Femi Osofisan on Nigerian Politics: “The Locusts Just Shed Their Khaki for Agbada”

Five months is a long time to chase anyone, but when that person is Femi Osofisan, the wait becomes part of the story itself. He is one of Africa’s most celebrated playwrights, and his works like Women of Owu, Morountodun, and Once Upon Four Robbers have shaped generations of readers and theatregoers. However, he doesn’t grant interviews lightly. His words carry weight, and he knows it.

 

When we finally connected, it was against the backdrop of Cordelia, the latest film adaptation of his work by veteran director Tunde Kelani, which hit cinemas in July 2025. The collaboration marks another chapter in a creative partnership that has already produced Ma’ami and Yeepa, Solarin Nbo! that cemented both men as towering figures in Nigerian cultural storytelling.

 

But this conversation revealed something unexpected. Behind the triumph of seeing another work brought to screen, behind the accolades and the decades of literary dominance, Osofisan, a towering scholar, spoke with unguarded honesty about something few artists of his stature admit: the difficulty of creating in a democracy that looks nothing like what he fought for.

 

At 80, Babafemi Adeyemi Osofisan remains a giant. He has written and produced more than 60 plays and four prose works, published five books of poetry under his pseudonym Okinba Launko, and influenced African theatre for half a century. He is widely considered the third most influential African playwright of the 20th and 21st centuries, following Wole Soyinka and Athol Fugard. Yet here he was, speaking with disarming honesty about creative silence in a time that desperately needs voices like his.

 

The Stories That Write Themselves

Cordelia began not as fiction but as reality. Set during Nigeria’s military rule in the early 1990s, the film follows a quiet university lecturer whose small act of kindness draws him into a national crisis. The story, adapted by Bunmi Ajiboye and featuring a cast including Omowunmi Dada, William Benson, and Femi Adebayo, explores silence, betrayal, and the dangerous space between principle and survival.

 

“Actually, to confess, most of the incidents in Cordelia were true stories that I either witnessed or were told to me by the people directly involved,” Osofisan reveals. The events unfolded on the campus of the University of Ibadan, where he taught for many years, during the volatile era of military coups.

 

“One thing about those coups, if you remember, was that each came on the heels of mass discontent, in response to our people’s clamor for a change of government, for new messiahs. Some clever self-serving soldiers would shoot themselves onto the saddle of power, make grandiloquent speeches and then, as soon as they reckoned that the people had been sufficiently bamboozled about their supposedly good intentions, they would launch out in their true colors, begin their own agenda of looting the state coffers while brutally silencing all opposition: all criticism.”

 

The inspiration, he explains, came directly from the Dimka attempted coup. “His niece was one of our students at the time.”

 

The domestic tensions in the story; a lecturer’s marital problems, a student developing feelings for her teacher these were “banal everyday issues on campus,” woven together to serve three purposes: to provoke discussion about military coups, to examine the role of intellectuals in imposed government and, perhaps most importantly, to attract people to the habit of reading literature.

 

“Remember that the story was first published in my column in a newspaper, as part of my series promoting the reading of books? Yes, these three were my primary aims.”

 

When Literature Goes to the People

The newspaper serialization of Cordelia, like Ma’ami, Wuraola Forever, and Abigail before it, represented Osofisan’s answer to a fundamental question: if people won’t go to literature, why can’t literature go to the people?

 

“I think we were discussing the Guardian newspaper and its phenomenal success within a short time of our appearance, when the question came up. Why, with such sales figures, someone asked, do we keep saying that our people do not read? They obviously do read, but not literature books, nor do they habitually patronize bookstores.”

 

His solution drew inspiration from Charles Dickens, who serialized his novels in newspapers. “Why couldn’t we also, like Charles Dickens, try this in Nigeria?”

 

The experiment worked. Ma’ami surprised everyone with its audience response. The approach was totally new ground, this use of the newspaper for serious fiction, and Tunde Kelani’s subsequent film adaptations became a natural extension of that philosophy – using popular forms to reach people where they are.

 

 A Partnership Built on Mutual Respect

The relationship between Osofisan and Kelani is one of creative freedom and profound respect. When asked about his involvement in the adaptation process for Cordelia, Osofisan was characteristically generous.

 

“Oh very minimally, by choice. TK and his team had all the freedom to make their own decisions. You see, my own attitude is this: once I give you permission to work on any script of mine, then I leave you free to carry out your work the way you think best.”

 

The trust runs deep. Osofisan only grants permission when he believes in someone’s competence and, once given, he steps back. “It won’t be fair to have me begin to breathe down your neck, imposing this and that. Of course, I do turn up now and then during the shooting, but it’s just to satisfy my curiosity, and give moral support to the cast and crew.”

