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My phone rang and I didn’t want to pick it up.I was tired from working all…
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The painting
The painting of this canvas started in 2019 and ended in 2020.
Your Mother is My mother is Your Mother is My Mother.
Your Mother is My mother is Your Mother is My Mother.
“Iya Oyo, does your name mean the mother of Oyo, or the mother in Oyo?” I asked Iya Oyo one day.
“It means both,” she responded. “To my entire community of Oyo, I am the mother of all, young and old. If anyone is hungry and comes to me, it is my responsibility to feed them. Anybody who needs a place to sleep and comes to me, I will roll out my mats to them. I am their mother, and that is why I am Iya Oyo. At the same time, I live in Oyo, therefore if I travel anywhere, I am the mother who lives in Oyo.”
WHO IS GUILTY?
WHO IS GUILTY?
Iya Oyo was smiling. That was frightening. I knew I was in great trouble.
Iya Oyo never smiled. When she looked like she was smiling, trouble was brewing, and the only one that trouble could brew for that quiet evening was me.
The only way I knew she was smiling was because I turned and looked at her as she tapped her pipe on the arms of the seat on which she reclined with my grandfather, who was still quietly smoking his pipe.
In my studio
I’m in my studio working on my second complete corpus of 256 Odu Ifa signatures.
It is a full catalog of African alphabets of intellectual origin.