by Remi Jordan
It’s exceedingly easier to imagine Sisyphus dead. Forgotten by the gods. Consigned to the depths of unreachable oblivions. It is easier to imagine the end of the world than it is to imagine the ceasing of the Nigerian suffering. Chukwu Martin’s OGA MIKE does not shy away from the torrents of privations. Like Beckett or Robert Bresson, his perspective is forged in the remains of the day — not on heroes or villains, kings, and jesters — merely you, maybe me, and everyone else we see every day — the third estate.
OGA MIKE opens with the gyrations of people — the hype-man croons and hollers, choreographed steps of nameless people. Happiness seemingly hovers around. In a Barney costume, the mascot dances and pantomimes with the people —we are thrown into a familiar world where slums are elated by ephemeral entertainment, an impoverished mise-en-scene ignited only by the makeshift party. But it’s all a business. The hype man is here for a paycheck. The mascot splits a paycheck.
En passant, the hype-man, with dreams of being a successful artiste, declares that “every hustler has a payday” after the fun-fair, much to the chagrin of the mascot, now unmasked. Dejected. Exhausted. Bereft of any enthusiasm. This is not a charmed life. Our mascot is our man, OGA MIKE.
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Think of this film as a psychological aperture into the contemporaneous occurrences and economic impositions that exist in modern-day Nigeria. The one out of many stories about the toiling of the underclass. Chukwu Martin, one might assume, does not set out to be pedagogical in OGA MIKE — at least not in a way that preaches to the choir. And yet, the palpability of the symbolisms evokes pathos within you. The titular character, played by Ikechukwu Iwebenua, traverses the bustling town, burdened in the literal sense by a sack containing his costume. In the recesses of his consciousness, there’s a leitmotif manifesting in the form of a chorale on screen for us to see, rendering the film with a surrealist undertone.
There’s a close approximation to Odysseus of Homer, Atlas the Titan, and, as stated earlier — Sisyphus. The camera moves indifferent to the character, only in the service of encapsulating the macrocosmic despair of which Oga Mike exists within. The personal is also captured with brute force; when Oga Mike makes it home to a worried albeit possibly unfaithful wife played by Temitope Agoro and a convalescing child residing in a rented room, he’s equally met with the same monotony of the outside world — disloyalty and a sex life depicted as merely a primal routine. The sequence of tragedy leaves no room for a breath of fresh air — its origin is turtles all the way down.
As is the rest of Chukwu Martins’ filmography, the conspicuous influence of theatre is the mainstay. He even goes as far as calling his films “short plays.” Theatrical disenchantments, as seen in his 2022 Brechtian short film Mr Gbenga’s hard drive, menacingly adorn OGA MIKE. The realism of it all, when investigated through the ceaseless context of a failed state slices you like a mute assassin. A country in the form of hazardous material.
This is antithetical to the earlier declaration of our hype-man, a country where, more often than not, there is no payday to be had. Ikechukwu Iwebenua’s woebegone face transudes the countenance of the resigned everyman. The decaying hoi polloi. His life as a mascot, a giver of joy to children of all classes, disparate to his internal turmoil and an immeasurable despondency.
A poignant scene in the denouement of the film serves as the linchpin. A political campaign poster replaces an obituary. In a blink-or-you-miss-it moment, the political aspirant is running on a poverty alleviation manifesto, further foregrounding the enduring absurdism of the Nigerian state. Here and now, Chukwu Martins says, like the bard, all the world’s a stage,and some of its players die unsung.
