Tọ́pẹ́ Fọlárìn’s debut novel A Particular Kind of Black Man, previously titled The Proximity of Distance, was very easy to read. Crisp sentences and accessible language. The novel, which is a kind of meditation on identity, memory, and the definition of home, continues the conversation started with his two previous short storiesMiracle (2013) and Genesis (2016), both nominated for the prestigious Caine Prize for African Writing (the former winning the top prize in 2013). The writer is fascinated with this subject — many would say because he has lived it — telling me in an interview after his first short story was shortlisted that “I’d love to inaugurate—or at least continue—a conversation about identity, and how we all share an essential desire to ‘place’ people.”
This is a fair place to begin, and — as he stubbornly, inexplicably, continues to insist — the best point from which to interrogate this book. This context was not always welcomed in the past.
The novel begins, like Genesis did, with “the elderly white woman with frizzled gray hair” who looked at a young black boy in Utah and dangled to him what she thought was hope: the chance to serve her in heaven. This, as the boy, Túndé Akíntọ́lá, realized later, was taken from Mormon teachings that reserved a place in heaven “if you’re a good boy here on earth” for black children only as servants to the white ones. From there, it takes the reader deeper into the life of the child, his family, and the mental health issues that affected his mother, endangered his father’s life, traumatized his childhood innocence as the firstborn son, and eventually broke his parents’ marriage.
Those who have read Genesis are already familiar with this part of the character’s story. What follows, what is new, and what moves the novel forward is an exploration of the character’s own journey, maturity, and memory. And of his father, and mother, and the sacrifices made to give children a good and decent life in a new environment. Túndé’s father had a thick accent which he attributes to the many setbacks he had at work. At some point, he bought an ice cream truck with which to make ends meet. Túndé saw the truck instead as his chance to become popular within an all-white neighbourhood, a dream that also faced eventual setback.
The novel journeys through these moments and others, with affection and honesty, loss and longing. It also examines how we judge what is real and what is merely imagined, while leading us sometimes to experience it ourselves. The character, for instance, began at some point to experience something he called “double memory” where he started becoming unsure of his own sense of recall. How much can we rely on our own memories, and even things we have seen and touched, if it continues to change? In the book, this explains why the character began to set things down, for his own sanity, so he can tell the truth apart from what his mind is making up. But it also becomes the author’s literary trick to carry us along on this narrative unreliability, cleverly deployed in a show-than-tell style. When Túndé tells us earlier in the book about his younger brother, Táyọ̀’s, easy break from the family, from their stern but loving father, when he insisted on staying back in a city while the rest of the family moved on to another vicinity, and we find out later that it may not have been totally true, we discover that we may have become victim to this same deficit, or trick, of recollection that bedeviled the character — deployed to keep us on our toes, keep us from pretending to know more than is shown to us.
But by bringing the novel back into the conversation around the Caine Prize and the alleged controversy around the Fọlárìn’s heritage when he was first shortlisted for the Prize (for the record, I was attentive to that particular process, and any insinuation — if at all — that the author wasn’t “African enough” was not by any notable critic as was alleged in this reviewat the LA Review of Books. Maybe internet trolls, at best), Fọlárìn wants us to look at him anew and give him his due as just an authentic African as any. It is not necessary; no work of art will do that anyway. He is African in every way one can possibly be an African — and in every way the Caine Prize describes it for the purpose of their prize. It was never in doubt, and we did not need the novel to realize it.
What the work does — if he had allowed us to enjoy it on its own merit — is show us one person’s story, and journey, through an immigrant experience he did not choose nor have much of a say in, to a place of peace and satisfaction — or some closure. The question of the extent of fiction in the work has been rendered moot by his tacit embrace of the label, if only as a point of departure. (Sana Goyal’s aforementioned review calls it “an autobiographical coming-of-age, immigrant novel”), perhaps in the traditions set by Angelou and Ṣóyínká and other memoirists. The category does not diminish the work, but it doesn’t totally capture it either.
