Revisiting the Kano censorship crisis in Iyan-Tama’s Kurkuku

Fast-forward to September 2012. Iyan-Tama releases the final parts 3 and 4 of his film Kurkuku/Prison (directed by himself and Ahmad Alkanawi), a re-enactment of the ordeal he suffered from 2008 to 2010. If filmmakers’ voices were suppressed and overshadowed by the KSCB’s media campaign against them during the nearly four year censorship crisis, Kurkuku […]

Fast-forward to September 2012. Iyan-Tama releases the final parts 3 and 4 of his film Kurkuku/Prison (directed by himself and Ahmad Alkanawi), a re-enactment of the ordeal he suffered from 2008 to 2010. If filmmakers’ voices were suppressed and overshadowed by the KSCB’s media campaign against them during the nearly four year censorship crisis, Kurkuku responds, presenting the filmmakers’ case against the Kano State government.

Iyan-Tama argues, despite the denial of then director general of the KSCB, that his imprisonment was political. He was one of the leaders of the New Democrat party and had run against then governor Shekarau during the previous election. He makes the film from this point of view—including documentary footage of his gubernatorial campaign. Other documentary materials include archival photographs, newspaper articles, court records, as well as Iyan-Tama’s certificates and receipts proving the legitimacy of this business. Although there are a few changed names and a few fictional scenes—some of which imagine the corruption of KSCB workers—Iyan-Tama told me that 75%-85% of the material presents events in the way they happened. The filmed court cases are re-enactments of court transcripts. Iyan-Tama, Fim Magazine editor Aliyu Gora, and other Kannywood stars play themselves.

Many of the mobile court proceedings were shrouded in mystery, subject to confusing rules. Those arrested were tried and charged rapidly, sometimes at odd hours of the night. The film exposes these practices, presenting Iyan-Tama’s evidence to a much wider audience—encouraging the world to decide whether he is “guilty or not guilty” and whether the actions of the court were biased. While Kurkuku focuses on Iyan-Tama’s experiences, it also invokes the arrests of other filmmakers, musicians, and entertainers: Adam A. Zango, Rabilu Musa Ibro, Sadiq Zazzabi, Aminu Ala, and others.

The narrative arc of the four-part film is balanced: parts 1 and 2 show the triumph of the KSCB as they send the Hausa film industry into a deeper and deeper crisis; whereas in parts 3 and 4, roles begin to reverse as filmmakers seek justice and their antagonists find their power fading. Part 1 mostly focuses on Iyan-Tama’s arrest and initial trial. Part 2 picks up in pace, showing arrests of video gaming centre employees, singers, and video marketers, and a meeting where well known Kannywood figures like Saratu Gidado (Daso), Rukayya Dawayya, and Mikail Isah bin Hassan  (Gidigo) vent their frustration over how their names are being tarnished by KSCB propaganda.  In parts 3 and 4, Iyan-Tama gets out of prison, travels to Hollywood, and sues the DG of the KSCB. The DG of the KSCB finds himself reprimanded by the Nigerian Minister of Information, other members of the Kano State government, and Iyan-Tama himself, who, in the days before the arrest, reproaches the head of the KSCB for his unprofessionalism and, in the settlement afterwards, for his injustice.

Kurkuku follows and comments upon the film for which Iyan-Tama was arrested, Tsintsiya, in its message that Nigerians of various ethnic and religious backgrounds should come together to fight for human rights. Just as Tsintsiya portrays well-developed characters from both Hausa and Igbo communities in Kano, Kurkuku shows how the censorship crisis affects video sellers and filmmakers of all ethnicities.  The film also demonstrates conflicts between the National Film and Video Censors Board, which licenses films for sale in the entire country, and the local KSCB, which from 2007-2011 arrested and fined filmmakers whom they claimed were operating without local certificates. At the end, dancers of multiple ethnicities perform for Kannywood stars, while a human rights researcher named Princess Emmanuel speaks on how to teach Nigerians about rights, before handing over the mic to filmmakers and musicians arrested during the crisis. Iyan-Tama’s message seems to consistently promote going beyond local squabbles to a larger Nigerian unity.

I find it remarkable that such a hard-hitting film could be made so closely on the heels of these historical events. Kurkuku is an invaluable social document and a “must watch” for those who closely followed the censorship crisis. However, the filmmakers sometimes seem to take for granted that audiences are familiar with events presented. I’m not sure if an outside observer who doesn’t already know the details of the case would be able to understand what is happening. The progression of court cases and various meetings can sometimes be a bit dull. I would have liked to see the film move beyond documentary-style presentation of “evidence” to more showing and less telling—more action and drama, more development of characters outside of their court room personas. There could have also been more careful attention paid to detail. The posters on the video shops the KSCB was sealing are of recent 2012 films. The subtitles, while well done, are too small to read when sitting some distance from the television.

The parts of the film that most grab your attention are the action sequences: Iyan-Tama’s arrest, the arrest of other members of the industry, the terrifying attack on his family. And the heart of the film is in the song sequences, which encapsulate the message of the film in catchy rhymed stanzas and constantly repeated refrains, where characters to speak directly to the audience and to their antagonists. “The prison yard is nobody’s home, but a place you can find yourself at anytime, irrespective of your person or personality, whether you are guilty or not.” This song refrain that runs through Kurkuku 2 and 3, highlights the ambiguities of a justice system in which “some are charged for murder, while some just found themselves there without reason.” The “prison” of the title is both a literal description of the prison in which Iyan-Tama found himself and a metaphor for the tragedies of a country where “the youth live their lives in total lack of freedom.” Unfortunately, the injustices suffered by filmmakers during the censorship crisis pale in comparison to the sorts of news stories so common these days, as we all live in fear of being caught between non-state  and state violence, by agents on both sides who  attack  “whether you are guilty or not.”

Iyan-Tama told me the main reason he made the film was to encourage Nigerians to fight for their human rights. Such a message is even more relevant in 2012 than it was in 2010 when he was finally able to clear his name.