This young journalist called Sowore.
He reminds me of another journalist called Dele Giwa.
And another journalist called Ken Saro-Wiwa.
Do you know what happens to journalists like them?
I don’t.
Yèyé
“Iya Oyo,” I called, after polishing the bowl of amala she made for me, “what does Yèyé mean? Is it different from Ìyá, which means mother?”
It was Baba Oyo who answered me, raising his glasses and looking up from a book without a cover that he was reading. Because I had also read that book on his table, I knew the book was titled “Ogboju Ode Ninu Igbo Irunlole,” by D.O. Fagunwa, one of the old books he had in his library.
I was already tipsy when Gina screamed.
But the performance on the stage continued as if nothing was happening. Obaseki got up and went into the ushers’ chamber. I tried really hard to see what was happening at the other end of the arena, to get an idea of what was happening to Gina. I really couldn’t see her. But because Joshua, who was assaulting Gina, was wearing a white suit, he was relatively visible, next to Gina, who, going by what she wore during the day, was in a red gown. But it appeared that Gina was already on the floor, and Joshua was kicking her, as she continued to scream while it seemed he continued to hit her.
Food for Thought
My mates at the secondary school called me a foodie.
They served us starvation grade food in the hostels where we were warehoused, and we were always hungry.
The only grace was that there were lots of ill-fated weevils (kòkòrò) cooked with our beans providing us enough animal protein to supplement the plant protein in the beans.
“Ladies and gentlemen, mister honorable President,” the monkey whispers in his baritone voice into the mike.
The large crowd of people fell totally quiet.
The press reported there were at least one million party fanatics stuffed into the stadium built for only about two hundred thousand.
Rape?
That was the last thing on my mind although it was clear to me there was something amiss about Gina. I was lost for words. My body felt numb.
It was an experience I could not imagine as a man. All I could think of was how humiliating it must have felt for a person you didn’t want to pin you down and force entry into your body.
I sat there for a long time and could not utter a word. I could not find any statement of consolation to bring calm to Gina. She looked paralyzed. It seemed the best thing to do at the moment was not to say anything. Perhaps by not saying anything, I could pretend it did not happen.
The Rain and Olodumare
I just returned to Austin, Texas, from Ghana where it has been raining all summer.
The landscape in Ghana is lush and green.
The farm products are in abundance. It rained on my last day in Accra and I enjoyed the sweet scents of the soil stimulated by the falling drizzles.