There’s a way in which parts of the book remind me of Bassey Ikpi’s recent book which nods to a similar idea of the unreliable narrator challenged by bipolar or schizophrenic disorder. Even Ikpi’s title I’m Telling the Truth But I’m Lying makes an explicit case for a wary consumer. Where Fọlárìn’s work differs — more than just the label (one is called a “novel” while the other is called “essays”) — is that the exploration of mental illness in the latter exists as a running thread under layers of other family issues than a most dominant narrative. This is arguable of course. Both are different explorations of life as a Nigerian in an all-white environment, and in America — not always the same thing.
A Particular Kind of Black Man is an immigrant story. It is a coming of age autobiography. It is a story of love and forgiveness and a search for home. It is both a public testament to survival and discovery as a personal record of the journey that took him there. It is also a well-written book, raw at times, and moving. Its tender and thoughtful meditation on displacement, loss, memory, and belonging is universal, as is its exposure of the pain of finding home in a new place. For many people — and it was for me as well — the novel is also a kind of tragedy. Not just for Túndé and his brother this time, but for their parents. This review will not do enough in capturing the pain and vulnerability of how lives get irrevocably changed by migrating to a new place; the effect on marriage, on personal growth, on the sense of self. In that way, the most memorable character, in the end, was his mom — in what she struggled through, and survived — if only barely — with the scars and losses that came with it.
The angle of the quest for personal faith, brilliantly recounted in Miracle, was notably absent in this book — and it was never quite promised — but it might be just as well. In the place of this or other examples of Túndé’s wandering towards what is true, we have family — his distant grandmother’s voice on the phone — and a romantic encounter, both adding a tender element to the journey that took him from Utah through Texas to Lagos, and through his own mind and doubts, to a place where home finds him, or — we’d rather believe — he finds himself.
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A Particular Kind of Black Man was published in August 2019 by Simon & Schuster. Get it on Amazon.
On July 18, 2019, The Advisory Board for The Nigeria Prize for Literature announced the shortlist of 11 books, taken from 173 books entered for the 2019 edition of the prize.
The 11 books on the shortlist of 11, in alphabetical order by title of book, are:
A Hero’s Welcome, Ndidi Enenmor
Boom, Boom, Jude Idada
Buried Beneath the Baobab Tree, Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani
Double ‘A’ for Adventure, Anisa Daniel-Oniko
Ginika’s Adventures, Nnena Ochiche
Igho Goes to Farm, Anote Ajeluorou
Mystery at Ebenezer’s Lodge, Dunni Olatunde
Obioma: A Girl’s Journey to Self-Discovery, Nkiru Uzoh
She Calls Him Daddy, Oladele Medaiyese
Spurred Surprises, Lami Adejoh Opawale
The Great Walls of Benin, O. T. Begho
The list was presented by the chairman, panel of judges for this year’s prize, Professor Obodimma Oha, professor of Cultural Semiotics and Stylistics in the Department of English, University of Ìbàdàn. Other members of the panel of judges include Professor Asabe Usman Kabir, professor of Oral and African Literatures at Usmanu Danfodiyo University Sokoto and Dr. Patrick Oloko, a Senior lecturer at the University of Lagos Nigeria who specialises in African postcolonial literature, gender and cultural studies.
A shortlist of three is expected in September, and a winner will be announced by the Advisory Board in October.
Today, Sunday, July 28, 2019, there will be a Book Party with the 11 shortlisted writers, to discuss their work and interact with the public. The event will hold at Shell Hall, Muson Centre, Onikan, Lagos, at 2pm.
I read an advanced copy of Bassey Ikpi’s new memoir a couple of weeks ago, and I haven’t stopped thinking about how important it is that the work exists in the world. I wrote an earlier review much of which I’ve now discarded for focusing less on the unique nature of Ikpi’s intervention in the space of writings about mental illness than about its similarities — or otherwise — of other books of its nature.
Bassey’s book of essays, titled I’m Telling the Truth but I’m Lying focuses on the writer’s life and upbringing, first as an immigrant child in an America she didn’t immediately adjust to, then as a young adult unable to name the mental issues that afflicted her, and into an adult that had to fight and struggle through the most destructive phases of a bipolar disorder. This summary, however, does no justice to the beautiful piece of literature that is Ikpi’s book. It is a memoir (don’t let the “essays” tag fool you), written mostly in first person, except when — in a style deliberately designed, perhaps, to help the reader simulate the rollercoaster nature of the writer’s journey through the ailment — parts were written in the second person, allowing the reader to pretend, for a second, to be a participant in the ordeal.
