tell/ Its characters.” Tufa immediately falls for her, and at first the affair seems blessed. The couple make love in lyric poetry: “Your flesh under flush/ Of cam flashes many times lovelier than gold/ Or pearls.” Soon, however, gossip informs of the tragic but polluting events of Tufa’s past: “His father/ Usurped the bed of his elder brother, yes,/ Brazenly in his lifetime, and for shame/ Of it hanged himself.” Titi’s father, Diribi, immediately condemns Tufa and forbids the marriage: “Consider the taint.” He fears that the curse Tufa bears will spread among the entire family. If they associate with him, the gods will threaten them, too. The mother is equally dismissive, saying, “the man is no more your husband now happily/ His past and back are in full view.” Tufa is told “leave my daughter alone, . . . and go your curse-laden way.” To her father’s horror, Titi defies him and argues that she will marry Tufa in spite of “this prospect of pollution.” Her father curses Titi, calling her “this witch and bitch/ Who has quite infected her breed.” Tufa, however, is touched by the generosity of her love and recognizes her devotion. Titi “called herself my wife, my bride ready to go with me/ In spite of my shame.” Her father, in spite of his great affection, is more concerned with his consequent family shame and determines to kill her. Though “she tried tears, tried prayers,” he shoots her with the very gun Tufa had given him as a present. He turns the gun on Tufa and wounds him mortally. Tufa staggers out to join Titi, after confessing, “I am that unmentionable beast/ Born of woman to brother.” Borrowing from Greek, Clark-Bekederemo has the priests observe, “Who/ The gods love they visit with calamity.” No action need be taken against the father. In this situation, no human punishment can add to the misfortune imposed. He has destroyed himself. He “who was so tall and strong/ Before. . . . Now at one stroke/ See him splintered to the ground.” The tragedy that began with Song of a Goat has now worked itself out, purging the crime from which it originated in the manner of the great Greek tragedies.

Again, one should observe the controlled poetry that Clark-Bekederemo employs. Like that of Shakespeare, it can range without any apparent contradiction between colloquial conversation and great poetic feeling. Beautiful are the lines: “It is the time/ Of night. There is a catch in the air/ Will not hold. Not a rustle of leaves,/ Not a cry of a bird, nor the sudden charge/ Of sheep or goats. . . .”

The Raft

The Raft explores a new topic, a circumstance reminiscent of Stephen Crane’s famous short story “The Open Boat.” It describes four workers: Olotu, the educated townsman; Kengide, the cynic; Ogro, the traditionalist; and Ibobo, the priest figure. They are camping on a huge raft of hardwood logs, sailing it down river to the port. Owing to mischance or carelessness, the ropes tying it during the night come away and they drift helplessly down the river, unable to control direction or to determine where they are because of the heavy fog. This danger frightens them, and one by one these men are brought to the breaking point and die. The raft itself would seem to be a general symbol of individuals’ inability to be masters of their environment, indicating their weakness when pitted against the superior power of circumstance. Some critics have argued that because this was written when Nigerian political events seemed to be equally drifting before the resolution of an army coup, direct reference must be intended. The times may conceivably have been in Clark-Bekederemo’s mind when he invented this plot, but the play is certainly far more universal in its concept than any political tract would be. The characters in the play do not represent public persons, even obliquely, nor are they conceived as representing generalized attitudes of the time. They are individuals battling fierce problems in a highly realistic setting. The play succeeds on the stage because the potential allegory is never allowed to intrude into the actual events.

The raft begins to drift when by some inexplicable means its mooring ropes break. “What I can’t understand is how all/ The seven gave way. . . . Some madman/ Came aboard and cut us loose?/ Some ghost or evil god.” The speculations indicate the cosmic nature of their plight. They find that they are being carried out to sea on the ebb tide. Desperately they apply all of their skill. As they contemplate the prospect of death, they agonize and discuss their chances, reminisce about their pasts, their families, their jobs, their hopes. Yet disaster cannot be avoided. First, Olotu is taken away when a part of the raft breaks off and he is unable to swim back. “He’s adrift and lost!” is the cry. The greater truth comes in the responsive observation, “We are all adrift and lost!” Then they hear a ship coming. Ogro decides his best chance is to swim to it and be hauled aboard. The sailors see him and beat him away until he becomes entwined in the stern wheel and is killed. None will assist in escape. Now only Ibobo and Kengide remain. Ibobo thinks that he recognizes a small town they are passing and decides to jump overboard. Kengide holds him back, warning him of sharks, but Ibobo asks, “are/ You afraid to be alone?” With a more generalized recognition that typically links actual event to universality, Kengide says, “Aren’t you afraid to be left alone/ In this world, aren’t you?” They decide to shout in the hope of attracting attention. The last lines of the play are their forlorn and feeble voices crying “Ee-ee-eee!” which, in a stage direction, Clark-Bekederemo reminds his readers is “the long squeal as used when women go wood-gathering and by nightfall have still not found their way home.” In a sense, the tragedy here is less personal, more cosmic. The suffering is not imposed on the characters because there is some taint in their past, some evil to be assuaged. Here is the more pessimistic conclusion that all persons are doomed to suffer in a universe that is implacably indifferent to their fate. This view does not allow the note of hope that occurs in the final resolution of many tragedies when even death can be seen as a kind of liberation from the pains of enduring the arrows of life. Here, death is an end without purpose and without meaning imposed by powers beyond human beings’ control and indifferent to their fate.

