Tiwa Savage signing a 30 million naira deal with MTN

Corporate endorsement, a literary celebrity lifestyle, and the emphasis on novels with high entertainment value could save the literary and publishing industry in Africa from being cash-strapped and stunted.

Thanks to Moet and Chandon, Lagos litteratti could come together in a classy event last year in honor of the late Chinua Achebe while sipping on premium champagne. {See photo Here} NoViolet Bulawayo just won the first ever pan-African literary prize sponsored by the telecommunications company, Etisalat. 

It is normal for literary prizes, book festivals, and literary events to court corporate love. But should big corporations be offered the chance to endorse individual writers?

One way to make people do good work that speaks to a popular audience  is high financial stakes. It worked for Nollywood. It worked for the Nigerian music industry. Music videos have become exponentially better. Production quality has improved. Why? Because good music means good money.

I  understand why Chimamanda Adichie or Teju Cole may not want to be a Pepsi ambassador. They can’t be overtly pro-corporation. It goes against their brand as high-brow, socially-conscious, and ethically-minded writers. They also fall into that well-known caste of writers for whom money is “not supposed” to matter.

The Adichies and Coles of the world are being groomed to become canonical authors. No one judges Virginia Woolf on the basis of her book sales.

What Things Fall Apart sold in 50 years, Fifty Shades of Grey sold in 7 months. But there’s no shame in that since what makes Things Fall Apart a significant work has little to do with sales figures.

The writers I have in mind are those who are open to thinking of writing purely as a commodity and not as a literary ego-trip. The idea would be to sell novels like music albums, to have readers enjoy stories the way they enjoy their favorite tracks. 

Ditch the impulse to educate, edify, enlighten, and all that illusion of grandeur that feed into a certain kind of African literary persona. Write stories that would get you the instant celebrity power that interests corporate entities. What’s so wrong in having a novelist be the next Tiwa Savage, racking up endorsements like their going out of style.  

All this is, of course, tied to a literary industry aggressively driven by mass-market forces and high-financial stakes. 

When P Square sets out to produce a track, the goal is to end up with a club banger. African writers could very well approach their work with the logic of the club-banger.

These would be stories tailored to the African literary market, stories that tap into the pulse of African contemporary life. These stories would capture how Africans love to feel, the kinds of pleasures they crave, the fears and fantasies that structure their reality.

For many of the Nigerian writers I know, writing is a side hustle. They are mostly in professions—medicine, banking, law—that require considerable commitment.

Don’t get me wrong. I respect their hustle, but we can’t build a viable literary culture if writers are not committed hundred percent to the hustle.

We need authors writing greedily and hungrily because they know there’s a good chance of making it big with their work. With the right amount of financial reward, we can get African authors writing more aggressively for a literary market that is hungry for delectable and easily consumable stories.

The first of a series of posts celebrating the love, friendships, and bonds that inspire African writers as they build a community around the work of crafting stories in and about the continent. 

Read Ngugi’s reflection on Ama Ata Aidoo and her work. It is heartfelt and moving. 

Ama Ata Aidoo too has been part of my intellectual journey. We have traveled many places together, having met in Kenya, Zimbabwe, Ghana, America, England, and Germany. She has been in many more places, which is another way of saying that she is first and foremost a writer of the world in the world.

Her infectious laughter and warm personality easily break barriers of culture and race, even when and where she is at her most critical. She never compromises on questions of African dignity and standing in the world. She is a great Pan-Africanist in life and thought; she embraced and was embraced by Kenya and Zimbabwe as a daughter of the land.

In that sense, we can paraphrase what is said of Kofi in Ama Ata Aidoo’s play, Anowa, but here in a positive way, that Ama has been, is, and will always be of us. She speaks to the human and the world but uncompromisingly through Africa. But her embrace and defence of Africa has not meant complacency.

Her embrace of the continent is through tough love: being able to see its beauty because she is also able to see clearly its warts. Dignity like any other ideal must start from home, the domestic sphere, and the sphere of self. One can pick any of her poems, stories and fiction generally to see this: but tough love was always there even in her earliest works. Aidoo’s work, including the playful mischief, is rooted in orature as much as it is in her literary inheritance from Africa and the world.

…

Whether in her short stories, children’s books, novels or plays, she speaks to the most urgent issues of our times. She is a writer for all seasons.

—

Read the full tribute {HERE}

The image is by Accra-based photographer, Nana Kofi Acquah. Check out more of his work {HERE}

Last Week: {read HERE}:  Adunni is reborn into the Lamorin household. But her naming ceremony ends in utter disaster when her cover is blown. She realizes that her human father knows she’s an Abiku and insists on naming her Aja—common dog. 

This Week: Adunni tries to make sense of her misfortune. But there is an even more disheartening surprise in store for her.   

I felt the wildness of rage welling up within me, such a fury that, if unleashed, could destroy everything in sight. It took a lot of will-power to bring myself under control. I couldn’t believe that after all these years someone had finally gotten my number. I had always been so careful, what could have happened?

A voice whispered in my head.

I recognized that voice as hope.

Hope said ‘it will be alright. Everything will work out just fine in the end’. My heart dropped when it hit me that these feelings were not really mine. They were habits I’d picked up over the centuries, habits acquired in my brief sojourns as human.

But I am not human.

I am Adunni, Abiku, a force of nature, handmaiden of the gods.

“So what are you going to do now?” Chimeka broke into my thoughts. I had so immersed myself in being human I’d forgotten how easily my mates could read my thoughts. In truth, I’d completely forgotten they were there.

I looked at all of them, their faces carefully blank, but their thoughts assailed me and to my surprise all I got was their sheer enjoyment of my situation.

After all these years I should have known. I had gotten careless, believing my mates would always have my back. I’d forgotten that built into us was flightiness, an inability to commit to anything or anybody.

It is this quality that made us Abiku. Loyalty, pah! Our selfishness, hunger for power over puny human beings, total immersion in seeking out things that give us pleasure. That is our nature. Why would I believe that the mere fact that we were playmates would make them support me?

I got angry again, but this time it was in its pure form, a clean anger that hardened into resolve.

I will sort this out. I do not need them.

“Please leave, every single one of you, leave, now!” I barked at them as I sped after my father and the pastor.

Somebody was up to no good, and I have to get to the bottom of this.

One of the reasons I have been such a successful Abiku is my careful deliberations, my ability to tap into the infinite patience my immortality has granted me.

I’m not one of those senseless little beings that hover at T-junctions, religious gatherings and crowded market places, darting around, looking for pregnant women—willing to inhabit any pregnant woman foolish enough not to protect herself.

Those Abikus are no better than cuckoos. Once they see a potential, they jump inside her, kicking out the soul of the fetus without considering the fact that for each entrance they make, they lose most of their powers. By the time they are born, they become victims of their nature. They lose control over what happens to them, how things proceed or when they die. These Abikus are the ones that become enslaved to the whims of any herbalist, powerful or not. Most of them are easily earthed.

Failures as humans, failures as Abiku.

They usually turn out to be sickly, spindly babies, lacking in charm and intelligence. And when they eventually die, their parents never feel the loss. They simply breathe huge sighs of relief, not because they did not love the child but because most human parents would rather see the child die than suffer from an endless list of medicine-defying  ailments.

And I ask you, what’s the point in that?

Our mission is tears—to tear up the eyes and the heart, to shred it into little bits of pain, to rack up power points with every ache. After all, we are part of the life-cycle of birth and death.

But me, I have always chosen my parents carefully. Sometimes I watch for years, studying a particular family lineage, weighing, discarding. I’m a human connoisseur, nothing less than the best will do for me.

I choose the beautiful, the wise, people who have emotional intelligence. Those who can feel and think. How I adore people who think! I get my powers from them. When they are happy, or sad, or worried, when they are in pain or purring with pleasure, they do it with panache.

I always ensure I’m present at my inception. Sometimes I even engineer inception. I’m so powerful I can implant myself in a  lifeless sperm or lodge myself in wombs that shouldn’t be able to carry water, talk less of a baby. I am that resourceful, that powerful.

Tell me that simulating creation is NOT POWER.

I am Adunni, I am good at what I was created for. I’ve had centuries to hone my skills, to build up my powers. I am Mother Earth’s favourite.

… how in the world did I get into this situation?

The doors to the duplex my parents occupy were thrown wide open. People trooped in and out. I was in such a hurry that I bumped into a woman carrying a tray piled with plates of jollof rice and fried chicken. If I didn’t have more important things on my mind, I would have wondered who she was because she looked up at me and smiled faintly a second before I brushed past her.

My mother’s bedroom was filled with women trying to comfort her. She was still fiercely holding on to me and crying buckets of tears. I spotted the creatures in charge of collecting the tears our kind tore out of people’s hearts. They were flitting around my mother.

Their stubbly wings, rounded bodies and misshapen heads made them look like tiny, flying cashew fruits.

They were in a feeding frenzy. They slurped and sucked loudly. It was disgusting. No manners at all. Greedy little pests!

I marvelled at how blind, how deaf human beings are.

But then, it is better that way, because if they could see, really see…

I entered father’s room. He and the pastor were seated on chairs drawn so closely to one another that their legs were practically entangled.

“… These are traditions that are best left in the past, Mr Lamorin, you cannot burden your innocent child with that name. After-all she did not ask to be born,” the pastor said to my father, who wore an air of finality. Although seated next to the pastor, his posture was of that of a person who had left the room.

“This one has chosen to be born Pastor. You know our history, I told you that Abiku has been troubling my wife and I for years … isn’t that the reason we left our former church and joined yours?”

“Mr Lamorin, do not allow the devil to use you in this way, there is nothing like Abiku. Doctors have discovered that the children believed to die and return are actually children carrying Sickle Cell Anaemia trait…”

“Pastor, I am AA, my wife is AA, so why do we keep having children who persistently die before their first birthdays?” Father cut him off.

I gasped, that was news to me. I had definitely never been born by this pair before. I had chosen the Lamorins carefully. It had taken me over a year to gather intelligence on them. They were in their mid­ thirties, Christians, and they’d never had a child before, or so I had thought.

“This is our fourth child, and I’m determined to name her Aja so that she’d know exactly where we stand on this issue,” Father said firmly.

I sat on the floor between them.

“But Mr Lamorin, even if she’s an Abiku, what’s the use of naming her Aja? It doesn’t change anything. Don’t you believe in the powers of prayer to change things? Do you no longer believe in Jesus, Our Lord and Saviour? Why are you acting so strangely?” The pastor’s face was a mask of exasperation.

“Ah, but that’s just the first phase, my grandfather will soon be here to carry out the second phase of the ceremony,” Father said.

“I do not understand you Mr Lamorin.” The pastor said stiffly.

“Let me tell you a little about my background. I grew up in this city. My parents are Christians, and I was raised in a Pentecostal church. I know that my siblings, Taiwo and Kehinde, are adopted. What I did not know is that my father abandoned his own father in the village because he was a Babalawo. It wasn’t until this matter of Abiku persisted that my mother finally told me about him. Can you imagine Pastor Christopher? I did not meet my grandfather until I was thirty-three years old!” Father paused, gathered himself and continued in a level voice. “Long story short, my grandfather will soon be here to do the traditional earthing rites for the Abiku. Aja is not going anywhere!”

The pastor’s jaw dropped. He sat up straight, breaking the intimacy between himself and father.

“So why did you bother calling us in since you’d obviously made up your mind to do this?” The pastor’s tone was suffused with anger.

“Because my wife insisted.” Father, on the other hand, was calm to the point of seeming dismissive.

“I hope you know you’ve invited demons into your home! There is no way darkness and light can dwell in the same house, and we both know the position of the Bible and Christendom on this! The road to hell, as you well know, is paved with good intentions. If you will not heed the voice of the Lord commanding you not to go down this road to perdition, do not come back to me in tears when things go awry!” The pastor let his anger loose, and his voice roared across the room.

