ISSUE #2 | SEPTEMBER 2011
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navigation ISSUE #2 | SEPTEMBER 2011
Articles 009 010 011 013 019
BUTTERFLY THE MIND TWIRL THE DELEGATE THE BEADS AROUND MY WAIST AFRICAN FAMILIES DON’T SAY I LOVE YOU
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HABITATS PEBBLES SOME THOUGHTS ON AFRICA 2.0 ON MERGERS HOW TO BE STREET-SMART IN LASGIDI HAIKUS MY MOTHER’S HUSBANDS
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WELCOME AFRICA SEEKING SENSUALITY IN LAGOS DZIMBADZEMABWE NEW ARRIVALS CHOP MONEY IMAGINING A snOMG DAY LASGIDI STATE OF MIND POOR TOWN PHANTOM HABITANT HOMECOMING
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DEAR HILLARY A TOUCH OF THE DIVINE Nomad : GORILLAS ON SAFARI #butSeriouly: SOCIAL NOT-WORKING GAME OF THRONES A GAME OF THRONES [BOOK REVIEW] : THE BOOK THIEF
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My facebook page is here.
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Klorofyl Magazine ©2011. The Klorofyl Press. Some rights reserved. This publication is offered free of charge, and may be distributed as it is. The constituent pieces, however, may not be used or otherwise published without the written permission of the respective copyright owners, through The Klorofyl press.
ISSUE #2 | SEPTEMBER 2011
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Tolu Oloruntoba
Get issue #1 ‘THE GO ISSUE’
EDITOR, LITERARY DESK Olukemi Lawani
EDITOR, GRAPHIC DESK David Olamide Craig
EDITOR, LIFESTYLE DESK Osemhen Elohor Akhibi
EDITORIAL CONSULTANTS Nathanael Abayomi Ogunwale, Sithabiso Alice Dube
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INSPIRATION Nigeria, the beautiful At Erin-Ijesa Watefalls, Osun State, Nigeria. PHOTOGRAPHY Oyebola Famuyiwa for POTTERCLAY COVER DESIGN AND ILLUSTRATIONS BY Obasi Torti took.ethan[at]gmail[dot]com
OPERATIONS Caroline Tolulope Latona
DESIGN AND LAYOUT Ethan Obasi Torti Issue 2, Volume 1, 2011. The Habitat Issue Klorofyl is a literary, graphic and lifestyle magazine with African, urban and Christian influences. http://klorofyl.com http://twitter.com/klorofylmag http://facebook.com/klorofyl Feedback is very welcome. feedback@klorofyl.com Submissions: sub@klorofyl.com
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Butterfly The Mind Twirl The Delegate The Beads Around My Waist Letterbox:
African Families don’t Say I Love You Nomad Gorillas on Safari
Photoroom
Dear Hillary A Touch of The Divine
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by ABAYOMI NATHANAEL OGUNWALE
The Delegate
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As I walked into the gaily adorned arena, an uneasy calm settled over the assembly as conversations ceased and faces turned in my direction. I could almost hear the collective whisper: who is he? Is he one of us? I smiled and settled into their cold embrace. For, beyond my expensive dressing and carriage, somewhere deep within me, I knew beyond doubt: I belonged, here. The others observed me from a distance at first, like Jolomi had warned, but I kept my cool, smiling and beckoning at them like an open door. They had no reason to be scared of me. I wasn't afraid of them, like I had been, of the other passengers of the white Hiace bus I rode in to the venue. At least they showed no obvious hostility. They were not dressed like urchins, and above all, Jolomi seemed to like them. As the minutes ticked away and music filled the hall, some of the guests drifted over to where I stood, calmy observing the proceedings. Suddenly, a tall, thin, grey haired man stood to his feet, buttoned his blue suit and traversed the few steps separating us while the others stood apart, acting disinterested. We soon stood half a metre apart. And then he did a most surprising thing: reaching out slowly to hold my chin, he examined my face like a blind man meeting a new friend. Next, he turned to admire my shirt and ran his long manicured fingers along the woven pattern on the pocket like he was copying it out. I was tickled and couldn't help giggling. That response must have pleased him greatly. He suddenly threw his head back, held himself straight and laughed at my failed attempt to suppress a giggle. Then he grabbed my hand and introduced himself in a rich baritone. “Jack. My name is Jack, and tonight, I am the man in charge! You can call me P.M.B…short for Prime Minister of Britain. As you can see…' That moment marked the beginning of the most exhilarating evening of my entire life as the atmosphere thawed, and we all began to chat like old friends. I found it easy to converse
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with everybody at the same time, and in any language too, without losing words or mixing my arguments. “What a gathering!” I whispered to Jolomi as we went around, meeting the men and women who, in many ways, ruled our World. The Queen of England was there, as well as three Asian presidents, two other prime ministers (apart from Jack) and a handful of Nobel laureates. In that exclusive gathering, my position as president of the Vatican (the Pope, in some circles) appeared small. I was impressed at the turn out and the entire set-up. Jack, being the host, soon got up to give a speech. He ambled to the podium and raised a hand for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen, he began. We stand here today as representatives of our respective countries, in order to issue a joint statement concerning the worrisome state of world affairs, and to discuss the implications of the imminent war between Hitler and Napoleon…” “Napoleon? But…Napoleon is dead!” Someone shouted from the back. “I killed him myself! Following this interruption, the room broke into several pockets of arguments. Jack coughed, called for decorum, and continued, ignoring the dissenting voice. ''You see...” As he spoke, Jolomi's account of the previous day's visit to the doctor came back to me in fragments. “ S o r r y , M r . J o l o m i …must...be…schizophrenia ... psychiatric condition multiple...personalities ... MRI showed... tumour in your frontal lobe. Might….account...headaches... might ...an altered sense of reality…”
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eyes had been on me since we arrived -like she had seen a ghost- broke away from the crowd. Visibly distraught, she wailed as she ran towards me. I turned in fright, hoping to flee but her next words sent me to hell, and back. “JOLOMI! Jo…Lo…Mi….ooo!! Aaaah…Why?” “What are you doing here? Say something! Here? In the middle of Ughelli market? Dressed...Like this? Ehn? Answer me! And … and with … with, all the mad men in Ughelli! Why?
The Delegate by ABAYOMI NATHANAEL OGUNWALE
Suddenly, I began to feel light and dizzy. I reached for the wall to balance myself and for an instant, Jolomi's words came alive. The congregation suddenly lost its glitter, the swiveling lights became ripe mangoes and the w a i t e r s monkeys. I saw trees! Even my companions w e r e n o t spared. In a second, they seemed to age, becoming dirty old men in rags, chattering wildly about nothing. As I made to shout out in protest, my eyes snapped open, back to reality. I was just in time to catch the last words of Jack's address: '...order to save the world”.
realized -to my relief- that I had only been daydreaming. We were well received at the UN secretariat by thousands of cheering spectators. Clusters of protesters also milled around with raised placards and flyers. As we alighted and moved towards the entrance to the secretariat, I wished Jolomi had come along with me. Later, Jack delivered a speech on our behalf, and with his strong and passionate voice, he brought many to tears, including me.
As I made to shout out in protest, my eyes snapped open, back to reality. I was just in time to catch the last words of Jack's address: '...order to save the world”.
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As she railed on behind me, I made to run again, and she broke into fresh tears. I turned back with blazing eyes, frantically searching for support; anything, to refute those hurtful allegations. And … All around us, in the same places the delegates had been standing, stood the insane, of all sorts and ages; garbed in rags and covered with the dust of the average African market. In their hands were buckets, broken pots and suitcases filled with junk. I dropped the broom in my hand and fell to my knees in one motion, then bowed my bald head to the ground and waited for the tears to come. That long moment in the middle of Ughelli market, kneeling on the red earth under the scorching sun, with a faceless crowd gathered around me is forever etched in my memory, buried deeply in a place neither time nor words can defile. And as I floated in the pool of their puerile curiousity, I wondered how the same eyes that once looked on me with awe and mouths that hailed me as 'Prof' in the not-so-distant past could drown me so eagerly in bitter wonder and wordless pity. That was the moment of self-discovery; it was then, I first knew.
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Dear Hillary, I feel strongly, regardless of their outcome the next few lines, the next few hours may be the most important of our lives. I think they must be periods of healing, healing of old grief, shared and borne apart. I will say these words to you, but I must write them as well, because letting them run through my head fills me with incredible nostalgia and an uncanny sense of loss, of damage done in error, of need ‌ Writing this, I think of hope, only hope and faith for second chances- a chance to be whole and pure and free. I am standing in some place looking at my years of youth and error and folly, looking at courage and bravery and all things good. I am believing with herculean faith for change and beauty and God's grace in all things (grace as divine enablement, as courage, as emotional capital). I am stepping back to the origin , like Adam- someplace where I can be with you, naked and unashamed. I think we are there in our minds, in Eden- without the fall. I am terrified. I want to start off by running through something you taught me,
years ago, about sharing forgiveness. Remember our decision to apologize together whenever anyone was wrong, remember us kneeling once on my carpet...
gnawed your mind. I am so sorry you've been hurt so and wish I could wipe it, just all away. Forgive me for letting them drive a wedge between us. Forgive me for not being stronger, then, or more I am kneeling first, on a patient. Forgive me for being shallow, for being grassy plain... just a girl where you I want to ask that you needed a woman, a sister, a forgive me. Forgive that I friend. hurt you; that I failed to understand you; that I I fell apart, and watched my thrust you in the cold and I mind slide down almost to failed to wait till you could the brink. I worked so hard heal me. Forgive that I to forget, so hard to blank yielded to pride- love never out the hurt that was failed, only humility and cutting me to bits. There altruism and empathy. I am are still so many huge gaps, sorry for all the pain you've places where I succeeded. seen, the pain you've been B u t s e e i n g y o u h a s through, the confusion reminded me, of how much y o u ' v e h a d t o w a d e I can't forget. And I am through. I am sorry about terrified sometimes, of how the people who have hurt easily I shattered once, you and pushed your mind when you let me go. Why just to the edge of reason. I did you? If you had only am sorry they did not drawn me close and held behave better, sorry for the me and told me we could damage they consciously get through it all ... I have or not tried to do to you. I wondered about that too. say tried to do because I T h e p r e s s u r e s w e r e see your heart's true incredible, incredible in essence has survived all. I their awfulness. Why did am sorry for the scars. I am we watch the gray swallow sorry for the guilt that has up the silver lining? Why did NAVIGATION
by OLUKEMI LAWANI
The pressures were... incredible in their awfulness. Why did we watch the gray swallow up the silver lining? we leave the Spirit- to live, and die, by the letter? The truth is there are rules. The laws of God written in our hearts, neatly written in His word. But the truth again is, in love there are no rules and what we get is what we make it. I have grown a lifetime in these few many years and have learnt sorrow and pain, walked intimately with them awhile. I have sorrowed enough to learn joy; broken enough to learn wholeness - what it cannot be, and then the form of what it can be. Believe me when I say I have emerged stronger, than many things ... but only so many things. Please don't hurt me. I have carefully refused to write an accusation down, because the written word is so powerful. There has been far too much pain and I would not add to it. I have chosen instead to write just of forgiveness and healing. I forgive you too, for everything. Olukemi
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Truth is we haven't seen each other in the last ten years. We call and write of course, but somehow our busy schedules have not yielded a chance for meeting. And on this last score, to be honest with you, I'm not exactly too eager. Not with things the way they are; not after all I've seen and heard. It's simply hard to believe what has become of him.
You are taken aback to hear this? Well, I do not say that he's changed in any major way on the outside. He still smokes the same menthol cigarettes, a habit going back to our secondary school days. Marriage, and a rather restless litter of offspring, he seems generally to have taken in his stride. His penchant for starched white shirts has remained the same, save now they all come as finely-combed cotton: first-class stuff. Perhaps his wealth and fame, coming both late and unexpected, and giving a
certain luster to his otherwise plain person, is to blame for that which I find rather disturbing about him. What worries me about Bob-Stanley is a subtle little thing. He has taken this matter of music beyond what I, who knew him so intimately, can possibly accept. Even the picture here shows it: he very often now conducts with his eyes closed, a mark of the seriousness of involvement which they say has taken him repeatedly to the heights NAVIGATION
Of course he would not put this openly, but it is ever so finely implied in gist and gesture. On my part, I'm not in the least deceived. Even what he tells me in his mails, of his constant efforts not to let his fame get into his head, is for me a continuation of the same strategy: the great man's burden of pride now sublimated to humility. If you wish to know the true state of things, the signs are all there: he now cultivates a distinguished beard: a grey thing with its own peculiar dignity; comports himself with considered gravity, speaks with a deliberate twang, and has ultimately moulted into a new moral authority, with something to say for every one of the world's questions. Here's a man of COVER
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by KENNETH OCHULOR
Do you recognize the face? Look closely. That's, of course, BobStanley, the composer and celebrity. But do you know that he's in fact my brother and only sibling? Amazing, isn't it? People usually remark on our resemblance only after I've made known the fact.
of ecstasy! What before had been a reluctantly-embraced hobby: whiling away time on the old piano dabbling with classical music, while hoping he'd finally get a decent job, six years on after graduating, has now become the one solemn commitment of his life. I recall his anguish and vacillation in the early years when his initial creative efforts proved particularly uninspiring, and how my encouragement was the only resource one could offer in his dejection. What ultimately turned out to be a lucky fertilization of commonplace unemployment with fallow talent, he'd have us take as the grand result of his calculated genius.
