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.
Eight of my paintings will be shown at an art exhibition opening tomorrow Saturday, November 9, in Nairobi, Kenya.
These paintings I am showing in the exhibition are open—meaning that the paintings have no figures that can be identified as a person, place, object, tree, water or anything else that one could recognize and name. The paintings do not attempt to tell any story, nor do they illustrate any scene. The paintings are open to absorb whatever story the viewers may bring them, and they also assist in opening up the viewers’ minds to excavate memories and ideas that are in the subconscious of the viewers.
It was very cold last Saturday when we celebrated our annual Egungun Festival. But the òtútù did not deter us from celebrating our ancestral heritage.
Next year we will still be here to celebrate again.
At the coffee shop.
Guys checking out my friend, like “What’s that?”
We are the people of the 22nd century.
He was unable to eat or sleep, as anxiety and depression began to unravel his characteristic calm disposition. Only a couple of months prior to the abduction, the wife of the Commissioner of Works was kidnapped and an undisclosed but generous ransom was paid for her release. Kidnapping had become the new strategy adopted by members of the underworld, who targeted the rich and famous in their bid to get rich quick. Business tycoons, expatriate oil executives, journalists, politicians, and even religious leaders and their families were constant targets. Abduction had become a multi million naira enterprise in Nigeria, and the police seemed unable to find any solution to the problem. No kidnapper had been arrested, and huge sums of ransom money had been paid. Many people complained that there was evidence of collusion between the security forces and the criminals.
This young journalist called Sowore.
He reminds me of another journalist called Dele Giwa.
And another journalist called Ken Saro-Wiwa.
Do you know what happens to journalists like them?
Michael Harris
My brother, Michael Olonade Harris, has transitioned.
This loss is enormous.
He was my inspiration, critic, supporter, strength, teacher, collector, promoter, everything.
I knew.