Post-Naija Flip-Flop
We are now in a Post-Covid Era.
It doesn’t mean that the Covid is over. It simply means that our lives have witnessed the ravage of this virus, and we are still here to talk about it.
Can we say we are in a Post-Naija era?
It doesn’t mean that there is no Nigeria any longer. It simply means that we have witnessed the ravage of this virus and we are still here to talk about it.
THE RAFTER’S BURDEN—the English translation of Oladejo Okediji’s AJA LO LERU is out
Three days before his transition, my father, the Yoruba writer Oladejo Okediji, had only one worry: “Akanbi,” he told me, “make sure you work with Sola Owonibi to get Aja Lo Leru translated and published.”
I was suspicious. “We are already working on it,” I said. “You are worried we won’t do a good job?” It was another hint he gave me about his impending departure during that last call. And I did not miss it.
“I’m just saying,” Baba said with a dismissive laugh. “I would love to read a good translation of the novel.”
ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY, 1981 (Part Twenty-Seven)
“So whose panties are those?” Adolo asked, pointing at something.
She had just finished wiping down my feverish body. She sat on the chair. Felicia sat on the table and Steve stood, holding on to the open door of the wardrobe.
I didn’t know what Adolo was referring to.
“What panties?” I asked.
“These ones,” She said.
Steve looked in her direction, and answered, “Gina’s”
I was weary and in a dreamlike state. The fan whirling above was noisy, and as it blew the air on my wet body, I felt bone-rattling shivering spells.
I really wanted to cover my body with the blanket.
“She must have left them there when she was here,” Steve said.
“Gina?” Adolo asked. “Who is Gina?”
“Guess you may say Moyo’s new girl,” Steve said.
“Moyo? He has a new girlfriend?” Adolo asked.
Artist: Emeka Okoro
Title: Portrait of Moyo Okediji in His House
WHO CAN MAKE LOVE WITH ZOOM?
The Covid 19 scourge has created opportunities and challenges.
It has confined me to my house for the last 200+ days.
I doubt I would even know how to interact with people any longer. The only time I go out is to buy groceries.
In 1999, I boarded a plane from New York to Syracuse. It was in December, and the weather was freezing cold. I was happy that the weather forecast indicated it was not going to snow, though I knew that the temperature in Syracuse was going to be well below zero, even colder than the weather in New York where I boarded the plane.
I was going to the University of Syracuse for a job interview. The advertised job was going to almost double my salary, if I got it.
The Yoruba people are agitating to be free from Nigeria.
They have discovered that they gain nothing from being part of Nigeria, but they lose a lot by remaining in Nigeria.
I ask, “Why do they want to move away from Nigeria?”
They say they are concerned that northerners are invading their villages, abducting their women and children, polluting their rivers with illegal mining, driving cattle through their farmlands—and making legislation (with the assistance of the few Omo Aale among them), to strip their lands to build the north.
“I just discovered a river!” Steve announced, breathless, as he ran into the sitting room with enthusiasm. “And it’s just fifteen minutes from here.”
I said, “Mungo Park.”
Rufus, spreading out on the sofa, said, “Where is it?”
“Hidden in plain sight!” Steve said. “I was driving down Ekenwan Street, and there was this dirt road by the side. I decided to explore it.”
“What’s the name of the street?” I asked.
“No signboard,” Steve said.
“There is no Benin street without a signboard,” Rufus said. “Benin people are good with signboards. Even narrow paths have signboards.”
Yesterday I made this funny painting. Hahahaha! Look at his Johnny Walker!
I sampled the painting from a wood panel sculptured by Dada Arowoogun, a Yoruba artist whose work narrates Yoruba life during the 19th century.
The work is relevant because Yoruba people are still doing what we used to call “two-fighting.” In our primary school days, when the teacher forbade speaking in vernacular, and all the English we knew were three words: “Two fighting” were two crucial words of the three.
The Hausa did not name us Yorùbá.
The Hausa cannot even pronounce Yorùbá.
They say they pejoratively called us Yarubawa and we creatively changed it to Yorùbá. Rárá o. It’s the other way round.
We call ourselves Yorùbá and they pejoratively call us Yarubawa.
To be able to pronounce Yorùba correctly, you must understand the nuances of our triptych intonation.
Oyinbo drove us home from the burial ceremony.
Rufus and Felicia sat in the middle row of the bus. I sat all by myself at the back row. Nobody said a word as Steve drove slowly and solemnly through the city, negotiating the traffic with the dexterity of a spider moving through its tightly woven web.
When he was new, Steve found it difficult to drive through the city, because in Britain, they drive on the left side of the road, but in Nigeria people drive on the right side. Also, Steve found the drivers on the roads of Benin City extremely rough for his temperament.
The burial ceremony was brief.
There were many more people than I expected. It was the first burial ceremony I ever attended in my entire life. Scores of nurses from the school of nursing were in attendance. All of them wore dark glasses and white uniforms. They looked like angels. I didn’t know many men were in the nursing profession. They stood together in the blazing son, men and women, some wiping their faces with handkerchief, others lifting up their glasses and dabbing up tears.
Rufus could tell something was wrong when he opened the door and saw me. All he needed to do was to take one look into my eyes and he could read me like a book. First, I had been gone all day. All I went do was to drop off Josephine and Gina. He expected that I would be back within an hour, maybe two maximum. The hospital was not that far, maybe fifteen minutes. I left before 8 am, and it was 6 pm when I came back.