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...he spoke of 'redeeming the world's soul, captive to the cords of materialism... drowning the sounds of guns with the purer symphonies'.
Sometime last year, while in England, I watched a TV interview where, at some point, he launched into a
highfalutin exposition of the place of the artist in the turbulence and alienation of modern times. I listened as he spoke of 'redeeming the world's soul, captive to the cords of materialism, with music's older, gentler strings'; of 'drowning the sounds of guns with the purer symphonies'. At intervals they showed clips from his concerts. What struck me the most was the ready resemblance between the commanding figure on the dais, waving his baton with practiced ease, both orchestra and audience held enthralled, and one of those popular Tele-evangelists. I heard talk of 'celestial rhythms', and 'angelic rhapsodies'; of 'that realm where the
mundane is transfigured by the touch of the divine'. At some point, I must confess, there is a heady elevation one experiences when such high words are transposed against the silvery clatter of kettledrums; a sweet cloud of dizziness that enfolds you in the presence of such unrelenting chorus of violins and flutes. And I suppose this must be the effect that has the reporters describing his concerts as having an 'atmosphere of enthusiasm, a mass effervescence of spirit akin to a revival'.
I have considered all these, but I'm not swayed. I also have not forgotten that a great number of people, if we do not make bold to say by far the greater proportion, are in fact stupid, without personal discernment, and ruled by the opinions of a few, who carefully mask and then portray
All this sublime stuff has really been too much for me. I have found it
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by KENNETH OCHULOR
achievement; someone to be taken seriously! All of which is another way of saying he has become precisely the kind of person we both derided in our younger years.
exceedingly difficult accepting the status of being a brother to one of this world's newfangled Messiahs. And we are talking of BobStanley, for goodness sake! But the world loves its winners, of whatever stripe. And so nearly everyone seems to have been taken in by his masterly pretensions. His musical talent is one thing. The moral stature it gives him, or rather, which he has appropriated for himself, another. The truth about it is that people are in such a dire state of spiritual starvation that almost any determined pretender has a good chance of commanding a vast followership. Some reading this would readily dismiss it as the ramblings of an envious, junior brother. After all, a prophet is not recognized in his own home town, and least of all among his brethren. Those with whom one has lived the closest and longest are understandably the ones that fail to see with that unique perspective that distance gives. And so on‌
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their prejudices as the mind of the majority. These few are the same ones who p r e s e n t t h e i r accomplishments as a platform for the domination of others. Thus most people, because they cannot, or refuse to judge for themselves, readily become unquestioning enthusiasts, and are willing to be led anywhere. And as history has shown, quite often the trail leads to the slaughterhouse...
position I find myself in, having to repeat countless times to journalists who come in search of the younger brother, that our parents, both now dead, never saw themselves as raising a child prodigy, much less the man who, to quote his own words, would 'open up the soul of men to the music of the spheres'. There's quite some poetry in this last, I grant, as well of course as the beginnings of egomania‌
...our parents, both now dead, never saw themselves as raising a child prodigy, ...who, ...would 'open up the soul of men to the music of the spheres'.
All said, I have not succeeded in convincing most of my genuine concerns. But I've made my peace with events as they are. I live with some satisfaction in having a celebrated brother. With it however, I battle daily against that high hypocrisy which would have us believe the famous are anything beyond the ordinary human beings the rest of us are.
That's why, right now, I've had enough of those long phone calls with BobStanley: the absurd, transAtlantic romance. And in my blunt way, I've let him know both of my pride in his musical distinction, and obvious prejudice against his shallow opportunism, if one may call it that. I have struggled against the false Oh please, don't go on saying I'm simply an envious brother. Hear me out: I'm just being human‌
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African families don’t
say I love you I had a talk with my father this morning on the telephone, and we both knew it was a good one. This is a recent development. The rage of my youth has given way to a compromise of sorts: swords dropped, we are speaking our first words as men… NAVIGATION
In those final seconds of the call came the requisite pause before the bye-by, where men seldom know what to say, African men, maybe? Nay, African families, and most other, world over.
that, but we managed to e n d i t o n t h e middleground: ”It was good to hear from you this morning, Tolu. Have a good day”, but I got it in the way African sons get subliminal messages from African fathers. If we had African families don't say I been speaking face-tolove you. Everything else we face, I might have seen the didn't say on that call said lump in his throat, and he COVER
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would have seen the uneasy shift in my stance. We would have averted our gazes in that instant. It's a strange tango, these relationships. African families don't say I love you. I have never heard my father say it. I have never heard my mother say it, but in a fit of
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I remember my many tears as I learnt algebra, and the painful... exercises from Larcombe's. The rule was the homework, but it has paid off. 'emancipation' I said it to my brother once. Did he really not hear, or was it just too 'strange' to 'compute'? I tried the same experiment with my sister. Panic doesn't adequately describe the response. African families mean I love you, though. With every action, every word, and halfword a true son thinks through, and understands. Our love is a strong, profuse thing, sometimes mute. We'll fidget and fuss over you, weigh you down with gifts and overfeed you, we'll walk you a mile, then two. We'll look wistfully; we'll give all; we'll serve you; we'll obey; and we, like I did, will cease to fight you.
My father loves, in the quiet dependable way that takes pride in paying the fees for, and paying 'salaries' to his children. You can see it when he's home from trips, his boot laden with plantains, snails and things so good that it's painful just to remember. I remember my many tears as I learnt algebra, and the painful (and interminable) exercises from Larcombe's. The rule was the homework, but it has paid off. I can say this now. My parents plunged me irrevocably upon the wonder of books. I have sailed free ever since. I remember the eager look on my mother's face that day in 1993 after first term exams. She had taken her first loans on our behalf from the British Council. Such wonder in Dickens and great books illustrated in dancing colour, abridged for the little, hungry mind. They kept coming till I
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could find this food for myself. I digressed quite a little, didn’t I? I can imagine her now, bent over the fumes and aroma of her cooking, slightly roasting, herself, within the heat she conjures patiently, meal after meal. I doubt that I could cook that interminable sequence of meals as she does, forfeiting hers often so some other could get, with never a complaint. Takeout would be the order of the day. I see her worried look, even now. Tensed to spring to aid.
Wonderful people all. I wish I could tell them. Perhaps I'll continue my experiments in facility of emotive speech, while this African family continues to look out for itself, sometimes faltering, always true. Doing and saying the greatest things, sometimes with words, choosing instead the telepathic conference within the beneath-surface cables binding our hearts. They don't say it- much, a word is enough. And they certainly don't waste it.
My siblings give and give and give. They were there by the sidelines, crying for me during the numerous beatings of my youth, many deserved. They wonder about me, even now, and exasperate me like none can, when I get into moods. I remember, thankfully. It was hard not to smile then, it's hard not to, now.
But we're moving resolutely along that road to speech, and hugs (another lengthy story for another day :)), and the one day we'll find ourselves there in a (happy?) place. I cannot guess how it would be, if we will get there, or if we should. Perhaps I'm scared we'll exchange what we have, albeit unsaid, for the verbalized, but rarely felt. Will we denude, unwittingly, camaraderie, and cautioning looks, and selfless gifts hurtful to the giver, and unflinching loyalty? Or laughter and consideration and hearty meals, and offerings of one to the other? Love? Bah! It's just fear. We should say these words, but we must do what we've always done best. We may need both, but we need this African family.
My 'FBI-Trained' Aunts make me grin: feisty and coordinating all (one would be naĂŻve to assume otherwise). Uncles funny and devoted taught me more than I know they did. I grew up in the same house with many of them. The little cousins are so cute it's heartbreaking, older cousins so far that it hurts. I haven't told them this. My Grandmother kisses me. Big, wet kisses on my cheek while she crumples a N500 note into my hands. She sends me the quirkiest gifts. My grandfather sits and just smiles, crows feet running from his eyes. He's of the old guard. He says little, but watch him pray with a strange fervor, before every departure. He remembers all and feels all ... Guardians, good people both. COVER
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Love always.
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We boast to the world about what we have in our backyard through such campaigns as the 'Gifted By Nature' on CNN. But how many Africans have really seen the amazing natural features their countries offer? I recently went along with a local tour and travel company to a retreat to Bwindi Impenetrable Forest, the home of the world famous mountain gorillas.
Penelope takes a hike through the Bwindi Impenetrable forest in Uganda
My experience. At the Great Lakes Safaris office on Ggaba Road I meet Angel, Winnie, Noel, Gerald and David, with whom I am going on the trip. The company statement reads: “Great Lakes Safaris: Where the journey into the world begins!� What a way to describe this trip. An early morning shower announced our trip, as if getting us ready for the rainforest. I hail from Kabale, a small mountain district in Western Uganda, but I have no idea where the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest is. A colleague at work says it is spread through the districts of Kanungu, Kabale and Kisoro. Why have I never known this? NAVIGATION
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We set off after a 'powerful' prayer from Gerald, the inhouse priest. By the time we hit the Masaka highway, I am battling with sleep, but determined to discover the difference between the journey to Kabale and that to Bwindi. The Equator is a definite must-stop-and-see. A four-minute stop here has us scrambling to have the unique experience of being both in the northern and southern hemispheres at the same time. Our journey progresses well but in Ntungamo, instead of heading south to Kabale, we drive northwest, to Rukungiri town from where we take the Ishasha Road. It is bumpy all the way from here. The true safari has now begun. The small children along the way seem to be fascinated by cars. They run after us and wave like their lives depend on it. The
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...Kanyonyi... is some sort of 'male model'. He cuts all sorts of poses for our cameras; sitting there looking coy; lying back and then turning to stare into the camera; grabbing some branches to chew on.
road soon becomes a thin strip in the side of a steep hill. It snakes down the hill falling off into the river down, down in the narrow valley. We seem to be racing against the river but it soon catches up with us at the Mitano Bridge. Here,
we enter Kanungu and continue our journey to Bwindi. We arrive at 6:02pm. The place is absolutely amazing. After we have signed the gateman's book, we are allowed in. The lodging facilities blend so well with the forest that you could almost drive right p a s t y o u r accommodation. The Gorilla Forest Camp offered a twin room for two nights full board. A
homestead run by the The cabins are beautiful: locals also offered a twin The floor is covered by room full board for two huge reed mats and the nights. This is where I opt bed looks and indeed is to stay. I am welcomed by comfortable to sleep in. Praise and The bedside ...we can hear branches lamp has a Solomon, t w o shade being broken and bushes n i c e - torn apart. Gadi informs us that made of lookin those are the gorillas feeding. fbanana ibres The group we are visiting a n d 1 g Bakiga , is a family of 10 colourful who offer me a with two infants. baskets decorate cup of tea and a the walls. There is snack. I decline however solar lighting, a the offer, preferring to flush toilet and a hot freshen up first. shower, so if you are looking for a “raw’ African NAVIGATION
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adventure with no modern amenities, you will not quite get it here. Early next morning, we gather at the Uganda Wildlife Authority Bwindi headquarters, register, get walking sticks and group up for the pre-trek briefing. We are told that the habituated gorillas we are to visit are in three families; Rushegura, Mubare and Habinyanja. I am in the Mubare group with Gadi as our ranger guide. He explains that our family of gorillas had
been three hours' walk away the day before. He tells us that gorilla trackers have gone ahead to find the family and they are to let us know as soon as they find the gorillas. Meanwhile, we begin our trek through the forest. Three armed guards are to escort us. Gadi is excited because few Ugandans go trekking and it is rare to lead a group without a Mzungu2. As we begin climbing the Bwindi
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think we were safe. I picks up her baby and sneaks off into the bush.
About five metres from guess the guards are Ruhondeza is a female armed for a reason. feeding with an infant. At some point, the have to She is either shy or she trackers come and cut a has been warned to stay path for us to go through. From away from us. where the trackers are, we Mountains on which the forest is located, our guide explains the rules. We are not to leave anything in the forest except our footsteps. We are not even to drop banana peels in the forest. He especially cautions us not to run in case a gorilla charges at us. Instead, we should stay still and follow his instructions to the letter. The dos and don'ts are many. The trek is difficult because we cannot walk straight up the steep mountain and we have to zigzag our way to the top.
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can hear branches being broken and bushes torn apart. Gadi informs us that those are the gorillas feeding. The group we are visiting is a family of 10 with two infants. The silverback, which is the dominant male and leader of the family, is called Ruhondeza. He is huge, fierce and weighs in e x c e s s o f 2 0 0 kilogrammes. We have to drop everything we are carrying and take only our cameras. He is so handsome you cannot quite capture it on camera. He takes a glimpse at us with apparent boredom in his eyes and goes on eating. What a sight! This is Ruhondeza, the king of the Mubare family. Ruhondeza means “the lazy one”.
Later, Gadi contacts the trackers who say they have located the Mubare family. They give him directions and we follow. As we struggle through the thick undergrowth, I understand why the forest is called impenetrable. When you try to force your About five metres from way through, the bushes Ruhondeza is a female trap you and pull you back. feeding with an infant. She is either shy or she has Gadi points out elephant been warned to stay away dung. Elephants! And from us. As soon as she here I was beginning to notices our approach, she
We can see another huge black male feeding in the bush just below where Ruhondeza is. Gadi says the male is a blackback called Kanyonyi. He sits there soaking up the attention but Ruhondeza has other plans for his family. He suddenly jumps up and drives them further into the bush. Soon we can only make out their shapes. Ruhondeza is really big with huge long arms; an arm of his looks like a large tree trunk. He also has a large grey hairless strip across his back. It is like he is wearing a huge leather belt. The hair on his back also looks grey. I guess that is why he is called a 'silverback'. The other gorillas are completely black.
