On Thursday, April 11, the entries received for the 2019 Nigeria Prize for Literature were handed to the panel of judges. There were a hundred and seventy-three (173) entries in all.
The event took place at the Ebony Hall of Èkó Hotels in Lagos, and was attended by members of the press, as well as the Prize Advisory Board and the members of the NLNG Corporate Communications and Public Affairs division.
The prize this year will focus on Children’s Literature. The number of entries this year show a 59% increase as compared to number of entries received in 2015, when the genre was last up for competition. The company also received 10 entries for the Literary Criticism Prize.
The Literature Prize, which is now in its 15th year, has a cash prize of $100, 000 while the Literary Criticism Prize has a prize money of N1 million (though it has been hinted that this might undergo a significant upgrade this year).
While handing over the entries to the Advisory Board, chaired by Professor Emeritus Ayo Banjo, NLNG’s Manager, Corporate Communications and Public Affairs, Andy Odeh, said “as we deliver these 173 books for your vetting, we eagerly look forward to the discovery of yet another literary gem that will open up possibilities for millions of children not only in Nigeria, but all over the Africa.”
“We can confidently say that the Nigeria Prize for Literature has brought some previously unknown Nigerian writers to public attention. Our generation and those after us are becoming familiar with not just legends like Wọlé Ṣóyínká, Chinua Achebe, Gabriel Okara, Elechi Amadi, and Akachi Adimora-Ezeigbo, Mabel Sẹ́gun and other writers of longstanding acclaim that, perhaps, some of us had the opportunity of reading as children, but also a new cadre of writers like Kaine Agary, Adélékè Adéyẹmí, Tádé Ìpàdéọlá, Ikeogu Oke, Sọjí Cole and others.”
During the handover, Chairman of the Advisory Board, Professor Ayọ̀ Bánjọ recalled it was exactly 15 years after the first handover event was held. He stated that at the start of this year’s cycle, the board was a bit jittery over the prize not being awarded in 2015 and writers being discouraged to send in their entries.
“When the call for entries was made, entries trickled in at the beginning but toward the deadline, it picked up and crossed the 100 mark. Professor Bánjọ said further that the board is hopeful that the numeric strength of the entries will be matched by strength in quality of the submissions,” he added”
He commended NLNG for having the vision to create the literature prize and The Nigeria Prize for Science, saying “the prizes have raised the creativity in the country, whether you are writing poetry or trying to solve the problem of electricity in the country.” He remarked further that NLNG has done its share of work in promoting innovation and creativity in the society, adding that “the company is contributing to the emergence of original thinkers and highly creative people in the society. It has managed to do that in the space of 15 years.”
The entries were immediately handed over to the panel of judges led by Professor Obododinma Oha who is a professor of Cultural Semiotics and Stylistics in the Department of English, University of Ìbàdàn with great interest in technology and language.
Other members of the panel include Professor Asabe Usman Kabir and Dr. Patrick Okolo. Professor Kabir is a professor of Oral and African Literature at Usmanu Danfodiyo University Sokoto. Dr. Oloko, a Senior lecturer at the University of Lagos Nigeria, specialises in African postcolonial literature, gender and cultural studies.
The winners of the Literature and Literary Criticism prizes will be announced at an award ceremony in October 2019, to commemorate the anniversary of the first LNG export from the NLNG’s Plant on October 9, 1999.
Members of the Advisory Board for the Literature Prize, besides Professor Bánjọ, two-time Vice-Chancellor of Nigeria’s premier university, University of Ìbàdàn, are Prof. Jerry Agada, former Minister of State for Education, former President of the Association of Nigerian Authors, and Professor Emeritus Ben Elugbe, former President of the Nigerian Academy of Letters and president of the West-African Linguistic Society (2004-2013).
One other piece of news that came out of the press conference is the commitment by NLNG, through Mr. Andy Odeh, its Manager, Corporate Communications and Public Affairs, to provide copies of the three shortlisted books to any reviewer/journalist interested in reading and reviewing them for the public while the judging process is going on. “But with a caveat,” Professor Ben Elugbe added, “that this is not an endorsement by the NLNG of the views of the reviewer on the works or on their viability for the prize.”
