Weather is turning cold.
Weather is turning cold.
Really chilly and rainy
Time to look for those warm things, and drink tea laced with honey. Or whatever.
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STOLEN.
This work that I completed in 1980 was stolen from my house in Nigeria around 1994.
If anyone is in possession of it, please know that it is stolen work.
This work and more than fifty masterpieces were stolen from my apartment
BODILESS HEAD
Iya Oyo!” I hailed. “Baba Oyo told me this story about Orí, and it doesn’t make any sense to me whatsoever.”“What story?” she asked. “Is it from his Bible? There are lots of incredulous stories in that book of his.”“No, it’s not from grandpa’s Bible,” I assured her. “He said it’s a story his mother told him.”
PLEASE HELP US
PLEASE HELP US
Junction9: #sorosoke
In the first week of January 1968, at the tender age of 11, I was torn from my mother’s warm bosom and tossed into a boarding house.
That was the day my depression started.
And it continues even now, more than fifty years later.
I am not alone. It happened to my entire generation.
My depressive experience is typical of all of us between the ages of seventy-five and fifty.
This depression is typical of all of us who are the “elites” of Nigeria.
ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY,1981 (Part Nineteen)
I had never seen Papa Ru in such a subdued mood. Nothing could have slugged him harder than the thought of Kongi maltreating him. He used to boast that it was because of Kongi that he returned to Nigeria from Britain.
Kongi had attended an event that Rufus produced for the BBC in London in 1979. And after the event, Rufus said, “Kongi met me backstage and asked, ‘Young man, what are you doing here, with all this talent that you have? You need to return to Nigeria immediately and contribute to the development of your country.’”
Independence Day
Independence Day
Mother, why birth me black
in a white caul
with a white umbilical chord
feeding me off a tube
connected to your navel
from my prosimian body?
We are all mere dust and equally so.
One day, I was having a discussion with a friend at the University of Ife in the early seventies.
I was seventeen years old.
Somehow the conversation drifted to “superiors.” I think he said something about “your superiors.”
I told him quite candidly that “I don’t have any superior.”
He was angry with me. Seriously, I don’t think he had heard that sort of response before.
But I was shocked that he was furious.