The Ṣóyínká Museum in Ifẹ̀

The new Ṣóyínká Museum in Ifẹ̀ wasn’t that hard to find, it turned out. Knowing that it is located across from the Vice Chancellor’s Lodge was a helpful tip that got us there. A straight road from the university gate, after just one turning, led us right through an open road guided by trees, grass, and lamp posts, and there we were.

Located near the base of an impressive hill covered in thick foliage, the house, built in the simple but elegant style of other nearby structures created for the use of university staff, stuck out in white, decorated by murals portraying the Nobel Laureate in many different states. At the entrance, on top of a constructed covering, supported by metal poles, is a larger-than-life concrete bust of Ṣóyínká himself starting towards the Vice-Chancellors lodge.

The house used to be yellow (see old pictures here), like other buildings in these staff quarters. The new white painting and decorations are a distinctive feature to mark it apart as not just any other residential property in the area. The house has now been adopted by the Ògùn State Government as a museum and artistic/exhibition space about the life of Africa’s first Nobel Laureate in Literature and famous indigene of the state and former member of staff at the university. In itself, this is an impressive and long overdue endeavour. In other parts of the world, important buildings of this nature are regularly turned into historical sites, creating great cultural value, and bringing tourists from across the world, which in turn generates funds to keep the structures perpetually maintained, to serve as valuable institutions to the preservation of memory and values of the celebrated heroes.

[Read about my visit to the Mark Twain Boyhood Home in Hannibal, Missouri here here, and here]

 

This location, I thought, was actually quite interesting. The rumours I grew up around had it that at some point in his career as a Professor of Theatre, WS was in the running to become Vice-Chancellor of the university himself. He has strongly refuted this in an email to me, writing “I have NEVER contested or even desired any administrative position in my entire career at Ifẹ̀ or any other institution in the entire world.” This makes sense, or it would have made for some awkward interaction with whomever had won the tussle living right across from him on campus.

According to the pamphlet handed out to us as we walked through, Professor Ṣóyínká left the University of Ifẹ̀ in 1986 after having “spent about 24 years” on the staff roll. That means he joined in 1962. I’ve found this record a little conflicting with the reality that the dramatist-professor was also the head of the Department of Drama at the University of Ìbàdàn from 1967, shortly before he was arrested for visiting the breakaway Biafra, to 1970, a few months after he was released from jail. So, either he first went to Ifẹ̀ (then located in makeshift buildings in Sango and Sámọńdà areas of Ìbadàn before this permanent site in Ilé-Ifẹ̀ was opened), then returned to Ìbàdàn and then went back to Ifẹ̀ after he left jail, or we have got the records wrong. It will be nice to have this all straightened out.

Speaking of records, the ostensible purpose of the Museum is to create ‘an academic and tourism destination’ around the writer’s life, work, and passions (including hunting), yet the only thing here, at the moment at least, are a collection of carvings and other artworks belonging to, collected by, or created around Wọlé Ṣóyínká. Nowhere in the building are directions to what each room used to be: this is WS’s former study. This is where he wrote The Road. This was his work typewriter for many years. This is the room where his children so-and-so used to live. And here is an old manuscript of Lion and the Jewel, with handwritten notations in-between the lines. etc. Maybe being in the presence of his artistic aura around the building and his art collections was supposed to be enough for the visitor. It wasn’t. There was a prevailing sense that a lot more context will need to be added to make it a true museum of the writer’s illustriious career.

At the moment, it is simply an exhibition space, filled with an impressive collection of art from the many corners of Nigeria, collected and preserved over many years. Won’t it be nice to have the structure turned into a real-life manifestation of the creative imagination of the writer’s theatrical and poetic ouvre? At Hannibal, one could pretend to whitewash a picket fence just like Tom Sawyer did in the writer’s famous novel. One could walk around the museum, and around downtown Hannibal like a character in Mark Twain’s early works. One could also visit a gift shop and buy books and other collectables related to the author. The ‘Boy’s Quarters’ of this Ṣóyínká Museum would be a good place to turn into a gift shop if the desire so manifests. Or, perhaps, this will be the case only when Ṣóyínká’s childhood home in Abẹ́òkuta is finally acquired for a more permanent artistic purpose.

