Hanging out with Adetola Wewe on the riverboat on Lake Travis, Austin, Texas.
He is visiting from Nigeria as the first fellow-in-residence, University of African Art at Austin.
Oyinbo drove us home from the burial ceremony.
Rufus and Felicia sat in the middle row of the bus. I sat all by myself at the back row. Nobody said a word as Steve drove slowly and solemnly through the city, negotiating the traffic with the dexterity of a spider moving through its tightly woven web.
When he was new, Steve found it difficult to drive through the city, because in Britain, they drive on the left side of the road, but in Nigeria people drive on the right side. Also, Steve found the drivers on the roads of Benin City extremely rough for his temperament.
Once upon a time, a tick and a dog sat together on a green field.
Quickly, the tick buried itself inside the skin of the dog and began to suck the blood of the dog.
The dog, feeling dizzy from the loss of blood, wanted to remove the tick from its skin, but the tick invited the other ticks on the field to join in the blood-sucking feast.
It was very cold last Saturday when we celebrated our annual Egungun Festival. But the òtútù did not deter us from celebrating our ancestral heritage.
Next year we will still be here to celebrate again.
My friend called me from Dallas last night and asked “Are you watching the trial of Derek Chauvin?”
I said no.
She continued, saying, “One must be careful not to spend too much time listening to the ongoing trial of the former police officer accused of murdering George Floyd, or you will become an expert in forensic pathology.”
“I don’t stand that risk,” I said.
“Unfortunately,” she replied, “I am becoming an expert in forensic pathology.”
When are we going to have orisa legislations in the southwest Nigeria to prosecute blasphemy against indigenous Orisa and Irunmole, with the imposition of death penalty on anybody who blasphemes against our indigenous holy names?
For example, should there be a death penalty imposed on anyone who calls Esu “Satan,” as believers do in churches and mosques daily in Yorubaland?
Today I got this email that took me back to 1985. Listen:
“Dear Moyo,
I am sure you may not remember me but I remember you most days. My name is Donald [deleted] and, at the beginning of 1985, when I came to University of Ife as a young recent graduate from Camberwell School of Art you realised I was well out of my depth and kindly took me into your home.