Kanyonyi sitting alone by the side. He is not shy. Infact, I get the feeling Kanyonyi is some sort of 'male model'. He cuts all sorts of poses for our cameras; sitting there looking coy; lying back and then turning to stare into the camera; grabbing some branches to chew on. Before long Kanyonyi is bored with our attention and runs off into the bushes. We turn back to Ruhondeza but he is taking none of that. He makes
deep scary grunts. We are told this is the warning before he charges. Gadi quickly ends our visit and we find our way out of the bush. We later have a picnic lunch at the top of the mountain on our way back to the camp. When we get back to “civilisation”, we have a graduation ceremony where we are handed certificates of the Uganda Wildlife
Authority for trekking. It is all very rewarding. After this trip, I conclude that the gorillas are not exactly in my backyard. But then again, you do not find gold in your backyard, do you? 1. 2.
Bakiga: a south-western Ugandan ethnic group. Mzungu: White person.
GLOSSARY
The Bwindi Impenetrable Forest is regarded to be the most biologically diverse in Africa.
Gadi and one of the trackers cut a path for us to follow the gorillas deeper into the bush but the more we follow, the deeper Ruhondeza drives the family. He is determined to keep the family from us but w e a r e a l s o determined to see the gorillas up-close. We go deeper into the forest and see NAVIGATION
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Photo of “APE”, an artwork by Femi Abimbola
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PHOTO ROOM
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RUSTIC JOY Children from Giddan Mangoro Village, Kuje Abuja
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DEAR SIR, I DON CLOSE Traffic at sunset with statue of Sir. Mobolaji Bank Anthony in the background.
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LAGOS BY THE SEA Aerial view of Ikoyi with Victoria Island and the Atlantic Ocean in the background
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ON TOP OF THE WORLD Trailer and passengers along KaruKarishi expressway Nassarawa
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PETER-BEN FEMI ANIFALAJE
TRAIN STATION SUNSET ABBEYWOOD RAILWAY STATION, ABBEYWOOD, LONDON Walking across the rail foot bridge to capture this temporary abode of train lines
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PETER-BEN FEMI ANIFALAJE
DUCK CENTERPACS RESORT, SHERWOOD FOREST, SHERWOOD A cold morning and I see this duck coming out of the water gracefully
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PETER-BEN FEMI ANIFALAJE 53 GATES NEW CROSS, LONDON I used to live in this house and the number plates just got fixed on the gates. I love the shiny way it looked and thought to capture it on pictures
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PETER-BEN FEMI ANIFALAJE SUNSETS OVER ME THAMESMEAD, LONDON I took a ride on the bus one evening and as the sun was setting in my old neighbourhood, I got some really interesting pictures out there. This is one of my favourites. I love how everything blends away into the darkness
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I was looking for something by the window and I noticed the sun setting. Thus I challenged myself to shoot an image of the sun in my hand. After many failed attempts, I eventually got close with this image here .
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PETER-BEN FEMI ANIFALAJE FOOTPATH
This footpath sits just across the road overlooking my house and as I left home this morning, I decided to shoot it. Luckily for me, a birdie came into the shoot to complete it.
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PETER-BEN FEMI ANIFALAJE LOCKS TO NOWHERE UXBRIDGE, LONDON An old building site close to my house has this gates locked with colourful padlocks. I had walked past it many times until one evening I decided I was going to shoot it.
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PETER-BEN FEMI ANIFALAJE STREET FLOWERS UXBRIDGE, LONDON As I left my house, I noticed this tree with beautiful pink flower petals and I couldn't help but take pictures of these pretty flowers
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PETER-BEN FEMI ANIFALAJE THISTLES IN GREEN UXBRIDGE, LONDON I love talking walks in the evening around my neighbourhood and this image here was the result of walking close to a stream.I love the calmness of the green but we sometimes forget the thorns hidden therein
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FEMI ABIMBOLA
SUNSET
Water colour on paper. NAVIGATION
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AFRICAN GIRL
FEMI ABIMBOLA
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GEOFFREY NWACHUKWU
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Habitats Pebbles #butseriously Social Not-working
Popular Phenomena Game Of Thrones A Game Of Thrones [book Review]
Shelf The Book Thief
Some Thoughts On Africa 2.0 On Merger Gear Some Apps For Your Phone
How To Be Street-smart In Lasgidi Haikus My Mother’s Husbands Habitat
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“Pride comes before a fall. Those endowed with power - intellectual, physical or financial, should be careful. Water was proud when a river, and tyrannical when it became Rain. But it fell.”
Samuel Okopi “Where tribes, tongues, nationalities, religion and culture fail us, there is no denying that the other person is a person just like you. That one thing that you will find world over - humanity..”
Habitats
Adaeze Wosu “But much as it looks like the tower of Babel, it isn't. While there remain different languages – literal (linguistic), legal, ideological - there's also the unifying 'pidgin' of hope, enthusiasm and hitherto-unseen opportunity.”
Tolu Ogunlesi “It feels like I'm a snail and they all, put together, are my shell. My family is my habitat.”
Osuntade Linda “A man's habitat is a dynamic idea(l). It derives from a living interaction between him and his environment. Geography is just an expression of humour, and totally at God's discretion. When the balance of forces at play in any system -such as the normal interplay of ''energy'' and ' resource'' cycles- is altered, to preserve himself, man must either evolve, migrate or die; evolution- into something other than human; Migration- at great energy cost, and death...Well, you know. The burden of making this place ' habitable'' lies on us; the cost of failure is high.”
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I had been pacing furiously around my room for an hour, alternately stopping to stare at the beautiful black-and-white grandfather clock I bought in Kenya.
Instead of proper hands, the minute hand was a huge question mark. Nice, eh? I used to think it was a steal. Now I wonder if it was a sense of doom that made me buy it. Digression: My name is Olusesan Olajumobi. My girlfriend is pregnant, with my child. I remember asking how it happened. Her silence was louder than any biology lesson. Stunned, I had flopped down heavily on my bed, trying to wrap my mind around the news. I could hear her calling my name but it seemed to come from far away. I had the vague sensation of someone shaking me roughly, and opened my eyes (please don't ask how they got closed in the first place) to find Zulaihha bent over me in terror. Even now, I cannot think about my temporary weakness (it was not a fainting fit, thank you very much) without mortification. “Sesan ... baby, you're not saying anything. At least tell me what you're feeling.� Panic, terror, disbelief, anger, denial ... There were lots of apt words to describe what I was feeling, but I said nothing and looked at my girlfriend instead. She was trying hard to be strong but I knew she had to be terrified. With our society's attitude to women, she had more reason to be scared. Recognising the thinly veiled panic in her voice, I knew I had to do something but I didn't know what to say. It was definitely not alright. Ask her to marry me and give birth to my baby? Was it even mine? That thought was so disloyal it brought a fresh burst of anger. This was all her fault. If she hadn't gotten pregnant, I wouldn't be thinking horrible thoughts about her. Suddenly claustrophobic, I picked up my car keys and started towards the door. She
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by TOYIN LAWANI
She was so still I thought she was asleep, but stirred when I came I had driven to the beach in. She must have been and walked for a listening for the car because n h o u r . T h e the first thing she said was “We wc hao vp ep sy have to abort the baby.” reflected the turmoil in immediately followed and attempted to stop me. ”Sesan ... please say something ... anything ... don't clam up. Baby, I'm scared. What are we going to do?” I didn't trust myself to answer so I just stalked out. I needed to think. However, she ran after me and clutched my shirt sleeve. ”Sesan, where are you going? We need to...” Nervously, I cut her off brusquely, ”I'm not running away O.K.?”, seeing her stricken expression, I added softly ”I just need to think, Zee. I'm feeling overwhelmed. I'll be back soon. Just ... don't go anywhere. We'll figure this out. Somehow” Shaking her off gently, I had closed the door in her worried face and left.
so dignified and a voice that would have put her on radio if she wanted. Only close friends knew how playful and mischievous she could be. We became my soul. friends and started dating soon after and things had What to do? What to do? been swell till now. Whattodowhattodowhat todowhattodoooo? The Whattodowhattodowhatt w a v e s t h r e w t h e odo? Various solutions question back at me and I fought for audience in my had no answer. I can still mind. I was torn between myself in my mind's eye: a my beliefs and fear of tall, young man of twenty exposure. What was I three, walking on a Lagos going to tell my pastor? beach, ignoring curious Our friends? My parents? passers-by wondering More importantly, her why a person would wear parents? I broke out in a leather to the beach. cold sweat just thinking of Shoes were a small Alhaji Bello. Zulaihha was matter compared to what the apple of his eye, his lay ahead of me. only daughter. It was bad enough she had become a I had met Zee at a Christian after we became Christian dinner in the friends. The man would kill University. I was hooked me for sure. My parents from the moment I saw would rant and my father, her. It wasn't just her a staunch elder in his looks- she was half Efik, c h u r c h w o u l d r a t h e r half Hausa with very fair d i s o w n m e t h a n b e skin, long hair and hazel s h a m e d b e f o r e h i s eyes (I loved teasing her congregation. I walked on about her near-albinism). and turned the problem She had this way of over till my head was carrying herself that was started to hurt. NAVIGATION
What will you tell God? Physically and mentally tired, I had driven back to my room. Zee was curled up on my bed. She was so still I thought she was asleep, but stirred when I came in. She must have been listening for the car because the first thing she said was “We have to abort the baby.” I must have looked as taken aback as I felt because she snapped, “Oh don't act like it hasn't crossed your mind.” Of course It had crossed my mind but the thought was so horrible and frightening I had pushed it away. Fornication was one thing. Abortion took the cake. Dropping my keys on the d r e s s e r w h i l e simultaneously taking off my shoes and placing them on the metal shoe rack by the door, I shook my head, “Zee...” but she cut me off sharply “Don't Zee me, Sesan. Come up with a better COVER
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solution and we'll talk.” She was veering on the edge of hysteria so I just walked to her and held her in my arms while I told her I loved her and promised her we'd go through this together. I could feel her shaking. I didn't have the answers but I had realised on the beach that I would stay with her in this. I had to. She was mine and this decision was tantamount to a pebble tossed into the sea of time. What did we know then: two fourth year students with their whole lives head of them? We had talked it through during the night, looking at it from all angles. We talked of our faith, our schooling, our families; we even talked of marriage and the possibility of going through finals, internships and Youth Service with a baby. There was an element of excitement too. I wondered if it'll be a boy. She was sure it was a girl. We made our decision in the early hours of the morning.
That was twenty years ago. It is a beautiful day and I am sitting at the window so I see the car as it pulls into the driveway. I smile slightly. My wife of thirteen years is home. I am almost at the door when our eight year old daughter, Remilekun runs in. “Daddy!” she greets me then runs in to drop the packages she is holding in the kitchen. “Remi, how many times have I told you not to run in the house?” Zulaihha walks in, also loaded down with stuff. “Women!” I kiss her while helping her with her load “Did you clean out my credit card?” I tease. She smiles at me and replies innocently “I thought you told us to spend all your money because you love us. Didn't he, Remi?”
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by TOYIN LAWANI
Remi is back now and too...” been forgiven and have happily lists all the things forgiven ourselves, but if they bought. I pretend to Zulaihha is standing in you had the chance, would faint at the list and we all the middle of the room. you do it differently?” laugh. I catch my wife's She is holding the huge eye and see what I know bouquet of flowers I had I stroke her hair and kiss she sees in mine too. I placed on the table. Her her gently, this woman blow her a kiss and she fingers are trembling as who cannot give birth to smiles sadly at me. It is she reads the script on her own children because I like this every year. The the plain white card. I was too scared to do the day goes on and Remi is take the flowers from her, right thing; this love of finally shooed off to bed pull one out and mine who cries this day a t e i g h t w i t h m u c h place it i n h e r every year for a lost child protests and wheedling, hair. Her h a i r i s because that butcher none of which work on us. greying slightly, thinly veiled as a surgeon We pray at her bedside and she has put made a stupid mistake. I and Zee leaves after hold her and reply exchanging kisses. her eyes are still the same with all my heart It is my turn to tuck yes, knowing hazel I fell in love with. I that her in. I arrange the what I know now c o v e r s a n d I ' m don't say a word, just hold a b o u t G o d , about to leave too her and allow myself to be knowing how guilt when Remi asks can tear you to held and healed too. sleepily “Why is pieces, and mummy sad, daddy?” remembering the on some w e i g h t . barren and pain filled she looks years before we got Remi, I am startled but kiss her W h e n t h o u g h , yes, I would have done it and tell her mummy is not a t m e sad but just tired. She her eyes are still the differently. n o d s s l e e p i l y , t h e n same hazel I fell in love presses a peck to my with. I don't say a word, cheek, whispering “I love just hold her and allow you, daddy”. My throat is myself to be held, and suddenly tight but I nod healed too. After a long and whisper back, “You while, she whispers too, Remilekun. You “Baby, I know we have NAVIGATION
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#butSeriously
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Social not-working by SITHABISO ALICE DUBE
What does he mean by “Last night was crazy. Great times.”? Ok, so he went out last night. Granted. But what does 'crazy' mean? Did he meet another girl? Already? And what was so great about it? Who has 'great times' on a weekday? Why does his status update sound so happy? Fine, so he's happy. But so soon? We broke up only 2 weeks ago. That's it, Im deleting him. .. Ok, I can't delete him. Who knows? What if I need him for...uhm…professional reasons? Like ...er…one of those marketing seminar things? Ok, granted we never once spoke shop. Not if you include the conference thing we went to NAVIGATION
where we both got thoroughly bored and ended up texting each other when we were sitting right next to each other. THOSE were great times. Was he sitting next to someone and texting them all night last night? Did they giggle hard too? Who is this new girl? Could it be 'that' girl again? He commented on that girl's profile again. He said 'lol'. What was so funny? I can't access her account so I will never know what she said. She has privacy settings like Guantanamo Bay. All I see is that small profile picture whenever she comments on his COVER
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status or writes on his wall. Her picture is monochrome. I had monochrome too a few months ago. She doesn't look bad but, gosh, all those teeth? There's a smile, then there's that. Could scare a baby. But maybe it's her personality and he finds her absolutely charming hence the big fat 'LOL'. My classmate posted pictures of yet another party. I have gone through every single one of them. I wanted to comment but thought she might realize that I show too much interest. I am not really a stalker.
