music
WE SUPPORT YOU
by Tosin Otitoju
ootitoju@hotmail.com
Bi-l rouh, bi-l dam
With soul, with blood
Nafdik, yaa nass.
We support you, oh people.
You are one people united,
rich in soul and heart.
We have no better words
for you who give us hope:
We support you.
Bil rouh, bil dam
nafdik, yaa Comrade.
Monday, February 07, 2011
Tuesday, February 01, 2011
Creativity, how to generate ideas
music
Later today I'm giving a talk to a student group at Unilag. Click to view the slides I'm using:
More lectures on The Creative Economy at googlesites/upnaira
Later today I'm giving a talk to a student group at Unilag. Click to view the slides I'm using:
More lectures on The Creative Economy at googlesites/upnaira
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Agric Chic
music
Shall we call this agro chic, 'gric chic, or what?
From sketches I drew around New Years Day 2011
Men should wear man-shorts. Absolutely.
Return the didi (overhand weaving) and kiko (with thread).
We really need ventilation in our architecture.
and then there's all the cool things we can copy from Fulani, Yoruba, and Nigerian agrarian dress in general...
midriffs and gauze coveralls from the Fulani
staying cool in the heat with light fabric, airy styles, and raffia hats...
liking the singlet, embracing the wrapper...
This is clothing for the agrochic.
Shall we call this agro chic, 'gric chic, or what?
From sketches I drew around New Years Day 2011
Men should wear man-shorts. Absolutely.
Return the didi (overhand weaving) and kiko (with thread).
We really need ventilation in our architecture.
and then there's all the cool things we can copy from Fulani, Yoruba, and Nigerian agrarian dress in general...
midriffs and gauze coveralls from the Fulani
staying cool in the heat with light fabric, airy styles, and raffia hats...
liking the singlet, embracing the wrapper...
This is clothing for the agrochic.
Thursday, January 06, 2011
Bordello
music
I just typed a poem that I wrote December 23 and rewrote last night. Did this after reading a little bit online about some engineering "research" for a meeting tomorrow. This after reading a little about my more-favoured research, which is on Sudoku, the game. This after having a ball teaching Calculus: Integration to a too-big class ( over 400 students, quite intractable, to be frank. The class held first thing in the morning AND right after the holidays, so the students are still fresh. But it also succeeded because I worked hard to prepare an interactive session. )
Well, I'm crazy, because besides those, I've blogged about my legislature and I've written a presentation on Thematic Unity for Creative Products, and even showered and dressed and checked out my friends' online. I just want to state that I know these kids :) Love.
Before I started writing this post, I was focused on the problem, the fact that after all these years, "research" is in quotes. Hey, that's life - some things niggle for long.
And hey, that's life, sometimes people don't notice all they've done right, and instead hone in on the tiny peccata. But now it's time to pat myself on the back, getbreakfast lunch and a newspaper...
Been meaning to use the word "peccata" (Latin for sins, from Agnus Dei in the Mass) for a long time. Been hoping to write a review of Chimamanda! the phenomenon, and to state that her writing is free of peccata, technically speaking, and that somehow irritates me, like a too-round head. However, she keeps getting "better." Her new short story, Birdsong, reads nice and natural.
So someday when someone asks what I was thinking when I wrote "Road to the Bordello", I'll say something about being scared to hook-up with someone I instinctively mistrust. I might mention Chimamanda's reminder, through Birdsong, of the downsides to being a mistress. I'll mention the imagery produced by Vivian Green's audio performance of Cole Porter's "Love For Sale" on the soundtrack of De-Lovely. I'll only remember this thought process because I've written it now. Bordello rhymes with Costello, who I imagined dressed in a dandy hat and outfit - that's how I got the keyword, bordello. His spouse, Diana Krall, also sang on De-Lovely. I'll say that I imagined that the road to the bordello might pass through loss of faith.
ROAD TO THE BORDELLO
Because you are wild,
yearning, child-like
with greed –
What’s that, Love?
