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THE RETURN (Part one)
His ordeal began with a brief phone call.
“Hallo? Hallo? Honorable! Are you there? Your mother. She was stolen from her house.”
A sharp pain pinched him in the middle of the chest and traveled slowly down to the bottom of his stomach.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” he thought.
For the past week he had been nursing an ominous feeling that something beyond his control was going to happen. Somehow his mind kept going to his mother.
He was thinking of driving to the village this weekend to visit her.
“Hallo? Hallo? Are you still there?” the voice asked again.
Iginsogba
Thanks to all my friends who reached out yesterday to greet me on my birthday.
It was fun to turn 63.
Do you know this amazing plant called Iginsogba?
I started harvesting it to make an interesting product.
My first day of classes today.
My first day of classes today.
I am teaching “Africana Women’s Art.”
The class is remote with about fifty students in it.
Woman: Ọmọ Ọlọ́mọ
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.
Homesick.
I will close my eyes and transport myself back home, among my friends, drinking palm wine laced with stout, or whatever. Khaki. Or whatsoever friends gift our ancestors.
Àjò ò dùn bí ilé.
It is Thanksgiving week in the United States when people are giving thanks to their ancestors.
BEFORE THE BLACKOUT
As I think about my new granddaughter, my daughter and what they know about me, about Africa, and about their tradition, a tormenting thought ran through my mind:
We, members of my generation, stand between the light and the void. And we are the last stand holding up the ancestral heritage. We must mine what is available and keep them in a culture bank, or too much will perish.
