Okot p’Bitek’s Song of Lawino and Song of Ocol (Punch in the face)

I read these two poems almost two months ago, but it’s taken me this long to blog it.

First, a bit about Okot p’Bitek

He was born in Gulu, Northern Uganda in 1931. He was also a footballer for his country and played in Britain at the age of 25. From there he decided to stay and study, earning a diploma in education in Bristol, then he studied law at the University of Wales at Aberystwyth and social anthropology at Oxford.

I heard about this Okot from a blog of a long time friend and became very interested. Hoping to gain a bit of understand by hearing from another point of view, I set out to find a copy of this book. I couldn’t find a full version online to read, only snippets, commentaries and criticisms. Also, there was not a copy in Macha to be found. Soon, I had an opportunity to spend a couple of days in Livingstone and I found it in a book store there, so I purchased it.

The first 20 or 30 pages consisted of an introduction about the author, the history of the writings, and a commentary on the work. Now, it was time to get into this story of a woman who is upset with her husband, who has basically forsaken her and his own culture because he had embraced the western culture. Ocol (the husband) was a politician and had married another more western woman. To anyone who has read these stories, I ask forgiveness if I'm leaving anything important out.

I think I read the book over a 3 or 4 day period and spent a week feeling worthless until I realized the source of my depressed state. After some thought I realized that reading these poems was like getting punched in the face and then kicked in the stomach. I know that they are fictional and supposed to be a defense of Okot’s culture against western influence, but man, I felt like I had no reason to be in any country in Africa. Oppressing feelings pressed in on me, making me feel as though I could nothing right in Africa. I would picture a kid in an antique shop and anytime that child went to touch something his mother would slap his hand and say “Don’t touch anything, you’ll break it.”

Now, I came to Zambia wanting to be culturally sensitive and not come with my ethnocentric Americanism and start running things. Running things, has never been my intention in coming to another country. Anyway, I still felt like I was worthless and it took me almost 2 weeks before I realized that the thoughts I had were just an attack on my identity. I was born white, in the United States of America. There are certain things we can change, and things we can’t change about ourselves. I can’t let some writer that doesn’t exist anymore to keep me from helping people because he doesn’t appreciate the color of my skin, or the culture that I was born into, or the beliefs that I hold. Before I go any further, I’m not attacking this book or the writer. I actually can really appreciate the skill and creative energy that was put into these writings. I actually was wishing that I could read it in Acholi so that I could experience it in its original form. I may even look for some of his other writings when I get back to the states.