Akinwumi Isola.
Akinwumi Isola (1939-2018).
One of the greatest.
The only Honest Man
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THIS MORNING
This morning, in my African Diaspora Visions class (an art history class that I teach at the University of Texas, Austin), a student from Trinidad and Tobago said, “In a hundred years, everybody in the world will be a Nigerian, or have family ties to Nigerians.”
ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY, 1982 (Part Thirty-five)
How could I have missed Obaseki’s car as he followed us from the campus? I prided myself in being careful on the road, paying attention to the vehicles around me, and particularly in making sure that I was aware of my environment.
But as a Yoruba proverb says, one cannot be as clever as the sneak who is observing one’s activities.
The situation was critical. Obaseki was in attack mode and was no longer in full control.
Any careless statement from Gina or me could escalate the delicate matter into a full-blown crisis.
“Obaseki,” I said, “there is a misunderstanding. You are not reading things correctly.”
1925-2018
He almost made it into 2019. I wonder what stopped him.
The last of the soft kleptomaniacs and kleptocrats?
In his days, politicians stole in hundreds of thousands of naira. Or a few couples of million naira.
They were soft kleptomaniacs and kleptocrats.
Now we have hardcore kleptomaniacs and kleptocrats.
At the airport
At the airport and, incredibly, within this period, I gave birth to the ÀKÒDÌ ÒRÌṢÀ, the building in the background of this picture.
PLEASE HELP US
PLEASE HELP US
Junction9: #sorosoke
In the first week of January 1968, at the tender age of 11, I was torn from my mother’s warm bosom and tossed into a boarding house.
That was the day my depression started.
And it continues even now, more than fifty years later.
I am not alone. It happened to my entire generation.
My depressive experience is typical of all of us between the ages of seventy-five and fifty.
This depression is typical of all of us who are the “elites” of Nigeria.
ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY, 1981 (Part Fourteen)
“You still have a couple of drops in your cup,” Obaseki observed, leaning over. He held his cup to his lips and drained the last drop. “Drink up, Brother Mo, and I’ll take you to my mother’s joint. The beer is always bone-dead cold, I assure you. And you will always get any brand you want. Together with pepper-soup.”
Personally, I was done. All I wanted to do was go home and sleep off my intoxication. But I was all so confused. Somehow I wanted to know more about Gina and Joshua, and the only way I could keep in close contact with them was through Obaseki.