The stuffs in my office
The stuff in my office needs organizing. One day I’ll get to it. One of these days when I have nothing to do.
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It saddens me.
It saddens me.
It saddens me a lot that the southern people are not able to understand the urgency of the situation they are involved in.
Those you call the Fulani herdsmen, or the Fulani people—they are the Taliban.
Please read the last line again.
Those you call Fulani herdsmen are the Taliban.
ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY, 1981 (Part Ten)
Once Obaseki realized that Iya Ngu was busting him, and called him out that it was from him that the smell of marijuana was coming, for some inexplicable reason, his nervousness reduced. He smiled and said, “Madam, it is true. I just smoked a tiny joint.”
Obaseki’s sunken face took on a different appearance. I observed his face holistically the way Madam Ngu taught me to study the human face. On my first meeting with her, in the drawing class, she took a look at my drawing and she said, “Moyo, what am I going to do with you? You don’t know how to draw. Come, let’s go to my office. You are still young. I can mold you.”
Post-Naija Flip-Flop
Post-Naija Flip-Flop
We are now in a Post-Covid Era.
It doesn’t mean that the Covid is over. It simply means that our lives have witnessed the ravage of this virus, and we are still here to talk about it.
Can we say we are in a Post-Naija era?
It doesn’t mean that there is no Nigeria any longer. It simply means that we have witnessed the ravage of this virus and we are still here to talk about it.
POLICE CHECKPOINT, BENIN CITY
It was in 1980, in Nigeria, when this police encounter occurred.
I will start by swearing
in the name of Ogun
that this event, strange
as it sounds, actually happened
in the middle of the night.
They say when you want an African to tell the truth, make the African swear to an indigenous divinity—not to the Bible or the Quran. Those two books are just books. The real book that they believe and consider real is not written. It is oral, and tied to the indigenous divinities.
At the coffee shop.
At the coffee shop.
Guys checking out my friend, like “What’s that?”
We are the people of the 22nd century.
ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY, 1982 (Part Forty-Three)
ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY, 1982 (Part Forty-Three)
“Hey, Moyo,” Hilda yelled. “Are you alright? Are you with us?”
“Yes, I am,” I responded. I pulled myself back to the moment.
The traffic was light and the road excellent. The Lagos to Benin expressway was the best road I had ever driven on. The bus zoomed along on it effortlessly.
“You went so silent and looked so vacant, I could have sworn you were not here,” Steve said.
“I was here alright,” I answered.
“Thinking about Gina?” Hilda asked.