The stuffs in my office
The stuff in my office needs organizing. One day I’ll get to it. One of these days when I have nothing to do.
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My first month
My first month in the United States, 1992.
I began to paint in my office at the University of Wisconsin-Madison.
I was trying to discover myself again in a new world after leaving behind Nigeria and everything that was meaningful to me, everything that had anchored me.
ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY 1981 (Part Five)
Obaseki, looked cornered. He certainly was not anticipating an encounter with me at the restaurant. His shrunken face looked collapsed with fatigue. The anxiety that he was feeling was palpable. His face began to twitch. It was bad enough when he saw me entering the restaurant. But the moment I informed him that Rufus was on his way to join us, his system could no longer handle the tension. He stood up. He patted his pockets.
“What is the matter?” I asked him. “Is everything fine?”
“Oh, I was-was-just checking my—my—my pocket. For my-my-my-house keys.”
“And is it in your pocket?”
HONEY IS SWEET, MY LOVE…
No honey is as delicious as those from the African killer bees.
The kinds of honey from the African killer bees are to die for.
They are, precisely, worthy of dying for.
If you are a honey connoisseur, once you taste the African killer bee honey, your palate will store the memory forever, and there is no going back.
YORUBA HISTORIOGRAPHY: FROM YORUBA RONU TO YORUBA DIDE
YORUBA HISTORIOGRAPHY: FROM YORUBA RONU TO YORUBA DIDE
Hubert Ogunde did the opera “Yoruba Ronu” fifty years ago.
It means Yoruba, use your sense.
We are now beyond the stage of Yoruba Ronu.
We are now in the phase of Yoruba Dide.
Yoruba dide means Yoruba, stand up.
Let us begin with Yoruba historiography.
Ilé Ọ̀rìsà!!!
Ilé Ọ̀rìsà!!!
That’s what an admirer called the Òyẹ̀kú Méjì suite at the Àkòdì Òrìṣà.
She used the Ile Ife dialect, Ilé Ọ̀rìsà. It is different from the Oyo dialect of Ilé Òrìṣà.
But it is absolutely appropriate that it is called Ilé Ọ̀rìsà, because it is located in Ile Ife.
THE RETURN (Part one)
His ordeal began with a brief phone call.
“Hallo? Hallo? Honorable! Are you there? Your mother. She was stolen from her house.”
A sharp pain pinched him in the middle of the chest and traveled slowly down to the bottom of his stomach.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” he thought.
For the past week he had been nursing an ominous feeling that something beyond his control was going to happen. Somehow his mind kept going to his mother.
He was thinking of driving to the village this weekend to visit her.
“Hallo? Hallo? Are you still there?” the voice asked again.
