Nigerian metal sculptor Sokari Douglas Camp’s works are big and bold. She infuses them with the spirit of Nigerian life, especially the politics of the Niger Delta

Whether it is a 20-foot-high steel palm tree or a 30-foot-long ghost ship, Nigerian sculptor Sokari Douglas Camp’s work attacks the senses. From her studio in London’s Elephant and Castle, Sokari Douglas Camp creates works that have a striking beauty and provide a biting satire of Western mores. But it is Douglas Camp’s depictions of the Niger Delta – her poignant giant steel figures brandishing AK-47s or the tragic figure of a woman commiting suicide to attract attention amid the mayhem – that are making an aesthetic and political impact around the world. As the legal campaign to secure compensation from oil companies for the despoliation of the Delta steps up in April with a landmark court case opening in the New York, a group of artistic activists known as Platform are trying to raise funds to secure a permanent site in London to mount Douglas Camp’s monument to the environmentalist Ken Saro-Wiwa, who was executed for his campaign against the devastation wrought by the oil companies, a steel bus emblazoned with the legend in ghostly lights: “The oil companies are practising genocide against the Ogoni people.”



The Africa Report: Your work covers varied topics from Western mores to these reliefs that hark back to Nigeria’s past.


SOKARI DOUGLAS CAMP: Those reliefs are me just trying to get away from war, oil, pollution and all of the things I have talked about for years. I just came to a point where I said, enough of this violence. So, all last year I spent just making beautiful things. I came across a piece called ‘King and Queen’ in Nigeria, the artwork was gorgeous and at the bottom it had the Yoruba words which mean: “Don’t laugh at me because I have tried.” And I thought it was just wonderful, my whole life is like that, so this is my version of the Nigerian ‘King and Queen’. It echoes the Benin bronzes. 


What are you working on at the moment?
The whole piece is called ‘All the World is Now Richer’. It is to commemorate the abolition of the slave trade. There are six figures, which look a bit like the Magnificent Seven. They are supposed to be striding away from a field of words and the words say: “From our rich ancestral life, we were bought, sold and used, but we were brave, we were strong, we survived. All the world is now richer.” It is to celebrate our black heritage. And the first man that you said is magnificent is dressed in a wrap instead of a Wilberforce loincloth or shorts that they only put black folk in. And he is not on his knees, he is standing and walking. That is the idea, that you are going somewhere even though you have been through hell or whatever black folk went through to create so much in the West.



How much have you exhibited in Africa?

In Africa, not much... this year is the first time I am being shown in South Africa. I worked in Zimbabwe on one of these triangle workshops and I left a piece of work there. Those stone sculptors kept on shouting at me everyday, saying I was damaging the metal and teasing me... It was quite fun and it changed my style of work. 



What did you think of Nigeria when you were young?


I didn’t grow up in Nigeria, I was one of these air-mail children. I was posted to school. I was brought up by my brother-in-law, who is professor Robin Horton, an English anthropologist who is still in the Delta today. I was brought up by this guy who married my eldest sister. Whilst I was living with them, my sister died. And this chap considered that he still wanted to have ties to my family and he decided to bring me up, which is a fairly natural thing to do in Nigeria, but I think in English culture it was odd, especially since I was a girl. But I spent time in Nigeria with extraordinary anthropologists and writers and choreographers and things, stepping in and out of the house, talking about their loves and things, and on various campuses in Nigeria. It was at the time of Nigeria’s renaissance, when there were amazing things happening, so all of that had an influence on my life. My father did not play much of a role in my life but my mother did. My father liked his children while we were children but once we could say anything back, he thought that we weren’t very good. He was a nice guy really. 



At what stage did you decide to sculpt?


In my teens. I liked sculpture, there was a lot of taboo about sculpture. Painting was bad enough, you know, ‘What are you doing? Drawing all the time, how can you make money with that? Be a nurse or a doctor or accountancy, you know. But sculpture, what the hell is that? Are you making magic?’ I had all kinds of conversations with my family. I never told them I did sculpture until 1987 when I became resident artist at the Africa Centre in London. And then I brought my whole village over. I thought that it was important for people to see the kind of art that I was excited about. I have great pictures of these guys on Georgian streets in the middle of London with masquerade costume. You know, Calabari people mix their dress . . . our tartan comes from Madras, but the Calabari men also wear things that are a bit like Victorian night shirts.



Do you strike a balance between Western and African traditions?


It is so difficult, isn’t it? I don’t try to find a balance. I don’t like pissing contests actually, and there is a lot of that in British art at the moment. There are so many important things to talk about, that seem to slip into my work more than just the pleasure of art. But you know, I am totally immersed in the pleasure of art, because you know that is my forte. I love the fact that I can make something like a bus that has words on it. The words that are written on the outside reflect on the inside the correct way around so that the words I have written – “The oil companies are practising genocide against the Ogoni people” – are playing around the inside as if Ken’s spirit is somehow doing something in there. That is magic. 



Your art highlights the crisis in the Delta – is there a way out? Can art help?


Some of these boys that are kidnapping and bunkering are educated graduates, they know exactly what they want. If art could create some kind of industry, that would be good, but these are bright guys that could be accountants, but they have seen so much money by kidnapping or bunkering. It is almost past the point of no return. I do think that a version of Ken’s bus could be put in trouble spots and used as a sort of a slogan. To have a symbol like that in various towns... to re-educate and to help regenerate would be great. I mean, they keep having these things when they call these militants or boys in to supposedly talk to them, but as soon as these guys turn up, they arrest the small chaps. What kind of reconciliation is that? Everyone listens to this and just shakes their head. What can they do?