TO THE DRAMA STUDIO

I thought he would be at his study, which I always call the formidable study because when you enter the miniature library, you find yourself penetrating a hidden depth of mystery and somber grandeur. You are confronted by a harsher and obscure realization and at the same time overpowered by a sense of awe and fear which is both revealing and fulfilling. And to see his little yet majestic frame behind the towering books, a complete library I should really say, one wonders if he is an ordinary human being. But thanks to my stars, he was not in his formidable study. He was pacing around silently beneath the shady trees in front of his house. He seemed distant, meditative, lost in the labyrinth of animistic spells.


I approached him stealthily, slowly with a manuscript in hand; I felt the coldness, though not severe, it was charmed with a piercing sharpness and had a lulling Effect. But he seemed to enjoy the breeze from the grove he has eased. I felt nervous and thought l would rather disturb him with my play, but l felt obliged to go forward. I had made the manuscript a simple sketch or draft rather, of a play in hasty manner, and l wanted him to glance through and see if it was good. So that l would put more ideas into words, because l feel like writing, just putting anything that would come into my mind on paper.

Even though the underlying factor of my going to see him was for him to go through my draft, and perhaps furnish me with some more ideas, deep down within me. I feel a strong, over powering urge
just to be nearer to him, not so much that he was unusual or receptive or very intelligent, or that l was attracted by his intellectual powers or his irresistible charms, but that he was a professor, had written so many books, which in it self was a great contribution to the development of education in our country. He was volatile and versatile, friendly, caring and sympathetic; his advice was synonymous to an injunction. “Study hard, be strong willed determination and perseverance are my key words.

The first time that l went to his lectures that l saw his amazing talents and dazzling qualities. He is self conscious and devoted to his work, - his appearance; lone shows that he was naturally gifted, born to do the work.

After the lectures which took place at the central cafeteria, l was full of admiration for him that l expressed it openly, so that some of my friends and course mates who heard me extolling the virtues of the extraordinary man grew contemptuous. They said that, there are rum ours whirling on campus that the professor had contacted spirits for special powers of the mind and that I can contact him but not be too close to him or else he would let me delve deep into some mystery that l would not be able to come back to my real self again.
I was taken aback and a sense of fear and chagrin overtook me. I was paralyzed by unspeakable horror and the shocking news of the professor made me to retch. I was plunged into a dilemma as to the authenticity of the strange revelation.

But as time went on, l came to regard the shocking revelation as a heresy an untrue story woven in such a manner to suit the prejudice of those who were overwhelmed by his immense knowledge. I said to my self that perhaps some bunch of students who could not understand the universal genius have concluded that such a profound knowledge could only be acquired through supernatural means.

My relationship with him grew to such a level that would be impossible to put into words. He introduced me to his family and gave me so many books to read. When l am given a huge fat book to read which l see is above my level, l dare not complain, and if l do, he would tell me that even his ten year old daughter has finished that book and that l should try and finish it and bring him a summary of it.


His wife also grew fond of me and she encouraged me a lot to study hard. Reading and learning is the best thing one can do in this world. She said, l and the professor were now intimate, almost inseparable. I became part of his scholastic family, l devoured everything that he wrote and made it a habit of seeing him every evening.

A lecture he delivered three weeks ago about something he calls collective consciousness, and the power and charm of African culture and tradition haunted me and gnawed at my heart that l felt compelled to pay tribute to his genius, I decided to write a moving poem but it turned out to be a play. The outcome of what I wrote was my reason for approaching him, the unapproachable.

When he perceived me advancing forwards him, he recoiled in an instinctive gesture as it woken from a terrible right mare. He came to himself and l mumbled sorry sir for disturbing you inaudibly to my self.

“Good evening sir” l greeted him. He did not answer, but shook his head in a solemn approval. Then he took the papers from my hand and said.

“You brought this to me?”
“Yes prof” l answered, drama l wrote three weeks ago and l want you to see if it is good. I half feared that he would throw it away as rubbish.

“Oh okay,” he said and started going through the work avidly. I stood quietly with my hands at my back. Looking at his inscrutable face intently it will occasionally flush with a gratifying smile. I was pleased and felt contented, l was about to congratulate myself once more-because his smiles and reaction while he was reading through my work gave enough evidence of satisfaction on his part. He finished it and raised his head. I had not taken a thorough scrutiny of his face because l felt not to but this time, l was compelled not only to look at his face but his whole extraordinary frame. He had hollow eyes coupled by bushy eye brows and a poignant nose. His hair was bushy in an old fashion manner. Al together, he had a harrowing appearance. An eccentric figure.

“Are you sure you wrote it?” he asked concealing his amazement and perplexity.

“Yes sir.” I answered quite bewildered. Because it never occurred to me that the sketch was a serious work and l was surprised to hear the professor expressing doubt about its authorship.

“O my boy” he burst out delightedly. “Well done well done, congratulations” Then he finally said.
“This is poetic drama, you have a commanding theme, and it is a relevant piece. It is very good, continue writing more of these.

I was very pleased by the professor’s assertion. I was encouraged to write more and perhaps send it to the drama studio to be performed.
I thanked the professor and left for my hall. It was a quarter to nine when l reached. I was dog-tired. Exhausted. Kwame, my roommate was fast asleep. Though l was feeling sleepy, l felt bound to write something. So l took a pen and a paper and almost unconsciously wrote a poem which l asked later on as a prelude to the play.



What is vital in our age?
Must be reflected on the stage?
From the beginning
Of the great drama masters arts we build our dreams
And sail on life clear streams.