What the MoMA Did To My Momma Series #1
Moyo Okediji
Title: What the MoMA Did To My Momma Series #1
Medium: Collage
Date: April 2018
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CAN’T KANT COUNT?
CAN’T KANT COUNT?
My Egungun is dancing as we speak in an exhibition at the University of Wisconsin, Madison, as part of an installation titled “Whirling Return of the Ancestors.”
Semioptics of Yoruba Language: Word as Image
On Friday, March 2, from 6:30-8pm, I will present a lecture titled, “Semioptics of Yoruba Language: Word as Image.”
The lecture takes place at the Center for African Studies, Department of African American and African Studies, of the Ohio State University.
Ọwọ́ as Hand and Eye
Ọwọ́ as Hand and Eye
I showed Iya Oyo the drawing of her portrait I made one day. She said, “Ọ̣wọ́ rẹ gún,” (Your hands are straight), as she admired the portrait.
Baba Oyo responded with, “Ojú rẹ̀ gún” (His eyes are straight).
I was baffled. “What is straight, my eye or my hand?” I asked them.
Obituary
Oladejo Okediji, 1929-2019.
Death knocked on the door, ko ko ko ko; ko ko ko ko.
My father got up from the bed and went to the door and, very boldly, opened the door, saying, “Here I am. I’m ready for your very worst.”
Death: It’s not my fault. It’s just a job. This is what I’m paid to do.
Baba: I understand. Do it. Let’s get it over with.
ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY, 1981 (Part Eight)
His jaw was clenched as Rufus advanced toward Obaseki. I realized that he was shutting off the reasoning valve and pressing on the throttle of turmoil within the engine of his brain. His sense, judgment, calculation and intelligence was at this point on vacation. The agents of automation were now in control of his anatomy. He was more machine than person, and his entire being was on remote control as Rufus began to press forward.
ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY, 1981 (Part Twenty-four)
The burial ceremony was brief.
There were many more people than I expected. It was the first burial ceremony I ever attended in my entire life. Scores of nurses from the school of nursing were in attendance. All of them wore dark glasses and white uniforms. They looked like angels. I didn’t know many men were in the nursing profession. They stood together in the blazing son, men and women, some wiping their faces with handkerchief, others lifting up their glasses and dabbing up tears.