Its Facebook, it is meant for looking at peoples pictures. Right? Hence the 'face' in Facebook. But, seriously, “Last night was crazy. Great times?” How could he do this to me? He knows I am on Facebook...and I thought MY status updates had been respectful to him until now. I talked about my sister's exams and the economy of Japan. How would he like it if I posted pictures of my handsome cousin who returned from overseas and I didn't write the appropriate caption? I could just leave it
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#butSeriously
Social not-working by SITHABISO ALICE DUBE
mysteriously blank and let him wonder himself to a fever who the incredible cutie was. Maybe my new squeeze? Huh? Hmm? Would he like that? Maybe I should do it. Oh wait, my cousin has mutual friends with him. He might figure it out. I need to get my mind off that status. Why aren't I getting any followers on my Twitter? I have 28 followers. I had 29 last week, but I must have said something s t u p i d a n d someone unfollowed me. How rude! They could have at least given me a warning. Maybe I would have shared a wonderful link. The vaccine of AIDS one was pretty interesting. I guess that's how I got the ProjectFamily.org people to follow me. I followed them back. Out of courtesy of course, but now I have fewer followers than I am following. That's really uncool in Twitter. Maybe I should unfollow my cousin. He never tweets anything anyway.
morester.' MOREST? Really? That's not a word!! But 'morester' took the cup. I am weak with grammatical defeat. My little sister recently joined Facebook and she already has 230 friends. She has always been cool like that. It took me a few months to reach 2 3 0 and a f e w years to my 459 currentl y .
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'Hy Grl, tz bn 2lng, y e slnce? Mk sho u gv a bg mwah 2Fry 4me.' Did I miss the lesson where they were teaching this strange new language? Reading it is like walking through a hedge. And who is Fry? Does my little sister have a boyfriend? I am trying to think of a status which will show him that I am having 'great times' too. I am. Seriously, I am. Having 'great times' I mean. Maybe I should write a note? A poem? I could copy that John Milton poem I read the other day. I will look smart AND like I'm having 'great times' at the same time. John Milton poems are fun if you notice the amazing alliteration and astounding assonance. I admit. Nerdy.
I think people with over 500 friends are just befriending anyone who sends a request. A l t
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hough I d o n ' t really w a n t t h a t m a n y friends, I think people with over 500 friends are just befriending anyone who sends a request. And that stranger I accepted doesn't count because he did introduce himself with a nice message. Well, my sister has all these friends who do not use vowels in words and it's very hard to understand anything they write. For example,
Oh! A notification! I love notifications. No! Not another one of those comments for the picture that my friend tagged me in of those 4 cats where one of them is actually a dog. Gee whiz. I so do not care. Did you know I am
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Social not-working by SITHABISO ALICE DUBE
friends with Lionel Richie? And it's really him. I should follow him on Twitter too. He is on a tour in Europe at the moment with Akon. I need to get him to write on my wall so that I look popular. THAT might show him how cool I am, and what 'great times' I'm having. But I suspect he just accepts all the friend requests he gets. He has 4,000 friends.
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the presentation. But wait. A status. I have to say something. Last night I watched a rerun of CSI. It was a pretty interesting episode. It seems to be the only thing I remember doing that I could post. But that is obviously lame. The rain? It's been pretty heavy. Lame.
days and get him wondering what I am up to. Oh maybe…oops, Boss alert. I have to log off. Bye!
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Popular Phenomena
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This quote typifies the harsh and beautiful world G.R.R. Martin describes in his 7-part 'Song of Ice and Fire', the first book of which was recently adapted into a series. On-screen adaptations of well-loved tales are usually greeted with skepticism. We're half tired of misinterpretations and occasionally, the outright betrayal of the magic the words initially held. The films just seem to underperform, somehow. But George Martin’s co-production of HBO’s adaptation of his book, A Game of Thrones, made a lot of difference, methinks. I could say I was a newcomer to the story, but I'm not. I read, and enjoyed A game of Thrones, the first in the series. My initial skepticism however, gave way to grudging admiration as I was
sucked right back into the beautiful vortex of a world populated by the Starks, Lannisters, and Targaryens, major foci of the tale painted onto this intricate world. It tells the story of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and righthand man of Robert Baratheon, his old friend, who sits on the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms. It chronicles the journey of Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen, whose father sat the Iron Throne before Robert, and several others- striving for thrones, influence, revenge or just survival. The folk that people this world:
GAME OF THRONES: A REVIEW by TOLU OLORUNTOBA
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GAME OF THRONES: A REVIEW
by TOLU OLORUNTOBA
barons, nobles, farmers, wives and mothers, seafaring tribes, privileged princes; cunning queens, fighting men, squires, knights, farmers and children, are recognizably human. It's a world of horses and carriages, treason and espionage, swordsmen, lords and slaves, and a sword called Ice. White Walkers, otherworldy, deadly creatures roam the edges, and the Dothraki, a savage tribe of horse warlords traverse this somewhat medieval setting. Sprinkled
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therein are enough intrigue and plot to make any good story even better. And it's all presented subtly. This adaptation doesn't go into florid narratives, genealogical ramblings or contextual sidebars. We're helped along by the story itself, to fill up the blanks, for those who haven't read it. We also have the dialogue of sardonic and sometimes indiscreet characters like Tyrion Lannister, the queen’s dwarf brother, not known for his propriety, or diplomacy, to give some of those 'aha' contextual insights. We empathise for the characters and are drawn into their lives. We may hate, but understand the villains. Feel angst, joy, anxieties and mirth. We feel their steadfast, if conflicted loyalties. Good stories do this. I couldn't have done a
The set design is eerily authentic- from the recreation of the spiky Iron throne, forged from the swords of vanquished foes;
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better job with the casting, or wished for more with the acting. It is not often that an adaptation shows such congruence with the original story. My favorite character by a mile is Arya Stark, Ned's feisty and tomboyish 11 year old daughter, played by Maisie Williams. The set design is eerily authentic- from the recreation of the spiky Iron throne, forged from the swords of vanquished foes; to the Wall, an edifice of solid ice protecting the realm from the north from perils beyond; to King's landing, the capital. The beauty, like the acting, is effortless. Only Winterfell, the Stark stronghold for generations, leaves much to be desired. Yes, it is supposed to be stony, grey and severe, but the majesty is lost. The opening montage launches us into the story, showing a mobile, clockwork map with gears turning, turrets and castles in flux, and the camera panning over the locations viewers will soon become familiar with- Winterfell, King's Landing, and The Wall, over the theme music. So … location, check. Writing check. Casting, check? Acting, check. Content? Nope ... Every episode I saw contained significant, frequent, graphic and coarse violence, sex, nudity and language. As an earlier reviewer hinted, before I watched myself, we are assured early on in the series, that is certainly no show for children, and those COVER
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for whom such content is a nono. It's not an orgy of pornography and gore, like, say, Spartacus or Rome, but discretion is very much adviced.. This was the only spoiler to an otherwise brilliant tale, and almost marred it for me. So, it's a great story, but are the 'extras' worth the watch? Discretion, again, is advised, should you choose to proceed. And then, there's always the remote. The series has been renewed for a second season. as the second story, 'A clash of Kings' goes into production. The stage is certainly set for clashes of epic proportions. One thing's certain, though – George Martin is sovereign in his writing. Don't think you know how any of it will turn out.
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A GAME OF
It's an oft used adulation for authors and books- that statement about characters coming alive, such that readers share in their very essence. But when every chapter of a book is told from the vivid point of view of such colourful characters, the reader finds himself trying to understand the characters as they would a fascinating new friend. If that was George R.R. Martin's intention in adopting this unique narrative device in “A song of Ice
KLOROFYL Magazine
THRONES A book review by BABAJIDE HENRY ADEYEFA
and Fire”, then it's a watch, sworn never to c a s e o f m i s s i o n have families or many fulfilled. of life’s other pleasures, living only In a series of seven to defend the seven books (five of which k i n g d o m s f r o m have been released at dangers north of the the time of writing), Mr G r e a t w a l l . Y o u Martin creates addicts wander south to the to a world I cannot call lands of summer and fantasy- the north t h e b o u n t i f u l with its hard winters p l e a s u r e s o f t h e a n d h a r d e r m e n , deserts of Dorne. Mr Starks and Karstarks; Martin continually men of the Night's hints of Valyria, now a NAVIGATION
wasteland overtaken by some mysterious element called The Doom, but formerly surely a pinnacle of civilization. The tale is spun in a series of flashbacks with timelines regularly tossed to and fro, yet it is not confusing. It opens mainly with King Robert journeying to COVER
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the north to see his old friend and Warden of the North, Eddard Stark. He succeeds in dragging him back to the royal courts as “the King's Hand”, effectively, a second in command. Robert himself being better fit for winning a crown than actually keeping it, he reckons his loyal friend would be better to run his Kingdom whilst he
reveled and wined away his days. But the scheming and backstabbing of the royal courts would prove unsuitable to the cut of a h o n o u r a b l e Northerner like Eddard, leading to much bloodshed. Eddard would also seek the secret behind the death of the previous King's
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Popular Phenomena
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Hand.
What should hook you about this book? It's simple enough. After the first 100 pages or so, you will begin to befriend some characters, so much so you won't be able to wait to “see� them again (Tyrion Lannister, Jon Snow). Some, you may begin to develop a deep dislike for (like Sansa Stark). As you begin to recognize everyday people in these characters, you will see what this author has really done, and a book supposed to belong to the genre of fantasy will take on the appearance of a gripping reality show.
The setting will captivate you- you will live in Winterfell, fathoming and absorbing the hard men and ways of the North. You will abhor, yet be enthralled by the stiff formality and backstabbing of King's Landing. Towards the end of the book, you will hate yet respect the brutality with which Mr Martin ends the
A GAME OF THRONES
lives of your favourite characters. For in these tales, the author may seem like some god, and you, poor reader, will find yourself often begging for the lives of your new friends.
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A book review by BABAJIDE HENRY ADEYEFA
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Here is a small fact: you’re going to die. And thus begins a book that was described by the New York Times as “brilliant and hugely ambitious … the kind of book that can be life-changing.” They weren't lying. The story takes place before and during World War 2. Liesel Meminger is nine years old when she is taken to live with the Hubermanns on a street called Himmel (German for “Heaven”) in Molching, Germany. She arrives with few possessions, but among them is ‘The Grave Digger's Handbook’, a book she s t o l e f r o m a gravedigger at her brother's burial. Liesel's foster mother and father, Hans and Rosa Hubermann, treat her
well, though Rosa often insults Liesel affectionately, calling her a "dirty pig" (saumensch in German).
The first character we meet in the book is Death. Yup. Him of the hooded black cloak and scythe. Only, in his own words, “I do not carry a sickle or scythe. I only wear a hooded black robe when it's cold. And I don't have those skulllike facial features you seem to enjoy pinning on me from a distance. You want to know what I truly look like? I'll help you out. Find yourself a mirror while I continue.” And so Death defies all the stereotypes we have of him. He is amiable, affable and fair, and has a wry sense of humour. He is not nice, but, importantly, he does not glory in his task. He accepts it resignedly and follows the rules till he meets Liesel.
During the years that Liesel lives with the Hubermanns, she becomes a full-fledged book-thief. She rescues books from Nazi bookburnings and steals from the library of the mayor. Liesel is illiterate when she steals her first book, but Hans Hubermann uses her prized books to teach her to read. Liesel befriends the other children of Himmel Street, including Rudy Steiner, who is in love with her and is also her best friend. She helps a Jewish man named Max Vandenburg get back up on his feet. The story, interestingly, is told from Death's point of view. It doesn't get Liesel Meminger, an more entertaining than illiterate girl who has that! such a desire to read that she steals books, NAVIGATION
by OSEMHEN ELOHOR AKHIBI
Death describes thus: “She did not produce it easily, but when it came, she had a starving smile…” Meet her best friend, and partner in crime: Rudy Steiner. Rudy has hair the color of a lemon, is permanently hungry and is considered just a little crazy. Death describes him as
we have of the 2nd World War and the role of ordinary German citizens of that time. You say “WW2”, and I say “Holocaust”, “The Final Solution to the Jewish Problem”, “Nazi Occupation of previously free countries”. But Zusak introduces you to Germans, ordinary, working-class Germans, who found the war irritating,
“… the boy next door who was obsessed with the black-American athlete, Jesse Owens…He was not the junior misogynistic type of boy at all. He liked girls a lot, and he liked Liesel. In fact, Rudy Steiner… actually fancied himself with the ladies. Every childhood seems to have exactly such a juvenile in its midst and mists.” And meet, Liesel's beloved Papa: Hans Hubermann, an expert painter of houses, not pictures, and a not-soexpert accordion player. The sort of man who was good at not being noticed- unless you noticed his eyes. “They were made of kindness, and silver. Like soft silver, melting.” The book is classified by the publishers as Young Adult but the themes it deals with: friendship, courage, love, survival, death and grief are just as relevant to ‘older’ adults. It addresses some of the impressions COVER
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Author: Markus Zusak Year of First Publication: 2005 Publisher: Alfred A. Knopf (Imprint of Random House Children's Books) Genre: Juvenile Fiction Tags: Germany, History, 1933-1945, Juvenile Fiction, Books and Reading, Storytelling, Death, Jews, World War, 1939-1945, Jews, Rescue ISBN: 978-0-375-83100-3
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The first character we meet in the book is Death. Yup. ...in his own words, “I do not carry a sickle or scythe. I only wear a hooded black robe when it's cold...