“Things will always go wrong. Things will always go right. Nothing is all evil. Nothing is all good. Eleduwa made it like that Pastor. I have chosen my path. And no sir! Worshiping the gods my ancestors worshipped from time immemorial doesn’t make me a demon lover, and even if it does, so be it. Let all hell come and dwell in my house. Let your European god turn his back on me. I really don’t give a damn.” Father was as calm as the morning after a stormy night. His phone rang. He checked the caller ID and ended the call.

Father rose to his full height, six feet and counting. His muscular body towered over the pastor who also stood up. Father was Goliath to the pastor, and if looks were catapults, father would be supine, a stone lodged in his forehead.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, my granddad is here.” Before father finished speaking, the pastor had stormed out of the room. Father shrugged and followed him.

I felt strangely empty. Thoughts ricocheted round my head, but I couldn’t grasp a single one.

My mind went back to the beginning, to the moment I decided to return to the human world. I remembered Asake’s solicitousness during the period I was shopping for parents.

I felt her presence and looked up at her wearily. “You set me up.”

She shrugged. “So? Don’t you deserve it? Always bragging about being a ‘human connoisseur’, arrogating yourself human powers, love, passion, compassion, sadness, happiness, hope …” her eyes flashed all the shades on the spectrum of red at me, “you are nothing but an Abiku like the rest of us. We are free spirits, Adunni, not human…spirits! You are not special!”

“But why do you hate me so?” I floated off the ground until I nearly touched the ceiling. As I looked down at my playmates, I realized that I no longer cared why Asake did what she’d done. All I needed was a solution.

“Hate?” Asake turned to the others and shook her head, “See what I told you? She’s using the word hate.” Asake sighed mournfully and looked at me with something akin to pity.

“I do not hate you. I do not love you. I am simply your playmate, your pleasure giver.” Asake turned into cream as she said this and poured herself all over me. I let out a gasp of pure pleasure, and my limbs trembled with desire as images of the two of us, entwined, filled my head.

She left me as soon as she felt me acquiesce. While trying to regain control of my treacherous body, I noted that her eyes were smoky with desire, a reflection of mine.

Asake took a deep breath and continued, “I am above human feelings. I am a force of nature, like the sun or rain. I simply perform the duties I was created for, but you, you think you’re special. Get this through your head Adunni, you are no different from the rest of us. You are Abiku. Get over it.” By the end of her speech her voice had grown stronger, louder, nastier.

Jealousy!

It can’t be. We are spirits. We don’t have emotions. We don’t feel. There’s no way Asake is jealous of me.

Is there?

Shouts coming from the hallway scattered my thoughts in a million directions, as I felt myself drawn forcefully into a roomful of people.

“You are not taking my daughter from me! You won’t do this to me Gbenga! She’s my child too and I say no!” Mother was screaming at Father. Gone was the soft, glowing woman who was smiling happily during the naming ceremony. In her place was a wild woman. Tear-streaked mascara ran down her face in confluence with the mucus streaming out of her nostrils. Spittle flew out of her mouth as she forcefully ejaculated each word.

“Labake, stop being so hysterical. I am not taking your child away from you. We are just going to perform some ceremonies that will ensure the child does not die. And you will do exactly what I want. This child is ours, and I am your husband. I married you. You did not marry me!” Father let out some of the anger bottled up inside him, “Now hand me that baby!”

“Gbenga please listen to the voice of reason,” a woman pleaded from the sidelines.

“Like I said earlier, this is strictly between my wife and me. I’d like everybody to please leave this room now.” Father said coolly, not once taking his eyes off Mother.

“I’ve always acceded to all your wishes Gbenga,” Mother said, “I have been a good wife to you, through the good and bad times. Even when you cheated on me with different women over the years, I always managed to forgive you, to continue with our relationship. But on this one, I’m afraid I won’t let you expose our child to influences we will eventually have no control over. Jesus is the way, the truth and life. I believe in no other,” Mother said. Although her eyes were still streaming with tears, her voice was low and strong. “I have endured all sorts of humiliation from your hands Gbenga. Your actions today show how much you disrespect me as a human being, but …”

“If I may interrupt,” A tremulous, high pitched voice came from the doorway.

My first instinct was to bolt. But I turned and came face to face with an arch enemy.

“Gbonka!” I whispered.

He looked at me and nodded in acknowledgement.

“Good morning, our mother,” he addressed me directly. He smiled like the cat that got the cream.

He was all bent and wrinkled now, but the same stubborn light still shone in his eyes. His signature smile, filled with good humor and empathy, played around his lips.

Gbonka was my great-grandfather, a renowned Babalawo. A man with whom I’d had numerous entanglements. I’ve lost count of the many times I’ve had to give up a body because of this old man.

Asake had really done her homework. She had me. She had me good.

***

See why the all-powerful Adunni is terrified by old Gbonka next WEDNESDAY.

To be the first to read the next episode:

You  should follow Brittle Paper on Twitter HERE

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***

Born in Ibadan in the early 70′s, Ayodele Olofintuade spent her holidays with her grandfather who lived a stone’s throw from Olumo Rock. He nurtured her young mind by making her read Yoruba classics like Ireke Onibudo, Irinkerindo ninu Igbo Elegbeje, Ogboju Ode ninu Igbo Irumole to him. She read Mass Communication at the Institute of Management and Technology, Enugu.

She is a writer, spoken words artiste, teacher and editor, who has been a graphic artist, sales girl, cybercafe attendant, dance instructor and information technology teacher. She has worked with children in one capacity or the other in the past 13 years. She presently runs a project called Laipo Reads, a community/mobile library that makes book available to children. Olofintuade was the first runner up in the NLNG Prize for Literature 2010.

- See more at: http://brittlepaper.com/2014/02/adunni-ayodele-olofintuade-episode-1-father/#sthash.BCwOuqSP.dpuf

The image was exclusively designed for this project by the insanely talented Laolu Senbanjo. 

Noviolet Bulawayo wins the Etisalat Prize for Literature.

It is no doubt that Africa has been experiencing something of a cultural renaissance and that literature has been at the forefront. Sunday the 23rd of February saw Noviolet Bulawayo, the Zimbabwean author of We Need New Names, emerge the winner of the inaugural Etisalat Prize for Literature.

It was an exclusive invite-only event welcoming guests to Champaign and canapés at the Federal Palace Hotel. Contrary to the tradition of African time, the event did kick off as slated. Ama Atta Aidoo gave the opening remarks. She stressed the importance of the internet as a revolutionizing force, especially in relation to flash fiction. Uche Okonkwo was then awarded the one thousand pound cash prize in the flash fiction category for her story  ”Neverland.”

Then followed the slide show presentation paying homage to Africa’s literary stars and heroes from the first generation to those responsible for Africa’s contemporary literary revival. Accompanying the presentation was music by The Lagos Philharmonic, led by composer Re Olunuga.

The piece de resistance was, of course, the arrival of Youssou N’dor and his full band, thrilling the audience to known hits like “Birima” and “7 Seconds,” a duet performed alongside the Nigerian singer, Ruby.

The prize is the beginning of something really good for African literature and we hope there will be many more good things to come.

The Acting Chief Executive Officer of Etisalat Nigeria, Matthew Willsher, captured the vision of the prize when he said: ”As a rite of passage, published and unpublished literary works of art have been passed down from generation to generation in Africa. Etisalat Nigeria is indeed pleased to celebrate all authors in the African literary spectrum from the greats such as Wole Soyinka, Miriama Ba to Ben Okri, Alain Mabanckou and Chimamanda Adichie. As such, Etisalat Nigeria is proud to use its maiden edition of the Etisalat Prize for Literature pan-African award to recognize and celebrate the amazing work done by these unique individuals.”

—- By Wana Udobang (for Brittle Paper)

Thanks to Jennifer Ukoh for the lovely photos.

The Shortlistees—Yewande Omotoso, Karen Jennings, NoViolet Bulawayo

Matthew Willsher, Uche Okonkwo—Winner of the flash fiction prize!

(L-R) Ebi Atawodi (Head, High Value Events and Sponsorships, Etisalat Nigeria), Youssou N’Dour, Matthew Willsher (Acting Chief Executive Officer, Etisalat Nigeria)

L-R Billy Kahora, Sarah Ladipo Manyika, Pumla Gqola (Judges)

Funmi Victor Okigbo

(L-R) Ugoma Adegoke, Deborah Willsher, Ebi Atawodi

Taiwo Ajai-Lycett

Ella Allfrey (Patron)

Sally Mbanefo

Wana Udobang

Rufai & Funmi Ladipo

Tolu Ogunlesi & Kemi Agboola

Amin Moussalli

Ade Bantu

Bunmi Oke (r)

Ikem Emelieze & Tokini Peterside

Megha Joshi, Enitan Denloye

Femi Atilade

Ruby & Youssou N’Dour

Yetunde Babaeko

 You should follow Brittle Paper on Twitter HERE.

What does it take to become a man’s dream woman?

In this story about promises that are broken even before they are made, Pearl Osibu is wondering whether being perfect, being everything you think a man wants you to be is the way to a man’s heart. 

Osibu writes in a delicate voice rounded out with the right bit of sultriness. 

Enjoy!

The sigh started from his toes, crawled through his body, got to his lips and with a ballooning of his cheeks, he exhaled. The man sitting opposite him raised his eyes from the document he had been perusing, brows furrowed, a frown around his pursed lips.

Barry shook his head and ran a hand over his eyes. “Let’s finish in the morning.”

“No, no, that is no good. You do know we are running against a tight time limit,” the man said.

“Chike, you know more than these other guys how much I have put into this. If I say I’m all out, you have to believe me.” He looked at a table eight feet away where six men huddled over a computer, five of them crunching numbers on a calculator, feeding data to the one who sat typing frantically.

Chike searched his face. “Alright, if you say so. I hope all is well.”

“It will be. Get the guys to stay on a little longer, but let them retire once they look tired. We can’t have any mistakes.”

Barry stood up, squatted a little to unlock his knees and gathering his half-finished drink, papers, phone and folder, turned in the direction of the stairwell. As he took the first step, he broke off and turning around, looked down at Chike who looked up at him.

“What?” Chike asked.

“She’s here. Both of them.”

Chike searched Barry’s face for a sign that he might be joking but it was easy to see the distress on his friend’s face. He now understood the tension he had felt emanating from Barry all evening; that had made him wonder if there was a problem with the project that he did not know about. It was suddenly clear.

“But guy, how did that happen?”

“Her cousin Nnanna asked me where I was and I told him we were lodged here for the duration of this project. I had no idea she was in the country, talk less of her planning to pay me a visit.”

“Kai, that’s bad. When you say she’s here. . .”

“Remember when I got a call from front desk. I got her another room. But it’s too close for comfort. I couldn’t get a room on another floor.”

“What are you going to do?”

Barry sighed and ran a hand through his overgrown hair. “I don’t know man.”

Chike scanned his friend’s face, peering deep in his eyes. “Barry, guy, be careful. That girl is dynamite.”

“Don’t I know it. Isn’t that how I got here? Let me go up, man. Goodnight.”

“’Night.”

“Goodnight boss,” Barry heard from behind him as he finally walked out of the conference room. He waved over his shoulder at the men who looked at his retreating back with surprise. He must be really tired, they thought. He’d been working long hours for days.

When Barry got to the second floor landing, he looked first at the door directly opposite him. He stared as though he would peer through the oak at the woman who must be lying, curled up in a foetal position, her right hand forming a loose fist under her chin, her lips slightly open as she slept in her white flannel nightie – the only kind she ever wore; the woman he knew as well as one human may claim to know another, a knowing borne of many long years of friendship and closeness, beating the odds as a team. Years of passion that started as a roaring flame, burning with fury, then waned and ebbed and finally, cooled to a sedate familiarity. My wingman they called each other, secure in their togetherness and fealty. An old married couple not quite old and not quite married.

Barry willed himself to turn right, and walked to the end of the carpeted hallway. He knocked on a door facing him. The door opened soundlessly and a woman stood back to let him enter, wearing lip gloss on full, smiling lips, and nothing else. His heart flipped.