Last week in Lagos, the winner of the 2018 Nigeria Prize for Literature (Drama), Mr. Sọjí Cole spoke to students and journalists about the prize, his work, his win, and his hopes for the prize going forward.
The video from the event is below:
The event was organized by the Nigerian Liquefied Natural Gas (NLNG) Limited, sponsors of the Nigeria Prize.
Entries for this year’s prize, this time for Children’s Literature, is open until April 5, 2019. More here.
After buying a one-thousand-naira ticket, which I’ll later learn was just to climb the rock, a man walks up to me. He wears a face that looks tense, like cold pap, half-covered in unshaven beard, and is dressed in this Ankara that looks over-washed, and schoolboy sandals.
‘We’—he uses the pronoun that only the God of the Quran uses—‘are the ones that will guide you and tell you the history of this place.’ I’m thinking of some men in Northern Africa who are said to be the custodians of the people’s history. Is this man something like that? Custodian of the history of Olúmo? He brings me back with his voice, harsh but soft-coated. ‘Our own money is just three thousand.’
I watch the way the word just makes it out of his lips: like water making itself out of a tap, hitting the ground. Just. Wait. Is it because I am wearing a white long sleeve shirt that has Noir written on its back in a mad design? Is it because I’m asking why there is a pot of water decorated with cowries here when Abéòkuta is so far from Òsogbo? Is it because I’m taking all these photos? What is the man thinking sef?
I don’t let the words go cold before I launch mine like a missile. ‘I don’t have three-thousand-naira o.’
He says nothing. He tells me to come, ‘Let me show you the Art Gallery.’
The Art Gallery is one of three buildings that look like Agbolé, a compound of houses, the only difference been that these ones are sort of modern—in the sense of not being made of mud and thatch. It is a large room painted white, with artworks everywhere one looks. There are paintings and woodworks hanging on the walls, metal and bronze works on the tiled floor, and on the far end of the room: well-patterned calabashes and beads. There is also a small shelve of books close to the door. I am familiar with some of the titles: Thirty Things You must do before You’re Thirty, Proverbs and the Yoruba Philosophy, Abẹ́òkuta in History by Àyìnlá Ẹ̀gbá, and others. (I’m not sure I’m correct for all the titles).
I go on taking photos, even as my guide (that’s what I call him now; we already had an agreement. Didn’t we?) tells me, ‘The man that stays here does not allow people to take pictures of the artworks. But since he is not here, go ahead. Do quick.’ As I take the pictures, he tells me: ‘Where you are standing used to be Agbolé. People used to live here.’ And I’m like: Damn it. I was right.
I walk past ‘The man that stays here,’ who is looking into the air, past the walls of the gallery, into something deep, something that might become another gorgeous painting, or woodwork, or bronzework. Or whatever. I walk to the calabash of beads, pick one and ask him for its price.
‘Hundred naira,’ he says.
I pick another one. He says it is five hundred naira. I decide to buy this one, not because I can’t check for better ones, but because I’m already feeling like I am disturbing the flow of inspiration falling upon ‘The man that stays here.’ He takes one hanging from a nail in a flat surface and wears it on my wrist. I hand him a five-hundred-naira note. He pats my back and says ‘Thank you.’
As we walk out of the Art Gallery, a mother and her children and a man (another guide) walk in. We walk through a narrow way between another Art Gallery and a building till we get out to a path that leads one way to the flight of 12o stairs that will later bring us to what my guide calls ‘The first stage’, and one way to I-don’t-know-where. There are a number of trees, under which there are concrete seats. Under one of the trees, on one of the seats, a lady is telling a guy she wants to bite him peacefully, but the guy says never. ‘Ahah. How can you bite a person in peace? You can only bite me when we are quarrelling, not in peace,’ the guy says. ‘Or, brother,’ referring to me, ‘what do you think?’
I smile and take a picture of them. I don’t say what I think because I’m thinking dirty things.