Ozidi

Ozidi brings a major change in the direction of Clark-Bekederemo’s work. The original Ozidi is a traditional poetic saga of the Ijaw people. The playwright affirms its epic status, calling it “an old story, truly heroic in proportion, arising out of a people’s sense of their past.” In its original form, its performance lasts seven days and is embellished with dance, music, ritual masks, and costumes. In drawing on the historical event, Clark-Bekederemo has departed from the universalist ideas of his earlier plays and immersed himself deeply in his African heritage. This involvement makes it difficult for him to extract a sequence of action that will be appropriate for a formal theatrical presentation, inevitably restricted in both time span and area.

Clark-Bekederemo’s concern for Ozidi has an extended history. He first heard the tale when Afoluwa of Ofonibenga recited it to an eager school audience. It had such an impact that he worked for ten years as a researcher to record permanently this oral, public event. The results were a film, a record of the music, and, in 1977, an Ijaw/English side-by-side transcription of nearly four hundred pages. While continuing this long-term study, in 1966, he attempted to distill the extensive epic into an English-language dramatized version. The result presents barriers to the non-African reader. The fullest comprehension may seem to require anthropological knowledge. Nevertheless, the play has moments of dramatic intensity and the basic plot is clear enough, even though compression requires external explication.

The story spans two generations. A new king must be selected, this time from the house of Ozidi. He refuses the honor and is amazed when his younger brother, Temugedege, a discreditable and feeble figure “dribbling with drink,” demands his rights to the throne. He greedily imagines his power, intending to become “terror of all our/ Territories.” The populace consider his pretensions ridiculous. Ozidi agrees with their judgments but insists that, as his brother has been made king, all the normal honors are due him, including lavish gifts: “A god is/ A god once you make him so,” he says. His subjects have no intention of gratifying so feeble a monarch, for “nobody is going to serve Temugedege; he is an idiot.” When Ozidi insists that the traditional generosities are required no matter how inadequate the recipient, there are murmurs of revolt. Rather than tax themselves for safety from the ruthless Ozidi, they prefer to plan his death. Because one of the expectations of a new king is a symbolic skull, they attack Ozidi, cunningly destroy his magic security, and send his head to his brother. “There is our tribute to you, King.” He is too weak to do other than flee. Ozidi’s grandmother Oreame escapes with his pregnant wife, Orea, who delivers a child also called Ozidi.

The second section deals with young Ozidi’s upbringing largely at the hands of his grandmother, who uses her skills in magic to develop his courage so that he will be the means of revenge for his father’s murder. She intends that he “must go forth and scatter death among/ His father’s enemies.” He returns to his father’s home and reinstates himself: “Let’s raise again the compound of my fathers.” Urged by his grandmother and protected by her magic, he seeks out his enemies and throws down a challenge by shamefully and publicly stripping their wives. He singles out his opponents and fights them one by one. Though they confront him boldly, “Ozidi, I am going to eat you up today,” he is always victorious. Others seeking to avenge their friends are likewise eliminated, their magic brought to nothing against Oreame’s spells. The sequence of deaths affects Ozidi, until a woman can ask, “Is there nothing else you can do except kill?” Finally blinded by herbs, he kills both enemy and grandmother, for she has not thought to protect herself from her own grandson. He is attacked by fever and nursed by his mother. He wins that bodily battle and thus defeats King Smallpox, the ultimate enemy of the people, who will not “set foot again on this shore.” The end is somewhat surprising, but it is clear that some general victory other than satisfied revenge is required to achieve Ozidi’s full heroic status.

The events in this play are repetitive and sometimes confusing. The language, seeming sometimes close to Ijaw, makes for difficult interpretaion. At other times, it has the familiar Clark-Bekederemo lyrical conviction. “What need have/ We to stand up when silk cotton trees lie prostrate/ We are reeds only, mere reeds in the storm, and must/ Stretch our broken backs on the ground.” Ozidi is less immediately accessible to a non-Nigerian reader, but it has the same tragic power and evocative language found in the earlier plays and exhibits Clark-Bekederemo’s determination to draw ever more deeply from his African experience and culture.

All for Oil

For many years after his writing of Ozidi, Clark-Bekederemo seems to have preferred to concentrate on poetry, and perhaps his reputation in this genre is higher than his reputation as a dramatist. However, his contribution to the theater continued with production of The Bikoroa Plays, The Wives’ Revolt, and All for Oil.

The production of Clark-Bekederemo’s All for Oil coincided with the celebration of Nigeria’s fortieth anniversary of independence. The play is a biographical drama that draws on Nigeria’s historical background involving the trade of palm oil and the present plight over oil in Nigeria and the Niger Delta. All for Oil is a literary testament to Clark-Bekederemo’s belief that “we should sit together and decide the conditions of our living together.”