He walked straight to the end of the room, dropped his things on the dresser top and started unknotting his tie. She stood behind him like an apparition and held his eyes in the mirror. He tried not to look, but her gaze was compelling – or maybe it was her dark nipples, perked, begging him to abandon his conflict even if for just a minute.

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, the light hitting the lip gloss she wore made it seem like her lips were melting and dripping. As he watched, she moved, closed the space between them and embraced his back. Through the mirror, her body was shielded by his up to her waist, where her hips flared. She pulled down the shirt from his shoulder, slice by slice and placed a firm, wet kiss at the base of his neck, his shoulder, lower. . .

Barry gripped the dresser at the edges, his knuckles stretching the skin taut, knees shaking. He tried to say stop but the sound that came out did not convey to his tormenter the seriousness of his intent. If anything, it worked in his disfavor, a groan that stripped them both of the illusion that he could do anything other than succumb.

Still holding his gaze in the mirror, she let her eyes trail a path down his body till they got to his thighs, where his erection strained painfully against his pants.

“Why did you come?” he breathed.

She reached around to his front and calmly, deftly, matter-of-factly undid the buckle of his belt. “We are having a baby together. Don’t fight it.”

“I don’t love you.”

“You will.”

***

Mayen sat up when she heard the knock. She had been struggling to stay awake for about three hours, hoping he would come, and had just drifted off to sleep when the knock came. Let it be him she prayed, as she tied a robe around her body and padded to the door.

“Who’s it?” she asked.

“Open the door.”

She did and stood aside to let him in. As he walked in, he pulled her along, whirled her around, kicking the door shut behind him and immediately started fumbling with the belt of the robe she wore with one hand. With the other, he pulled her head back and kissed her, two-stepping her backwards towards the bed.

“Hey, wait up.”

“Sssh,” he said. She kissed him back, obediently, unsettled by his staring eyes. He always closed his eyes while kissing. His open eyes made her alert. It had the effect of a broom over cobwebs on her mind and she pushed him away from her, touching her bruised lips.

She looked up at him. “You were with her.”

“Mayen, I told you, it doesn’t matter.”

“So you were with her then,” she said, the tears starting. “Just tell me the truth.”

“I was.” A flood went over her head; she felt overwhelmed. She stumbled backwards and sat on the bed. Barry followed and sat with her, putting his arm around her shoulders.

“It did not mean anything,” he said.

“Yeah? I have seen her. You cannot deny she is beautiful. She is from a wealthy family, younger, new to you, and now pregnant with your child.” She stared straight ahead, unseeing. Her voice was robotic. “You were always so careful with me, how did this happen? I have had an abortion for you, why not her?”

Barry winced, taking his hand off her shoulder, heaved a sigh and stood. Chike would understand. Only another man would understand that love was not always enough. He would understand that Mayen who had been with him from their undergraduate days eleven years ago had proved too patient after all. If only she had demanded.

He would also understand that Mayen reminded him too much of the life he wanted to leave behind. From humble beginnings, they had grown together, worked hard. But always, he had looked at the ease of people who came from means and Mayen’s fawning gratitude and determination to stay humble made him look over his shoulder at his friends who acted entitled. Being rich was not enough. He wanted to know how to be rich the way only people who were born to wealth knew. Mayen was sweet, loyal; sweet, but coarse. There was a fluidity of motion, an assurance of their place in the scheme of things he craved and saw in the foreign-schooled daughters of his bosses. . .

Three months ago, Barry had been in Exeter for a conference, idling in St. Olaves Hotel, lonely and bored. A hitch in his travel plans had had him arrive two days before the conference was to begin. His friend, Nnanna had mentioned that his cousin who was schooling at the University of Exeter lived nearby on the Streatham Campus – a cycling distance as it turned out. She had come over with a pie, tinkling laughter and an irreverent wit.

How could he have known that she would take one look at him and decide she was in love with him and had found the man she would lose her virginity to? How was he to know she would be an enthusiastic pupil – and a fertile one, as it turned out. How would he have guessed she had been contemplating coming back to Nigeria?

What shocked him most was his fickleness, his willingness to leave Mayen, to trade her for headiness, innocence and affluence? Like he had just met himself, the he that had been lurking deep inside, while poverty ascribed to him humility he did not have, and which fortuity had thrust to the fore.

He had lied when he told Chike he did not know what he would do. He remembered with a flush the sense of elation he had felt—that instant when an astrologer’s clock chimed in the distance, planets realigned, time rechecked itself and set itself to rights—when she had told him she was carrying his child. Their child. He felt like an unknown musician for whom all the unpleasantness of tuning the instruments and putting together an audience had been taken care of, and he had only to step up to the stage and be borne on the adulation of a primed, cheering crowd.

But Chike would understand.

***

Quando sono solo sogno all’orizzonte

e mancan le parole

si lo so che non c’è luce

in una stanza quando manca il sole

se non ci sei tu con me, con me

su le finestre

mostra a tutti il mio cuore

che hai acceso chiudi, dentro me

la luce che hai incontrato per strada

Barry paused, mid-stride for the second time that evening and turned around slowly. He felt trapped as the past washed over him in the tide of memory.

Mayen stood by the table, a half smile playing around her mouth, her eyes inscrutable, finger poised over her computer where she had just hit the play button. Strung through the invisible tapestry that bridged the distance was woven the threads of forgotten beginnings.

It was a night like any other, they two were like every other person gathered in the small living room of a friend’s house, watching a football match and arguing loudly. Moments after the game, someone suggested they dance and their host sauntered over to his compact disc, set to act as DJ. As he muttered that he was sure he had a rap mixtape in one of the disc holders, the strains of Andrè Bocelli’s Conte Partiro flowed from the twin speakers.

“Sorry,” he apologized hastily and made to change the disc selection, when two voices spoke at once, “Leave it.”

Barry and Mayen looked at each other in surprise: they had been dating for two years.

They drove home in silence and once they got to Barry’s place, a self-contained off-campus apartment close to the back gate of their university, Barry dusted his disc The Best of Andrè Bocelli  and holding his arms out to Mayen, they danced, barely moving for close to an hour. They danced a silent communion, made vows with their silence. As their bodies fit together, their minds fused.

By the end of that hour, when their bodies came unglued, their minds had knitted so firmly that thereafter, physical distance was nothing to the telepathy they invoked and insisted they shared. A two-fold cord is not easily broken. Every happenstance, any incident that could be explained as mere coincidence, they ascribed to this extrasensory perception. They had to believe in something higher that would guarantee the inevitability of their unification, so they sought it in the rational, and in the absurd.

They would see Andrè Bocelli, this blind Italian tenor live in concert; they would work hard toward this dream – and others; they would get married; have two children and the first boy would be Andrè, the girl Andreas (or something like that), naturally. They giggled and planned. What one had to do with the other – their discovery of this shared passion and their determination to forge a life together – they did not know, and they did not much care.

That night, their lovemaking was different. Barry held Mayen as he would porcelain, the way many men were wont to hold the woman they had bestowed on the role of mother to their children, raising them to lofty heights, shrouding them in imposed virtuousness.

Mayen, honored, eager, was happy to tamp down on her raging adventuresomeness. And for eight years, she was wifed, albeit without the requisite ceremony.

There was always a reason they couldn’t get married. They were in school. Then they had to find jobs. Then someone was doing a Masters Degree. Then someone had to get ahead at work and marriage at that point would be a distraction. Usually, Barry proffered the ‘reason’ but Mayen was complicit in being amendable. Time and again.

And now here they were at the place of reckoning, one of them knowing but never admitting they would get here, and the other feigning ignorance, hiding and denying a deep-seated fear that had throbbed and throbbed for years.

“Do you remember?”

“Things change.”

As Barry turned around a last time, he felt a pang. He knew that whatever had changed, the damage was great. It went beyond the pair of boxer shorts in Mayen’s laundry bag back home, beyond the smell of his cologne on her pillow, beyond the intrauterine adhesions after that abortion they never talked about, and it wrecked its way through to the paradoxically tough and equally fragile tissues of the heart.

He felt her eyes stab him in the back through the flimsy fabric of the T-shirt he had donned when he rolled out of bed, stealthily, after ensuring that the woman who carried his child slept. He imagined the shimmer of tears on lashes; wondered how long before they dammed. How long does it take to unbreak a heart. How long to unfuse minds. To sever a psychic bond. To regain stolen years. To end one life and begin another.

Mayen spoke into the silence. “I will send your things over.”

He stopped but there were no more words. Without looking back, he strode out of the room and faced the direction of Chike’s room.

Chike would understand.

Chike, who had married his secondary school sweetheart. Who had stayed devoted for much more than eight years and been bound by his word. Who lived by a personal code of honour, however he might feel. Who gritted his teeth, choked it down, stamped it out, tamped it down, held his head up and did what was right.

Would he?

***

Post image is part of this really cool fashion photography project—a collaboration between Nigerian art director Daniel Emeka and photographer Timmy Davies. Check out more photos HERE.

Pearl Osibu is a Fashion Designer/Stylist, Nigerian writer and blogger. She writes a blog titled Fifty Shades of Me  where she publishes her short stories and keeps up a commentary on topical, social issues.

Her works have been published in Sentinel Nigeria eZine, Jetlife Magazine, Metropole, NigeriansTalk, etc.

She lives in Lagos, Nigeria.

You should follow Brittle Paper on Twitter HERE. 

I can’t…But then…truth sometimes  is stranger than fiction.

Scroll down to see Cole’s little piece in the New York Style Magazine about where he goes clubbing whenever he sets aside his thinking hat.

It’s Friday today. Chances are that the author of Open City will be winding to some Awilo Longomba tonight. Hope you all have something fun planned.

Me, I’ll be writing the long overdue review of Yvonne Owuor’s Dust.

Have a lovely weekend guys!

I love dancing, and I especially love being in a club at 2 a.m., when one or three drinks, good company and a gifted D.J. collectively liberate me into my body. The place could be Barbès in Park Slope, where old-school Guinean grooves silver the air, or perhaps I’m at Windfall in Midtown, enjoying the latest Nigerian Afrobeats and Congolese ndombolo. Wherever it is, I stop my habitual overthinking and become, quite simply, a body in the half-dark.

But this is not the highlight of such evenings, for afterward is the journey home to Brooklyn. From the back seat of a taxi, the city unfurls before me as a series of illuminated sights. If we go down the West Side Highway, we’ll pass by the apparition of One World Trade and enter the Tarkovsky-like glow of the Battery Tunnel. If we take the F.D.R., there’s the jeweler’s display of the bridges: Williamsburg, Manhattan, Brooklyn, all those dreamy rows of diamonds. At such moments, the city is mine alone: its immensity, its beauty, its clear streets, its silent waterways. It is open in a way daylight would never permit. I lose myself in it and belong to it, a happiness no less real for being so fleeting.

— The New York Style Magazine

Post image by Jamilla Okubo. Pretty amazing stuff. See more of her images {HERE}

You should follow Brittle Paper on Twitter HERE. 

 ”Yoruba is the Secret of Universal Witchcraft”

— Fela Kuti

In one of the last interviews before his death, Fela Kuti revealed  that on  January 25th, 1981 he was possessed by a spirit. This possession revealed many things to him, one of which was the secret meaning of words. A kind of linguistic magic—what I like to think of as “a science of the secret” of words.

Fela discovered that hidden in certain English words was a darker, more subterranean meaning that revealed itself only in Yoruba. Certain English words, he claimed, would only reveal their true meaning when given a Yoruba pronunciation.

Yoruba is some sort of light that when shone on English exposes all that is dark and devious about a language that, for centuries, has styled itself as the language of truth and enlightenment.

Here is how it works: 

1. English Word: Technology

Meaning: the application of scientific knowledge for practical purposes, esp. in industry.