And so you see a World War 2 that wasn't just about gas chambers and medical experiments on children, and Sobibor, Dachau and Auschwitz. You see a World War 2 where German teenagers were flogged for giving bread to starving Jews as they marched to their
concentration camps, where a family hid a Jew in their basement for months (under pain of imprisonment or execution) asking for nothing in return. If nothing else, Zusak provides a fresh perspective. In his own words, “I hope that readers of any age will see another side of Nazi Germany where some people did hide their Jewish friends to save their lives (at the risk of their own). If nothing else, there's another side that lives beneath the propaganda reels that are so effective decades on.” The
A REVIEW
characters are fictional, true. But the lessons they share of love, of kindness, of integrity are real-life ones. A word of advice to all of you going to read this book. You will cry. Most likely. It doesn't matter that I've warned you beforehand. It doesn't matter that by the end of the first three chapters you will already know the end. I promise you, you will read the last few chapters in tears, sobbing. If weeping embarrasses you, do not read this book in a public place. You have been warned.
Review: 5/5 The Book Thief was first published in 2005. It was written by Markus Zusak. He lives in Sydney, Australia with his family. Other works by the Author: Fighting Ruben Wolfe, Getting the Girl, I Am the Messenger. NAVIGATION
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by OSEMHEN ELOHOR AKHIBI
objected to Hitler's ideologies on no basis more reliable than common sense, and who pushed the envelope as far as they dared, and farther.
THE BOOK THIEF:
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In its Feb 19, 2011 editorial, “A fresh chapter is opening in Africa's history” the Guardian (London) observed: ”The African lions are finding their voice. A new generation of men and women has the a m b i t i o n a n d imagination to reshape the continent in their own image – confident, assertive, successful, bold and proud … The story of Africa is changing. And we will be spreading the news.” These days it seems a lot easier to pull up, from the internet, cheering news about Africa. The word “revolutionary”, when used these days regarding the continent,
is less likely to be referring to a 'revolutionary guard' than an expression of people power, or technological innovation. In “Digital Africa”, published in the Spring 2011 edition of The Economist's Intelligent Life magazine, J.M. Ledgard, the Economist's Nairobi correspondent, writes very knowledgeably about how undersea broadband cables and smartphones are helping transform a shackled continent into a wired one. A disturbing fallout of the increasingly prominent roles social media play in the political landscape is the general perception that
Facebook and Twitter are Africa's revolution factories. In reality, Africa's people, not Western technological inventions, remain her revolution factories, and these social media platforms are, and will remain, tools pressed into the service of a raging impulse for change. This impulse for change is manifesting itself in diverse ways. China is compelling America to redefine its dealings with Africa. Already the US Congress is debating on an Africa Investment and Diaspora Act (AIDA), which will open up new trade opportunities between African countries and the United States. In April 2010 the NAVIGATION
US and Nigeria launched a binational Commission. There is also a revolution happening in the fields of philanthropy and creative capitalism, primed to transform the continent into a laboratory of fresh ideas in everything from agriculture to health delivery. And these ideas will be as concerned about making a profit as they will be about fighting the tyranny of individual and communal poverty. Tony Elumelu, launched a foundation for the “promotion and celebration of excellence in business leadership and entrepreneurship across Africa.” The Tony Elumelu Foundation has just announced a partnership with Tony Blair's Africa Governance Initiative, to create a fellowship programme that will nurture a new generation of Africans who will bridge the often frightening divide between the private and public sectors. COVER
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The TEF provides a great example of the domino effects of a changing institutional terrain: improved corporate governance codes introduced by a reform-minded central bank compel a successful, longstanding CEO to step down, thus
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the old
currency of
Last year, in a column for L a g o s - b a s e d newspaper NEXT, I listed a number of 'lessons I’ve learnt from two years of trying to make sense of Nigeria. I wrote: “The truth is that government matters far more than we think. The global meltdown has further highlighted the importance of the government – bailou t s come from the state; the policies and laws that drive nations, or grind them into dust – are created by the state. Big business is good, billiondollar-earning banks and corporations are good, but government will always remain in the driver's seat.”
army and POLICE
treasury control has to
give way to the new
currency
of idea
-driven
Governance capitalism.
p h i l a n t h r o p y organisations working across Africa came together in Nairobi to “[set] an African Agenda for Philanthropy in the Continent” and to formally launch the African Grantmakers Network (AGN).
u n l e a s h t h e continent's creative and entrepreneurial potential. It did work in a number of instances – Nollywood is one of the finest examples; with no government support, a multimillion dollar global industry, it was created largely as part of the informal economy. However we soon start to think that our primary responsibility i s t o c r e a t e mechanisms for thriving outside of the government, when the bulk of our efforts and energy should be spent finding creative ways to strengthen the government and its institutions and to build more bridges between private drive and public policy.
It is this institution building that Barack Obama was referring to in his 2009 Accra, Ghana speech, when he said: “Africa doesn't need strongmen, it With the benefit of n e e d s s t r o n g hindsight, one of the institutions.” failings of the recent past was the bold push to completely circumvent inept governments, in a bid to
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But also (a new breed of) strongmen and women In truth, Africa 2.0 needs strong men and women, in addition to strong institutions, and Mr. Obama's words could do with some redefinition. When he says “Africa doesn't need strongmen”, it is evident that he means the kind of strongmen that have led her to where she is today – the Mobutus and Does and Abachas and Mugabes. The continent certainly needs a new breed of strongmen, operating on a redenominated currency: the old currency of army and police and treasury control has to give way to the new currency of idea-driven governance and capitalism. The possibility that in the near future a good number of African countries will no longer have to depend totally on earnings from natural resources will hopefully translate into a positive devaluation of centralised political power. The expansion of a class of strongmen entrepreneurs, scientists, news media professionals, etc - who do not owe their wealth (or its expansion) to easy access to oil blocs and diamond mines and political office, alongside the inevitable expansion of the middle class, will reduce the prospects of the kind of totalitarian control that once defined and destroyed the African continent.
Optimist illusions? In all of these, is there the looming danger of falling into an overly optimistic stance, regarding the future of the continent? African countries still have a long way to go, and the traumas and tragedy of centuries cannot be reversed overnight. COVER
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by TOLU OGUNLESI
And last November, for the first time ever,
'Institutions' matter...
and
creating an opportunity for him to explore previously uncharted territory (a Foundation) while simultaneously allowing a new generation of leaders to fill his role in the banking industry.
Most countries continue to face several challenges, not least of which are the dismal developmental indices – in health, education, power generation, etcetera. And yes, African countries continue to prove that there is little correlation between making plans and implementing change. Nigeria's postindependence history, for instance, is a graveyard of enthusiastically assembled government plans: four
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After decades of apathy, ordinary citizens are beginning to play more significant roles in the politics of their m o s t countries. recently , the inchoate Vision 2020. There is therefore, no evidence at hand to prove that Nigeria's Vision 2020, and the Kenyan and Namibian Visions 2030 will turn out to be anything more than downloadable pdf files. But we must pay
attention to one important fact: a changing (slowly, admittedly, but steadily) institutional environment. After decades of apathy, ordinary citizens are beginning to play more significant roles in the politics of their countries. People are realising the value of the “vote”, and there are more avenues for people to more closely monitor their leaders and to protest about the quality of leadership they're getting. This year alone, 'Nigerias parliament has passed, apart from the National Health
and FOI bills, unprecedented legislation on tobacco control, terrorism, and money laundering. And the country now has a Sovereign Wealth Fund – a sign that future oil revenues may be less likely to end up in Switzerland. A bill seeking to reform the corrupt petroleum industry by streamlining its confusing patchwork of laws, and compelling transparency, is also under consideration. The term “Africa 2.0” has been used to describe this new face of Africa. In my mind I see Africa 2.0 as a giant construction site. So much is going on simultaneously: sketching, assembling, pulling down, and dredging; amidst arguments and debates, some threatening to
t u r n v i o l e n t . Architectural plans are e m e r g i n g a n d disappearing and c h a n g i n g a s construction goes on, and accidents happen every now and then. But much as it looks like the tower of Babel, it isn't. While there remain different languages – literal (linguistic), legal, ideological - there's also the unifying 'pidgin' of hope, enthusiasm and hitherto-unseen opportunity – and technology is playing an important role in translating differences across borders and barriers.
There is no clear picture yet of what Africa 2.0 will look like, or when it will lose that frenzied constructionsite feel, but if you look closely enough you will see the new patterns and narratives slowly but confidently imposing themselves on the old.
First published under the above title in 3 Quarks Daily, on JUNE 20, 2011 http://www.3quarksdaily.com/3quark sdaily/2011/06/africa-20.html NAVIGATION
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by TOLU OGUNLESI
National Development Plans in the first 25 years of independence; one Health, Housing and Education for All by 2000 dream; one elaborately conceived Vision 2010 policy; a National Economic Empowerment and Development Strategy (NEE DS); and,
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ON MERGERS, by GBENGA AJIDE
You know what they say about strange bedfellows Microsoft + Nokia <COLLABORATION>
Let's face it: Apple Inc. seems to be the kid to beat in the consumer technology market today. In the quest to stay on top of their game, many tech companies are either merging or acquiring other companies. Some of the deals have been interesting while others have raised eyebrows. These happen to be my favorites:
Microsoft is pretty much the largest software company in the world while Nokia is undeniably the largest supplier of mobile phones in the world. A collaboration like this, on first hearing would make anyone think of world domination, but it's not as juicy as it sounds. These two companies have come together to help each other in departments they are both losing at. Microsoft's Windows mobile was one of the pioneers of the Smartphone operating system, alongside Palm's devices and Blackberries from the last decade. Now the game has changed. Thanks to the iPhone and Android devices, Microsoft has been left in the dust. Nokia, on the other hand, is having a hard time selling Smartphones because the competition, well, isn't smiling either. Before you can knock out the iPhones and the Androids, you'll need help from the big guy. And who is bigger than Microsoft, really? Nokia has agreed to run Microsoft's Windows 7 OS on their future models, while abandoning the Meego platform they were pursuing. With Nokia's reputation in hardware, Microsoft seeks to get its software, Windows Phone 7, into more hands and back into a market it once dominated. NAVIGATION
What makes this collaboration even more interesting is the fact that the current CEO of Nokia, Stephen Elop was once the head of the Business Division at Microsoft. Some say it's just the beginning of a master plan of total Nokia acquisition. Whatever it is, we'll be watching and I'd wager it will be entertaining.
Twitter + TweetDeck <ACQUISITION>
When was the last time you logged on to Facebook? Really? Many people spend more time on Twitter these days, and just go over to FB to see whose birthday is coming up so they can write on their wall or mention them in a tweet and wish them 'HBD'. Twitter sees huge waves of activity on a regular basis and one of the ways of keeping track of all this is with TweetDeck. From a free Adobe Air app for Windows, it has stretched its tentacles across, and is versatile on different platforms. Its sleek User Interface and no-nonsense approach to Twitter makes it a great application. The guys over at Twitter also have their own application across different platforms and this makes one wonder why they are handing over $40 million to acquire TweetDeck. Simple. TweetDeck has a large selection of users, which COVER
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ON MERGERS,
...the game has changed, thanks to the iPhone and Android devices...
by GBENGA AJIDE
means users would spend less time on Twitter.com. While Twitter.com gets paid for advertisements and sponsored trends, you don't see these on the Deck, where you have the choice of turning them off. With Twitter's acquisition of TweetDeck, it'll be able to reach users with the ads they get paid to show, and probably make the trending topics column a compulsory one. These are all speculations as to what else Twitter would gain from this deal besides taking TweetDeck out of the reach of UberMedia, who have tried to snatch them up once. As long as none of this affects my total tweet count, I'm not bothered.
Microsoft + Skype <ACQUISITION>
Once again, the giant shows up. In the bid to remain at the core of our everyday lives (à la Windows?), Microsoft has scooped up Skype, one of the biggest VoIP service providers, for $8.5 billion. Skype is now being run by the Microsoft Skype Division. Skype is crossplatform, which means even if you own a Mac or are running Linux, you'd still be ‘using’ Microsoft, as long as you have their software on your device. Skype has also been extended to mobile devices, which makes the acquisition more vivid. The integration of
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Skype with Windows Phone 7, Bing services and even Xbox Live (all Microsoft products and services), will be another on the list of good reasons to get a phone running Windows. Imagine a Windows Phone which comes with Skype preinstalled and allows you to make video calls to their contacts on Xbox live with the phone's front facing camera. Or attaching a voice activated Bing Maps search to a current video chat on Skype. There are tons of possibilities with integration of these services. One other good reason Microsoft should be glad about overpaying for Skype is the fact that they have taken it out of Google's reach. Google, another giant on its own, seems to be picking up anything in its path. Had it acquired Skype instead of Microsoft, it would've being a major disappointment for the software giant. Imagine a GoogleSkype-Android-Chrome combo. Could you pass it up? Ha-ha, they didn't think so either!