 

Their collaboration, which includes Ma’ami and Yeepa, Solarin Nbo! (the Yoruba version of Who’s Afraid of Solarin?), represents something rare in Nigerian arts: two masters at the height of their powers, each enhancing the other’s work.

Osofisan considers working with Kelani “an honor,” having been impressed by the director’s films with Akinwumi Isola and Adebayo Faleti—works like Saworoide and Agogo Eewo, which he calls “indisputably masterpieces, cultural treasures.”

 

“Fortunately, just as I was looking for him to make my films, so was he too looking for me to work on my plays. And, except on the financial side, the relationship has been very rewarding.”

 

The Film Challenge

Osofisan harbors no illusions about adaptation. The transformation from page to screen always involves loss.

 

“I already know from previous other works, particularly abroad, that the film context can never fully satisfactorily present any work of fiction. It’s not possible. The film has to get its effects through images, through pictures, and within a limited time frame. Thus all the subtlety which the novel achieves through prolonged introspection, meditative sequences, and so on, have to be cut out on the screen.”

 

Yet he recognizes what film offers in exchange: “Neither fiction nor the stage play can match the tactile sensuality that film provides. Which is why it’s gradually becoming the dominant agency of popular entertainment, the area that pays the most financial profit to practitioners, and hence the area that the bulk of our students want to study and specialize in.”

 

This shift worries him. “Courses that require reading and reflection and introspection literature, theory and criticism, history and philosophy are becoming very thinly subscribed. All over the world, not only in Nigeria. It’s a crisis of contemporary culture. Obviously we need to do something about it, but I honestly don’t know what at the moment.”

 

When it comes to adapting Nigerian stories with their complex historical, political, and cultural contexts, Osofisan identifies the core challenge as research. “This, unfortunately, is where most of our films usually fail; that is, in insufficient research about the context of the story, and the lazy assumption sometimes that a device used successfully in one film will naturally work in another, regardless of the setting.”

 

The problem is particularly acute for period pieces. “Unlike in Europe, for instance, the documents you need are often not there. You have to travel, go to the villages, consult with elders, dig into the archives of memory, and so on, to present credible characters and credible locations.”

 

The Untapped Goldmine

When asked whether Nigerian filmmakers are doing enough with literary material, Osofisan’s answer is blunt: “NO. I mean, the fact that you ask such a question at all is sufficiently telling.”

 

He rattles off names with barely concealed frustration. “How many of the celebrated works of Soyinka, Achebe, Clark, Amadi, Imam, Sofola, Ezeigbo, Obafemi have you seen on the screen? This is one of the factors that distinguishes the work of Kelani in fact—this aspect that he prefers to work with writers and published texts.”

 

The works he’d love to see adapted next read like a syllabus of African literary greatness: Ola Rotimi, Festus Iyayi, Elechi Amadi, and contemporary writers like Nwoye, Sule, Okediran, Razinat, Promise, and Denja, “numerous others who already have their own audiences and a ready market.”

 

As for his own catalogue, the wish list is long. “TK and I have been discussing doing Pirates for months, for instance, if we could find the funds. The option has now been purchased by Netflix. I can’t wait to see it out in the market.”

 

He envisions film versions of Morountodun, Tegonni, Once Upon Four Robbers, Many Colors Make the Thunder-King, Women of Owu, Twingle Twangle, Aringindin, and his comedies like Midnight Hotel, Such Is Life, and The Engagement. “This filming project, to confess, was my original plan for retirement, till circumstances intervened to alter things.”

 

The Writer’s Burden

For Osofisan, the role of the writer is simple and immutable: to write. “That does not change. Writing is what makes a writer. What changes, however, is the subject matter or the mode and the tools of writing.”

 

But he makes a crucial distinction. Taking up the cause of the oppressed is not an obligation but a choice, for a writer, is “strictly a matter of personal choice – I insist – of his own private conscience.”

 

Yet the injustices of colonial and post-colonial societies have been so persistent that most African writers, he says, have been “driven, compelled by their conscience, if I may say so, to be rebellious against those in power, and take a stand on the side of the ‘wretched of the earth’ as Fanon calls them.”

 

The consequences have been brutal, he argues. “The rulers who defend the status quo have been ruthless. And do you know how many writers have been brutally suppressed, assassinated or thrown in jail, or driven to exile, especially not too long ago under the military, for daring to demand change to the present order of things?”

 

When it comes to language choice—whether to write in English or Yoruba—his answer is pragmatic. “It always depends on what audience you’re addressing, if it’s predominantly Yoruba-speaking, or mixed, or the elite class, or even physically challenged. So it’s not the story that chooses the language; stories can be told in all languages. It’s the context of the telling that decides.”

 

The Crisis of AI

Among the many threats facing writers today, Artificial Intelligence troubles Osofisan more and deeply. “Frankly, I am one of those worried about the future of AI. Already, reading the essays of my students, and engaging them in conversation afterwards, you can’t but notice the disparity, the discordance between their knowledge and the essay that is AI-assisted.”

