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I gave my paper titled, “Can’t Kant Count: Ifa Divines for African Art History
I gave my paper titled, “Can’t Kant Count: Ifa Divines for African Art History,” at the University of Wisconsin, Madison, over the weekend.
Many people gave me warm responses.
Here I was, doodling on my coffee cup while listening to another talk at the conference.
I studied with the Ìyàmi.
I studied with the Ìyàmi,
the Power Mothers who
suspend the global ball
on a single frail string,
yet it cannot snap.
After they gave me the name Ọ̀rìságbèmí Arígbábuwó, I transcend the boundaries of gender, race, time, and geography.
Here is the story of that transcendental embodiment, in its most concise form.
ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY 1981 (Part Thirty)
“My he—he—he=aler at the psychi-psychi-atric hos—hos—hos–pital made me sw-sw-sw-ear never to have a con—con—con—con—con-fron-front-tation again with Miiiiiiiiisster Ru—ru-rufus,” Obaseki was whispering to me, from under the table. “Says he-he-he will bring me back back in.”
“It’s okay, Obaseki,” I said. “You come out and sit here at the table. I will go and see what’s happening.”
“Don’t, don’t, don’t leave me, Mo-Mo-Moyo,” Obaseki pleaded. “Please- plea-se-stay-stay-stay-don’t—don’t go….”
“It’s alright, Obaseki,” I assured him. “Whatever the matter is, we will get to the very bottom of it today. This is really ridiculous!”
Ibeji: Soul Mates
Ibeji: Soul Mates
“Iya Oyo,” I asked, “why call her Ọmọ Méji? Ọmọ Méji means two children but she is just one person.”
This was after a woman who looked like she was in her thirties, who was on her way to an errand, stopped by Iya Oyo’s house to greet her.
Iya Oyo looked at me with surprise, as if to say my mother should have given me such basic cultural education.
I looked into the middle of the Opon Ifa and what did I see?
In 2016, I looked into the middle of the Opon Ifa and what did I see?
I saw women, simple, rural, agrarian women carrying automatic weapons on their way to their farmlands.
Some of them were pregnant, some carrying loads on their heads, some with their children, some walking alone, some hiking in groups, all moving from one point to another.
I sat up abruptly. What was this I was seeing?
Another African child born in this US exile.
Another African child born in this US exile. Truckloads of soldiers were speeding down the street in their huge vehicles. I felt I was dreaming but it was true:
As usual, I sat in front of my mother’s textiles shop, feeding my eyes with the typically boring activities on the narrow street.
Nothing really ever happened.