After we climb the 120 steps that lead to the first stage of Olúmo, we arrive a place where there are two women selling palm-wine, and meat and pọ̀mọ́ (cowskin) soaked in stew. These women are seated under the shade of what are three different trees.
‘This is the Pansẹ́kẹ́ Garden, named after the pansẹ́kẹ́ tree,’ he points at a tree. I think of Pansẹ́kẹ́ bridge, the too long pedestal bridge in Abéòkuta. I think of the man who sells secondhand books in front of Union Bank, behind Catholic Comprehensive. Was there a pansẹ́kẹ́ tree there, too? Is it why they call that place pansẹ́kẹ́? Maybe. My guide goes on: ‘The English people call it “flamboyant tree”. People sit here to catch their breaths and enjoy themselves.’
‘How about these other trees?’ I point to two trees.
‘That is the ọdán tree—the English call it ‘doggedness and resilience tree’—and that is the dogoyaro tree, called the ‘neem tree’ in English,’ he says. ‘It’s botanical name is Azadirachta indica,’ he adds.
I shake my head as I think of how to put ‘neem’ down on paper. After a while I settle for ‘neam’, I’ll make the correction with Google.
*
Now we are before a door that enters a cave in the rock. The door is covered with feathers, mostly white and some brown, and on the lefthand side of the door there are used bottles of Schnapps.
‘This is the shrine,’ my guide says, ‘it is here they make sacrifice to the rock. People also come here to ask for whatever they want, and when they get it they return to give thanks to Olúmo. That is why you are seeing all these feathers.’ He adds that the sacrifice-things are: a black cow, ‘pidgin’ kola, and Schnapps.
‘Pigeon kolanut,’ I seek clarification.
‘Pidgin,’ he says. ‘Those birds that fly.’
OK. I get it. The man is Ibo. Or does he just sound Ibo-ish? What does it matter if an Ibo man is a custodian of the history of Olúmo, the most fascinating site in Abeokuta history, and, indeed, one of the most fascinating in Yorùbá history?
I joke about why it is a black cow that is used for the sacrifice and not a black goat, and my guide replies: ‘That is what Ifá said.’ Ifá, the Oracle, voice of Ọ̀rúnmílà the òrìsà of divination. I have never stopped loving the Oracle. I remember having this dream of studying Ifá in an American university, because here our people are ashamed of the earth that gave birth to them.
My guide leads me to a side of the rock that has a small signboard that reads: WARTIME HIDE-OUT, printed in black on a white surface, resting on a red pole. I’m not sure they had this in mind when they put that signboard there, but I’m thinking of each colour as message: war on peace, against a backdrop of blood.
‘This was where the warriors hid themselves during wartime.’ It is a cave that has a door, or something that looks like a door—a way in sha. The cave looks large enough to be the size 2x the parlour of a two-bedroom flat in Shómólú. I enter, bending. ‘There used to be five rooms here, but today only one remains,’ my guide adds. I see the one: it is made of mud and has a small door, and would have house two/three men. In the cave there are some holes that look like bowls made in the rock. ‘That was where the women ground pepper to prepare meals for the warriors,’ he explains.
I walk out of the rock. My guide points to a grave where a chief was buried and talks about the chief being Òsi-Oba in his days. But I’m not really with him. I’m somewhere else in my mind. The images of warriors climbing up here, crawling into this place for safety, making home here pops up in my mind. I can see women, on their knees singing, their hands working stones into these holes to give their men fine soup, their bodies moving in rhythm, even as the roar of their enemies came from down-below. I see the men coming with faces alight with joy, and women welcoming them with songs—joyful songs. And somebody, one of the women, or some of them, giving the rock its name: Olúmo, a compound of three words with one being ellipted—Olúwa ló (ellipted) mọọ́—literally translated as ‘God formed (or made) it,’ or ‘It was formed (or made) by God.’
*
I am standing before some women who have identical Ankara wrappers around their bodies, sitting on a mat, outside a building with paintings of sacrifice-things and idols. On my right is a shrine, the òrìsà Ọbalúayé shrine, a concrete mole having an opening where they pour squashed palm-fruit and oil. A voice that sounds like Barrister’s is coming from the radio the women are listening to. I ask my guide whose voice it is.
