Still in deep thought about Dike. I think the beautyful ones are not yet born as Kwei Armah said but the exceptional one die too soon.
On the 13th of January 2007, the poetry world lost someone who had always been a forceful gale in the poetry performance climate. With a style that hit you full in the face leaving you no choice but to suck in deep and breathe, his performances always left people breathless. One with a cheeky smile, he drew you in into his words, his facial expressions, his tone and then he swept you off your feet like a hurricane and spat you out again but you never felt broken or damaged, his torrents cleansed.
He was always quiet but you knew he was there, the second time I met him, I turned to Anwen Lewis (another poet) and said 'he is a beautiful man' graciously, he smiled but didn't say a word, mortified that he might have misunderstood me, Anwen reassured me with 'he likes it when people say he's beautiful' I never had much time to know him, despite Bolton being 25 minutes away by car, for the train bound like myself, it could sometimes take forever to get to Manchester, so I skipped out on a lot of events, but the few times I made it and met him and watched him perform, it was always a delight, my favourite of his was 'Tired'.
Now I wonder if in so many ways that we now see he was trying to tell us something. It takes a very strong willed man to take the decision that he took and that holds my respect. The last time I saw him was at the Tongue and Hammer slam in Bolton, he walked past and I said hello and a poet standing next to me (I forget who now) said 'Dike looks a bit thin don't you think'? And I replied ' But he's never been a fat person, has he'? Little did we know that, that which sucked his life force was kept hidden from our eyes by his determination to go on, his poetic zeal and his struggle to go under his own terms.
Dike died alone. That is I think what hurts me on the inside because I don't think anyone should died on their own. My mind has raked over the different possibilities that could either have saved him or made his passage easier, especially in the Nigerian context where people are always around you, it is alien to die on your own, but he did and I mourn that. However, I also celebrate him, for he was a good poet and man. Everyone have their faults, Dike did have his but he was a good man. He saw my performance for the first time, gave me his card, and told me I would go far, he and Segun Lee French introduced me to the Makeda group and I had a brilliant time.
At the Identity workshop, he had nothing but encouragement for me and even when he disagreed with some points I had made, he wasn't arrogant about it. Several times, I had to call him to say 'Sorry I can't make it' and he would say 'Next time then' Only there would be no next time now for him, for me to see him. With Dike, it is over, the end.
This year, he sent an email round to the Identity group saying something like 'Glad we all made it into the new year'. That was his feeling and something I will hold on to. Dike was glad for everyday, despite his pain, he was glad. So I am glad for every time, I met him, spoke to him, and saw him. I believe his memory will live on, through the things he had done, the people he had mentored, his very essence.
And we would remember this remarkable man who graced our lives and we would tell upcoming poets, performance artistes and writers about this man who's act was electric and we would make them wish they had known him. We will tell them about this man and he was called Dike Omeje.
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