Akinwumi Isola.
Akinwumi Isola (1939-2018).
One of the greatest.
The only Honest Man
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WHAT’S ON YOUR MIND?
“I was cursed by a mad woman,” said this caller.
It all began with a message I found in my Facebook messenger box.
“Prof, what is your WhatsApp number,” the Facebook message reads. “My number is xxx. I want to discuss something important with you and I don’t want to write it on Facebook.”
II
II The doctor is Seyi Ogunjobi, an artist in residence at the Obafemi Awolowo University’s Center for Cultural Studies. He has been assisting me to build the ÀKÒDÌ ÒRÌṢÀ. At the exact time the police was storming the construction site of the ÀKÒDÌ ÒRÌṢÀ, Ogunjobi, a Leeds doctorate in creative arts, was moderating a discussion in the lecture theater of the Center for Cultural Studies, at the Obafemi Awolowo University campus. Part of the seminar series of the center where Ogunjobi works, his duties include hosting the seminar series, at which invited guests presents on a regular basis. Yesterday, Ogunjobi was moderating a seminar that I presented, titled, “Invisible Canvas: Painting as Performance in Ile Ife.”
Why I love Nigeria? Why I love Africa?
Tell me, where else in the whole wide world can you make a khaki cocktail with big stout and emu funfun?
I love Nigeria I nor go lie.
BISCUIT BONES.
BISCUIT BONES.
Let me introduce you to Jẹgúdújẹrá, (Chop-and-quench).
Do you know how the Jẹgúdújẹrá Nigerian eats chicken thigh?
I will tell you:
Set the plate of chicken thigh in front of Jẹgúdújẹrá, and the eyes bulge, opening as wide as possible.
A wide smile distorts Jẹgúdújẹrá’s face into a demonic mask of inner delight.
Jẹgúdújẹrá starts with the flesh. With studied concentration, Jẹgúdújẹrá bites deep into the flesh until the entire mouth is full, with both cheeks bulging.
Another African child born in this US exile.
Another African child born in this US exile. Truckloads of soldiers were speeding down the street in their huge vehicles. I felt I was dreaming but it was true:
As usual, I sat in front of my mother’s textiles shop, feeding my eyes with the typically boring activities on the narrow street.
Nothing really ever happened.
ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY 1981, (Part Eighteen)
Gina was looking at me directly in the eye as she began to turn the button that reclined the car seat. The moon came out of a clump of clouds and highlighted half of her face, as she pressed her back against the front seat, flattening it almost completely on the back seat. Her teeth, as she smiled at me, looked perfectly even, and they sparkled like diamonds in the dark.
“You are a handsome man, Uncle Mo,” Gina said. “Your mom must be very beautiful.”
“Thanks, Gina,” I responded. “My mom is beautiful indeed, but everybody thinks his mother is beautiful.”