Foluso
Akodi Orisa resident artist, Foluso.
painting, architecture, textiles, terracotta, performance.
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Akodi Orisa resident artist, Foluso.
painting, architecture, textiles, terracotta, performance.
In 2016, I looked into the middle of the Opon Ifa and what did I see?
I saw women, simple, rural, agrarian women carrying automatic weapons on their way to their farmlands.
Some of them were pregnant, some carrying loads on their heads, some with their children, some walking alone, some hiking in groups, all moving from one point to another.
I sat up abruptly. What was this I was seeing?
Rape?
That was the last thing on my mind although it was clear to me there was something amiss about Gina. I was lost for words. My body felt numb.
It was an experience I could not imagine as a man. All I could think of was how humiliating it must have felt for a person you didn’t want to pin you down and force entry into your body.
I sat there for a long time and could not utter a word. I could not find any statement of consolation to bring calm to Gina. She looked paralyzed. It seemed the best thing to do at the moment was not to say anything. Perhaps by not saying anything, I could pretend it did not happen.
“You’re kidding me, right?” I asked Steve when he said that Gina was probably in my room. He extended his bottle of beer to Rufus who yanked off the top with his teeth and handed it back.
“Why sounding so alarmed?” Steve asked. “If you asked me, I’d say let’s swap places.”
“What!” I said, alarmed at his suggestion.
“You can stay in my cold room tonight,” Steve, “and I can use your warm room.”
“Is that British custom?” I asked sarcastically.
Did he wink? I couldn’t quite tell in the dark. He said, “The British have no custom. Only Africans have customs.”
Moyo: When I was 6 years old, I started attending the free primary school that the Western Nigerian government offered.
My teachers were supposed to teach me simple facts: how did additions and subtractions work? What happens when you mix oxygen and carbon dioxide? How do you speak English without committing grammatical blunders? And so on, and so forth.
CAMPUS TALES
She said, “I’m certain I’m not a C grade material,” she complained to me. “During my School certificate exam, I scored A grades in most of my courses, and was admitted to the university. Once there, I attended all the lectures, studied really hard and was always ready for the exams. But then, whenever I got my scripts back, I always scored a C grade. I became curious and confused because my friends who did not study, partied throughout the semester and paid no attention to classes, always scored A and B+ grades.”
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.”