Once upon a time, in what had been presumed as Greater Los Angeles area resident's "VIP" of Igbo stock at a hangout of champaign and isi ewu, goat head meal, a club was born. The club was called members of the house or something like that in the founders native tongue. The club had been tailored to be guiding light by way of tackling problems, grand and small, with regards to Igbo worthy causes within the Los Angeles area; in order to effect change in Igbo Diaspora, and be able to influence decisions in homeland to a calling for profound leadership.
These "Igbo elites" met on every Friday evening and "dialogued" into the wee hours of the night at this particular joint in the South Bay area of Greater Los Angeles, to prove why they have been unique in getting things done, and from around their surroundings which speaks volumes -- their outrageous color riot outfits and the kinda exotic fast machines that sits on the lots.
But as it eventually happened, the Friday event of "Igbo elites" at this particular joint then known for its flamboyant fanfare, became the forum where these "energetic" folks decided to negate the old guards they accused all along of not having a sense of purpose to get things done for Nd'Igbo, in which they desperately wanted some action relative to being practical and showing.
The cast of characters in this elite club had included "high profile" lawyers who'd never won a case in the law courts other than plea bargains, businessmen, cooks, dishwashers, nouveau riche, professional laymen, doctors, acclaimed local politicians, acclaimed historians who knew every damn thing about the pogrom and civil war but have not written a line of sentence to tell their stories, acclaimed thinkers whose thoughts stinks to the high heavens, acclaimed prophets who ends up in the alley soliciting prostitutes, pastors akin to Jimmy Swaggart, propagandists (the Otimkpus), alarmists, folks in a variety of academic disciplines, lavishing Diaspora chiefs, big game hunters, musicians who can't read notes, wanna belong fellas, area boys and things like that.
I, for one, checked out this hangout numerous times and it was nothing really to brag about, or take to the bank. It was a total mess considering people of high places that had gathered to form a powerful union with the ideal of doing good things.
As it also happened, there was a problem. The bunch of these "elites" of Igbo stock, had begun their meetings with suspicion, blackmail, sabotage, betrayal, wife swapping, homo sexuality, whiskey and whore stories, behind closed door gossips, and all kinds of crazy stuff; not trusting one another in what supposedly should have meant well from the perspective of its guidelines.
Ironically, these "elites" had a plan. Instead of such an infallible, confused, efulefu, worthless bunch to rethink their strategies by coming up with troubling isues of the day which destroyed a cultural heritage; cases of failing marriage institution in Ala-Igbo, the disappearance of the Igbo language and what should be done, integration, building community and the painful loss of leadership from the days of the Igbo union; the talk big, walk big "comrades" abandoned what they had spent time and money putting together, to material rivalry -- on who owns what, and who is individually accomplished when collectivity which ultimately leads to utopia should have been the goal.
The late Stephen Osita Osadebe produced a praise singing CD in their name when that miscalculating and senseless endeavor could have initiated a resource center, cultural center, research centers and things of that nature.
A mentally, impotent and unchallenging bunch could not come up with anything other than picnic in its engagement. Things like providing employment opportunities and having economic impact within its community, as in all communities in Diaspora who are doing stuff. From Pico Blvd. and Fairfax Ave. to Olympic Blvd. and Fairfax toward the Miracle Mile on the Wilshire Corridor, sits Little Ethiopia and all Ethiopian owned businesses. On the Westside, is the Armenian community whose history of genocide is, today, in the books, from mounted pressure groups. On the Eastside lies China Town, Little Tokyo, the Hispanics and series of communities dwelling together spreading all down the San Gabriel Valley. And, of course, there is Little Vietnam in Westminster and other Asian communities in and around the Long Beach areas.
I remember when Jimmie Asiegbu and I had stopped by former LAPD Chief and Councilman Bernard Parks' office for some concerns regarding our own very community as in concentration, while Parks was seeking reelection in the 8th District, and for our votes to count, Parks' first question was where he could identify an Igbo or Nigerian community in Greater Los Angeles. Apparently, we had none, not even in the near future for a bunch full of drama in its dealings.
A bunch who were suppose to come to the fore as molders and shapers but caught up haggling. A bunch who were suppose to give form and content to mass liberation movements but not surprisingly caught up quarelling over little things not relevant to societal well-being. A bunch which should be seeing objectively and clearly which way class forces are actually moving or aspiring to move, or which classes are advancing or retarding the advance, but caught up being blind followers. A bunch that would not table an intellectual discourse on the most blood soaked event in its history but would rather join the bandwagon designed to destroy its own.
Not even a discourse on a case of the Yoruba nation cooperating with the Hausa-Fulani murderous gang during the pogrom which was a mutual calculation of interest or in recent times measures to transform or eradicate toxic leaders who destroyed in its entirety Igbo related states, rather than be passive in order to be considered for their crumbs and left overs.
Well, the party is definitely over, and for sure, these easy going fellows could not do jack in their over a decade of consuming isi ewu. And what that entails is, like Bob Dylan, worried about failed states and American power, "it's not dark yet, but we are getting there."