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While SMS may be the best thing since sliced bread, sitting at the very center of our digitally enabled lifestyles, but squeezing meaningful conversation into a handful of characters is not always possible. If you ever get tired of the 'u's and the 'gnyt's scattered all through your 'txt's, it may be time to give Whatsapp a try. Whatsapp is a messaging application for your phone, and enables you to send your contacts pictures, video and sound clips, bypassing the obscene costs associated with MMS, the enhanced version of regular text messages. It also elegantly combines the immediacy of an SMS with the richness of email, allowing you to use your mobile's Internet connection to stay in touch with your friends, taking full advantage of that fancy camera some of us rarely get to use. Whatsapp is available for most smartphones - as well as some notso-smart ones – including Nokia (both Symbian and non-Symbian models) as well as any Android phone, iPhone or Blackberry. You can download the application, so you can start sharing everything from pictures of your cat yawning to videos from your best friend's wedding.
KA
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SHAZAM Have you ever heard a song once and had it nag you all week because no one you knew seemed to know the title, or where to get it? That never has to happen again with Shazam, a mobile phone app that identifies whatever music you hold your phone against. While that is pretty cool in and of itself, Shazam goes a step further by giving you links to purchase the song, view the artists profile and tour dates, and so much more, including lyrics for those of us who fancy themselves singers – I am not pointing any fingers. I managed to track down some pretty obscure music from the sixties to quench my growing thirst for anything old. Now I can wow my friends with my astounding knowledge of early Rock n' Roll (though I'm not certain “wow” would be the word they'd choose). It's now easy for anyone to become a musical know-it-all or, or at the very least, a good impostor. Shazam is available for a wide variety of phone models as a free download with paid upgrades to enhance the features. Grab it for yourself at www.shazam.com
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HOW TO BE STREETSMART IN LASG IDI
Osemhen shares some survival tips for surviving in wild, crazy Lagos, and maybe having a little fun. 1.
If you have a foreign accent, lose it. At the very least, roughen it up a bit. Should Britain or America be heard in your voice, some might think, “Maga.” Or, “Weakling.” Or, “Omo'lowo.” Entertaining thoughts of shady characters trailing and mugging you yet? 2. Learn to shout, “OLE!” in a proper Nigerian accent. Do not shriek, “Thief’. Some people don't know what “thief’ is. Everyone knows what “Ole’ is. Practice shouting it in front of your bathroom mirror. If no one comes
running, shout louder. 3. When you walk on the road, (you should be on the left side), hold your bag on your left shoulder. That way some okada rider doesn't drive past and snatch it from you. 4. Avoid driving alone late at night. Police hotlines don't work like they should here, the police don't respond as quickly as they should either, and hospitals aren't as efficient as they should be. 5. If you have to take a motorbike, avoid the young riders with funky NAVIGATION
by OSEM HEN ELO HOR AK HIBII
hair-cuts, earrings and fresh faces, if you can. I’d go for grizzled, old men. They are more likely to have families who'll suffer if they die. And so less likely to show off stunts. 6. If you have to board a public bus, make sure your “OWA!” is working properly. Lagos busdrivers have a fondness for loud fuji music. And Lagos conductors are often distracted. COVER
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7.
Always be conscious of your phone. If you absolutely must leave it in your pocket, make sure the music is on, and your headphones are on your head. That way, if the music stops suddenly, you can exercise your “OLE” shouting muscles. See point number 2 above. Of course, headphones on your 8.
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17.
9.
10. 11. 12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
head pose a health risk. You will not hear everything happening around and behind you. Dangerous, considering that driving in the wrong direction on one-way roads is a norm in this part of the world. Weigh it. Your phone? Your femur? If you are beside an open window in a vehicle (or on an okada), do not play with your phone. It may be snatched out of your hands. Learn rudimentary Yoruba. Avoid calling the bluff of strangers. There is something called “onechance”. A good way to avoid falling prey is to take only buses that are parked in the garage/at the busstop. Not the ones who drive past, luring you, especially at night. When pricing taxi fares, start from N100 or N200 below half of the price the taxi driver names. Ditto for pricing stuff in the markets or in traffic. If you have an interview /appointment for 10 a.m., leave home 7 a.m. The Traffic can be evil like that. Always walk like you know where you're going. Brisk fashion. If you must ask directions, ask women traders or uniformed men. Take the BRT, the big red/blue buses as often as you can. They're comfy and you get a vantage view of the city that way.
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In traffic, you can buy everything you'll ever need; Food, drinks, furniture, literature, clothes … but be vigilant. Unless you have dry skin, you may skip the skin moisturizer. Lagos' proximity to the sea and all the rain ensures that you almost never have to worry about parched skin. Always have a smile and a funny remark at your disposal. You'll make friends in the oddest places; bus queues, in traffic, at checking counters. Underneath the gruffness, most people are friendly. Keep your camera ready and your eyes open. There's always a story going down. Funny signs, odd sights, petty thieves getting beat down. Be sharp. Lagos is a microcosm of Nigeria and there's a reason for that. Opportunities abound to make a name, a fortune, a difference. You should never be bored in Lagos. Ever. There's something for everyone. From plays/exhibitions for the cultural connoisseurs, to live football for soccer enthusiasts, to movies, shows/concerts to the informal gathering with buddies down the road. If you don't know what to do in your free time, ask Google! And finally, it's Lagos, pronounced LAY-GUS. Not LAHGOHS. :)
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KIM BANNERMAN
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Z is for zebra W for wand; Y, yarn; V for vendetta. KIM BANNERMAN
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My Mother’s Husbands
I arrive home from school and find my mother standing in front of our compound, watching two cocks fight. As the cocks pull each other's wattles, my mother winces as though she feels their pain. “You don come back?” She asks. “Oui, mama.” “Kábò.” “Why are you outside like this?” I ask. She looks at me from the corner of her eyes. A look that reminds me not to overstep. I don't. Usually, I am quick to apologize but today I do not—I don't feel like it. I bend down and pick a pebble. I throw it between
by ADAEZE WOSU
the cocks. They scurry away in unsteadily, flailing their wings. She looks at me and smiles and then puts her right arm around my thin shoulders. We walk into the building. She is my mother—this woman who strolls around the compound in a large yellow towel with nothing underneath, this woman who ignores the neighbors' gossip about NAVIGATION
how “she has no shame, exposing herself like that!” This is what I hate most about living here: the bathroom and pit latrine are outside the building. Everyone knows when you use the bathroom. I think this is especially embarrassing for women but she doesn't seem to mind! Thankfully, none of our neighbours is outside today. But things weren't always COVER
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like this. We didn't always live in this bedraggled building with the awful smelling bathroom that we have to share with ten other families. We used to live in Cotonou, my father's birthplace, in a rented two bedroom house—with a toilet and bathroom inside the house—until my father died six years ago. My mother could not afford the rent, so we moved to Lagos, to this part called Dopemu, where she now sells biscuits, salt, detergent and toilet paper out of a small shop.
I usually meet her there after school, but she didn't go today, so I came home right after. We walk through the hallway, past several doors, to the last door on the right. She pushes and we enter. I place my schoolbag on one of two plastic chairs in the room and slump into the other. We have a table, cupboard and bed and on the table are bottles of beauty products, a sewing machine, plates, cups, and utensils. My mother carefully sits on the bed. She does not
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...what I hate most ...Everyone knows when you use the bathroom.
...we speak to each other, in assembled bits of Yoruba, pidgin, and French.
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hungry?” She asks. “Non.” I shake my head, a little too vigorously. “If you hungry, beans dey pot,” she reaches under the bed and brings out her shoes. As she wears them, she notices a spot—just above the heel—that she missed while applying lotion. She wets a finger with saliva, rubs it on the spot. “Okọ mi, my husband,” she calls me with a smile, “please choose earrings for me to wear and bring out my eye-pencil too.” I go to the table and open the drawer of our sewing machine. I pick a navyblue eye-pencil and a pair of hoop earrings and hand them to her. She searches behind the bed and brings out her purse. Out of the purse emerge her tiro and a miniature mirror. She looks into the mirror and draws thick eyebrows like those of those women in afrobeat videos, and then expertly applies the tiro on her eyelids, without a speck on the whites of her eyes, or eye lashes. She outlines the contours of her lips with the eyepencil and presses her lips together, and then
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she rubs them vigorously above each other. She looks in the mirror one more time and makes sure her lips are perfect before returning the articles to the purse. “I go come back for morning. Lock door then go chez Iya Gloria—” She repeats instructions that, over the last few days, have become a litany. I will spend the night at Iya Gloria's while my mother will spend it, the first time we have ever been apart overnight, with her new husband. Last week, he came with his people and paid her bride price. I might have liked him, except that he wore an agbada that did little to hide his inflated stomach. She asked him to give her three weeks before we would move in with him. I wondered why she was visiting him just after two weeks. When I tried to ask her the reason for the early visit last week, she had given me that “don'toverstep” look.
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My Mother’s Husbands She hangs her purse on her shoulder and takes one last look in the mirror. She asks me to walk her through the hallway. When we reach the front of the compound, we see one of the fighting cocks has been caged while the other picks around freely, a hen following close behind. I look at the caged cock. I scowl. I want to shout, “why didn't you fight harder, you weak stupid chicken?!” We hug. She doesn't let go. “You know say I love you pass everything, abi?” She says as she rubs my head and looks into my wet eyes. I nod. “A
by ADAEZE WOSU
want to rumple the paying special attention clothes that she laid out to her neck. After she puts on undergarme nts, I can look at her again. I ask a question I remember from the day before, during recess: earlier that day. She looks at the clock “ Qui vient en premier, Maa mi? La Nouvel hanging on the wall. A n n é e o u d e “Almost three o'clock. Keresimesi." Fifteen minute more,” She thinks briefly, smiles she says, minute spoken and then says, "Ahn, ahn, in French. This is how we New Year ". speak to each other, in “Maa mi est intelligente.” assembled bits of Yoruba, We laugh. Sometimes, I pidgin, and French. The underestimate my droplets on her shoulders mother. I had failed the trickle down as she unties question—which comes her towel. I look into my first? Christmas or New school-bag, as though I Year? “Christmas,” I had am searching for shouted. A classmate something. I bring out my had explained that New notebook on which I have Year comes in January, written details about and Christmas in myself. December. She stands to wear her Jide Bernard clothes. The iro, then the 11 years old buba. Well starched, Primary 6 they sound like paper. Next, she applies talcum My mother grabs a powder under her armpits, then on her face. She looks into the mirror that hangs above the bed, and then turns to me. “Good,” I say and force a mango scented lotion smile. from the table and “You dey alright?” She applies it on her body, asks. I nod. “You
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bientôt mon bébé. I go see you for morning.” I watch her travel down the dusty road until she's a blur. When I get to the room, I eat beans straight from the pot, with my unwashed fingers, with a strange intensity. And as I eat, tears pour, like violent April rains.
Glossary: “Kábò.”: Welcome
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DANCE AT TWILIGHT NAVIGATION
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THE WORLD VIA LAGOS Signboard showing directions to the Murtala Mohamed Airport, Ikeja
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AMARIA Bridal dance, Warri, Nigeria.
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ABUJA BY MORNING Scenic road at Wuse Zone 5, Abuja
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THREE WISE MEN Grain silos at Pyanko Village, Nassarawa
Photo Credit: ©Olanike Faroun for David Craig Photo Studios™ NAVIGATION
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SITHABISO ALICE DUBE
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FAMILY PORTRAIT
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PETER-BEN FEMI ANIFALAJE
STILL STREAM CENTERPACS RESORTS, SHERWOOD FOREST, SHERWOOD Centerpacs Resorts, Sherwood Forest, Sherwood On my way back from a Long day and saw this stream close to my condo
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PETER-BEN FEMI ANIFALAJE WATER CHILDREN (1) SOUTHBANK CENTER, LONDON Was at The Southbank Centre in central London for a concert and just outside some kids were playing in water. I love these shots from the afternoon of fun around this fountain
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PETER-BEN FEMI ANIFALAJE THE WALKWAY UXBRIDGE, LONDON I can't recount how many times I have walked through this alleyway in my neighbourhood and sometimes it can be as haunting as it can be bland and boring. This over-cast day, there was something eerie about it.
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PETER-BEN FEMI ANIFALAJE WIRE FENCES UXBRIDGE, LONDON Walking around my neighbourhood one evening, I found this site with wire fences all around it. I tried working around the wires to be able to get this image and it was rewarding to get his eventually.
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PETER-BEN FEMI ANIFALAJE THE MIX ENGINEER EALING, LONDON I was recording pianos for a friend in a studio and when the engineer started mixing the parts, I started taking idle photos. This one happens to be the one I loved the most capturing the engineer in his technical habitat!