Yoruba Pronunciation: Te-ki-ina-lo-ji

Meaning: : Press it so that the fire can go to wake it up

Fela’s Analysis: ”Take a word like “technology.” Exposed, it reveals itself as “te-ki-ina-lo-ji” (press it so that the fire can go to wake it up). En hen! If you want to start a plane you must press for the engine, ah hah! For fire to, etc. That is Yoruba.”

2. English Word: Educate:

Meaning: give (someone) training in or information on a particular field.

Yoruba Pronunciation: Edu-ki-e-ti 

Meaning: tie everything up and lock it away

Fela’s Analysis: “Those who first created airplanes weren’t taught how to build one at any school or university, but they “invented” it! They no go school, oh! My brother they no go school! So the word “educate” reveals to us its deeper meaning in Yoruba as edu-ki-e-ti (tie everything up and lock it away). When you come from the spirit world with this knowledge and you start to give your own meaning… somebody will take it off you—take you to school—starting from your parents for that matter!”

3. English Word: Society

Meaning: the community of people living in a particular country or region and having shared customs, laws, and organizations.

Yoruba Pronunciation: So-si-ayiti

Meaning: tie it up in such a way that it seems free

Fela’s Analysis: “Human beings go through what they call “society” revealed as so-si-ayiti (tie it up in such a way that it seems free). You are already locked up within society and you say you are a free man!…Europeans won’t understand it because they don’t speak Yoruba.”

Keziah Jone’s 1996 interview with Fela was published by Chimurenga. You can read the few interview {HERE}

I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Gbonka was my great-grandfather when a flustered looking couple entered the sitting room.

The loud groan from my father echoed my sentiments.

“I thought you guys were supposed to be out of the country.” Father mumbled as he prostrated to the couple.

The man cleared his throat, looked at everyone but Gbonka and started rocking on his heels, while the woman approached mother who was genuflecting. She took me from mother’s arms and looked at me with tenderness.

“We drove directly here from the airport. I wouldn’t miss out on my granddaughter’s naming ceremony for anything in the world.” The woman said as she rocked me gently.

I moved closer to my mortal body, all the better to drink in my fill of love, to rack up power points from the attention being lavished on me.

As my strength increased I took a good look at my grandmother, Ruth Lamorin. Everything about her was small and dainty. She looked as if a gust of wind was all it would take to blow her away.

But I know the type. I call them ‘steel hands in velvety gloves’. Women like her use their fragile looks as a weapon. They’d fool you into thinking you could push them around, until you tried … then you’ll find underneath all that fragility a heart pumping molten steel.

Ruth Lamorin nee Coker.

Trained from childhood, in the best schools in England. She graduated as a lawyer, a degree she had no use for. She had been packed off to a finishing school in Switzerland as soon as she was of marriageable age. While growing up her clothes had been from Paris, shoes from Italy and manners from the English aristocracy.

A descendant of one of those Yoruba kings that spent the colonial years trying to wrest power from the English Lords and their henchmen, she was a true blue blood with rebellion bred into her bones.

She had married Edward (then known as Isola) because he was going to be her freedom from the shackles of privilege that had been a weight around her neck since childhood. He had married her for her lineage, her connections, for her wealth.

Both of them lost out.

All she wanted was a life free from the pressure of the one-upmanship her kind called living. He was to be her salvation.

She got her freedom, was disinherited, as she had fervently prayed for, but her joy was cut short when he woke up one morning and told her Jesus had appeared to him in a dream.

At first she had thought it was a joke, a product of the lines of cocaine they had snorted the night before.

She had been wrong.

She became a pastor’s wife, then a ‘Mummy GO’.

She had broken free of one man’s control only to be shackled to another man’s dreams.

He had stripped himself of his bohemian ideologies, his impoverished background and his ‘h’ factor. He became Edward Lamorin, Senior Pastor of The Believers Assembly, one of the biggest Pentecostal Churches in the city. A man determined to have it all, money, fame and most importantly, power, the three things he found lacking in the man that raised him.

The physical resemblance between my Father, Gbenga, and Edward was uncanny. Gbonka used to look like that too. Tall, fair skinned to the point of albinism, brown eyes, kinky blond hair. But look at him now, stooped shoulders, skin darkened and mottled with age. I could almost hear his bones creak with every move he made, and he’s barely 90years old.

I shot Gbonka a disgusted look and he grinned back at me. I hated that he could see me.

Asake had been wrong about my wanting to be human. She was right that I loved power. Why would I want to exchange beauty, eternal youth, the ability to come and go as I liked, for the briefness of human life, for their utter ugliness in old age?

I snorted with laughter as Edward Lamorin launched into a speech about how Gbenga had disappointed him, how he had dragged the Lamorin name in the mud.

The son of a ‘Man of God’ going native!

How does Gbenga expect him to look into the eyes of his congregants again when his own son is an idol worshiper? He went on and on about his love for Jesus, his absolute faith in the power of the one and only true god.

He raved and ranted about his ‘lambs.’ How could he, Edward, tell them that Jesus is the truth, the way and life?

He held up the twins, Taiwo and Kehinde, as beacons of the faith, the shining light keeping the name ‘Lamorin’ from total disgrace. They were holding down the New York branch of the church without any help from home.

“Look at you Gbenga! The fruit of my loins…”

I tuned out the rest of what he was spewing, eish! Human beings and drama!

I froze the scene.

Edward Lamorin’s half opened mouth, his self-righteous mask, the bored expression on Ruth’s face, Mother’s inward look, her mascara smeared face, Gbenga’s exasperation, Gbonka’s self-satisfied smile, a tableau worthy of being painted.

With new power filling me up to my fingertips, I drew a small ‘o’ between the physical and spiritual and called Time by its true name.

“Honestly you Abiku’s are the most inconsiderate lot. Tampering with nature shouldn’t be done so casually. You should have asked first!” Time complained as he materialized beside me. He was a young man in his mid-twenties.

“Well I’m asking now,” I snapped.

“How long do you need?” He asked.

“10 minutes,”I shrugged.

Time morphed into a little girl of about five years and laughed. The laughter bounced off walls and the air was filled with pictures of children playing football, gamboling in the rain, playing hide and seek.

“I’m sorry but that is too much, so many things can go wrong within those ‘few minutes’ you claim you need. You know how I bind everything, each leaf opening, every root growing, each beat of every creature’s heart and you’re asking for 10 minutes?  You must be joking. Can’t help you there, love.”

She skipped around the room and peered into the faces of my family members. When she got to my grandmother she tickled the baby.

“You’ve made such a beautiful baby Adunni. You’ve always been a sucker for beauty,” She smiled at me and morphed into a middle aged man. The morphing thing annoys me no end.

“I did not summon you here so you can critique the works of my hands,” I could feel the air around me stirring, tiny blue lightning flashed from my fingertips and my left eye began to twitch.

Time stepped back, we both know the kind of havoc I can wreak if I allowed my tightly reigned in control to slip. The balance of things, both physical and spiritual would be tipped within the twinkling of an eye.

Even the gods step carefully around Abikus, not because we are more powerful than they are, but we are known for our wildness, our willingness to ruin everything just to drive home a point, our lack of self control.

I slowly unclenched my fists and willed my body to relax.

“I guess I should leave now.” Time morphed into a wrinkled old woman as she peered into Gbonka’s face.

“I will take that 10 minutes,” I muttered through stiff lips.

“And what will you give me? Your passion?” Time was a well muscled young man, his dark skin gleamed in the sunshine.

“I will give you this necklace.” I pulled the necklace from around my neck and allowed the light to play on the precious stones lodged within it. Time liked shiny things. “It was forged by Ogun in the heart of the volcano that formed the Idanre hills.”

“I heard you are more delicious than sun ripened agbalumo. That you give addictive pleasure. I want that.” Time pulled me into his embrace and feathered kisses along my neck. I shoved him off. He morphed into a woman at the peak of her beauty, all soft curves and hard edges, a knowing look in her eyes.

“And I heard a second in your arms can drain even the most powerful of us. I see the effect your loving has on human beings.” I indicated Gbonka and held the necklace higher as she morphed into a five year old boy.

He snatched the necklace out of my hands and wore it around his neck.

“You can have your 10minutes.” he said in a high piping voice, “oh, and good luck with all this. If it’s any comfort, the gods know about your predicament.” He said as he dematerialized in the thin air.

Ah, the gods,I fumed. Is there anything they are not privy to? But I salted that knowledge away as I yanked Gbonka out of his body.

I used àféèrí to transport us to Erin-Ijesa Falls, one of the most spectacular waterfalls on the face of the earth. I needed the air to clear my head, the beauty to ground me. Besides the hills will help emphasize Gbonka’s puniness beside my powers.

“And to what do I owe this honour, our mother?” Gbonka asked as soon as we landed. He looked around and smiled.  “The place of temptation,” he mused.

“You’re right, Gbonka, I’ve come to tempt you with strength in your bones, beauty, a long life that can be fully enjoyed for as long as you want it, as long as you grant me this one wish.” I said.

“You wish to die.” He said.

“Yes.” I allowed him a glimpse of the darkness roiling within me.

“And you’re offering me what? Let’s see … Immortality, wealth and a drink from the fountain of youth? Can you give me the world?”Storm clouds gathered on his face.  “Is that all you can offer? Can you make me a god? Up the ante Adunni. Why go down the route that has been treaded by too many?” His laughter rang out. It was echoed by the hills, mocking my fears, my powerlessness.

“Abiku s’oloogun d’eke,” He said, “how easily you Abiku’s can turn a High Priest of Ifa into a liar.”

“It will cost you nothing to allow me to die Gbonka. I will even die at the appointed time.” I pointed out to him.

“Which is?” He asked.

“3 years.” I said.

For the first time since I was called into being, I felt hesitant, insecure, unsure of my powers. Why can’t I kill Gbonka? Why can’t I kill them all? Why am I so limited in what I can or cannot do? Where do I proceed from here?

I thought briefly about calling on my playmates, Chimeka, Asake and Bala, but I remembered their treachery, and I suffered a deep sense of loss. Abikus are not creatures that walked alone.

“I cannot stay for more than five years Gbonka. We choose the time of our death even before we are born. Time already has it down, signed with the sacrificial blood of our future human bodies. If I exceed that time, I will suffer a fate worse than death!” I said.

“You liar!” Gbonka face was wreathed in smiles. “I know the way of the Abiku. I have dedicated my life to studying your kind. You are not afraid of any ‘fate worse than death.’ What you are afraid of is demotion, loss of power… I’m sorry, I cannot accept your offer.” He said quite firmly, “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

“Don’t turn your back on me Gbonka!” I screamed

“But you can’t do anything to me Adunni. You are not Iku Aalumutu. You are a mere servant to Death, not a powerful spirit to be reckoned with.”

“I might not be able to kill you, but I swear to make your remaining days on earth miserable.” I felt quite calm as I said those words because I know I will.

“With what powers will you do that Adunni?”

I felt afresh that cold, the one that comes from loss of power, a loss of control over the circumstances surrounding me. Even this mere human being is daring me, pushing me. When a big insult trips you and lands you face down in the mud, smaller ones will walk all over you!

“You knew about this Gbonka, didn’t you? Asake came to you with her plans and you went along with it.” I prowled round him, looking for an opening, hoping he would let his guards down so I could hit him where it hurts the most.

“Asake did come to me, but I turned her down. It wasn’t until Ifa Olokun a s’oro d’ayo, spoke to me that I decided to fall in with her plans. I do not trust her further than I can throw her, and I like you. Okay let me not exaggerate. I don’t like you, or any of your ilk… but I respect you.” He paused and gave me a searching look.

“Do you know why I respect you even more? I’m sure you remember the incidence in 1976, when I came to you with a dying child in my arms, a child that everybody assumed was Abiku because his condition had defied all medicine and you helped heal that child… but you’ve not even mentioned it, not even when you are this desperate.”

He looked at me with something akin to a genuine smile. “You could have called in that favour you know and I wouldn’t have begrudged you of it.”

“You do not owe me anything Gbonka. I did it for the child, not you. Let’s go back. I guess we are done here.” I said, impatient to get back to my body.