The book is honest, though the writer warns us in the title and in many other parts of the book, not to take her too seriously as a reliable narrator. It is raw and unflinching. It peels back an often opaque veil to show the extent to which people suffering ailments of this nature can go in order to feel “normal”, and extent to which mental disorders contribute in the blurring of lines between self-destruction and self-awareness.
“All my life, I feared being “bad.” I already felt broken, already felt like there was something irreparably wrong with me, the least I could do was coat myself in the “goodness”: this idea that who we are is based on how we are seen I already feel broken; I followed the rules but now I wanted to feel something different– to feel better, to feel unbroken–more than I wanted anything else. I wanted something other than this Novocain and numbness. Its very name revealed its power: I wanted ecstasy.”
Page 93.
But more than a confessional — it skips mention of a number of specific personal details on the writer’s professional life, so those looking to learn about the writer’s illustrious career as a travelling artist on the Spoken Word circuit through America will have to wait for another book — Ikpi’s book is a kind of map for those interested in learning about how mental illness affects people. “If I were a nurse or a teacher,” she tells me in a private conversation “It would have shown up the same way.”
And yet, it is not a grim book, because we know that the writer survived to tell the story. It is not a morality tale either. Let me quote Erin Wicks, an editor at Harper Collins here: “What you will find within these pages is something far riskier and far braver: a human breaking down her external wall to show us the structures beneath, and then examining them before our very eyes with great honesty, and love, and brutality, and rawness, and vitality, and mourning.”
I have interviewed Bassey Ikpi in the past, when she lived, briefly, in Nigeria in 2014. She continues to be an advocate for openness in speaking about mental illness. To a layman, especially in Nigeria, all mental illnesses are the same. In most African cultures, there is just one word for them: an equivalent of “mad”. In literature, and in reality, there are many dynamics and diagnoses, one not looking the same as the other. Dysthymia is not bipolar disorder, which is not dissociative identity disorder, which is not schizophrenia, which is not chronic depression. So, through the experiences of others, written — in this case with Bassey’s book — with prose that is as honest as enchanting, one hopes that the reader can build both a bank of knowledge and a muscle for empathy.
It is to our benefit that works like Ikpi’s exist and continue to put the conversation right before our eyes. While the illnesses may never quite cure, the result of the human will to thrive in spite of it, as evident in this beautiful book, is a spectacular reward of its own.
Or maybe I won’t, but I have always harbored a premonition in my underbelly that death will crawl into my bones, quietly, when I turn thirty-five. If you ask me how I know this, I cannot give you a suitable explanation because, truthfully, I have no idea how this feeling has stuck to the back of my mind.
Sometimes, in our depressive reverie, we play out visuals of our lives forward to a certain point where we can see through the threadbare façade of existence; a sort of virtual exploration of the probable things that our lives might likely turn out to become. Somehow, if we put all our experiences together, weigh them against our present realities, it is possible to ascertain the things that might befall a person—the knowledge of the past demystifies the past, clarifies the present, and illuminates the future.
It started when I was fifteen; at least that’s when I clearly understood what the number ‘thirty-five’, which always found a way to seep into everything I did, meant. For reasons I’d probably never be able to ascertain, I could never see my life beyond that age: you know how people picture themselves at age ninety, surrounded by children and grand-children, sporting a smile that leaked out tales of a life well-spent—even if it’s just for the camera—I have never experienced this bliss, this assuaging breath of fulfillment that portends a lengthy span of existence as a living organism. In my case, the dream of visualizing my future runs out at thirty-five, like sand in an hourglass. I could never see my life beyond the threshold of corporeal expiration that my mind has created.