You love me?
You promise cruelty –
I am careworn,
hurt, worried,
aggrieved.
What’s that, Love?
A reason?
Hope’s beating eternally.
Because I believed you,
now to take charge,
by the horns.
What’s that, Love?
By the balls?
Come, walk this way.
I just typed a poem that I wrote December 23 and rewrote last night. Did this after reading a little bit online about some engineering "research" for a meeting tomorrow. This after reading a little about my more-favoured research, which is on Sudoku, the game. This after having a ball teaching Calculus: Integration to a too-big class ( over 400 students, quite intractable, to be frank. The class held first thing in the morning AND right after the holidays, so the students are still fresh. But it also succeeded because I worked hard to prepare an interactive session. )
Well, I'm crazy, because besides those, I've blogged about my legislature and I've written a presentation on Thematic Unity for Creative Products, and even showered and dressed and checked out my friends' online. I just want to state that I know these kids :) Love.
Before I started writing this post, I was focused on the problem, the fact that after all these years, "research" is in quotes. Hey, that's life - some things niggle for long.
And hey, that's life, sometimes people don't notice all they've done right, and instead hone in on the tiny peccata. But now it's time to pat myself on the back, get
Been meaning to use the word "peccata" (Latin for sins, from Agnus Dei in the Mass) for a long time. Been hoping to write a review of Chimamanda! the phenomenon, and to state that her writing is free of peccata, technically speaking, and that somehow irritates me, like a too-round head. However, she keeps getting "better." Her new short story, Birdsong, reads nice and natural.
So someday when someone asks what I was thinking when I wrote "Road to the Bordello", I'll say something about being scared to hook-up with someone I instinctively mistrust. I might mention Chimamanda's reminder, through Birdsong, of the downsides to being a mistress. I'll mention the imagery produced by Vivian Green's audio performance of Cole Porter's "Love For Sale" on the soundtrack of De-Lovely. I'll only remember this thought process because I've written it now. Bordello rhymes with Costello, who I imagined dressed in a dandy hat and outfit - that's how I got the keyword, bordello. His spouse, Diana Krall, also sang on De-Lovely. I'll say that I imagined that the road to the bordello might pass through loss of faith.
ROAD TO THE BORDELLO
Because you are wild,
yearning, child-like
with greed –
What’s that, Love?
You love me?
You promise cruelty –
I am careworn,
hurt, worried,
aggrieved.
What’s that, Love?
A reason?
Hope’s beating eternally.
Because I believed you,
now to take charge,
by the horns.
What’s that, Love?
By the balls?
Come, walk this way.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
One great upper body
music
Although when I watched him performing his solo "My Exile is in my Head" I was a little worried for Qudus Onikeku - he was losing so much fluid (sweat), and yeah, generally such intense head-jerking can't be good for you.
He followed some Desi (Indian) strings in the solo, which was superb, especially the bit with his fingers plucking, you know, posed like an Indian dancer. Very memorable, I copy that move now sometimes. Like now. Like last night I was suddenly happy.
To love Qudus, catch him on stage somewhere in the world, or read his writings. Lucid as anything.
Come Dance With Me
P.S. Nothing wrong with the lower body, I just didn't see it. That can be fixed, no?
Although when I watched him performing his solo "My Exile is in my Head" I was a little worried for Qudus Onikeku - he was losing so much fluid (sweat), and yeah, generally such intense head-jerking can't be good for you.
He followed some Desi (Indian) strings in the solo, which was superb, especially the bit with his fingers plucking, you know, posed like an Indian dancer. Very memorable, I copy that move now sometimes. Like now. Like last night I was suddenly happy.
To love Qudus, catch him on stage somewhere in the world, or read his writings. Lucid as anything.
Come Dance With Me
P.S. Nothing wrong with the lower body, I just didn't see it. That can be fixed, no?