‘Àyìnlá,’ he says, unsure. ‘Àbí, who is it?’ he asks the women. ‘Shebí that is Àyìnlá’s voice.’
‘Does this sound like Àyìnlá to you?’ a woman asks.
He says he is not so sure and then joke around with words, until they tell him it is Kollington.
While they talk, there is this smallish woman who just smiles and listens. She has royal beads around her wrist, and some others, not royal, around her neck. My guide tells me she is Ìya-Olúmọ, the Priestess of the rock. ‘She was born in 1884 and she is 134 years,’ he says. ‘Give them whatever you want to give them and let’s go.’ I put my hand in my pocket and give Ìyá-Olúmọ something light.
*
We negotiate a bend before getting to the other side of the rock, where there is a sculpture of the head of Lísàbí, Agbòngbò Àkàlà, the first Balógun of Ẹ̀gbá, and Mrs Ẹfúnroyé Tinúbú, the first Ìyálóde of Ẹ̀gbá. Then I am walking a path of small rocks. My guide calls them ‘The ancient way to the peak of the rock. After saying many no’s, with the help of my guide, I take the ancient way and arrive at the peak of the rock.
Here there are all these fine people playing happy as if they don’t have worries in the corner of their heads. From here, I can see almost all of Abẹ́òkuta. My guide points to St. Peters, the first church in Abẹ́òkuta; then he points out the first mosque; ‘And that place you see smoke rising,’ he says, points, that is the Ògùn River, from where the state got its name.’ He pauses a bit. ‘The rock sits in the middle, at the centre, of the city.’
Now my guide is poking my inside with his words, making me feel like a sinner, he forming God.
‘I told you I told I don’t have three thousand.’
‘But you would have told me the amount you have, not make me come from that place to this place for nothing now.’
‘But I told you I don’t have three thousand naira.’
He sits back. ‘OK. It is my fault.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘We are both to blame.’
There is silence on both ends. A man selling yoghurts and biscuits and sweets on one side of the peak of the rock, fenced, talks about Olúmọ not being run by the government. He says, ‘In fact, the government does not allocate any fund to this place. It is from the money that they make here that they pay the staff, Olúmọ staff, manage the rock, its buildings, power, and some other things—and from the little that is left, they still have a certain amount they must pay to the government.’
I tell my guide I have just five-hundred naira, and he swears he’ll never walk up here and tell all those stories for five-hundred naira. He puts his hand in his pocket and shows me some money. ‘A man paid me this one,’ he shows me three-thousand naira, ‘and this one,’ two-thousand naira, ‘another man gave me.’ He says something about me being wicked, or being in rank with wicked men. I ask if he is not paid by Olúmo, as one of its staffs, and he tells me: ‘I, and the others, you know we are plenty, pay to work here.’ And he walks away, spends some time chatting with a deaf guy, and then comes back to say, ‘Bring it.’
I tell him I have one-thousand naira.
He sticks his hand in his pocket and brings out two five hundred naira notes. He hands me one as I give the one-thousand naira note. And he walks away.
For a long time I sit up there and stare at the rust roofings of Abẹ́òkuta’s houses and the people below, who look like down-sized people from up here, while also trying to drink from a translation of Pablo Neruda’s The Captain’s Verses and edit a short story.
Suddenly, some girls walk up to me and ask what I am doing. The most beautiful among them talks about my writing not being legible. As she walks away, she says I’m most likely writing a project; either that or, I’m one of those guys doing Theatre Arts. A friend of hers says: ‘It is you that will know.’ The lady smiles and says ‘Life has become thin-skinned.’
As I walk down the flight of stairs, the alternative to the ancient way, I hear the harsh voice of my guide who calls me wicked, and the magical voice of that babe who talked about life being thin-skinned. And I smile.
