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Say My Name
Say My Name
My middle name is Benjamin.
Says a lot about me, right,
since I’m not from the Middle East.
I wasn’t born Benjamin.
Ela, Offspring of Olodumare
Jumped in my Jeep,
started the engine to warm it
and listen to public radio
for 5 minutes.
Jumped out.
Ex-marine neighbor,
calling across the street:
“Mayu, come here.”
Me: Not coming. Too dangerous. Not safe. Covid 19 is ravaging Texas.
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.
ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY, 1981 (Part Nineteen A)
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.
Farewell
Because I am now always home, I went into my garage and discovered a body of about ten large paintings dating to 1993.
This is one of them.
I just painted and rolled up the canvases, and forgot about them.
The Miyetti Allah cattle herders.
Miyetti Allah cattle herders want grazing grounds in the south?
I have not touched beef in more than a decade.
But fair enough.
We the Orisa devotees in Yorubaland have a simple request as well–in the interest of peace, progress and prosperity.
We want to have 100 square miles in each northern state reserved for us as our Igbó Orò. We need the space to break kola and worship our orisas.