I just gave a talk titled “Performing African Art: Image, Motion, Text.”
Picture shows I talk a lot with my hands (funny). Lecturing also becomes a performance art, entailing images, motion and texts.
My friend called me that they scammed her of $750 last Monday.
After listening to the story of how they scammed her, I realized it was the same syndicate that scammed me in 2019 that scammed her last Monday.
As a Nigerian, I consider it a disgrace to be scammed—after all, I belong to a country that is notorious for always winning the Olympic gold medal in the 419 game.
Words cannot express the magnitude of my gratitude to you, my great and wonderful friends, for the beautiful messages of love you sent to me on my birthday.
That day a friend took me to a secret hideout by the Colorado River, and we had so much fun.
I love you all.
“Oloriburuku! Were! Olosi! Alakori!” Road rage yelling coming from all angles.
I am covered in sweat as I sit patiently behind the wheel.
The AC of my truck has broken down. And the automatic window winder is not working. But my sweat glands are working.
THE RAFTER’S BURDEN—the English translation of Oladejo Okediji’s AJA LO LERU is out
Three days before his transition, my father, the Yoruba writer Oladejo Okediji, had only one worry: “Akanbi,” he told me, “make sure you work with Sola Owonibi to get Aja Lo Leru translated and published.”
I was suspicious. “We are already working on it,” I said. “You are worried we won’t do a good job?” It was another hint he gave me about his impending departure during that last call. And I did not miss it.
“I’m just saying,” Baba said with a dismissive laugh. “I would love to read a good translation of the novel.”
Exactly one year ago today, my father, the venerated Yoruba writer, Oladejo Okediji, joined the ancestors. His transition proved to me the truth in the saying that death is an illusion.
One does not die.
I still see him in the house,
discuss with him in my studio,
drink with him in my parlor,
dance with him at my parties,
just as I used to.
Irú Pepper Soup (a Christmas delicacy?)
It warms me up in this bitter cold.
And the guy at the African store, in his singsong Nigerian accent just like mine, assured me that it is good for my eyes. “You may not need that ya glasses again.”