That’s the trouble with being an Abiku. Your greatest powers are your greatest weaknesses. I had been born, so I have to be in constant contact with my mortal body, else my spirit will wither.

“Give my children 10 years. I’ll restore your ancient memory at 8 and in return you’ll give them a child and we can call it even,” Gbonka said quietly.

I went weak with relief. At least there’s a chance that Gbonka won’t earth me. I had no idea the bargain Asake had made with him. I suspect she has shown him where I hide my token, the one I buried just before I was born. That’s the only thing that links my mortal body to my spirit being and once Gbonka has it in his possession there’s nothing more I can do, to all intents and purposes. I would have become his slave. He can earth me, and I will have to live out my natural life.

At least with this bargain I’m sure I won’t have to die without anybody deifying me, for it is only when human beings die young that they become idols to their loved ones. All sins are forgiven. Death makes the young perfect.

In order to test how far Gbonka was willing to give leeway I laid down an offer.

“I will give your children 7 years of joy. You will restore my memory at 7 and I will give your children two healthy babies, a boy and a girl.”

“It’s a deal.” Gbonka said grimly.

Born in Ibadan in the early 70′s, Ayodele Olofintuade spent her holidays with her grandfather who lived a stone’s throw from Olumo Rock. He nurtured her young mind by making her read Yoruba classics like Ireke Onibudo, Irinkerindo ninu Igbo Elegbeje, Ogboju Ode ninu Igbo Irumole to him. She read Mass Communication at the Institute of Management and Technology, Enugu.

She is a writer, spoken words artiste, teacher and editor, who has been a graphic artist, sales girl, cybercafe attendant, dance instructor and information technology teacher. She has worked with children in one capacity or the other in the past 13 years. She presently runs a project called Laipo Reads, a community/mobile library that makes book available to children. Olofintuade was the first runner up in the NLNG Prize for Literature 2010.

- See more at: http://brittlepaper.com/2014/02/adunni-ayodele-olofintuade-episode-1-father/#sthash.BCwOuqSP.dpuf

The image was exclusively designed for this project by the insanely talented Laolu Senbanjo. 

The story continues next WEDNESDAY.

To be the first to read the next episode:

You  should follow Brittle Paper on Twitter HERE

You should like Brittle Paper on Facebook HERE

***

To you, it’s just a bathroom. It’s utilitarian and cold. Maybe you notice the monogrammed towels or how the mauve soap dish compliments the pink accents on the sconces, but you don’t think twice about it. It’s just a bathroom. You are not a writer.

To us writers, it’s a borrowed domain. It’s a place we mark as our own, temporarily, while we give a part of ourselves away. It’s where we let go, and it’s where we know the darkest parts of ourselves. It’s where we say goodbye to the things inside of us that we thought we wouldn’t miss, but inevitably, even flushing away our waste serves as a reminder of the atrophic nature of life and love. When we poop, we can’t help but think of lost romances defined by the painfully mundane moments in a relationship – the little spats, the tense silences, and the discourteous, dismissive texts that chipped away at our union in infinitesimal increments that collectively lead to its demise. Every flushed shit reminds a writer of the things we thought we wouldn’t miss. We don’t see a bathroom. We see a porcelain and Formica mausoleum, entombing our heartbreaks thus far, through unintentional semaphores of splats and stinks. We see a story.

So we get up, and we retain a little bit of the mess as a keepsake. As writers, we never wipe. We tuck the little flecks of poo betwixt our cheeks and wait for a day where it won’t be too painful to look at them again. Where the smell of a long gone shit evokes hope through nostalgia, rather than an immediate, crushing sense of loss. We yearn for the day when we can reach into our asses, pull out a petrified sheet of poo, delicate like a dried rose pressed in an old novel, and remind ourselves that we are still full of shit, and have plenty of shit to give to the world. We know that a broken heart, however many times over, is just an ass that is waiting to be wiped. We know that an unwiped ass, is the only ass with character.

Read More

by Nicole Mullen for Thought Catalogue

Image via

Taiye’s twin– Yetsa, Dr. Tuakli, and Taiye

I follow African novelists on various social media platforms. The joys of being a blogger.

One of the things I quickly learned about Taiye Selasi is that she is a creature of the hearth. Her family means a lot to her.

I can only imagine that the road to becoming a writer is long, winding, and lonely. Writers often seek support and take comfort in family relationships.  Zimbabwean author, Noviolet Bulawayo, has spoken about the love and support from both her father and sister. For Achebe, it was his mother and later his wife—two women who played a significant role in his life.

Taiye Selasi’s mother Dr. Juliette Tuakli seems to be just such a figure in Selasi’s life. She is part Scottish, part Nigerian. Apart from being a world-renown pediatrician, working for many years in Harvard and now in Ghana, she is the first female president of the Rotary Club of Ghana. In a Wall Street Journal interview, Selasi refers to her mom as “Panther Mom”—that kind of mother that strongly encourages success and instills traditional values in her children. 

I like to think that we can draw inspiration from the folks behind the literary success stories that make the contemporary African literary scene vibrant and alive.

Referring to her mother, Selasi once wrote on Facebook: “Everything that I’ve become and becoming began with you: your love, your determination, your vision, your flair.”

Suggesting similarities between characters in novels and individuals in the life of an author is always tricky, but this passage from Ghana Must Go seems like an appropriate thought to keep in mind as you go through these images of Selasi and her mother.

“They were doers and thinkers and lovers and seekers and givers, but dreamers, most dangerously of all.
They were dreamer-women.
Very dangerous women.
Who looked at the world through their wide dreamer-eyes and saw it not as it was, “brutal, senseless,” etc., but worse, as it might be or might yet become.
So, insatiable women.
Un-pleasable women.”

Enjoy the weekend!

Photos Courtesy Taiye Selasi’s Instagram page.

In addition to wanting to write a traditional love story and write the kind of novel about race she’d always wanted to read, Chimamanda gives us yet another reason why she wrote Americanah. It’s her “Fuck-You Novel.”

Watch the recent Huff Post interview to see what she means. You also won’t have to wonder any more what Chimamanda thinks of Obama and Lupita.

Enjoy!

(c) Mahala Facebook Page

What was the last book to make you laugh?

Rob Delaney’s “Rob Delaney: Mother. Wife. Sister. Human. Warrior. Falcon. Yardstick. Turban. Cabbage.”

The last book that made you cry?

There’s a passage late in Amitava Kumar’s “A Matter of Rats” that took me by surprise.

The last book that made you furious?

“Dirty Wars,” by Jeremy Scahill.

On Literary Guilt Pleasure:

No guilt. I read many kinds of things, but my deepest happiness is in reading poetry.

On His Childhood Love: 

I began early — around 6 — and by the time I was 10 I had read Chinua Achebe’s “Things Fall Apart,” Charles and Mary Lamb’s “Tales From Shakespeare” and an abridged edition of “Tom Sawyer.” I wasn’t a prodigy, but I developed a sense that access to any book was limited only by my interest and my willingness to concentrate.

What books are you embarrassed not to have read yet?

I have not read most of the big 19th-century novels that people consider “essential,” nor most of the 20th-century ones for that matter. But this does not embarrass me. There are many films to see, many friends to visit, many walks to take, many playlists to assemble and many favorite books to reread. Life’s too short for anxious score-keeping. Also, my grandmother is illiterate, and she’s one of the best people I know. Reading is a deep personal consolation for me, but other things console, too.

Read full NYT Interview HERE

Welcome to another round of Adunni’s drama!

Last week, we left Adunni and Gbonka at Erin-Ijesa Falls. They’d struck a deal. Gbonka swore he won’t prevent Adunni from dying. Adunni, our embattled Abiku, was now in the clear.

But how will they find their way back home? Adunni has no more powers left. She’s spent every bit on àféèrí—folding time. If she fails to return to her mortal body, she could be forever lost in the cosmic void.

But that’s only half of it. There are evil creatures always on the look out for vulnerable spirits like herself to destory. Adunni and Gbonka find they must stick together or perish. 

EPISODE ONE

EPISODE TWO

EPISODE THREE

I had used àféèrí to transport Gbonka and me to Erin Ijesa. It’s a simple but powerful tool— the folding of time and space, the same way you might bring together the edges of a cloth to make it smaller. I tried using it again but there wasn’t enough energy to pull it off, so my attempt resulted in a blast.

The hills shook and precariously balanced rocks fell off cliffs. Although I was able to speak calmly to the physical realm, I had unfortunately made the spirit beings dwelling in Erin Ijesa aware of our presence.

I quickly unwound the white cloth I was wearing and threw it around Gbonka and myself, a protection that helped us dematerialize even further, shielding us from prying eyes.

Gbonka watched dispassionately as I went through the motions.

“So how are you getting back?” He said, making it clear that he could return to his own body at will.

“You are really enjoying this, old man.” I growled at him, all the while scrolling through my memory for another way of returning us to my house while expending as little power as possible.

“Oh yes, I am. But you’re resourceful, so I’m not all that bothered.” He said.

I was taken by surprise when he twirled into a rainbow and launched himself into the air, breaking through our protection.

I sighed in frustration as he gambolled through the skies.

I felt the approach of some Egberes, bloody banshees! They can smell disaster a million miles off.

Egberes are the parasites of the spirit world, they get their powers from feeding off higher beings like me and once they start their unearthly caterwauling, they would attract more of their type and before you knew it they would swarm and suck every drop of power out of you.

I quickly pulled Gbonka back into the tent and doubled the protection around us.

“Why in the world did you do that?” I yelled at him as soon as he settled back into his human form.

“Why shouldn’t I? I love being out of the wreck my body has become,” he reeled around the small tent my cloth had become, drunk on freedom, “I did it! I became a rainbow! And I didn’t even have to use my own powers.”

“You fed off me!” I felt a sense of satisfaction as I smacked him to the ground.

I growled at him.

“Are you planning to kill me now?” He giggled.

“You are a fool for not being afraid of me Gbonka!” I whispered, putting a lot of force into my words, he grabbed his head in pain.

The Egberes had started wailing. They tore at the protective cover around us. I would either have to face them or wait until they attacked us and destroyed my cloth in the process. I threw off the cloth and assumed my most fierce form, that of a jackal, bigger than any Jackal had the right to be, and launched an attack.

I felled three Egberes with my first leap and savaged them till they turned to dust.

I felt some Egberes tearing at me from behind. I bucked and threw them off. In the same motion, I landed on them and tore them apart.  I heard a blast. Gbonka was holding his own with incantations.

“I call on the mothers of the earth to lend me their powers

The ones that eat up the brain through the arm

The ones that eat up the heart through the kidneys …”

As Gbonka chanted, he released rolls of fire from his fingers and burnt a batch of Egbere coming from behind us into cosmic ashes.

We backed each other in order to prevent the Egberes from swarming us from behind. They formed a tight circle around us. Even as we dispatched them in threes and fours, more of them emerged from the earth itself.

They salivated and ran their grotesque tongues round their blood red lips—a contrast to their chalk white coloring—in anticipation.

Neither one of us spoke a word to each other, but we worked in tandem, widening the circle of destruction. If Egberes weren’t spirit beings the ground would be littered with dead bodies.

After a while Gbonka cried out, “We need more back up. My fire is decreasing in intensity!”

Although I could feel my energy draining, I didn’t say a word but kept up the attack. My eyes were blood red and my ears roared. After a while, the hills emptied. I gratefully sank to my knees and was about to change form when a fresh wave of Egbere swarmed over the rocks.

I was about to give in and call for help from my playmates when my familiar, Asa, swooped in from the skies. I changed into a thought and dashed into Asa’s mind, without any prompting, Gbonka followed me in.

“Adunni’s mortal body is calling!” Ricocheted around the hawk’s mind as it took flight.

As Asa flew us home, I finally allowed weakness to overwhelm me. I just lay there, drained and empty of all thoughts except the desperate need to get back to my mortal body.

