Coffeehouse.
Coffeehouse in Austin.
It can get pretty wild out here in Austin if you know what I mean.
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In a corrupt system
In a corrupt system
remain stubbornly and fiercely honest.
The single honest man
in a system that is corrupt
is like a tall palm tree
standing among perennial brambles,
blades and grasses. That single
palm tree will remain
PUBLIC PROPERTY
***This is a story that my Luo friend told me. She says it’s from among the Luo people of Kenya.
In Yoruba we call it “Àǹfààní àdúgbò.”
Please help me translate Àǹfààní àdúgbò to Oyinbo.
Wife 1: Our husband has not yet returned home?
Wife 2: No o. It is now 11 pm.
ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY, 1981 (Part twenty-Six)
“I just discovered a river!” Steve announced, breathless, as he ran into the sitting room with enthusiasm. “And it’s just fifteen minutes from here.”
I said, “Mungo Park.”
Rufus, spreading out on the sofa, said, “Where is it?”
“Hidden in plain sight!” Steve said. “I was driving down Ekenwan Street, and there was this dirt road by the side. I decided to explore it.”
“What’s the name of the street?” I asked.
“No signboard,” Steve said.
“There is no Benin street without a signboard,” Rufus said. “Benin people are good with signboards. Even narrow paths have signboards.”
They have discovered that they gain nothing from being part of Nigeria.
The Yoruba people are agitating to be free from Nigeria.
They have discovered that they gain nothing from being part of Nigeria, but they lose a lot by remaining in Nigeria.
I ask, “Why do they want to move away from Nigeria?”
They say they are concerned that northerners are invading their villages, abducting their women and children, polluting their rivers with illegal mining, driving cattle through their farmlands—and making legislation (with the assistance of the few Omo Aale among them), to strip their lands to build the north.
USAIN BOLT
I can beat Usain Bolt, the sprint legend, in a one hundred meter dash.
How is that possible?
Simple: if he ties up one of his legs and sprints me by hopping down the track on just one leg.
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.
