Happy Valentine’s Day
Happy Valentine’s Day, my friends. I love you all minus none.
Me, here, painting away on a beautiful Valentine’s Day, seven years ago.
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Happy Valentine’s Day, my friends. I love you all minus none.
Me, here, painting away on a beautiful Valentine’s Day, seven years ago.
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.
ÀMỌ̀TẸ́KÙN: No kidding
The Yoruba forests have already lost too many animals to local hunters who spare nothing with life in the bushes.
And the Yoruba language has lost too many words to the brainwashed indigenes who refuse to speak the language or pass it down to their children.
It is not a good time to ask for the meaning of Àmọ̀tékùn.
The meaning is totally lost, to be honest with everyone.
Gina sat on the floor by the doorstep waiting for us when we returned late to Benin City from Iludun. I didn’t she was sitting there until the headlamps lit up the spot where she was and Felicia said, “Hey, is that not Gina?”
It had been a long day spent mostly on the road and it took me a minute to adjust my mind to what was happening. I was exhausted from hours of driving on rough roads to and fro Iludun, Mama Rufus’s place.
“The Police Area Commander (AC) is interested in the case,” a police officer with a cellphone said. “He just called to say that he is now at his seat, and wants to see all of you in his office.” The AC’s office was about one hundred meters across the yard, from where we were seated. We all filed into the AC’s office. He was seated, and his large desk was decorated with pictures, flags and small objects with personal sentimental values. He was a handsome middle-aged man who seemed rather too pleasant looking to be a police officer. Not until he stood up did I realize that his gait was forward-leaning, with the robust physique of a football tackler. You wouldn’t want to be in his way despite his handsome mien.
I teach now by Zoom.
It feels weird to sit in the studio, talking to a screen, wondering if you are not crazy.
The computer tells me the names of everybody logged into the class, listening and watching me.
But who else is with them, also watching and listening? How far will the recording of the session travel?
Does anyone know where to get aásà? My grandma, her soul is resting in peace, She…