I turned my head and watched Gbonka as he basked in the thrill of being a passenger in Asa’s mind. He stretched out his arms as if he could feel the wind beneath his wings. I know how glorious that feeling is, so I stepped back and allowed him to control the thoughts of my familiar, to see through those sharp eyes, to fly like he would never fly again, to enjoy being the hunter and not the prey that he is.

I want him to see the smallness of the world he believes is so special, so big.

A world he foolishly believes can be saved from itself.

The city, the street, then, the house, came into sharp focus.

I took over the reins of Asa’s mind and smirked as Gbonka wept like a child whose lollipop had just been snatched from him.

That moment was most satisfying. Give them a taste of real power then take it away from them just as they are getting used to it.

Vindictive? Yes I Am.

We zoomed into the house and the hawk dropped us in bedlam.

People were shouting and running in and out of the sitting room. They had been unfrozen.

Will this day never end?

I groped for my mortal body and dived in.

“Bloody Time ran out on me,” I fumed as I merged with Jesutitofunmi, “I’m sure we were away for less than ten minutes. The fool!”

I absorbed every atom of love that had been lavished on Jesutitomi while I had been away. I eventually felt strength returning to me as my eyes cleared, and I was finally able to see through her eyes.

“I want everybody to leave this room!” Ruth Lamorin’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it ushered panic out of the sitting room.

“Grandpa will be alright,” She reassured a woman who hesitated on the threshold and shut the door in her face.

Father was bent over a supine Gbonka while my mother was screaming her head off.

“She has stopped breathing!  She’s dead and it’s your fault Gbenga. Jesutitofunmi!” Mother shook my body over and over again.

I harnessed the energy of her fears and converted it into enough strength to let out an ear shattering wail.

“Will you quit the noise?” Ruth admonished my Mother whose crying increased with every wail out of my lungs. “There is nothing wrong with the baby. She was probably asleep. Now you’ve gone and woken her up.” She took me out of my mother’s arms and rocked me gently.

“I could have sworn that her heartbeats stopped just a minute ago.” A subdued mother said.

“It’s all the drama, Labake. In fact you need to lie down. You must be tired from all this.” Ruth beckoned at my mother, “let’s go to your room while these ones attend to grandpa.”

“Are you sure we don’t need to call a doctor?” Mother said looking at me anxiously. Gbonka was the least of her worries. I grabbed her pinkie and yawned widely.

“No Labake we don’t. A child whose lungs are that strong does not need the attentions of a doctor. Believe me. I’ve raised three children and know a little about them,” Ruth said as she walked briskly into Mother’s room.

She gently laid me in my bassinet and plugged my mouth with a sucker.

Although it was tempting to simply lie there and allow all that lovely warmth to flow through me, I slipped out of my body, all tiredness gone.

If my parents only knew the things I get up to. If anybody had told them they had been frozen and taken out of Time, that the baby cooing gently two rooms away had been engaged in a terrifying battle with unearthly beings a few minutes ago, they would have snorted in derision.

I flitted through the closed door into the sitting room.

“Why, in the world, are you kissing me?” Gbonka, sat up and wiped his mouth in mock disgust.

“I- I-I was giving you – umm, a mouth to mouth resuscitation.” My father stuttered.

“I was only teasing you Gbenga,” Gbonka laughed, “I’m an old man now and sometimes my spirit slips out of my body. I am alright.”

Edward joined Gbenga to lift Gbonka up. Gbonka looked into the eyes of his son for the first time in 40 years. His son the stranger, a man he had only seen on television in recent times. He shook off Edward’s arms.

“I can still walk, Isola,” he said as he sat down on the nearest couch.

An uncomfortable silence filled the room and so did a dark blue cloud, the type created when people were thinking about depressing things.

Gbonka was thinking about how he ought to be savoring his moment of triumph. But all he felt was sadness. He had won, but had lost too much in the process.

He remembered how Isola had interrupted the annual Ifa festival that was being held in his house. That was the last day he had seen him. Not only had Isola been ranting about Jesus and the fact that they were all worshipping false gods, he had informed him and his acolytes that they were all going to the burning fires of hell if they did not ‘repent’ and ‘be born again’ (the last bit had Gbonka puzzled for almost ten years). If not for the strong young men who had held him back, Isola would have smashed the carvings of gods, which had been in the grove for centuries, into smithereens.

Gbonka shriveled up inside each time he recollected the look of revulsion on Isola’s face when he had tried to calm him down.

Edward Lamorin, on his part, was struggling between the feeling of shame at the way he’d neglected his father and indignation at how his own son was treating him. It was Ruth’s fault!

“Father, let me make one thing clear, I will not have you butting into my business. I might be your son, but I’m also an adult. I have chosen my path and won’t have you pontificating at me in my own house.” My father broke the silence.

Just then a woman entered the room, swaying her wide hips seductively. It was my maternal grandmother, my alomo-drinking, codeine-swilling, kola-chewing, life-loving maternal grandmother.

The heart of every party she attended, she was an unrepentant witch who hounded my gentle grandfather to an early grave.

Her skin was all scrunched up. She was the red/green color of a woman who had abused her dark skin with bleaching potions for years.

“I wanted to find out if you gentlemen wanted anything to eat.” She twinkled at them.

A veteran flirt, she naturally assumed the role of a coquette whenever there was a man within a mile. She flashed them her gold plated teeth.

“No thanks,” they murmured in unison.

Iya Labake stared hard at the corner of the room where I was lurking. I knew she could see me, but not as clearly as Gbonka could.

“I see we have a visitor,” she smiled at Gbonka as she approached him.

Gbonka threw me a dark look at me.

“You should stop lurking about and settle in your body.” He addressed me.

“I knew it!” Edward Lamorin exclaimed, happy to have something to distract him from the dismal turn his thoughts had taken. “I sensed the presence of unclean spirits in this house as soon as I stepped in!”

“Shabalaba gboukzi! Robotobokobo!” Edward launched into prayers, his arms outstretched. Sweat popped out all over his face which was squeezed into a mask uglier than any demon I have seen.

I burst into laughter. Edward may think he’s all powerful, but I know otherwise.

“All ye unclean spirits that have taken residence in this abode, I bind you and cast you out in Jesus Name! For it is written that I shall step on snakes and scorpions and it shall not harm me! I drown this house in the blood of Jesus!” He went on and on. Father made to stand up at a point but Gbonka held him back.

“Amen!” Mama Labake echoed.

As she joined him in prayers, she shook her head from side to side, in a frenzy, her ginormous behind shook along with her. Gbonka’s eyes were glued to the shaking mass of flesh. They followed her from one end of the room to the other, like a ping-pong ball, as she took to pacing the room lengthwise.

“Fire!” Edward shouted.

Not one to be left behind on such occasions my grandmother screamed ‘fire!’ in response, knelt down, her behind nearly in Gbonka’s face, and intensified the shaking.

“Amen!”

Edward’s prayers  attracted the faithful still busy stuffing their face with food they couldn’t allow to go to waste. The room rapidly filled up with people speaking in tongues, casting out demons and shouting loud ‘amens’ to his prayers.

Gbonka relaxed in the comfortable armchair he was seated in and drooled incestuously at his in-law’s arse, while father had his head buried between his arms.

Thirty minutes later, they were still at it. Mama Labake winked at Gbonka as she rose languidly from her kneeling position. She kept up a flow of ‘fires’ and ‘amens’ as she exited the room, half expecting Gbonka to follow after her. He didn’t.

After a while, I got bored with the whole show and slipped back into my body. It was feeding time!

I latched onto Mother’s nipple and suckled as if I’d never eaten before. While my physical body was being fed with milk, my real self was feeding on unconditional love. Nectar and ambrosia, food fit only for the gods.

If only the ignorants yelling off their heads in the other room knew how much power they held in their hearts. If only they knew that love is the only prayer they could ever need.

Restlessness got hold of me once I was burped, so I slipped into the sitting room again.  I can’t deny that I love the endless drama human beings can generate from the most mundane of things.

“Thanks so much, dad, for that prayer session, you may leave now.” Father said after the last ‘fire burn them’ and ‘amens’ died down.

“What?” My grandfather ejaculated.

“You heard me correctly father, you should be at peace now that you’ve chased every single blood sucking demon out of my house.” Father rose up.

My grandfather pointed a shaky finger at my great-grandfather.

“You caused this! It’s your fault!”

“Isola, when will you learn to own your mistakes?” Gbonka’s voice was full of sadness. He turned to my father, “Gbenga, apologize to your father. We need to end this cycle now.”

“I’m sorry dad. You may stay for as long as you like.” Gbenga prostrated at his father’s feet.

“It’s alright, but I shall be leaving all the same. I don’t think I’m needed here.” Edward suddenly looked old and tired. “Where’s your mother?” he asked, looking everywhere but at Gbenga and Gbonka.

“She’s probably in the room with Labake.” Father said.

“I’m here.” Ruth Lamorin said from the doorway, “and I’m not going with you. I will be staying for the earthing rites.”

“Not you too Ruth. I need you.” Edward said to his wife.

“No you don’t need me Isola. You need Jesus, and I need to be with my granddaughter.” Ruth said as she exited the room.

Edward Lamorin caved into himself and howled in pain.

Born in Ibadan in the early 70′s, Ayodele Olofintuade spent her holidays with her grandfather who lived a stone’s throw from Olumo Rock. He nurtured her young mind by making her read Yoruba classics like Ireke Onibudo, Irinkerindo ninu Igbo Elegbeje, Ogboju Ode ninu Igbo Irumole to him. She read Mass Communication at the Institute of Management and Technology, Enugu.

She is a writer, spoken words artiste, teacher and editor, who has been a graphic artist, sales girl, cybercafe attendant, dance instructor and information technology teacher. She has worked with children in one capacity or the other in the past 13 years. She presently runs a project called Laipo Reads, a community/mobile library that makes book available to children. Olofintuade was the first runner up in the NLNG Prize for Literature 2010.

The image was exclusively designed for this project by the insanely talented Laolu Senbanjo. 

The story continues next WEDNESDAY.

To be the first to read the next episode:

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***

 Walter Benjamin is a German philosopher and literary critic writing in the first half of the 20th century.

It may not interest you the slightest bit that his ideas on time, history, photography, Baudelaire’s poetry, and German Baroque drama are utterly brilliant, quirky, and generative.

But I bet you’d find a thing or two to cherish from his awkwardly philosophical advice to writers. 

I. Anyone intending to embark on a major work should be lenient with himself and, having completed a stint, deny himself nothing that will not prejudice the next.

II. Talk about what you have written, by all means, but do not read from it while the work is in progress. Every gratification procured in this way will slacken your tempo. If this regime is followed, the growing desire to communicate will become in the end a motor for completion.

III. In your working conditions avoid everyday mediocrity. Semi-relaxation, to a background of insipid sounds, is degrading. On the other hand, accompaniment by an etude or a cacophony of voices can become as significant for work as the perceptible silence of the night. If the latter sharpens the inner ear, the former acts as a touchstone for a diction ample enough to bury even the most wayward sounds.

IV. Avoid haphazard writing materials. A pedantic adherence to certain papers, pens, inks is beneficial. No luxury, but an abundance of these utensils is indispensable.

V. Let no thought pass incognito, and keep your notebook as strictly as the authorities keep their register of aliens.

VI. Keep your pen aloof from inspiration, which it will then attract with magnetic power. The more circumspectly you delay writing down an idea, the more maturely developed it will be on surrendering itself. Speech conquers thought, but writing commands it.

VII. Never stop writing because you have run out of ideas. Literary honour requires that one break off only at an appointed moment (a mealtime, a meeting) or at the end of the work.

VIII. Fill the lacunae of inspiration by tidily copying out what is already written. Intuition will awaken in the process.

IX. Nulla dies sine linea – but there may well be weeks. X. Consider no work perfect over which you have not once sat from evening to broad daylight.

XI. Do not write the conclusion of a work in your familiar study. You would not find the necessary courage there.

XII. Stages of composition: idea — style — writing. The value of the fair copy is that in producing it you confine attention to calligraphy. The idea kills inspiration, style fetters the idea, writing pays off style.

