ANIMAL FARM IN BELGIAN KONGO
Title: ANIMAL FARM IN BELGIAN KONGO
acrylic on canvas, 2020
I’ve been working on this painting for one month.
The journey has been long
on a bumpy road
ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY, 1981, (PART TWO)
Rufus was in a murderous mood. Steve, the one who Obaseki pummeled, became worried when Rufus went into his room. “What’s he gone to do in his room?” I asked Steve, whose only interest at that moment was diving into the fried rice we just brought for him.
Steve said, “He’s gone to change into his shorts. Looks like he’s really upset. He is changing into loose clothes to take out that guy who attacked me.”
“Na shakara,” I told Steve.
“What?” Steve asked.
ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY, 1981
As soon as we drove to the front of the house, we knew something was wrong. There was a crowd of nearly twenty people waiting for us.
“Mr. Rufus, good thing you are back,” said a neighbor stepping forward from the crowd. “Nobody knows what the problem was, but we had to break down the door to your house….”
Before he could complete his story, Josephine, ran to the Mitsubishi bus, breathless, “Papa Ru. That your friend almost killed Steve! I ran out to call the neighbors, but when I went out, he jammed the door. They had to force the lock to free Steve from him!”
The Day We Went to Steal Yams in Benin City
1980: One Friday, Rufus told me that we should visit the messenger of the University of Benin, Department of Creative Art, whose wife just gave birth to twins, both boys.
I told him that we needed to go to the bank to withdraw some money. I kept the purse for both of us. We were out of cash, and it was the end of the week. But Rufus said we would go to the bank later.
POLICE CHECKPOINT, BENIN CITY
It was in 1980, in Nigeria, when this police encounter occurred.
I will start by swearing
in the name of Ogun
that this event, strange
as it sounds, actually happened
in the middle of the night.
They say when you want an African to tell the truth, make the African swear to an indigenous divinity—not to the Bible or the Quran. Those two books are just books. The real book that they believe and consider real is not written. It is oral, and tied to the indigenous divinities.
Last night, I went to get some fruits at the groceries.
Last night, I went to get some fruits at the groceries.
As I returned, there was an unusual line at the intersection with a gas station.
Rather than wait, I cut through the gas station and joined the road to my house.
Immediately, a police car followed me, it’s light flashing like it was Christmas, commanding me to pull over.
Born in the Kòró era.
Born in the Kòró era,
my granddaughter knows only two faces:
her mother and her father.
These kids born in the United States
to parents who are isolating
only know two faces.
I am a grandpa now.
I am a grandpa now
and I feel good about it.
Happy Father’s Day
to all the fathers—may you become grandpas.
And to those of us grandpas
Could Black life matter?
Could Black life matter,
without Black thoughts
and values mattering?
The indigenous African traditions
cannot breathe:
invasive viral forces
have placed their morbid knees
on the throats of indigenous African philosophy,
science, pedagogy, technology,
Two New African Proverbs
Two New African Proverbs:
1. The same people who place their knee on your neck will also be the first to ask “Why can’t you breathe?”
2. The same people who are causing your sadness will also be the first to ask “Why can’t you laugh?”
(Adapted from the Yoruba proverb, “Ẹ́ni tí ó bá sọ ni di olóríburúkú ni ó kọ́kọ́ má a ń fi bú ni:
Three weeks of painting.
Three weeks of painting. It started as a butterfly.
Day and night
Day and night, for three weeks.
And finally, it is done.