 

His concern goes beyond academic dishonesty. “Yes, I become more and more frightened that these machines could very soon make the human person redundant and replace us.”

 

For someone who has spent his life championing the irreplaceable power of human creativity and conscience, the rise of machines that can mimic storytelling represents more than a technological shift. It strikes at the heart of what makes art valuable: its connection to lived experience, moral struggle, and the messy complexity of being human.

 

The Silence That Speaks Loudest

All these reflections, on adaptation, language, AI, and legacy circle back to the most startling admission of the conversation. When asked what he’s currently working on, Osofisan’s response cuts through everything else.

 

“I really wish I could tell you. I mean, a writer is always working on something or the other, sometimes even, on quite a number of ideas simultaneously. But for me, right now, I confess that the only word I can use to describe my present state is numbness. I am in a state of paralysis, have been since we came back to what we call democracy.”

 

The explanation that follows is a masterclass in disillusionment. “You see, when we fought against the military, the goals were quite clear, I believed. We fought against corruption, fascism, autocratic rule, the lack of freedom, kakistocracy, and the likes. But, for crying sake, was this—what we have now—was this the democracy we were looking for? This constant, totally irresponsible warring and whoring?”

 

The revelation lands with devastating clarity. “So it means that the fight is not over yet, that the locusts have just merely shed their khaki uniforms for agbada! But how do you begin a new fight now, at our age, and against people whom we thought were comrades?”

 

These are questions without easy answers, and Osofisan knows it. “How can you ensure there will be no betrayal again or is this the permanent nature of things, what Soyinka once described as ‘an eternal cycle of stupidity’? Frankly, I’ve found no answer yet; I’m just simply overwhelmed, struggling to recover faith in hope again. This is why I am unable to write: to offer any suggestion about the way forward. That’s why you’re not hearing from me.”

 

What Art Owes the World

Despite his current silence, Osofisan’s philosophy about the purpose of art remains unshaken. When addressing young writers, he acknowledges their challenges will differ from his generation’s, with new tools of communication and audiences with different expectations. “These will be their own challenge, and it will only lead to frustration trying to speak like their elders in the same diction, even if once-celebrated.”

 

But the core mission remains constant, he opines. “What should not change however is the fundamental goal of art, which we too inherited from our elders – the faith and conviction that art is useless unless it serves the humane needs of the community. The purpose of dreaming and creating is wasted if it is just to enrich your pocket, not caring about ongoing cruelties, hunger and starvation, discrimination, murders or genocide in the world around you.”

 

His definition of beauty encompasses this moral imperative. “All good art is art devoted to beauty, yes, but beauty is what enhances our humanity, our capacity for love and empathy, for kindness and compassion for our fellow beings regardless of color or tribe or religion.”

 

The struggle between good and evil in society demands that artists choose a side, he posits. “Our destiny will be the result of what we fight to make it, and art cannot isolate itself from this battle.”

 

The Muse That Never Lets Go

When pressed about what still draws him to writing, despite his current struggles, Osofisan admits he doesn’t fully understand it himself. “I wish I knew; I wish I could give you a clear, unambiguous response. But I think all writers will tell you that the call of art is a life-long vocation; not like a dress or bangle you wear and discard. The deity of creativity possesses you, and you’re caught, entranced; you cannot recover until you respond with dance or song, poetry or prose, sculpture, drawing or painting. The Muse is unrelenting…possessive…jealous!”

 

Perhaps that jealous Muse is why, even in this moment of uncertainty, Femi Osofisan still shows up to campus productions, still discusses potential film projects with Kelani, still granted this interview after five months of pursuit.

 

Cordelia arrives as both triumph and reminder. It showcases what happens when literature meets cinema with integrity, when artists collaborate with mutual respect, when stories rooted in Nigerian reality reach broader audiences through careful adaptation. The film proves that Osofisan’s decades-old work still resonates, still speaks to contemporary anxieties about power, silence, and complicity. But it also captures a moment in our history when the goals were clear, when the enemy wore uniforms, when resistance had a name and a face.

 

Femi Osofisan still goes to the theatre when he can, still watches Nigerian films, still directs plays from time to time. “The problem, of course, is that there aren’t many productions nowadays and, the few that there are, are sadly not of a high standard.” His hope rests with the higher institutions, where “the work of the theatre is still taken seriously, and studies in film industry are beginning to blossom.”

 

Five months was worth the wait for this conversation. Not because it delivered easy answers or triumphant declarations, but because it offered something more valuable: honesty about the cost of being an artist in turbulent times, clarity about what art owes the world, and a glimpse into the mind of a master who refuses to pretend he has all the solutions.