XIII. The work is the death mask of its conception.  

Originally published in One-Way Street under the title “Post No Bills: The Writer’s Technique in Thirteen Theses”

In a recent interview,  Adichie mentions a possible collaboration with Lupita N’yongo on something having to do with Americanah.

I’m connecting the dots here and hoping that the Kenyan Oscar-winner is going to star in a film adaptation of Americanah, Adichie’s most recent novel. But, as Adichie says, we’ll just have to wait for an announcement that Lupita is supposed to make very soon.

The interview is lovely, but if you’re impatient fast-forward to the 6-minute point. Watch!

You should follow Brittle Paper on Twitter HERE

It may have been in 1980 that the American novelist, John Updike, wrote a letter to Chinua Achebe. Updike had just finished reading The Arrow of God and had a few things to say about it. He said in the letter:

The final developments of Arrow of God proved unexpected and, as I think about them, beautifully resonant, tragic and theological. That Ezeulu, whom we had seen stand up so invincibly to both Nwaka and Clarke, should be so suddenly vanquished by his own god Ulu and by something harsh and vengeful within himself, and his defeat in a page or two be the fulcrum of a Christian lever upon his people, is an ending few Western novelists would have contrived; having created a hero they would not let him crumble, nor are they, by and large, as truthful as you in their witness to the cruel reality of process.

Updike considers it quite an accomplishment that Achebe could destroy such an important character “in a page or two.”

But if you read between the lines, you’d sense Updike’s unease about Ezeulu’s death. Something about the summary manner of the character’s destruction seems a little unfair, even illegal. Perhaps Updike feels that the reader could have used more explanation. A stronger case should have been presented to justify character’s fate.

This idea that characters in Achebe’s novels die strangely violent deaths is actually not unfounded. After rereading Things Fall Apart times without number, I still get chilled to my bone when I get to Unoka’s banishment.

It takes place in a few sentences. He is picked up from his house and dumped in the evil forest where he dies a death too horrifying to imagine. The narrator must know that the reader can’t possibly be satisfied with the explanation given of Unoka being a lazy bone or of his swollen body being an abomination to the Earth Goddess.  Who the hell is this Earth Goddess and why does she authorize such a horrifying death? No explanation is given. The narrator moves on quickly to the next matter. Unoka is forgotten.

The same goes for Ikemefuna’s death. Yes we know all the circumstances leading up to his death. But you’d have to be an utterly gullible reader to be content with the meagre explanation the novel offers. And since we know that Achebe is way to smart to court gullible readers, it is safe to say that he purposely holds back from presenting a thorough explanation for the violent acts in his novels. But why?

It is clear, in Achebe’s response, that he senses the accusatory undertones in Updike’s praise. Achebe response is that he doesn’t expect Updike to understand. After all, Updike comes from a tradition where a character seems too precious to be “destroyed in a page or two.”

Of course a Westerner would be most reluctant to destroy “in a page or two” the very angel and paragon of creation—the individual hero. If indeed he has to be destroyed, it must be done expansively with detailed explanations and justifications, not to talk of lamentations. And he must be given as final tribute the limelight in which to speak a grand, valedictory soliloquy!

The non-Westerner does not as a rule have those obligations because in his traditional scheme and hierarchy the human hero does not loom so large.

So what exactly do you think Achebe saying here— that the lives of his characters mean nothing?

If you are familiar with Achebe’s work, would you say he deals harshly with his characters?

The beautifully creepy image in the post is a piece by Zimbabwean artist, Kudzanai Chiurai. See more of his work HERE.

EPISODE ONE EPISODE TWO

EPISODE THREE EPISODE FOUR

After Edward left, the house breathed more easily and the afternoon sunshine filled every room.

Gbonka fell asleep in the armchair he was occupying, exhausted from our fight with the Egberes and his adventure in the skies.

Father drifted into his room and started chatting with his various girlfriends on his ipad. I peeped into the screen just as a nubile girl of about 18 years sent in a picture of her sitting on a dildo.

Ruth went to fetch some food from the kitchen while mother lay down with me on her chest.

I merged with my body and reflected on the way things are, the way they will always be.

How, from the moment we gain consciousness, the powers that be told us how amazing we are, how superior we are to the human race.

“You live outside of time. You are beautiful and can garner enough power to make things happen in the cosmos and most importantly you’re free.”

“Observe,” ‘They’ tell us, “observe the way human beings are raised from childhood, how cleverly they manage to pass shackles from one generation to the next.”

And we do, we watch how imprisoned human beings, in turn, raise their young within the limits. We watch how brilliantly they manage to slide chains round their children’s necks. Human children are taught to bear the brunt of their parent’s joy, sadness or anger from birth.

Then, like products on an assembly line, they are forced into moulds, one size, of necessity, must fit all. They are not allowed to think differently. They are, in fact, punished for being different. A bird is not expected to swim with the whales.

As they grow older, click goes on the chains of education or a lack thereof, of class, money, marriage, children, religion, and people’s opinion… the list is endless.

I watch as they casually toss the word freewill around like it’s a basic right. Freewill, I snicker at the word. Freewill indeed! Freewill that can only be exercised within the limits of societal expectations. What freewill?

Come to think of it, is there true freedom for any being? Aren’t we all at the mercy of the universe?

Ask me why I’m an Abiku, ask me why I do what I do, ask me the point in all of this, the need for it … I have no answers.

But … we are free.

Then ‘They’ tell us, “observe human emotions, how messy and out of control those things can be.”

We do. We watch how emotions never change from one generation to another, love, envy, happiness, passion, need, greed, wickedness, in spite of all the advances they’ve made in the sciences and arts, human beings are yet to master their emotions. Impulsive actions still account for over 40 percent of the crimes they commit.

“You are immune to all these,” They say, “you’re above human passion.”

If this were true, how else do I describe that feeling of power when it flows through me? Power is a perpetual hard on. It is orgasmic.

How do I describe the ecstasy of the dances that we all struggle to participate in on moonlit nights, the orgies. What word fits the freedom of playing like little children, traipsing through the stars, dancing on the moon, playing hide and seek, coupling?

What other word can be used to describe what I feel each time I watch another set of parents weep over my dead body? That heady, tingly feeling you get while racking up power. The closest to that feeling human beings get is when they reach orgasm, that point your head implodes and you become invincible, that moment you become one with your partner, one with nature.

How about the reluctance that accompanies each death? That reluctance to let people who idolize you so much go, sadness at the thought that Time, that stealer of memories, will soon ravage the minds of people who have given you so much, people who have given you their laughter, love, their tears, their sadness, depression.

Am I passionless each time I come to a full cycle? Do I die to live … indifferently?

But then, we are not expected to question the universe.

We do not. Question the Universe.

I screamed my frustrations through my mortal body, expanded my lungs to their fullest capacity and wailed, causing mother to abandon her meal.

“If you keep this up she will grow into a proper little tyrant.” Ruth said idly as mother clutched me to her breasts, a child’s favorite toy.

“It’s still new to you. Wait until she starts waking you up every five minutes after midnight.  Especially on days you’re bone tired and all you want is a good night’s sleep.” Chinonye added.

“You forget I’ve had children before. Both of you are acting as if this were my first child.” Labake said, but she neglected to add ‘…and it’s none of your business how I choose to raise MY daughter’ because she was not ‘that’ kind of woman. She might think it, but she would sooner burst into flames than utter such blasphemy.

Mother pulled her thick lips into a line so straight you could use it to rule paper. It struck me how unattractive mother really is. I don’t mean her physical features. Those are not so bad, with her slight overbite, thick lips, snub nose and wide spaced eyes, she can even be considered beautiful, especially with her fair skin, enhanced by the ‘Fair and White’ Anti-ageing cream she had taken to using soon after my birth.

But something beneath the surface is repelling. She’d restrained herself from expressing negative emotions for so long that all the poison had seeped out of the place within and created a negative aura around her.

“This one is going to stay. I can assure you that if you keep smothering her with affection you will not be able to cope with the monster for attention you are creating.” Ruth said.

“Don’t mind her Mama Gbenga. Her eyes go soon clear.” Chinonye slapped Ruth’s thigh familiarly and cackled.

“How are you sure she’ll live past her first birthday? I’m surprised Mummy GO is taking the word of an old idol worshipper so seriously.” Labake said.

“Ah!” Chinonye said, “Are you praying for your daughter’s death?”

“No! She will live. She will not die, in Jesus name.” Labake said fervently.

There was a pause. Ruth manipulated the silence such that Labake and her mother eventually directed their attention to her.

“Don’t ever talk about my father-in-law with that tone of voice ever again.” Ruth said, her eyes were chips of ice. She allowed her words to sink into Labake’s heart, then continued briskly, “but I understand your anxieties. You, my dear Labake, are suffering from a perpetual Christian problem, that of ‘having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof’.”

“I’m sorry I talked about Grandfather like that. It will never happen again.” Labake said with an appropriately humbled tone practiced over the years, but she continued. “How can you be quoting the bible to support powers outside that of God?”

Ruth sighed in exasperation and her eyes took on a mean look, but Chinonye jumped into a conversation that was fast becoming a conflagration. She wondered how she managed to raise a daughter as obtuse as Labake.

“Abeg shut your stupid mouth. See her talking about things she nor understand. A child who does not recognize medicine and insists it is vegetable.” She sucked her teeth for emphasis.

“I’m sorry mother.” Labake apologized. Her default mode is the ever smiling, ever apologetic, submissive Christian woman, but I can see the darkness underneath that smiling exterior, a dark shade of green, putrid, a suppurating wound.

This woman will blow up someday. Her absolute focus on having a child to call her own, the need to leave the caucus of women who had to attend special prayers for ‘barren’ women helps her control the darkness inside. I know that once she’s got what she wants, she would let loose the monster within and Gbenga will pay for all the ill-treatment, both real and perceived, she’d received at his hands.

“We shall see, won’t we?” She muttered through stiff lips.

“Did you say something?” Ruth asked her.

“Oh nothing mother, was just playing with Jesutitofunmi.” She hummed a song to me as the older women resumed their meal.

I drifted out of my mortal body as soon as mother placed me back in the bassinet.

The house was quiet, having been emptied of all the hangers on and the insistently curious. Ruth must have cleared it out, for she’s the only one with enough steel in her spine to achieve such a feat. People from this part of the world are famous for their love for lingering around anywhere there’s drama, food and liquor in abundance.

With nothing else to do I went back into the sitting room where Gbonka was in a deep conversation with father. After a while, as if by some unspoken agreement, everybody else drifted into the sitting room.

Ruth Lamorin – paternal grandmother.

Gbenga Lamorin – father.

Labake Lamorin – mother.

Chinonye Lasisi – maternal grandmother.

Gbonka Lamorin – great-grandfather.

I ticked off the list of the dramatis personae in what was turning out to be one long ass day. The only person that was not related to me by blood in the room was Gbonka’s acolyte.

He was a blank slate. I zoomed inside of him and found nothing but thoughts of winning the lottery and becoming an overnight billionaire. I find such people repulsive. Nothing is as unattractive as a human being who lacks imagination. At least he knows his own name, Titus.

I know his type. They are the ones hurling the first stone, the ones with the matches and machetes whenever there’s a mob action.

I backed off from Titus before Ignorance, a spirit attached to his medulla oblongata, senses my presence. Those creatures are usually tiny, but his has grown fat, spreading its tentacles over his brain like cancer. Ignorance usually develops a symbiotic relationship with its host, feeding on all the kind thoughts a person has and giving in return hatred. Those things are vicious, with their pink eyes and sharp teeth.

“We can’t do anything till midnight. The earthing rites should have been carried out at noon.” Gbonka said after a while. “I suggest we should rest now so that we will have enough energy to do the needful at midnight.”

I followed father to his room and admired his muscular body as he stripped off his clothes. Father swims every morning before reporting for work, and it shows in his broad chest, well defined muscular arms, a trim waist and strong flanks. He entered the bathroom, turned the shower to full blast and closed his eyes as he lathered his body.