The grounds on which this museum building in Ifẹ̀ now stands will make a good venue for festivals, open literary fairs, and other artistic events. The view of the hills, glorious in the setting sun, is a delightful sight from the balcony, even when blocked by a lone palm tree that one can assume has had an illustrious life as a sater of creative thirst through the production of palm wine. One can easily imagine its former residents walking around it on cool evenings, setting traps for wild animals, or venturing into the adjourning thicket, up the hill, for a hunting expedition. Easily imagined as a venue for future writer residencies as well, there is a lot of understated potential for the project. One is glad, at least, that it has begun.

Chapter 11: A Reading Space in Lekki

By Anthony Azekwoh

Perched comfortably on 39A Awudu Ekpegha Boulevard Street is Chapter 11, a workspace, training area and 24-hour library rolled into one.

Walking in, I was immediately greeted by the warm atmosphere such a cosy space promised: air conditioning, brightly coloured furniture and secluded workspaces to allow people do their work in peace and privacy, not to mention the free WiFi. So basically, it was heaven. Getting a membership is also very easy, for three thousand naira (3000) a day you have access to all their facilities or you could opt for the fifteen thousand naira (N15000) a week plan or even the twenty-five thousand naira (N25000) a month plan. Annually, you can also get access for two hundred thousand naira (N200,000).

Met with their friendly staff, I was shown around their space. The largest room was a kind of lounge area where members could eat, drink, talk and basically relax. There were cubical seats arranged with spaces all around with work cubicles too. I was then brought to one of their workspaces equipped with pigeon holes and work areas, everyone with their head down focused on their work. There was also free coffee and other refreshments available so that was also a plus.

Being the only one of its kind around the area, Chapter 11 shines as a versatile and comfortable space for learning, working and resting. Shifting easily between its many roles and managing still to perform perfectly. Definitely, a place to be to get good work done fast.

 

Leaving Lagos

by S.I Ohumu 

 

I came here on the shoulders of many, great, expectations. It was the glow-up. Smart Benin girl who never fit in with a talent in the arts must move to the big city. But you lose when you do things that are expected of you.

I should have learnt this lesson from my experience juggling being in my first year of university and last year of secondary school, simultaneously, to give my parents bragging rights, though I didn’t. Or I forgot to. So I moved.

Now I am moving again.

I am leaving Lagos. It is lonely. Alone with 20 million hurrying bodies. Inside of a room, a flat, with persons you know in their own rooms, their own flats, the great distance caused by traffic jams enough to keep you apart. Alone with yourself so you run to whoever you can be with, taking the shit, grateful for a body to see, touch, talk, fuck.

I am leaving Lagos because it is noisy here . And in my head. There is too much. Of everything. Too much hurrying. Too much worry. Too much of cars. Too much of agents. Too much of no friends. Too much of want. Too much of the feeling of keeping up but falling short. There is not enough of anything. Not enough of actual air. Of space. Of quiet. Not nearly enough of peace and joy. Freedom to take flight. There is not enough freedom in Lagos. Not enough of the things which make us truly much. Solid hefty things. Lagos is noise and too much and not enough. It is a shiririrrrrr. It is many stones joined together, haphazard, with no weight. Nothing at the middle.

***

It is my last weekend in Lagos and I have come to move my things. For months I have been afraid to be back here. I left on a bad note. I didn’t finish a manuscript I was editing. I didn’t say goodbye at my job. I told the people at my house nothing. I wrote that deeply flawed essay. I absolutely do not want to be back here.

But fear will always be there. So I do what I am slowly learning to do: allow myself somethings, hold back others. I do not confront former work or abandoned manuscript. Not yet. I stay with Ayọ̀ at Ìyànà Ìpájà. On Sunday night I have wine with a married man–bad tasting white wine–while sitting beside a pool in Lekki, and talk to him for hours, until it is too late to go home. And because I don’t want us to get a room, I say, ‘to the beach’!

We walk. I think I belong to the water. He says everybody thinks that when faced with the sea. There is a line of rock I am unwilling to walk. We look at sex workers. At how the wind makes their cigarette fire fly. Sit on a log. He touches my butt. We sleep in his car. The next day, I’m sick with fever. Can mosquitoes live in saltwater?