I am twenty-five. Months after I became a quarter of a century, my life has been mired in a rollercoaster of experiences that make it seem as though the reality of dying at thirty-five has grown into a more vivid and likely possibility. Exactly five days after my birthday, I broke off an estranged and largely inadequate three-year relationship without so much as batting an eyelid. I do not have a problem with breaking off relationships; I have broken more that I care to admit, even if breaking wasn’t necessarily the right thing to do in those moments. However, it would be deceptive to say that breaking this particular relationship didn’t feel like breaking something inside me. The whole love thing is an experience I am continuously trying to get a hang of, so it was not the emotional attachment that made it worse. It was the fact that I felt like I had wasted three years of my life. For someone who seems to think that he’s got limited time, that hurts like hell. A week after that, I lost a friend, not to the dainty clutches of death, but to whims of my venomous mood swings; the calming, unchecked propensity to live life without getting too attached to people who, when the friendship becomes a bond, would hold me back from losing myself, closing off my mind, and running away from it all. All that mattered was maximizing the ten years my mind tells me I have left, if dying at thirty-five became a reality like I wish it did.
Dambuzo Marachera. Photo from Johannesburg Review of Books
In my sophomore year in the university, my best friend introduced me to Dambudzo Marechera. Dambudzo was a Zimbabwean novelist, short story writer, playwright and poet. Apart from his radical outpost, iconoclasm, literary experimentation and his striking individualism, what attracts me to the cynicism of his existence was the fact the he died at thirty-five, of an AIDS-related pulmonary disorder. And not just that. The similarities in our penchant for social awkwardness, something that makes me call writers and other creatives, misfits. Our verbal daring and strange obsession for living life by the way we choose seems too close to home to be just a coincidence. Dambudzo was a virtual kindred-spirit. Because he shared most of my sentiments; at least from his writings, and anecdotes from people who knew him, about the way he lived his life. I drowned myself into imagining what his life must have been; the relentless drinking spree, the strong disregard for materialistic tendencies; the perception of life as a fickle, brittle string of physical occupation of the earth, nothing more. And more importantly, his love of his own writings.
We are never entirely in control of our consciousness. Our opinions are influenced by things beyond our definition; or even if we can define them, we still cannot cordon off our minds from being triggered by their profound efficacy. I know this feeling of intending demise is intensified by a cold, empty feeling of uncertainty that sinks into the innermost core of my being every once in a while, which sends me spiraling down into myself, into a place that freezes time, constricts my breath, chokes me with a barrage of unanswered questions that will never be answered. But, deep within me, seated like a rock, is a personal conviction of guilt, of self-immolation and damnation.
The first few weeks of being 25 have been saturated with recurring bouts of depression, emptiness, uncertainty, and a raging urge to walk away from everything familiar. It has been weeks of cold, sinking feelings spiced with a garnish of self-doubt—doubts about becoming a writer, about having a writing career that validates my abilities as a writer. Even amidst all the guilt and thinning dreams, though, death is an unyielding companion.
In the year I turned 18, I had my second bike accident.
The first time I was involved in an accident with a bike, I must have been 8. We were playing football that evening when one of the over excited boys fired an unnecessary long-range shot. In obeisance, the ball flew right out of the circumference of the make-shift field and crossed to the other side of the road. Because I didn’t want to pause the interesting flow of the game, I ran blindly into the road, with the intention to fetch the ball. That was when I slipped and fell. You wouldn’t believe what happened next unless you were there that afternoon. An oncoming bike crashed into me, sending me some inches away from the point of contact. Perhaps, because of the impact, the rider, who turned out to be one of my father’s church members, couldn’t pull the brake timely. So the bike ran blindly around my body and eventually stopped atop my chest, few inches away from my neck. With a little difficulty, the rider heaved the weight of the bike off my chest, and I stood up, still with the intention to retrieve the lost ball. The shouts of concern by all present didn’t make sense to me because I didn’t think that anything was wrong with me after the impact. I was whisked home by some friends, given food and drugs, and told to rest. That hurt like hell. I wanted to play football, and I didn’t think I needed to rest.