When he got to his penis he began caressing it hesitantly at first, then harder. The room was filled with images of the nubile young girl with tits the size of melons that had sent him her nudes earlier. I watched the rapid motion of his left hand as he masturbated to the rhythm of a Barry White song being piped into the bathroom.

Just before he exploded, the image of a man entering him from behind filled his mind and he muffled his shout against the smooth tiles on the bathroom wall and trembled.

About the same time a buzzing filled the room, an unearthly noise that was closely followed by thick plumes of red, yellow and blue smoke, the colors of magic.

I instantly abandoned father and his forbidden desires and followed the direction from which the smoke was coming. The closer I drew to the sitting room the thicker the smoke became. I entered and discovered the sitting room had been transformed into a shrine.

The rug that had been spread from one corner of the room to the other had been rolled back and most of the furniture had been moved out.

In each corner of the room were four tiny clay pots, Sango’s pots that do not need fire to boil even the hardest of stones to a mushy consistency. Clothes dyed in indigo were hung all around the room and the statues of Oya, the all-giving mother, and Osun, the abundant one, were placed on either sides of Obatala, the truth.

Gbonka was in the process of drawing my image on the floor with a stick of Camwood. I tried to move closer and inspect what he was doing but was stopped by a powerful blow to my midriff.

“Why are you doing this Gbonka?” I said, my eyes a narrow slit.

“I don’t want you poking around and messing things up for me.” He replied without looking up from what he was doing.

“I won’t do that! I’ve given my word!” I yelled at him.

“Your word means nothing! I am taking all precautions against you changing your mind.”

“I want to know exactly what you’re doing. I want to know the gods and spirits you’re summoning! I want full disclosure.  I won’t be closed out! You promised that there are to be no secrets between us.”

“I promised no such thing, in fact we never discussed your earthing rites so I don’t understand why you’re getting all worked up.” Gbonka said.

His acolyte chose that moment to enter the sitting-room, the fool walked right through me and he didn’t even flinch. He was in a white loincloth and had white chalk markings on his body.

Gbonka straightened up and swept the boy a dirty look from his head to his toes.

“What is wrong with you? Why are you dressed like this?”

“I thought…” the boy started.

“Don’t think. You are not good at it. That’s why I do all the thinking around here. Kindly go and clean all that rubbish off your body and be back here in five minutes with your shirt and trousers.” Gbonka said.

I took that moment of distraction to throw a couch at Gbonka.

“These are the kinds of rubbish we get these days.” He said as he waved the airborne couch away like a gnat. “Finding people willing to follow the old ways has become so difficult. The boys and girls are no longer interested in the art. They want me to teach them within a year what I spent a lifetime acquiring.”

The couch landed with a thud right back where it had been earlier.

“In my days, there are always at least ten trainees working with each Babalawo. But to even get someone to stay long enough is becoming a struggle nowadays.” He continued marking the floor as if I hadn’t just tried to kill him with a chair.

A scream rose from my insides and came out as a high pitched note well beyond human hearing. All the dogs in the neighborhood started howling. I sent a barrage of objects at Gbonka, a stool, a giant cooking pot somebody had left in the passageway and two iron buckets.

As the objects broke through the barrier Gbonka had thrown around the sitting room, I launched myself after them but suffered another punch, this time to my chest, which sent me sprawling.

What manner of power is this? Who could have given him this strong talisman?

I know beyond a shadow of doubt that Asake does not have that kind of power. None of us did. The gods had gone and done it again! I turned into a whirlwind and swept through the passageway. Chairs, stools, wall fixtures, the books lined on shelves and the shelves were caught up and flung every which way. There was a cacophony of objects being smashed as I swept into the dinning room.

I stood still in the dead centre and stretched out my arms. I was a conductor and all the furniture in the room was mine to command.

I made the dining table dance a jig. The chairs bounced up and down, the rug rolled itself up and the wall tiles were yanked out one after the other. With infinite care, the pages of Gbenga’s favorite books were torn out.

The windows opened and shut by themselves and ever so often allowed the objects a free passage to the world outside as I flung them with grace.

Gbonka walked through the flying objects. The protection around him was thick. Every object I sent flying at him bounced off—knives, pots, pans, chairs, the dining table.

“Look, stop wasting my time and your energy. There is nothing you can do about this situation!” Gbonka said as he stood just outside my storm, not making any move to dodge the air-conditioning unit I just pulled out of the wall and launched at him.

I stopped throwing things and mutely summoned lightning. As I felt naked electricity flow into my body, I gave myself up to Sango. I am a vessel of anger.

“What’s going on granpa? I heard the sound of things being smashed.” Gbenga asked from the doorway. Craning their necks behind him were other members of the family.

Gbonka used a blast of air to push father and the others out of the way. I threw lightning their way. The white/blue flash burned the door into ashes and as Gbonka sealed the doorway with àfòse, the lightning bounced back into the room and burnt a giant hole in one of the walls.

He began circling me, chanting my names, the ones he knew.

I laughed gleefully, genuinely.

“So with all your powers, you still don’t know my real name!” I taunted him, “have the gods suddenly become forgetful? Or did you forget to ask for my name? Are you such a novice that you don’t know that there’s nothing you can do to me without it? Let me tell you something you’ll never earth me!” I sputtered with more laughter as I slipped through the wall closest to me.

Gbonka has forgotten that he who hides under a calabash can never carry his children along.

***

Born in Ibadan in the early 70′s, Ayodele Olofintuade spent her holidays with her grandfather who lived a stone’s throw from Olumo Rock. He nurtured her young mind by making her read Yoruba classics like Ireke Onibudo, Irinkerindo ninu Igbo Elegbeje, Ogboju Ode ninu Igbo Irumole to him. She read Mass Communication at the Institute of Management and Technology, Enugu.

She is a writer, spoken words artiste, teacher and editor, who has been a graphic artist, sales girl, cybercafe attendant, dance instructor and information technology teacher. She has worked with children in one capacity or the other in the past 13 years. She presently runs a project called Laipo Reads, a community/mobile library that makes book available to children. Olofintuade was the first runner up in the NLNG Prize for Literature 2010.

The image was exclusively designed for this project by the insanely talented Laolu Senbanjo. 

The story continues next WEDNESDAY.

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Africa is the only continent bothered about being perceived as poor. There is a historical reason for this.

The idea of Africa as the poor continent is as old as the 17th and 18^th centuries—those heady days of European optimism when philosophers squandered precious ink drafting the stories that will define the project of modernity. Every story of triumph needs a sad, pathetic loser. It just so happened that Africa was on hand to play this role.

That’s why at the turn of the 19th century, someone like Hegel could speak so movingly of Africa as a place of poverty, lacking everything—poor in reasoning, poor in imagination, poor in humanity, poor in morality, poor in political ideals, poor in godliness, and so on. In summary, when people first began to talk about Africa in the modern world, they could only imagine Africa in relation to poverty.

So, yeah, when Helon Habila accuses NoViolet Bulawayo of making a spectacle of Africa’s poverty, he proves that after over 200 years, we, as a continent, still bear the mark of poverty. In the now popular review of Bulawayo’s debut novel, Habila criticizes novels centered around the idea of Africa as the world of ”child soldiers, genocide, child prostitution, female genital mutilation, political violence, police brutality, dictatorships, predatory preachers, dead bodies on the roadside.” There is such a thing, observes Habila, as portraying poverty, suffering, and death in a “poverty-porn sense.” In the last few years, so much has been said about contemporary African writing and representations of poverty and suffering that “poverty porn” deserves to be a literary genre in its own right. 

Poverty porn, though? What the hell is that? Pornography, in its latin roots, means the writing or image of prostitution. This would mean that novels accused of being poverty porn prostitute the image of Africa as the poor continent. They allegedly offer Africa’s poor form up to a global literary market dominated by western buyers who orgasm from ogling the abjection of African life. 

But all these accusations and counter accusations among African critics and novelists about pornifying the poverty of the continent betray a deeper anxiety. Probe deeper into the link between writing and prostitution inherent in the concept of poverty porn and you’ll understand the nature of this anxiety. 

Prostituere is the latin for “set up in public,” “to expose,” “to dishonor.” The problem with prostituting the continent is not that it is morally wrong. Selling the African continent in the global literary market place is not the crime here. After all, there is no novel that isn’t trying to sell one form of pleasure or another. The problem is that prostitution comes with the risk of exposure and the fear that some unworthy truth about the body or the self could be revealed. In the African literary community, the unspoken rule, therefore, is: prostitute any other aspect of African life—its middle class life, for example—but not its poverty.

Why? Because Hegel may turn out to be right. The possibility that Africa is constituted by its poverty might actually be true. We might actually realize that not even Habila—as his novels prove only too well— knows what it means to imagine an Africa that is not poor. The truth might dawn on us that there has never been a time when we ourselves—Africans— haven’t thought of the continent as poor. Even when we say positive things about Africa, it is always conditioned by the knowledge of her perceived poverty. So, it turns out, even though Habila harangues Bulawayo, he is actually haunted by Hegel. 

Crucifying African novelists for writing about violence and poverty will not lay Hegel’s ghost to rest. Interrogating the history that constructs our world as poor would.

***

The image in the post is the work of South African artist, Robin Rhode. See more of his work HERE. 

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(For Chielozona Eze)

I love to have some love songs playing in the background

When I make love to my woman. She loves it too.

There’ve been many times when the words are the exact

Of what I have in mind—thoughts that have found no words

And the music speaks them for me.

So it’s easy to kiss her lips and take her on a voyage

Across the moon and stars and over the beyond and back.

***

Last week there was no power, there was

No fuel in the generator, and there was

No Home Theatre to give my thoughts a voice,

So she turned on the radio on her phone and there was a pastor on-air.

Fornicators will not inherit God’s kingdom. Get married instead…

We recognized the voice— our pastor in church. True, he is married.

We stared at each other in silence as guilt enveloped us

Like criminals handcuffed in police custody.

***

But last night I saw my pastor in a hotel with my Choir mistress

Kissing, hugging, touching on the staircase.

Questions puzzled me: Who isn’t guilty?

And even worse: Why?

P.S: When the fires from the fire fly sets a house afire and man complains of the bryophyllum in the garden as the problem of the hood, then surely the woodpecker has pecked too deeply into his sensibilities and he must learn again to think.

***

Post image via Dynamic Africa

Famous Isaacs is a Nigerian poet. Born in 1988, he holds a BA in English and Literature from the University of Benin, Nigeria. He is the author of two self-published collections, ONE DAY IN THE FAILING LIGHT OF DUSK (2013), and BEYOND (2014). His upcoming collections, WE’VE ALL GOT OURS and HOPE IS NOT A GRAIN OF SAND, document narratives of travel with themes of isolation, trauma, disillusionment, violence, and feminism. His writings have been featured in Saraba Magazine. Check out his blog and follow him @famousisaacs

 #ChimamandAdichie #AfricanLiteraryFlair #FashionableBeings #LiteraryFashionBug #FashionConfessionals #InstaLit #SyleManifesto #FeminismOfStyle 

I am now 36 years old. During my most recent book tour, I wore, for the first time, clothes that made me happy. My favorite outfit was a pair of ankara-print shorts, a damask top, and yellow high-heel shoes. Perhaps it is the confidence that comes with being older. Perhaps it is the good fortune of being published and read seriously, but I no longer pretend not to care about clothes. Because I do care. I love embroidery and texture. I love lace and full skirts and cinched waists. I love black, and I love color. I love heels, and I love flats. I love exquisite detailing. I love shorts and long maxidresses and feminine jackets with puffy sleeves. I love colored trousers. I love shopping. I love my two wonderful tailors in Nigeria, who often give me suggestions and with whom I exchange sketches. I admire well-dressed women and often make a point to tell them so. Just because. I dress now thinking of what I like, what I think fits and flatters, what puts me in a good mood. I feel again myself—an idea that is no less true for being a bit hackneyed.

Elle Magazine

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