_____________
Ernest O. Ogunyemi is an eighteen-year-old writer from Nigeria. His stories and poems have appeared in Acumen, Litro, Agbowó, The Rising Phoenix, and many more. He is a product of the recent WriteWithStyle Workshop, and a participant in the Goethe-Institute Afro Young Adult workshop. He dreams of writing: a novel, a story collection, and a collection of essays on love and home and loss.
Sefi Atta is the author of many books, most notably Everything Good Will Come (2005) and winner of the 2006 Wole Soyinka Prize for Literature in Africa and other notable prizes. She has also written a couple of stage plays, like Last Stand (2014), An Ordinary Legacy (2012), and The Naming Ceremony (2012). In this interview, she answers some questions about her new book for children.
After so many books, why the need to write for children, especially when you don’t have a young child?
It isn’t necessary to have young children to write children’s books. I imagine that most authors of children’s books write just for themselves, and it helps that they’ve been young before. That’s how it was for me. To prepare, I remembered what it was like to be a twelve-year-old, and once I found the voice of my narrator, Timi, I was able to write. The process was hard, though, because I had to stay in her world and see life from her perspective. Now that the book is published, I’m a little nervous about how children will respond to it because they can be impatient if you don’t grab and hold their attention, and they’ll let you know. One of my first readers told me point-blank that his mother made him read the book, but after his initial reluctance, he enjoyed it. He was twelve, mind you, and this book is for nine to eleven-year-olds.
In your latest novel, The Bead Collector, you set the story around the February 13, 1976 coup. Same for Drama Queen. What is the significance of February 1976 and why are two books set in that time?
It’s not unusual for me to do this. I explore stories in different ways and forms until I’m satisfied – by which I mean I no longer have a desire to recreate them. The coup of 1976 was my political awakening. It was the first bloody coup I was aware of. The previous one happened in 1966, when I was two years old. I remember the coup of 1976 as a tragic play, perhaps because I studied Macbeth a year later. I found it dramatic in many ways: the fact that it occurred in a leap year; the fact that it happened on Friday the 13th. Even the coup plotters had theatrical names: Iliya Bisalla and Buka Suka Dimka.
Drama Queen is a book forged clearly in the forge of nostalgia. Have you been back to Queen’s College recently and is there regret at what it has become?
I haven’t been there recently, but I’ve been back since I started writing. I was surprised at how small the school grounds were, and also by how much the geography of the school had changed. For instance, our beloved assembly hall, where we performed plays, is now used for some other purpose and there is a much bigger hall elsewhere. In those days, we would have to cross a public road to get to our new block of classrooms; now, they’re within the school grounds and the main gates are further out. The dorms depressed me, I have to say. They were so run-down I pitied the students who had to sleep in them. Meanwhile, the students I met were lively, intelligent and confident. The truth is that Queen’s College never had the best facilities, but we just managed. What mattered more were the friendships we formed, the lessons we learned about life, and the education we got. Under the guidance of our principal, Mrs. Coker, we believed there were no limits to what we could achieve if we worked hard enough.
You are not very funny in real life but your writing is always sprinkled with humour. Drama Queen is no different. It sparkles with with “temerity, alacrity, temerity, alacrity”. Where does your humour come from?
Misery, maybe. I just have a very Nigerian sense of humour. Watch a middle-aged woman who walks with a wobble and tell me she doesn’t move from side to side in that way – temerity, alacrity, temerity, alacrity. What could be more Nigerian than chanting, “17, 18, 19, bobo,” to a woman’s strut as we used to when we were young?
I’m glad you’ve brought up humour because it reminds me of a related matter I’d like to talk about. One of the dilemmas I had with this novel was deciding whether to use QC slang or not. To me, our slang was funny, but I wasn’t sure children today would appreciate it. I decided to use it in the end because it was true to life and showed how inventive we were with language. I expect some of my readers will be used to stories set in the US and UK and more accustomed to reading American and English slang and colloquialisms. Consequently, they may be resistant to my use of QC slang, but that won’t stop me from trying to win them over. Even a children’s book involves political decisions. One of the ways my generation decolonised itself was by playing with the English language. If a teacher taught us the correct pronunciation of a word, we would learn it, but you could be sure that after school we would find a way to make it sound Nigerian. I don’t think that children these days feel the need to counteract globalisation. They seem to absorb any culture they encounter, while they’re reading, watching cable television or surfing the Internet. I’m all for raising cosmopolitan kids. I was raised that way and have raised my daughter that way too. What I don’t want is for Nigerian kids to grow up valuing other cultures over ours. Drama Queen encourages children to take pride in our cultures without being prejudiced against others’, or allowing people from other cultures to patronise them. It introduces a Nigerian heroine to children who are not used to heroes and heroines who look like them. It is not a fantasy story set in a magical, mystical land, either. It is realistic.
