I was in Form Three in the secondary school and sat in my hard, wooden seat trying hard to pay attention to the blackboard.
It was Friday morning and Simple Americana, as we called the history teacher, was teaching us about Nigeria. Every teacher in the school had a nickname
My friend called me from Dallas last night and asked “Are you watching the trial of Derek Chauvin?”
I said no.
She continued, saying, “One must be careful not to spend too much time listening to the ongoing trial of the former police officer accused of murdering George Floyd, or you will become an expert in forensic pathology.”
“I don’t stand that risk,” I said.
“Unfortunately,” she replied, “I am becoming an expert in forensic pathology.”
I was three years old. He just bought a bicycle and I asked him to give me a ride. It was already night.
He placed me on the top tube of his bicycle. Excited, I leaned forward and held the handles. He also held the handles with the left hand, and the saddle with the other, while walking and pushing the bicycle. I imagined that I was riding the bicycle. I looked up and saw the moon.
My father told me the story of three thieves. He was a fiction writer, so I never knew if it was something he made up, or read up.
But let me tell you the tale if you got one minute:
Three thieves received info that a miner kept a large bundle of gold in his house. They decided they should go and relieve the guy of his treasure. “After all,” argued one thief, “he dug up this stone from the ground that God gave all of us.”
I ran into one of my childhood friends in Ile Ife two years ago. He is now a university professor.
We decided to go and get a drink and as we started drinking, we discussed the pleasures of living together in the same house as children for many years.
We all lived together as one family in that house.
He was the son of Baba Alhaji, the landlord.
If you got up early enough, you would catch Anti Toyosi bathing at the back of the Face-Me-I-Face-You building in which I grew up in Ile Ife. Her husband, a sign-writer, would still be fast asleep.
But Anti Toyosi always got up early to prepare rice that she sold to school students as breakfast before they went to school.
I met Antonia at a wedding party in Akure in 2011.
The wedding party was inside a high-end hotel, where the big politicians and rich people stay when in Akure.
My friend who was a commissioner had given me a room in the hotel, because I was writing an exhibition catalog, and needed a place with good internet service and constant power supply.
For the first time in my life, I traveled out of Nigeria in 1983 to visit London for a solo exhibition of my work at the Africa Center.
Rufus Orisayomi had arranged the exhibition for me.
Tunde Fagbenle and his wife, Ally Bedford, offered to host me at their home.
Ally was writing a Master’s thesis on my work, therefore, it was convenient for her to keep me close by to enable her to have access to me for clarifications when needed.
Do you know this song?
Ẹ fà á nírungbọn tu!
Ẹ fà á nírungbọn tu ò
Àgbàlagbà tí ò lówó lọ́wọ́
Tó ń dá irungbọ̀n sí
Ẹ fà á nírungbọn tu.
I met a young woman living in Nigeria online more than ten years ago.
We became friends and exchanged lots of chats.
She had just graduated with a degree in engineering.
She couldn’t get a job.
I watched her struggle for many years.
A really gorgeous woman transformed into a shell of herself.
Her mother fell ill.
She began to live with her married sister.
She fell ill.
The south needs to cultivate edible urban landscapes.
Nigeria has an ecology that permits the cultivation of food plants throughout the year.
The edible urban landscape means that the cities and town of the south should be cleared of weeds, and every available space must be turned into a vast food-producing landscape, all the way from Ilorin to Port Harcourt.
I looked out through the window. The grass was not yet tall enough to mow. It had rained, and green life was returning to Austin after the long winter, and spring was almost fully here.
But the snowstorm of a month ago in Texas dealt Austin a cruel hand and plant life has not really recovered.
“José,” I said, “The lawn doesn’t need you yet. Maybe in a week, two?”
“I need the money, Mr. Moyo,” José pleaded.