Life, when lived properly, is like playing in this giant park called Earth.
Find the thing you love to play with, and turn it into your work.
Then you can start playing.
I play with words, to enjoy the miracle of sound.
I play with images, to savor the magnificence of sight.
Playing is the best way to give thanks to the Creator of this giant park, and to fully enjoy the fruits and drinks that the park abundantly supplies.
Read it from the beginning to the end.
And from the end to the beginning.
From front to back and back to front.
The same thing.
It is January 20, 2021.
TWO ROCK STARS
ROCK 1:
I wish I were a rock of salt.
Then I won’t be so insulted.
Here I sit at the bottom of the stream
pelted by water
pecked by fishes
pinched by crabs
unseen, uncelebrated by man
useless to him and his art.
I wish I were a rock of salt
There is an ancient Yoruba poem about Àró, the alien.
Listen, the translation is below the Yoruba original.
Mo gbinlá mi sóko
Mo gbinkàn mi sóko
Ewúrẹ́ Àró fi jẹ;
Àgùtàn Àró fi jẹ
Èmi ò mọ ohun Àró ní mo ṣe.
I planted okra on my farmland
Accept yourself.
Whatever your failing,
regardless of your weaknesses.
Love and cuddle your life
appreciate the little you have.
Cherish what nature handed you
keep it well
this mini that you have.
How could I have missed Obaseki’s car as he followed us from the campus? I prided myself in being careful on the road, paying attention to the vehicles around me, and particularly in making sure that I was aware of my environment.
But as a Yoruba proverb says, one cannot be as clever as the sneak who is observing one’s activities.
The situation was critical. Obaseki was in attack mode and was no longer in full control.
Any careless statement from Gina or me could escalate the delicate matter into a full-blown crisis.
“Obaseki,” I said, “there is a misunderstanding. You are not reading things correctly.”
Is it true that all men are born equal?
No.
We are born with different talents and handicaps.
But we may agree that “All men SHOULD be born equal, but the circumstances of each birth vary.”
Some people are born close to the finishing line, and many are born right at the beginning of the starting point in this race of life.
Others are placed even behind the official starting line, and they must also race with those placed only a few feet from the finishing line where all the goodies of life are stored.
I could not believe my ears.
“You got pregnant from the rape?”
“Yes.”
“How did that happen?” I was making no sense with the question, but the situation was hardly making any sense either.
My throat felt dry. The bottles of palm wine on the table were still unopened.
I had to drink something immediately, I was thinking, or I would suffocate. This Gina was going to kill me.
Madam Ngu looked at my most recent painting and from the expression on her face, I could see that she did not like it.
She sat on the big chair in the center of my studio in the Ekenwan campus. I had arranged my paintings around the wall as she requested, ready for her critique.
“Muyo,” she said, “you need more life drawing classes.”
“Yes, madam,” I responded.
Yesterday, my friend, Femi, called from Maryland and we had a long and beautiful conversation on the art of social distancing.
He wanted to buy a painting.
I told him I was happy to sell a painting and sent him a picture of the work.
I said the painting would look good as a Zoom backgrounder—like when FOX News calls and wants your opinion.
Are you going to panic because the artless interior of your home would suddenly become exposed to hundreds of millions of people on television and social media?
How many people can be really, really true friends?
Or is friendship restricted to just two people?
Is friendship possible among three or more?
First, Yoruba people are cynical about friendship: the culture outright dismisses the notion of friendship as naïve.
“Ọ̀rẹ́ òtítọ́ ò sí,” is an adage that means “There are no true friends.”
“Ojú larí, ọ̀rẹ́ ò dénú,” means “We see the eye service, but the friendship is not deep.”
My edited book on the work of Dotun Popoola is now out.
It looks so magnificent, like a grande Egungun performance.
The publisher says it goes for 50,000 naira per copy.
This hyper-colorful hardcover book that is larger than a royal Agbada arrived at my doorsteps for the New Year.
It is the most beautiful book I have ever seen.
Congrats to the wonderful art historians, Kunle Filani, Tolulope Sobowale, Olusegun Fajuyigbe, and Kehinde Adepegba, who contributed powerful essays to the book.