Death has always been a recurring feature in my life. I court it, flirt with it, and mostly live my life on the edge, with no fear of death, no holding back. There was not a time that I have ever been afraid of dying. Instead, I saw death as a departure. As surviving, too. As a means to an end, the end being eternal rest and tranquility, if truly we won’t continue our existence in another plane, another form. As Tolu Daniel says in his Barren Magazine essay, What Does It Mean To Survive? “an escape from the stress and the pain inflicted by life on the mortal body to a dimension of ease.” So all my life, I have always toyed with the idea of dying, and dying young. There are times when, after I have smoked a blunt or two, I meditate and fantasize about my death, creating scenarios of how I’d die and the circumstances surrounding my death. As gory as it might sound, these thoughts of death, especially when I am dealing with the mental issues that has become my fate in the ‘in-between moment’ when my head is an ant farm, help me to find clarity, and see things clearly. Somehow, death, at least the thought of it, is therapeutic for me.
My second bike accident came when I was much older and wiser. I was in my second year in the university when it happened. One bright afternoon, when the sun scorched the earth like it was threatening to burst out of the clouds and melt everything in its wake, I was dressing up to go visit a friend against my mum’s vocal warnings not to step out. Before then, she had always queried my restlessness, my inability to stay in one place. I always found a way to move about, even in confined spaces. My spirit animal must be a Cheetah or any other animal that finds it almost impossible to be static. It had never been something that I was comfortable doing. Every admonition to remain at home, especially when I was not reading, was seen as an attempt to kill me or lock up my existence in a physical space. So I shrugged off my mother’s warnings as just one of those things mothers always guilt-tripped their children into doing. So I jumped on a bike with my elder brother who was on his way to a social function. We had not ridden for more than five minutes when the bike plunged into a giant pothole, sending me reeling on the floor where I met the jagged road with my jaw. I could taste the blood on my tongue; it was warm and metallic that sunny afternoon. It tasted like pain, like the bitterness that comes with knowing that your body would be riddled with scars. It tasted like the sour fruit of disobedience and the associated repercussions. I looked at the bruises that had formed on my wrist and in that moment, I wondered why I had not listened to my mother. The friend I was going to see could have been visited the next day.
Perhaps, the striking thing about predestination or fate is how it chokes the mind in a fierce grip and banishes every idea of rational thinking. Then, even against reason, our hearts are trapped in an unwholesome movement in the direction of that which is bound to happen to us or even hurt us. A kind of hubris that intersperses with the false step that leads to the catastrophic fall in social, physical or intellectual pedestal. But if predestination was merely a fallacy, then maybe that afternoon that I collided with the crooked floor in a macabre dance, I was only paying for my disobedience, a particularly grave offence in the Yoruba worldview: “obedience is better than ritual/sacrifice”—a literal translation of “prevention is better than cure.”
Death always loomed over my body. I still tell people that I am surprised to be alive today. Because in all my life, I have always seen doom flickering somewhere around the fringe of my eyes. I remember for years, between the ages of nine and seventeen, I suffered from severe stomach upset. This stomach upset always came intermittently. And when it did, I always felt like it was the last time I’d ever experience that level of pain and distress. Because I always thought that death would finally overwhelm my weary body. But I was wrong, the pain did not kill me. Rather, it diluted my existence, soaked it with the bile of redundancy so much that I forgot how to be a happy, playful child. You’d find me in the house, with a book, chewing hurt and regret and the force of the pain that threatened to burst out of my bowels. I was nicknamed ‘Sickler’ by kids my age who thought that the only reason a 9 year old would live between hospitals was because he had to be very sick all the time. I was always in the company of my mother who, due to the frequent visits to hospitals and labs and even traditional medicine, was starting to look like a shadow of herself, with worry lines that shone against the flakes of her skin. I pitied her those times when I’d scream due to the pain and she’d watch helplessly, unable to do anything other than to pray for me, to assuage the pain. One of the worst things that could happen to a mother is to watch her child battle a pain that is beyond her powers. It eats her up, makes her feel worthless. Like it is her fault that her child is suffering from a great discomfort.
