Happy Valentine’s Day
Happy Valentine’s Day, my friends. I love you all minus none.
Me, here, painting away on a beautiful Valentine’s Day, seven years ago.
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		Happy Valentine’s Day, my friends. I love you all minus none.
Me, here, painting away on a beautiful Valentine’s Day, seven years ago.
 
			Today I got this email that took me back to 1985. Listen:
“Dear Moyo,
I am sure you may not remember me but I remember you most days. My name is Donald [deleted] and, at the beginning of 1985, when I came to University of Ife as a young recent graduate from Camberwell School of Art you realised I was well out of my depth and kindly took me into your home.
 
			What happens among the Yoruba and the Chinese on the night of the wedding?
 
			For the first time in my life, I traveled out of Nigeria in 1983 to visit London for a solo exhibition of my work at the Africa Center.
Rufus Orisayomi had arranged the exhibition for me.
Tunde Fagbenle and his wife, Ally Bedford, offered to host me at their home.
Ally was writing a Master’s thesis on my work, therefore, it was convenient for her to keep me close by to enable her to have access to me for clarifications when needed.
 
			About 50 villages, mostly located in Ogun States, have been abandoned by Yoruba farmers and their families, but now occupied by Fulani invaders who drove out these villagers.
This morning I saw videos of the officers of the Nigerian Customs and Excises raiding the shops of poor market women, removing items that these women bought for sale to their customers.
This is a two-prong attack: the villagers driven out of their villages are unable to farm and provide food supplies for the people in towns and cities.
 
			At the coffee shop.
Guys checking out my friend, like “What’s that?”
We are the people of the 22nd century.
 
			They took Obaseki to a native doctor in Benin, straight from the police cell.
I ran into him about six months later when he was released.
His condition had deteriorated remarkably. He looked gaunt and shrunk. He must have lost about fifty pounds, (and he weighed not less than 175lbs and stood at 6’ tall when he assaulted Steve). His face had dark blotches and rashes all over it, and he moved with a stoop that made him look much shorter, as he gingerly carried his tray of food from the counter to a table.
I knew that he saw me as I entered the Ekewan campus cafeteria. But he quickly averted his face, pretending that he didn’t notice me. I went to the food counter to place my order. I decided I would surprise him by joining him at his table once I got my food.