Omo: the art You Mold
Child is ọmọ in Yoruba.Grandchildren is Ọmọ ọmọ.My granddaughters (my ọmọ ọmọ) came visiting last week…
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YOU CAN FLY
YES YOU CAN FLY
Butterflies and birds have no airports
Yet they take off and fly with
no navigation maps.
Fireflies rise and glide around
without pilot gears
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.”
THE YAM FARMER WHO LOVES PIZZA
THE YAM FARMER WHO LOVES PIZZA
The naira is getting weaker daily and the poor man is suffering.
The problem of the Nigeria naira/dollar exchange crisis seems to me like this: a farmer produces yam tubers worth $1 a day, but has cultivated a taste for imported pizza worth $10 a day.
The farmer can do two things: curb his taste for pizza and learn to enjoy his yams, so he stops ordering pizza from Pizza Hut; or produce ten times the number of tubers of yam to support his taste for pizza.
The birthday Gift.
This birthday gift came well after my birthday. It has my name emblazoned on it. As I wore it, I recalled the conversation with Iya Oyo and Baba Oyo that evening they explained the meaning of my name, Moyo, which literally means “I rejoice.” It is part of a longer name Moyòsọ́rẹtíolúwápèsèfúnmi.
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.