Through all the numerous medical tests and diagnosis that showed that nothing was wrong with me, I suffered greatly from a serious case of anxiety and panic attacks in anticipation of the stomach pain that would always resurface. Those times, it was hard to plan my future or things I wanted to do. Somehow, even my parents knew not to plan for things beyond two days because of the uncertainty that loomed. In a weird way, my life was not in my hands between the period when my stomach hurt. My life was at the mercy of something that even modern science could not comprehend.
Sometimes, the darkness you think you’ve left behind creeps back in, throbbing, thrashing about the mind, enveloping it in utter darkness. I am terrified of the intolerable in-between moments when my mind is caged in an opaque couch of mental turmoil and emotional distress. As such, distractions make the nights slightly bearable. “Being human is a condition that requires a little anesthesia.” Weed and alcohol becomes permanent feature of my night life before sleep, bits and pieces of it, is at least attained. There are times when I see cheesy television adverts warning against smoking and alcohol consumption and I begin to wander if perhaps, dying slowly is a form penance. The way the disease eats up a part of the body, weaken it, making it almost useless, and how the pain sets into the bones, slowly ebbing life away. I think about dying from a disease atimes. Pain for me is the first chapter in the cannon of departure.
We’re all suffering from something so, for some of us, our departure won’t be as a result of our physical inadequacies. There would be those of us that would exit through the axes of their mental realm. Some will go out through panic or anxiety arrests or seizure, some through the route of suicide fueled by years of living between the excessive recesses of the fragile human mind. I have lost many friends to the cold clutch of depressive phases, suicide and the many excesses that the human mind harbors during the quiet, tortuous in between moments when it is almost impossible to get out of your own head. This is how I will go out, I think. When depression hits consistently at an all-time high, and the mind is lost in moments of fluctuations between realities, and alcohol and weed are the lubricants that make the nights somewhat bearable, addiction, maybe mildly, sets in, and there seems to be an incomprehensible dependence on these soothing fuel. That way, you would have won a continuous stretch of temporary happiness, but then, the body loses something in return to the excessive consumption of substances used for mental tranquilization. That is how it is for some of my friends. Not me. For me, I am at the point where I indulge consistently in the use of alcohol and weed. Although they ease the pain, I do not see them as indispensable elements necessary for my mental stability. But if they were, I am at the point where, perhaps because of the way inexplicable grief and pain sit rigidly somewhere in my head, and breathing is a tedious act, I indulge in most things that I believe hasten death.
One night in my third year in the university, largely inebriated from the binge-drinking that came with attending the official pageant of the school, I was accosted by two guys with one carrying a gun. One of my friends had come visiting that night and because it was late it was wise to see her off till she got a bus or bike. So while standing at the bus-stop, two guys walked towards us, and just immediately, as though they had rehearsed the moment, one of them brought out a gun, threatening to shoot us if we did not give them our phones and monies. It was an old black revolver with paper tape clasped firmly around nuzzle. Ideally, it made sense to immediately kneel and surrender everything we had to them. It was a wise thing to do in the case of such confrontation and would have saved us from any eventuality. But in that moment, there was not a single dose of fear in my mind. My friend had liquid fears streaming down her eyes. You could tell that she was terrified. It was the first time she saw a gun pointing to her face. That’s when I knew that I’d never let anyone get away with scaring another human being that way, reducing their personality to tears, jitters, and fears, so I concluded that the only way they could get anything off us was to kill me or shoot at my friend. Perhaps, seeing her in pain or dead would have softened my resolve and I probably would have let up. I groggily moved closer to the two of them, stared at them right in the face and said, “Bros, why we go give you our phone and money?” The guys were astounded. I was sure they were wondering why anyone would dare the sight of a gun and risk losing his life in a moment of fatal bravery. I didn’t put myself in a position of self-pity where I’d wonder what would happen if I died. I just knew that I wasn’t going to be helpless in that situation. And even if I did die, it would be on my own terms; fighting back against injustice. That night, after about 20 minutes of cajoling and threats and heavy voices, the only thing the guys got from us was the warm handshake I gave them when we settled while I was lucky to get a stick of cigarette from one of them.
