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Waritimi's studio and gallery in Port
Harcourt, the main hub of oil industry
activities in Africa's leading oil producer
country, overlooks the city's cemetery.
On 10 November 1995 he was standing
by the window of his studio overlooking
the cemetery while heavily armed
soldiers and police led the funeral
cortege of writer and environmentalist
Ken Saro-Wiwa and nine other minority
to the cemetery. They had just been
hanged to death at the Port Harcourt
prison on the orders of then military ruler
General Sani Abacha.
Fearing the hostility of the people on the
streets, the security forces
accompanying the bodies were at their
brutal best, attacking and whipping
innocent passers by and butting them
with their guns. For Waritimi, who had
collaborated with Saro-Wiwa in the past,
helping design some of his logos and
letterheads, it was more than he could
bear. He stepped out into the street to
challenge the soldiers. Of course he was
brutally beaten by the soldiers who burst
one of his drums and threw him in jail for
the night.
Harcourt, the main hub of oil industry
activities in Africa's leading oil producer
country, overlooks the city's cemetery.
On 10 November 1995 he was standing
by the window of his studio overlooking
the cemetery while heavily armed
soldiers and police led the funeral
cortege of writer and environmentalist
Ken Saro-Wiwa and nine other minority
to the cemetery. They had just been
hanged to death at the Port Harcourt
prison on the orders of then military ruler
General Sani Abacha.
Fearing the hostility of the people on the
streets, the security forces
accompanying the bodies were at their
brutal best, attacking and whipping
innocent passers by and butting them
with their guns. For Waritimi, who had
collaborated with Saro-Wiwa in the past,
helping design some of his logos and
letterheads, it was more than he could
bear. He stepped out into the street to
challenge the soldiers. Of course he was
brutally beaten by the soldiers who burst
one of his drums and threw him in jail for
the night.
“What I did was suicidal but what I
had seen the soldiers doing was
unbearable,” Waritimi recalls. “I had
to speak up and got the beating of
my life.”
But for him that is the reality of
Nigerian life and there is a limit to
what art can do. “Where art
becomes limited, we have to take
action as citizens to try to end
oppression,” he says. “It is not just
our life that is in the long run at
stake; it is also the future - the
future of our children, and we have
to salvage something for them.”
However, there is always art to
return to. The front of his studio is
littered with logs of wood of
different shapes and sizes,
awaiting the impact his hammer
and chisel. And as he goes about
his daily tasks, from time to time he
finds time to cut new shapes and
patterns on the woods.
had seen the soldiers doing was
unbearable,” Waritimi recalls. “I had
to speak up and got the beating of
my life.”
But for him that is the reality of
Nigerian life and there is a limit to
what art can do. “Where art
becomes limited, we have to take
action as citizens to try to end
oppression,” he says. “It is not just
our life that is in the long run at
stake; it is also the future - the
future of our children, and we have
to salvage something for them.”
However, there is always art to
return to. The front of his studio is
littered with logs of wood of
different shapes and sizes,
awaiting the impact his hammer
and chisel. And as he goes about
his daily tasks, from time to time he
finds time to cut new shapes and
patterns on the woods.