On Tuesday I uninstall Uber and Taxify. Forget Rele. My heart holds on to Freedom Park.

***

Hearing Edo being spoken became a balm. A balm given to a bus conductor at agege. A smile returned to boy with blue glasses at Cafe Neo. A celebration of familiarity. Everything else was the other.

***

I am leaving Lagos because I am happy now. I have cleaned the room in my head. Put the hangers in the wardrobe, the broom in its place. I am able to wake up every morning. Go to sleep without crying. Look at trees, touch the sky, love a man who loves me back. I am able finally to be accountable. To understand action, reaction, consequence. Interested in navigating the fragile maze of growing up while retaining my childlike wonder. Realizing clichés come from good places. I am able to think good. Solid. I am leaving Lagos because only the solid can fly. You are fraught and froth and secured to the dirt floor in a city with everything but what is required.

I am leaving Lagos because it is not for me. It is this simple. Do not speak in absolutes. No city is the sunken place. This one is magic to many others. Now the question: But is that you? Are you here because you want to be or you think you ought to want to be? Because you need to be here? Sync like a mac to an iPhone to this rollercoaster of a coastal city? When last did you let yourself rhyme?

I want to rhyme. I want to go home. I only know home is home by having been in a place that isn’t home. I am leaving Lagos because it isn’t home.

Lagos isn’t home. Not to me. Is it to you?

N.B: To the ones not squares, wearing boots at ring road, counting down until the big move, why are you leaving? Your family doesn’t feel like family? To find your tribe? Opportunities? Your difference does not mean you must live in Lagos. Granted it’s a hub but is it the only? Should it be? The country big. Ask Fuád, e big. If you want to create, bad air fast bus quick fingers frothy people fun hangouts may be the way. Trees, slow paced, quiet may also be the answer. I am not saying do not go, only consider. Place it side by side another. It is not a given. Sometimes the way to start anew is to stay. Sometimes it is to go.

Go home. But first, find it. Wherever that is.

_____

S.I Ohumu is a mostly happy twenty-two-year-old living where art, food, and environmental sustainability meet.

 

Nigeria’s Opioid Crises: Codeine

I first heard about the Nigerian codeine epidemic a couple of months ago, when a viral song by Ọlámìdé titled Science Student was released. Until then, I did not know that a drug epidemic was raging on Nigerian streets and taking lots of young men and women with them. But even then, I had no idea that the drug in question was a prescription cough syrup.

My friend – and Nigerian journalist – Ruona Agbroko-Meyer has now done an important documentary work on this crises, exposing the underground market and individuals that sustain the multimillion naira criminal industry. It is a story that has roots in her own personal story but exposes a national problem through investigative journalism and high stakes reporting.

I strongly recommend it. See below, via the BBC.

 

Thoughts on “Freshwater”

I have just finished reading Akwaeke Emezi’s powerful debut, Freshwater. Its premise – a novel-length story of an ọgbanje child and its/her/their* experience of the human and spirit world – was one we had needed for a long time since Chinua Achebe gave us the character Ezinma in Things Fall Apart, described as ọgbanje because she was the first of ten children that did not die at birth. In Yorùbá, they are called àbíkú children, and have been subjects of many works of poetry and fiction. Having such a contemporary story based on the real-life story of someone we know makes it doubly intriguing for a novel, with potentials and pitfalls.

Freshwater by Akwaeke Emezi.

This novel, which takes place this time in the modern era of emails, tennis courts, airplanes, condoms, and surgeries, tells the story of an ọgbanje child called the egg of the python: akwa-eke (also ‘the Ada’ – first girl child; also ‘the child of Ala’), whose life begins to get interesting after a night of trauma releases to her reality many spirits she had carried with her since birth. “Interesting” is a curious word to use to describe what happens, but only because the writing successfully immerses the reader in the trauma of her circumstances while simultaneously offering some measure of distance through a multiplicity of voices, all belonging to different entities through which the spirits that control her body chose to express their personalities. Their primary aim is to destroy the body and pull her spirit back to where they came from, but failing that, settling to ‘protect’ her through a series of attack and defense mechanisms that turn the life of such a carrier into one of wild and tumultuous adventure.

