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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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.’”
MY GOD IS STRONGER THAN YOURS
If you got up early enough, you would catch Anti Toyosi bathing at the back of the Face-Me-I-Face-You building in which I grew up in Ile Ife. Her husband, a sign-writer, would still be fast asleep.
But Anti Toyosi always got up early to prepare rice that she sold to school students as breakfast before they went to school.
THE UNIVERSITY OF MUMU
I took a break from social media but returned when someone sent me a video of Sunday Igboho.
I transcribed a clip of the video and wanted to share it here.
If you read the following statement by Sunday Igboho, you will shake your head in disbelief.
Sunday Igboho, the kind of person we refer to as a stark illiterate, is the one leading the entire Yoruba nation, and one of the very few people making any sense in the country called Nigeria.
Is it not clear to us by now that our educational system in Nigeria is just a scam?
We all attended the University of Mumu in Nigeria—under various names.
INTERNATIONAL REVIEW OF AFRICAN AMERICAN ART.
I am pleased to announce the publication of an essay that I wrote in 2004–sixteen years later.
The journal is the INTERNATIONAL REVIEW OF AFRICAN AMERICAN ART.
The essay, on the work of Bing Davis, is titled “Flying Back Home.” I describe Mr. Davis as an “Afronaut.”
I did not use the term “Afrofuturism,” because that term was not even in theoretical usage at that time.
I studied with the Ìyàmi.
I studied with the Ìyàmi,
the Power Mothers who
suspend the global ball
on a single frail string,
yet it cannot snap.
After they gave me the name Ọ̀rìságbèmí Arígbábuwó, I transcend the boundaries of gender, race, time, and geography.
Here is the story of that transcendental embodiment, in its most concise form.
Good news.
The community protested and shut down the noises of the Christian church that has been harassing us for the past one month, keeping us up all night long, making it impossible for us to catch a moment of sleep.
