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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Oladejo Okediji
Oladejo Okediji, a handsome gentleman who also happens to be my baba, is receiving great honors from the Obafemi Awolowo University and the South West Association of Nigerian Authors–to acknowledge his contribution to African literature, at the young age of 90.
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.
Baba Rowland Abiodun
Baba Rowland Abiodun, author of the groundbreaking treatise, YORUBA ART AND LANGUAGE: SEEKING THE AFRICAN IN AFRICAN ART, enlightening the audience at the University of Texas, Austin.
TRUE STORY
TRUE STORY
This story actually happened to me.
I am making up none of it.
It was just another boring day in 1987.
I left my house early in the morning for the University of Ife where I was teaching art.
Exactly one year ago today.
Exactly one year ago today, my father, the venerated Yoruba writer, Oladejo Okediji, joined the ancestors. His transition proved to me the truth in the saying that death is an illusion.
One does not die.
I still see him in the house,
discuss with him in my studio,
drink with him in my parlor,
dance with him at my parties,
just as I used to.
Sháyó Philosophy
Yesterday we met again to see if they had hot pepper soup at the local African joint.
Logically, when these simple folks enter a pepper soup joint, it is like Ṣẹ̀lẹ́ enter spirit: matters get philosophically historical like magicadabra.
“We are in October again,” I said, just because the bottle of stout looked chilled.