“When we were first placed inside her, with these humans, the odds were that the Ada would survive. It was, in retrospect, a very low bar to set. She did not die, yes, but she was not guarded, she was violated, so far as we were concerned, they failed. This is why we have never regretted stepping in, whether as ourself or the beastself. Show us someone, anyone, who could have saved her better.” (Kindle LOC 2411)

I have never read any other book like it. Not in the way the author introduces us to the many characters that live within one person. Not in the way she carries us along with her on a rollercoaster of spiritual and physical experiences that would have been hard to describe in any other way. Not many novels exist in which there are so many characters, but few people. It is a testament to the author’s gift and talent that we are never confused at each turn.

What makes the book important, however, is not just the fact of its existence, its impressive narrative style which combines Nigerian pidgin lingo, Igbo, and standard English, and the intimate exploration of what being an ọgbanje means in a modern time. A month before the book was released, the author penned a complementary essay in The Cut in which she describes her transition across realities, from woman to “a spirit customizing its vessel to reflect its nature.” She was not just becoming non-woman by removing the body part that reminded her every month of the nature of which body it inhabited, she was also freeing herself from the prison of categorization: a transition that isn’t from one gender to the other, but from body to spirit. Serving as complementary features the way that Binyavanga Wainaina’s essay I am a Homosexual, Mom complements his memoir One Day I Will Write About This Place like a lost final chapter,  Emezi’s essay fits the novel like a necessary coda, bringing an important conversation to the fore about how transitioning and attendant medical procedures aren’t really such an ‘unAfrican’ phenomenon after all, but had only been spoken of in that light because we had suppressed the voices that could otherwise explain to us the things we knew all along.

“The first madness was that we were born, that they stuffed a god into a bag of skin.” Kindle LOC 278

Akwaeke Emezi.
(Photo from http://1888.center)

The novel works on many levels: as a memoir, a coming of age story, a journey to self of a young girl of Igbo and Tamil descent trying to find her way in the world; as a fictional exploration of trauma, mental illness, family issues, and sexual/gender identity; and as an inevitably anthropological material on the study of the ọgbanje phenomenon and its many manifestations, with an intimate portrayal of challenges, heartbreaks, and opportunities. All the earlier works we had read about the phenomenon had treated the issue in a distant mythical way, removed from relatable experiences. While I was in Korea in January, a student of African literature asked whether the ọgbanje/àbíkú experience was ‘real’ and something that still happened. He had read about it from Chinua Achebe. I was glad to refer him to Emezi’s personal essay, and novel, on the subject. With Freshwater, the phenomenon became flesh.

Besides the subject matter, I was also very heartened to read a Nigerian novel in which the Nigerian language words (in this case, Igbo words) are written with appropriate diacritics. Ọgbanje wasn’t written as ogbanje, or with italics, as Chinua Achebe did in 1948. Other Igbo words and expressions like Asụghara, Lẹshi, Nzọpụta, Ịlaghachị, among others, were written with adequate respect for the writing conventions (I have discussed my thought on this pervasive deficiency in contemporary African writing in past essays (see 1, 2, 3), but particularly in this recent talk given in Korea about the subject). If we care enough to put diacritics on French, German, Swedish (etc) names in our English prose, there’s no need why we shouldn’t do them for African languages as well.

“When you name something, it comes into existence – did you know that?” Kindle LOC 816

Emezi has written an important book that is also a delight to read, in spite of (if not also because of) the trauma and challenges that make the writing necessary in the first place. Highly recommended.

__

* Note on Pronouns. As those already familiar with Emezi’s work will note, she insists that she’s not a woman, though she answers to both ‘she’/’her’ (as is seen on her web bio), and ‘they’ (as will be seen throughout the novel, and as she’d once mentioned online as a preference). Her bio, for a long time, quotes her as living ‘in liminal spaces’. I believe that she has also not entered the book for any women’s prize for this purpose, which makes sense in light of how she represents herself in public and how she has experienced the world as an ọgbanje. One of the things that intrigued me greatly in the book is how each voice comes across as an authentic self of the character, even when they all live within the same body. So here, using ‘they’ makes enormous sense, and not confusing in a way that it has been when other trans people (especially in the United States) have used it. This is said not to disparage other trans people and the way they represent themselves but to credit this particular work with illuminating the issue in a way that makes it a little more relatable.