Sefi Atta Photo by Author
Timi Aziz, your heroine, went to QC like you; she writes plays like you; is slim like you and can blast like you. Are you Timi Aziz and how autobiographical is this book?
I am not Timi, but I used some of my experiences in the book. I was in the drama society. I wrote a story titled “General Bouncing Crusher” to parody a senior prefect. I also staged a coup against class bullies. A senior in my dorm called me Jughead because I was terribly skinny, even though I ate a lot. I never obeyed rules that involved being on time and I would blast any of my peers who blasted me. In short, I was a royal pain, annoying to some and likeable to others. So is Timi. She always speaks her mind, regardless of the consequences. I was that girl until I was forced to be more diplomatic, but through characters like her, I still get to say whatever I want.
Timi Aziz likes being in the boarding house but she also knows you need to be tough to survive it. How was your own experience and would you recommend it to children in today’s Nigeria?
As happens in the book, we often had no electricity and sometimes had water shortages, but I never felt sorry for myself. A few seniors took advantage of the hierarchical system and some of my peers were bullies, but I dealt with conflicts immediately and got over them fast. I felt privileged to be a student at QC and enjoyed being in an environment with girls from different backgrounds. While I was in school, I was usually around girls who were not family friends. In fact, I hardly talked to my family friends until I went home on holiday. QC is government-owned, though, and these days anyone who can afford to would rather send their children to private schools because government schools are so badly neglected. I’ve heard troubling stories about the conduct and attitudes of spoilt private-school kids, but I doubt they’re the norm. I’ve had the opportunity to meet students from a variety of schools in Lagos and it was one of my most memorable events. They were charming and smart. I also recently met students from Vivian Fowler Memorial College at my book launch, and they were brilliant and fun to be around. I would only recommend that parents try to raise their children with the values we upheld at QC.
There is a very poignant scene in the book where Timi Aziz helps the blind girl get water then ends up being passed over. Water, it seems, has always been an issue at QC and it led to tragedy recently. Does it bother you that forty years later not much has improved?
You know, while I was revising the novel, I wondered why I’d written about water so much. It may have been an issue when I was at QC, but no student ever died from contaminated water. The loss of Praise Ṣódiípọ̀, Bithia Itulua and Vivian Osuinyi was awful. Their deaths could and should have been avoided. I can’t even imagine what they and their families went through. Of course it bothers me that not much has changed and my references to water probably reflect that. One good thing to come out of the tragedy is that the Old Girls Association is actively involved in improving living conditions for students. In 2015, my classmates, the class of ’79, founded Rebecca’s Room, a resource centre for visually impaired students, and recently they launched Adopt-a-Girl, an initiative to fund school fees for students in need.
You always manage to insert history into your books. Is this always intentional or is this a case of the story writing itself?
It’s never intentional in the sense of including history for history’s sake. It’s just part of my writing process. I trick myself into believing my characters are real people who existed at a given time. So in writing about them, I recreate the time period. I’m glad I do this because, as you know, they stopped teaching history in Nigerian schools for years. I read that they’ve started again, which is great, if it is true. I’m also glad I revisited the coup of 1976 in the book because my readers were born in the new millennium and all they’ve ever known is the dysfunctional democratic system we have now. They might be interested in finding out what it was like to live in a military regime. The story shows them that politics is personal. Children who live in unstable parts of the country and students who attend run-down schools already know this. However, election season has begun and politicians have the stage. For all the farcical moments, there is the potential for violence, and even sheltered children will have to cope with anxiety. Timi recovers from her disquiet after the coup and, hopefully, so will they.