When death stares at us coldly in the face, the natural reaction is to flee. As sensible as this admonition might seem, it however reinforces the age-long rubric that “cowards die a thousand times before their death.” The inconsistency of human intelligence that bugs me about death is this: if we all agree that we won’t get out of the world alive, and that predestination exists, why are we afraid to speak up against injustice? Why do we keep quiet in situations where opening our mouth to speak might be the only saving grace we have? Why are we afraid of losing our lives if we truly believe that we will die eventually, when the time is right? To me, this particular scenario of emotional detachment from perceived reality seems like a clear case of mismanagement of the “he who is down needs fear no fall” rubric that most humans, who live their lives without holding back in an attempt to suspend or avoid their own death, have come to cherish. I believe, like Vladimir Putin said, that “whoever is destined to be hanged won’t drown.”
I’ll die at 35. Or maybe I won’t. but that is not something within my mortal capabilities to alter. As such, I am regularly trying to live on my own terms; take each day, split it open, pour enough memories into it while chasing the next story in the eyes of people. More than a writer, I prefer to see myself as a collector of voices. Because, in the end, these voices, these memories, emotions, and experiences serve as lubricants to make departure easy. So, whether humans maintain a docile attitude to life, and decide to play by the books of normalcy, departure, or death, as it were, is something we will never be able to escape. Except, of course, if the earth spits us out as an expression of its anger against environmental despoliation. At best, our existence, even from birth, is a synopsis of departure. Because, even when we achieve everything humanly possible here, our lives are a continuous stream, antithetical and climatic, in the entire plot of death. Every speck and moment in our existence is a chapter in the book of death. Our life, as we see it, is really just an unfolding of our end.
Adéfọlámí Adémọ́lá is a writer and social commentator whose poems have appeared in Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Prosopisia, New Orleans Review, BlackRoom, Poetry Potion, Prachya Review, Arts & Africa among others. His nonfiction pieces have been published or are forthcoming in Akoma, The Nerve Africa, The Afro Vibe, Ynaija, Newshunter, Ebedi Review, Entropy Magazine, Anathema Magazine. A 2016 PIN (Poets in Nigeria) Poets’ Residency Fellow, his poem, “Memories, regurgitated” was a finalist for the 2016 edition of the Korea/Nigeria Cultural Poetry Fiesta. His personal essay Dying in Installments was recently published in the print edition of the Selves Anthology of Creative Nonfiction. He is Marketing Manager at Ouida Books.
Over the last twenty-four hours, I have been inundated by messages from friends and colleagues over my purported appointment as Vice-Chancellor of Dominion University, Ìbàdàn.
I wish to state categorically that I have not been so appointed, neither have I been under consideration at any stage for the position. The Pioneer Vice-Chancellor is Professor Doyin Soyibo who is a retired Professor of Economics at the University of Ìbàdàn, and an eminently qualified individual whose credentials are in the public space.
My association with Dominion University started many years ago as Chairman of the Proposal Implementation Committee. That assignment ended when the proposed university was granted a license at the beginning of 2019. I have also been involved in the takeoff planning and implementation. Dominion University is a mentee University to the University of Ìbàdàn.
I was part of the team that paid a courtesy call on the UI management at 1 pm on Tuesday 7th May. At the event, the Pioneer Vice-Chancellor was introduced and he sat by the VC of UI. From the discussions that went on, there was absolutely no ground for any form of ambiguities, misrepresentation or confusion as to the rightful person of the VC of Dominion University. In fact, I had no role or function at the event throughout. I am therefore most embarrassed to be the object of a most embarrassing fake news about my appointment as VC of Dominion University.
The source of the information is the Media Assistant to the Vice-Chancellor. Responsible authorities have also provided credible imprint to the unfortunate piece of fake news. Just last night, I was fortunate to have the opportunity to stop a major news source from relaying the falsehood. I have waited patiently for a retraction or at least a correction if indeed, this was an error. I am forced to use this medium to set the records straight.
As a responsible stakeholder, I have chosen to follow this path rather than seek redress through other appropriate means in order to minimize the damage that such steps can have on the reputation of the University of Ìbàdàn.
Thank you.
Professor Francis EGBOKHARE. Professor of Linguistics and President, Nigerian Academy of Letters.