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FEMI ABIMBOLA
IFE IYA [MOTHER’S LOVE] Water colour on paper. NAVIGATION
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TWO GIRAFFES
FEMI ABIMBOLA
Water colour on paper. NAVIGATION
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Welcome Africa Seeking Sensuality In Lagos Dzimbadzemabwe New Arrivals Chop Money Imagining A Snomg Day Lasgidi State Of Mind Poor Town Phantom Habitant Homecoming
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by OLUKE
MI LAWA
I reach down into the fluid void inside; reach down, down beneath the noise of everyday I am all your eyes and and the masks of all I all your ears and all may, nay, must be for your hearts have seen a piece, of me. I grasp and heard and felt. I at it, watch it almost am all your thoughts. slide out of reach and Why does it amaze grab again desperately, you, amuse you so, snatch the corner for a that I have walked your sticky fragment, tug on paths and laughed your it to draw the sticky tail laughs and stayed the out like a line, same: my honey inside fascinated by its my chocolate against formed lack of form. your milk? My pain beside your prejudice inside your pride.
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NI
Why is it hard for you
to see I am the one you want? My children, blood and sweat â&#x20AC;Ś my tears, my laughter? You have stolen it, and borrowed it, and received. And you have risen- but I remain: the blood that flows in your children's veins, the print on your fingers, the oil on the wheels of your progress, the heart in your head, the river that returns to me.
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by TOSIN OTITOJU
Away from your Mediterranean Ocean spray Kiss behind the ear Freshness The generator groans On my last nerve When rain noises start rush, shroosh Rise in loud clapping (papapapa) Drown out the nuisance. A wrong is righted.
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Perhaps that drum beating so loudly echoes the voice of a distant land. It sings of painDelicately sweet. Deadly. They still hum and dance to its tunesway in its harmonies. It's the only song they know. The melodies of their roots- Ekaya.
2 1.
The harmonies ascend to the heavens escaping to angels. Like dust they rest up above on broken wings. Secretly blown back to this earthmy home. Dust, soil, earth, rock, stone Dzimbadzemabwe Home. My fingers caress the contours of this map Zimbabwe I touch places only heaven can explain. Mysterious Chinhoyi caves The stories from Boterekwa The Great Dykeand the savanna art of Mana Pools.
Sand and mountainswater, lakes and rivers.
3.
Tears soak the delicate smooth edges One can almost hear the echoes as they resonate from many secrets Secrets held by Eastern highlands and Matopos hills. Perhaps that mbira playing so loudly echoes the voice of a distant land. Sweeping over the thoughts of 2Matabeleland and (2)Mashonaland. Home. She screams! “The smoke that thunders” weepsdared by sunsets to “break”Soil, earth, rock, stone- Home 3Dzimbadzemabwe.
GLOSSARY 1. Mbira: the mbira (also known as Likembe, after its inhabitants, the Ndebele people. Mbila, Thumb piano, Karimbao or Kalimba, Mashonaland: A region in northern Zimbabwe. sanza) is a musical instrument consisting of It is the home of the Shona people. a wooden board to which staggered 4. D z i m b a d z e m a b w e : T r a n s l a t e d metal keys have been attached. Mbira has from the Karanga dialect of Shona as "large been played by the Shona people of houses of stone". It is suggested that the name Zimbabwe for thousands of years. "Zimbabwe" originated from this. 2. CHINYOHI CAVES Background picture: “The smoke that 3. Matabeleland: The west and s o u t h - w e s t thunders” also known as VICTORIA FALLS: of Zimbabwe, divided into three provinces: waterfall located on the Zambezi River Matabeleland North, Bulawayo and between the countries of Zambia and Matabeleland South. The region is named Zimbabwe.
by YOLANDA LINDSAY MABUTO
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Yankee Doodle came to town Riding on a pony. Caught a glimpse of silk stocking And since ceased to be holy.
Yankee poodle came to town In a cabriolet. When he gently polished it, Some took him for the valet.
Yankee Beadle came to town From rural Alabama To find clothes that had designers And cost over a dollar.
by TOSIN OTITOJU
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Yankee Chukwu came to town With a brand new visa. How strange that every Nigerian Is his brother or sister.
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Lagos is where madness lives, where it spawns & harbors its proud and impatient offspring.
I am a legal member of the Lagos family, and in fact, one to look up to in those characteristic regards. Born Akolade Bello, the second of Alhaji Bello's sixth wife's three children, it appeared I was the jinx my family never saw coming. My father's vast money pyramid leveled out the year I was born,
ensuring his hatred for my mother, Rifqoh, who gave him an accursed son. Things got worse as I grew older, and when my younger sister was just four years old, a spiritual consultant and specialist in the analysis of woes and their origins instructed my father to estrange us, for I was the Jonah in their sinking financial ship. He said I was the one devouring the essential fabric of the family's riches.
“Sun dey hot, abeg, make we reach that joint2, na”
“You know there's too much money! Who needs to borrow some money?” I answered in Yoruba as I laughed and nudged him shoulder to shoulder. His face was glowing, making it obvious that he either had a fresh business idea or he was just starting to get fresh about some girl. He never seemed to have qualms about cheating on his girlfriend Nofisat.
Razak 'Paparazzi' Adeola, my bosom friend, led the way from the motor-park to the meal-andtavern shanty across the street. As we crossed the busy road, he sang a song about money, a very popular song that had glued itself like a leech to the top charts for three weeks.
“Paparazzi! Wetin dey sharpen1?” I inquired
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As Mama used to say before her demise, whatever money we received was from God.
“Chop Money!”, Razak hailed me, jolting me from my reverie.
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I had cried for weeks, while my mother encouraged me, but my role was swiftly upgraded to that of the Man of the House. I had to source for funds to support my mother and sisters. I used to work hard on the farm, sweat it out fishing at the lake, and bring fish and crops home for Risi, my elder sister, to sell at the
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I read the message I was now familiar with. It was boldly inscribed using black paint in a funny scrawl on the wall, presumably by Madam Nwabuzo, the manager and chief executive officer. market. Mama, with little Fatima's help, ran a petty shop in the very same room we slept at night. There had been no further notice from Papa, he had been warned not to support us, lest he be buried under indescribable ruin. As Mama used to say before her demise, whatever money we received was from God. As we stepped into the crude and dark shack, I
squinted and chuckled as I read the message I was now familiar with. It was boldly inscribed using black paint in a funny scrawl on the wall, presumably by Madam Nwabuzo, the manager and chief executive officer. “I prefear rich honesty. Is becasue the God naira is more better than any devil dollar.” Well, for me, it appears I have been spending
CHOP MONEY by KOLA OYEKOLE
the devil's money in recent times, but in the naira. What need I do to get some of his dollars, then? Razak placed his order, “Pounded yam as usual! Egusi. You get anything chewable join?” The young waitress replied, “For now. Yes, at least. We are having goat-meat, cow-meat, ponmo, egg, fish.” Razak replied in Yoruba, relieving her NAVIGATION
burden “Give me 3 beef internals, 2 pieces of goat-meat and 2 roundabouts. Add one ponmo. Ensure you don't put fish, I don't want fish!”, staring at me knowingly as he yelled the last part. The guilty are afraid. I plainly nodded at the girl, indicating an equal request while I wondered why Razak was spending so much money this morning. Razak's dire disdain for fish started some weeks after I met him, COVER
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many years ago. He was a rich kid who had been privileged to start school a month before then. We had been playing our variant of two-man soccer, kicking a half-eaten mango around. As we lay exhausted on the street, he started to boast about what his science teacher told him the previous day. His talk had sparked an idea in my less pedantic mind, and the next day we invested all our
savings in a bottle of concentrated industrial herbicide. We went to the lake that night and emptied the bottle into it, forcing thousands of fish to float upwards for air within one hour. That night, we emptied all the water-pots outside our homes and filled them with the booty. At dawn, Razak and I moved the fish to a neighboring village, and I hid while Razak
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CHOP MONEY by KOLA OYEKOLE
he became glamorous in school and I nicknamed him Paparazzi, a name that spread like wildfire. I glanced at him as if to match his face with his nickname, negotiated with a distributor. He bought the whole lot, thinking he was getting a good deal off the kid. When inquiries of sickness began rolling out from that village, no fisherboy in our village matched Razak's description. So once again, the distributor bought the whole lot. That single project brought in so much money between Razak
and me that I was able to pay the village school fees and start school, and also buy goods to stock our small shop, as well as clothes, shoes and other gifts for Mama & my sisters. As for Razak, he bought expensive jewelry & clothes which he hid from his parents. That was when he became glamorous in school and I nicknamed him Paparazzi, a name that
spread like wildfire. I glanced at him as if to match his face with his nickname, only to discover that food had been served. “Oh! Now, you're back!!” guffawed Razak in my face as he conquered another mound of pounded yam. “I see. Finally, women have started getting through to you. I been think say u be NAVIGATION
Zuma rock3?”, he continued with his mouth full and laced with fits of laughter. I chuckled to appease him, washed my hands and set to the task, journeying into the pounded yam while Razak lectured me about women and what they love to do whenever they get tired of incessant aimless talk with a man they're COVER
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in love with. I'm three years older than Razak, shiny knives. Razak but I'm by far more would restrain me naive in the ways of the f r o m c o m m i t t i n g world. I recall when Risi murder, and the man asked me to help her would pay tons of keep a thousand naira, cash for attempting to a gift from a certain disgrace my sister. It man who had smiled a c t u a l l y w o r k e d . too much at her in the Probably too well. market that day. I was enraged and asked her I almost went mad for to return it. Razak, on real when we barged the other hand, said I in as planned and saw was being childish, they were almost au laughed about it for naturel. Razak was so some seconds, then certain there couldn't suddenly paused in the have been any smoke characteristic jackpot from the man's fires m a n n e r h e d i d yet, but I was beside whenever he had a myself already. In brainwave. He laid out retrospect, I don't a plan, but I didn't like it, think I could have though the rewards better acted the part were enticing. Risi was of the murderously to encourage the man infuriated brother that she was home bathed in sweat and a l o n e a n d n e e d e d ready to be bathed in company, and when a stranger's blood, the man A drop of sweat left my arrived, forehead and kissed the Paparazzi a n d I bottom of the empty w o u l d aluminum plate in front enter the room of me. Only then did I forcefully and g o w i l d , realize that I had finished brandishing eating.
CHOP MONEY
too.
by KOLA OYEKOLE
A drop of sweat left my forehead and kissed the bottom of the empty aluminum plate in front of me. Only then did I realize that I had finished eating. “… So my brother. You must be careful o! Women are even more wicked now than when the world was born.”, concluded Paparazzi. He was oblivious of the fact that I hadn't been listening. I sighed and sharp something”, stared at him. Razak replied. “Mr. Lecturer! Abi na Minister for Women P a p a r a z z i a l w a y s Affairs? Sho, you still claims that I'm the never tell me wetin dey smarter one, but many sef, na so so woman times I have wondered if his I.Q. isn't higher than tori!” mine as regards “Chop Money!! You gracefully lessening the suppose dey take life weight of other people's easy sometimes. Okay I pockets. He was the one get deal for us. Sharp- who told me of the prestigious Lagos University scholarship award, and I recall how, in a bid to win, I studied for my O'level exams like
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commuter at the Agege motor-park – a bus driver when it's my shift and a tout otherwise. I've never bothered returning to school or re-writing those exams. Away with them … “Let me hear what you have to say, I'm all ears”, I replied Razak coolly in English.
