Farewell to Nigeria.
It’s been 3.5 months since I’ve been here.
Every day was a wonderful experience.
I’m now at the airport, on my way out.
My leg is now free of the cast.
Two days ago, they removed the POP cast.
The day before the removal of the cast, I went to see my artist friends at the potters’ village to say farewell.
Some fire seemed out of Papa Ru as he sat, something which would be clear to someone who knew him well, and might not be noticed by others.
I saw the difference in the grey dim to his eyes. It was less in the bow that formed around his shoulders as he leaned forward on the table, under which Obaseki was hiding. But Rufus was hardly aware of his own body yet. It was the first time he left his room since we carried him there the moment we arrived from burial. He seemed to have a hard time just keeping his face from falling off his head. As if to ensure that did not happen, he pressed his chin into his palm, his elbow resting firmly on the table for support, seemingly carrying the entire weight of his torso.
Does anyone see the map of Africa on this detailed picture of the moon?
Doesn’t it seem even more realistic of the true image of Africa than the one cartographers plot?
It shows Africa as it appeared before the West separated it from the rest of the world with the cutting of the Suez Canal in 1869.
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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.
As the Chinese launches successfully the second wave of the colonization of Africa, after learning from the techniques of divide and conquer that Europe used for the first wave of conquering the continent, it became necessary for me to do this painting.
I also want to refer to the poem I wrote a couple of months ago, titled, “My Teacher Taught Me Nonsense.”
Woman: Ọmọ Ọlọ́mọ
Iya Oyo had a woven basket full of unshelled melon seeds on one side, and on the other side, she had a bowl into which she dropped the shelled melons, as she worked rapidly, automatically, her fingers moving so rapidly they formed a blur if you pay attention to them.
Ibeji: Soul Mates
“Iya Oyo,” I asked, “why call her Ọmọ Méji? Ọmọ Méji means two children but she is just one person.”
This was after a woman who looked like she was in her thirties, who was on her way to an errand, stopped by Iya Oyo’s house to greet her.
Iya Oyo looked at me with surprise, as if to say my mother should have given me such basic cultural education.