Religion rears its head in Drama Queen. How much of a problem do you think religion poses in this country?
Religious intolerance, extremism and terrorism pose the greatest threat to peace and stability in Nigeria. It is inexcusable that successive administrations have failed to protect Nigerian citizens against religiously motivated murders, kidnappings and attacks. Drama Queen is a children’s book, but the story is allegorical. I don’t know if children will realize that, but adults might. QC represents Nigeria, the school’s facilities our poor infrastructure, and the school’s hierarchical system our traditions. The girls face conflicts because they come from different ethnic and religious backgrounds, but they manage to work together in the end.
And finally the obligatory question: will there be Drama Queen II?
In a land where the last remaining structures of the ancient world still stand, you might think that modern museums pale in comparison. However, the marvels of Egypt do not stop at the pyramids, tombs, and temples found across the country. In fact, plenty of the nation’s ancient, fascinating history is preserved in its museums, from excavated sarcophagi down to remarkable ancient relics. In fact, the country’s museums tend to be filled to the brim with thousands of these wonders, but such is not the case with Luxor Museum.
Standing on a corniche overlooking the west bank of the Nile River, the Luxor Museum was established in 1975 by the Egyptian Ministry of Culture. The two-story windowless building is only a fraction of the size of the country’s biggest museum in Cairo, but that’s okay — the Luxor Museum takes pride in the quality of its collection, rather than its quantity.
Image Source: EgyptianMuseums.net
Egypt Today notes that some of the best antiquities inside are the preserved mummies of Ramses II and Ahmose I. These are displayed without their wrappings in one of the museum’s newer wings. The first is regarded as the greatest and most celebrated pharaoh of the New Kingdom, while the second was the founder of the Eighteenth Dynasty. Both are located in a section dedicated to the New Kingdom, which marked a great period of imperial power for the country.
Image Source: EgyptianMuseums.net
Another of the museum’s main features, this time located on the upper floor, is a reconstructed wall made up of 283 sandstone blocks from the Karnak temple built for Amenhotep IV. The wall illustrates residential and royal scenes as well as solar Jubilee scenes from the first Sed festival. This is a priceless exhibit, as very little of the actual temple remains in modern times.
Some other of the museum’s highlights are the artifacts that have been gathered from the tomb of King Tutankhamun. Model boats, sandals, arrows, and figures of servants once decorated the area surrounding his resting place. Because ancient pharaohs believed in the afterlife and kept their most prized belongings close to their burial site in preparation, this is a major part of the museum.
Image Source: EgyptianMuseums.net
Indeed, the scale of the burial site was a major factor in the discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb in 1922, which received worldwide media attention. It sparked a newfound interest in Ancient Egypt, a fascination that has stood the test of time. Egypt’s rich history is reflected in a wide array of modern media across the world. For instance, the fantastical film Gods of Egypt heavily draws inspiration from Ancient Egypt and even deviates from actual history in favor of creative interpretation. A more traditional depiction can be seen in a slew of video games, particularly in a collection of Egyptian-themed titles on Slingo Slots. Games like Cleopatra’s Riches, Temple of Tut, and Temple of Iris are a nod to the actual ancient history of Egypt. Though there are a few creative liberties, the images featured are more or less based on Egypt’s past — much of which resembles the surviving remnants of the ancient world housed in the Luxor Museum.
Recently, the Luxor Museum celebrated the 96th anniversary of the discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb, acknowledging the event as a turning point in the country’s tourism and the world’s interest in it.
Fortunately, you don’t have to fly all the way to Egypt to catch a glimpse of its many relics. If you somehow find yourself in Turin, Italy, and are interested to know more about Egypt’s ancient past, you can also pay a visit to the wonderful Museo Egizio.
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Adrienne Chamberlain is a history enthusiast who is particularly interested in the mysteries of the ancient world. She mainly travels to see ancient structures (or at least what’s left of them) for herself. She’s already been to Egypt several times.
