Evening.
Evening.
The sun is setting.
The night is falling in Ile Ife.
For many years after I arrived in the United States, whenever I slept, I would dream of Ile Ife.
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Nightfall.
Nightfall.
Ile Ife.
For many years after arriving in the US, whenever I slept, I would dream of Ile Ife, where I grew up.
ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY, 1982 (Part 38)
“Wole Soyinka wants to have a word with Rufus. Tell him to come as soon as possible. Kongi travels out of the country next week,” was the simple message that I got back from Kole Omotosho.
Omotosho was the head of the Dramatic Art Department, University of Ife. He sent a driver to me to collect a manuscript, “Marx and Mask,” written by the brilliant Ghanaian writer, Ayi Kwei Armah.
Soyinka regularly received manuscripts from several writers, and after making copies, he would distribute the manuscripts among his circle of intellectuals who met at least once a week to read and discuss the manuscripts.
THE TAX COLLECTOR
I was in Form Three in the secondary school and sat in my hard, wooden seat trying hard to pay attention to the blackboard.
It was Friday morning and Simple Americana, as we called the history teacher, was teaching us about Nigeria. Every teacher in the school had a nickname
LET THERE BE SOME QUIET, PLEASE
Could the Christians in southern Nigeria please help us in reducing the environmental noise pollution level in the region?
It is impossible to do any serious intellectual work as Christians yell and scream on their megaphones and public address systems from their churches every hour of the day.
MY PHONE RINGS
My phone rings and, recognizing the name of the caller, I pick up the call. It is the wife of a friend living in Nigeria. I say the usual, “Hello,” but there is no response. There is a faint conversation in the background. She is discussing with her friend.
TRUE STORY AGAIN
TRUE STORY AGAIN: She was fully dressed when she climbed into bed next to me. She…