a hungry wildfire in a dry of a scholarship melting forest. I found all the feature by feature like a exams easy, but my packed snowman results suddenl “Ki ni big deal?”, I asked him. w e r e withhel “Haha! I was just coming to d by the that, relax!!”, he said. Then national he lowered his voice and examinin g b o d y . said, “I'm thinking bigger T h e y this time.’ y dematerialized to a believed such a street, supervised by distinctive result could the hot Nigerian sun, so not have sprouted from I wrote letters of appeal such an underclass and petition, requesting public school. There had the release of the to have been some results. With the help of e x a m i n a t i o n my school principal, the malpractice or insider best I could get back corrupt action. I didn't from the examination want to see my chance body was seven results, NAVIGATION
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all distinctions, while the more important ones – Mathematics and English language – remained withheld. I can remember the zonal e x a m i n a t i o n coordinator saying to my face that there was no way on earth I could have had those scores, especially in those two subjects. So I stayed there, way in hell, for 18 months while Razak's parents paid and got him into university. Here in that hell, I'm a
“Yepa! Chop Money!! Na me you dey blow grammar for?”, Razak asked, as if pretending an exchange in our actual lifestyles and occupations. Then he grinned and told me what was on his mind. He wanted to move some cushions from the Republic of Benin by bus into Nigeria. Even though I
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knew the cushions would be stuffed with – last time we did such a job, it was marijuana – something or the other, this project was too plain, too simple. There had to be intrigue somewhere. Some intricacy, some guile. Some 'paparazzi', as Razak would say. “Ki ni big deal?”, I asked him. “Haha! I was just coming to that, relax!!”, he said. Then he lowered his voice and said, “I'm thinking bigger
this time. 1 gramme of cocaine is $100. When it becomes crack, it's $30,000 per kg. The original coca leaves are just $1 per kg. These border guys don't even know how it looks like. We will fill some of the cushions and put foam in all the others. Sammy is back. He will process the leaves for us.” I looked at him incredulously. Sammy was a former classmate who, four years ago, claimed that he would go to Bolivia to find out
how cocaine is prepared, and he would set up his own factory in Nigeria. “Trust me, I have seen him. We have worked everything out. He's very rich now, he even has a helicopter. In his house, he has small machines that he fabricated locally for the production. He was the one who even gave me the contact for his associate in Benin Republic”, assured Paparazzi. “Great. So since you have everything NAVIGATION
mapped out, what do you need me for?” I inquired. “But why? Your face is well trusted at the border. If they see unknown faces, more suspicion will be thrown on us”, he replied, then added with a smile, “And it's not that I know any better driver in Lagos!” I didn't like the whole trust idea, it sounded like I was a pawn in this case. Like my familiarity with the border police officers was being used COVER
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to gain an edge. But maybe I was just uncomfortable because Razak had planned the whole thing before coming to tell me. We had never worked that way before. We finalized plans. I borrowed a friend's bus and placed two extra pairs of tires in the boot. “Safety. We can't start trying to fix tires on our way, it is risky”, I told Razak when he asked. Then we set off, prepared to purchase some exotic cushions
for a multinational company in Lagos. We got to Benin in the late evening, met Sammy's business partner and spent a good part of the night stuffing the ten differential cushions. The policemen I knew were on night duty so we passed the border on our way back into Nigeria that night without hassles. When we had safely gotten inside Nigerian territory, Razak requested that we rest for the night. Then we had some drinks and
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I lay face down as I saw the vandals dousing the bus with gasoline, and then igniting the wet vehicle. When they were satisfied, they got into the jeep, put ...bullets in the windscreen, and sped off. three of us knew how many cushions were prepared. Violently inflamed, one of them wanted to shoot me, but I pleaded with the one I saw standing aloof looking like the boss. I begged him to spare me, saying I was only a driver and I didn't know what was in the special cushions. He consented and told them to burn up the bus instead. I lay face down as I saw the vandals dousing the bus with gasoline, and then igniting the wet vehicle. When they were satisfied, they got into the jeep, put four
trademark bullets in the burning vehicle's windscreen, and sped off. I got up and ran to the back of the bus to salvage what I could, carrying them off and running them into the sands to quell the fire. My driver's license and empty wallet were in the front seat but I didn't care about them right now. Thanks to the fact that Razak is a heavy sleeper, I had woken up at night to empty the ten precious cushions and fill them with guava leaves from a tree close by. After this, I had removed the tubes from NAVIGATION
the four extra tires, and poured the expensive leaves into the tubes through a slit I made in them. Then I had covered the slits with adhesive tape and replaced the tubes in the four tires. After two hours of work, I had gone back to sleep. The extra tires were badly burnt, but the tubes were safe. So I removed a thin muslin bag I had folded in my back-pocket for this very purpose, removed the adhesive tape on the tubes and emptied their contents into the muslin bag. Hoisting the bag on my back, I COVER
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was ready to go. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Where do you think you're going with that bag?â&#x20AC;? boomed a strange voice and I looked back in shock.
CHOP MONEY
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slept in the open. When I received a rude hard kick in my ribs I opened my eyes and the sun scolded me for waking up late in the morning. Razak was nowhere to be found and all I saw was a jeep and four masked gun-toting scoundrels in black tshirts, jeans and heavyduty boots. They roughly commanded me to show them the ten special cushions but when I looked there, the cushions were gone. Razak had doublecrossed me! Obviously Sammy's contact in Benin Republic had sent these men to doublecross us as well- only
GLOSSARY 1
2 3
Wetin dey sharpen?: Nigerian pidgin colloquialism meaning, 'What's happening?' Joint: generally, eating or drinking place. Zuma rock: large monolith located in Niger state, Nigeria, very close to the Federal Capital territory, Abuja.
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Electricity goes out all over campus. So do the phones, and gas, an d water. A few trees fall under the weight of the snow and students get out of their houses looking for their frie nds. For a few hours, everything falls sile nt, and dark, just like the ve ry first days before th e invention of the matchstick. Silence, except for the hush conversations of bewildered resident s, and loud thunderstorm s. Evening. We find a few firelighters, and big pots, and dry wood from falling trees... and one rand om deer with enticing antlers
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caught hopping around the village. Then a bunch of geese, and a good cooking recipe, in the open earth. We make a big circle at a dry spot overlooking the lake and a hundred residents gather around in the snow around a large fire wearing thick clothing and holding cutlery in both hands. In them a bellyful of roasted venison, salt and pepper; in their heart a bunch of stories, and wine, and loud guffaws into the night ... :)
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by by O OLA LAN NIR IRA AN NA AD DED EDA AP PO OA AIS ISID IDA A
They say New York is the concrete jungle where dreams are made …and there's nothing you can't do, when you are in New York... NAVIGATION
...But they haven't spent days travelling from the slums of Makoko to the grandeur of Banana Island, from the exrowdiness of Oshodi to the quiescence of Mayfair Gardens. They haven't been held up in traffic and caught up COVER
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between the latest Eclass sitting on 22's and that old Toyota Corolla overloaded with tomatoes, experiencing the gulf in class between rich and poor.
Okada rider with a bucket on his head almost get run over by the bus driver who tries to escape squeezing his hard earned cash into the palms of an unofficial law keeper. It's an They haven't seen the e x p e r i e n c e t h a t
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removes the ceiling from your dreams and breeds ingenuity in every occupant: young or old, male or female. It's a day to day hustle in a city that never sleeps and shouldn't catch you slipping. A city where we build churches next to clubs so we can run to God after rocking hard to the gbedu of much loved naija sounds at champagnepopping bars on the Island. Shallow ones like Shawn Carter think "life starts when church ends", but Jesus can still save them. They say the streets make you feel brand new and big lights will inspire you, when you are in New York... But they haven't slept without
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power. They haven't journeyed those dark roads where only your dim headlights lead the way and abnormal driving has become the norm. A view of Femi Otedola's yacht on the banks of civic centre as you pass the 3rd mainland bridge inspires you to wake up with the mosquito bites, put on your KolaKuddus Couture and do it all again - going further, going farther, going harder with the hustle. Temperatures rise and the air don't move. We sweat even when we sleep, BEAT THAT. We don't need the lights to inspire us, we are an inspired bunch that was once classed the happiest on the face of the earth. We never let situations beat us black and blue or dent our beautiful faces. We are God's own - there is no other way to explain it.
â&#x20AC;&#x153;LASGIDIâ&#x20AC;? STATE OF MIND
If you can make it in eL city, you can make it anywhere...
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by OLANIRAN ADEDAPO AISIDA
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Tired old men will look down from verandahs And the young ladies will have furtive baths in the open At dawn, Then leave disguised in their bright dresses. It's a country of poor people in a party. The rich only visit The emancipated only forget,
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by TOLU OLORUNTOBA
And the labourers, hid by day and night Arise.. The young wake up grown The grown wake up old, Left behind to watch the traffic: The new grown off, To find lovers and music The children clueless but learning
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In this land of costume, An emerald set in grime On this defiant fist of being. Calabar has no secrets at dawn.
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by YOLANDA LINDSAY MABUTO
Vivid, so bright- perhaps honestycourageous, bold, assertive- the platter of his beauty. A cluster of secret swords lay in his path embedded in his emblem of a fading past. Resurrected from past sinspast fate he stands still at the frames of a forbidden gate. Locked in the uniqueness of his pride- frail ego tamed not- by the undulations of fear- high, high not low. He is- who he is- the way he walks, the way he talksHis soundbut one may never find the rhythmless tunes- in which his soul was found.
I may not know his past- his present- as much as he I can not trace- the clarity from what I've seenhowever effortless- powerful his destiny. Locked in the uniqueness of his pride- frail ego tamed not- by the undulations of fearhigh, high not low. His music is ablazelike a desert fire. Beating to the shivers of this earth- mother gaia He sings not of fortune or famerobbed- adorned stealth but he drips in the notes of a mere sarcastic wealth.
He is- who he is- the way he walks, the way he talks- His soundbut one may never find the rhythmless tunes- in which his soul was foundI may not know the priceless memories he has gainedbut elusive the contours that trail in all he has made. NAVIGATION
creeping in the myths of a sacred habitatthis phantom habitant.
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GREEN
Lara was coming home. Home.
The road stretched out before her, ten kilometers of tar that ran straight through the woods she had played in as a child. It wasn't a busy road; one of the military administrators had gotten it into his head to build a resort in their tiny town, seized a huge parcel of land, cleared it, and built this road to run directly to it. The dictator's death had seen him replaced. His civilian successors were a
lot less enthusiastic. The land was overgrown once again, and all that remained of his dream was this magnificent road that led nowhere special. If Guare wasn't your home, that is. It was hers. And she wondered how she NAVIGATION
could have found it in her to leave. That tree. Behind it, the monkeys. Childhood memories played before her eyes ... as if on cue, a guenon called out in a high pitched squeal, and then watched her inquisitively from the branches of the almond trees. Soon, a COVER
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family of monkeys was can't kick me out. It's my cooing and squealing house too. Even that from the trees. thought hurt. That she might need to play the Family. Home. Soon. legitimacy card. Now. The tar gave way to a She took a deep breath, dirt road that stopped changed gears, pressed in front of the house hard on the gas. I have she was born in. Her nothing to lose. They heart hammered away,
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but she schooled her features, and stepped out of the car. The street lay deserted, expectedly. It was 10.21 am, Sunday morning. Everyone except the very old and infirm would be at church, the same one her uncle was Pastor of. And it pleased her. She didn't want to have to face the prying eyes, the pity, perhaps. Not just yet. She didn't want to explain to the people she'd grown up with how she had gone from Pastor's ward to the Nollywood darling with megaendorsements and celebrity lovers, to the one with a criminal conviction for drug peddling. The black front gate was unlocked, as always. She pushed it open, and stepped into the front yard. Everything is the same. Everything. Five years, and she had been scared to imagine what could've changed. It was selfish, yes, but all she wanted was the thick-socks-and-old-sweaters familiarity of home. And she was grateful for the permanence. There, the tire swing swayed from the strongest branch of the almond tree. Uncle Kay had put that up when she was 5, and Tomiwa, 6. And behind it, Aunty Sumbo's 'garden' that had never, ever produced flowers worthy of the name, despite her aunt's valiant efforts. And there … on the front porch. Aunty Sumbo herself, knitting. Everything. But something wasn't right. Lara advanced, resisting the urge to run the last few metres. Her aunt didn't call out, or register her surprise. And as Lara climbed the stairs to the porch, she realized why. Auntie Sumbo turned blind eyes in her direction. Is that you, Tomiwa?”
Lara's throat clogged. All her self-pity went out in a soft sigh. “Oh! Aunty Sumbo, it's me. It's Lara.”
Sumbo? Why wasn't I told?” “Would it have made any difference?” “I'd have been here. You'd have seen me. You …” The words wouldn't come.
Her aunt blinked unseeingly, gasped. “Lara?”
“You had your life…”
And she fell into her arms. “Yes. Why, Auntie
“You're part of it!” She was angry now. “You can't just leave me out…”
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“We thought it was what you wanted.” “How could it be?!” “I'm glad you're home, Lara.” Her aunt said simply. “We missed you.”
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“You could have called to tell me, I would've come!” “Welcome, Lara.” “It's not fair! The one time I leave to do something for me! Me! The one time! That's when this happens and nobody thinks to let me know!” She dashed angry tears from her eyes. She couldn't tell if the tears were for her aunt's disability, the way she'd been kept in the dark, or for herself, so wrapped up in her world, she hadn't bothered to check. Or for the forgiveness she sensed from her aunt, for being so…so…Aunty Sumbo. “Omo mi, k'aa bo1.” “No!” She had expected many things. This was Aunty Sumbo, of the fiery tongue, and scathing remarks. Lara had expected the recriminations, the I-told-you-sos to fall fast and heavy. She could fight then, and justify leaving in the first place. “Did you come all this way to fight me, Lara?” Her voice was quiet, but she was smiling through the tears that glazed her eyes. All the fight went out of Lara. “No.” She shook her head slowly. “No.” Her aunt held out her arms and she went again into her embrace. “We all missed you, Lara.”
It was the sincerity in her aunt's voice, or perhaps the realization that she was home, away from it all, that broke her down. She cried then, Aunt Sumbo rubbing her back soothingly all the while, just like she had years ago. Lara wanted to ask her if she believed all she must have heard, wanted to apologise for leaving. She wanted to yell YOU WERE RIGHT. NAVIGATION
And she would have, had Aunty Sumbo not asked, amusement colouring her tone. “Lara, when last did you wash your hair?”
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_All that the Father giveth me shall come to me; and him that cometh to me I shall in no wise cast out. Jesus, in John's Gospel. John, 6:37 KJV NAVIGATION
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KLOROFYL Magazine
Overjoyed. Overawed. Inspired. Mugged. Homeless. Alone. Loved.. Bewildered. Resolute. ...Snapshots. Friendship. Poverty. Opportunity. Discovery. Triumph. Music. The Grind. Traffic. Art. Epiphanies. Life & Death. ...Paradoxes. Futuristic. African...
Klorofyl Magazine is now accepting submissions towards its third issue,
'The City Issue'. What's your interpretation of the theme? What's the city about? What's your city about?
Let's hear. Let's see. Send 'em in.
Your experiences, musings, observations, art, articles…Writing, graphic art and photography (and even stuff out of the ordinary) are welcome, but do check out the submissions guidelines first [http://klorofyl.com]. You may also send your submissions straight in to our submissions box: sub [at] klorofyl [dot] com or submit on the submissions page of the site. Entries will be accepted till midnight(GMT) on October 15, 2011.
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