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Full of book
music
Sometimes I agree completely with Tolu Ogunlesi. Here are two examples:
Q: "There has been an upsurge in the number of young writers emerging from Nigeria side-by-side with a publishing industry that is sadly not big enough to accommodate them. What are your views on publishing in Nigeria?
There is very little publishing going on in Nigeria. Very little, if you take our population and the vibrancy of the literary community into account. But there is certainly a great deal of printing going on. That in itself is not a bad thing, but we need to match that printing with an entire structure of editors, marketing personnel, bookstores, literary magazines, book reviewers, distribution systems, writing workshops, writing grants and scholarships, etc. Only then can we boast of having a publishing industry.
Kudos to publishers like Kachifo and..."
From the article: I buy books the way our politicians steal money – as if there’ll be no tomorrow, written by Gbenga Awomodu for Bellanaija.com
Q: Have you ever imitated another writer’s style?
You often can’t help it, what you read influences what and how you write, often unconsciously. Life as a writer is often about being at the mercy of a million competing voices in your head, offering possibilities on how and what
to write about… what they call your voice or your style is a mélange of all these voices, whipped into shape by your own stubbornness and instinct…"
From the Interview: Poor Citizens, Poor Reading Culture, found on Bellanaija.com and written by Temitayo Olofinlua
Sometimes I agree completely with Tolu Ogunlesi. Here are two examples:
Q: "There has been an upsurge in the number of young writers emerging from Nigeria side-by-side with a publishing industry that is sadly not big enough to accommodate them. What are your views on publishing in Nigeria?
There is very little publishing going on in Nigeria. Very little, if you take our population and the vibrancy of the literary community into account. But there is certainly a great deal of printing going on. That in itself is not a bad thing, but we need to match that printing with an entire structure of editors, marketing personnel, bookstores, literary magazines, book reviewers, distribution systems, writing workshops, writing grants and scholarships, etc. Only then can we boast of having a publishing industry.
Kudos to publishers like Kachifo and..."
From the article: I buy books the way our politicians steal money – as if there’ll be no tomorrow, written by Gbenga Awomodu for Bellanaija.com
Q: Have you ever imitated another writer’s style?
You often can’t help it, what you read influences what and how you write, often unconsciously. Life as a writer is often about being at the mercy of a million competing voices in your head, offering possibilities on how and what
to write about… what they call your voice or your style is a mélange of all these voices, whipped into shape by your own stubbornness and instinct…"
From the Interview: Poor Citizens, Poor Reading Culture, found on Bellanaija.com and written by Temitayo Olofinlua
Monday, December 13, 2010
Fanning the flames
music
Look what I was thinking 10 years ago: "defending the free world."
When I was typing my entry for Person of The Year in CLDC (that famous computer lab) at Howard University, I had no idea my words would be printed in TIME. I would have been too shy to actually write something in TIME.
In Nigeria, I've seen (attributed to Pat Utomi, and now echoed by several people) calls for a part-time legislature, and I've started one part-time legislature.
Today we're discussing automatic termination for public servants.
http://upnaira.blogspot.com/p/simple-chat.html
Look what I was thinking 10 years ago: "defending the free world."
When I was typing my entry for Person of The Year in CLDC (that famous computer lab) at Howard University, I had no idea my words would be printed in TIME. I would have been too shy to actually write something in TIME.
In Nigeria, I've seen (attributed to Pat Utomi, and now echoed by several people) calls for a part-time legislature, and I've started one part-time legislature.
Today we're discussing automatic termination for public servants.
http://upnaira.blogspot.com/p/simple-chat.html
Friday, December 10, 2010
Not Too Much Pepper
music
NOT TOO MUCH PEPPER
by Tosin Otitoju
ootitoju@hotmail.com
My team has a reputation for being capable and effective. We get the job done - no excuses. We are Funmi (that’s me), Bala, IK, Deeza, Ekpenyong, and Robert.
The youngest is Robert, who we like to call “Robot.” He’s spending his IT (Industrial Training) semester with us. In only two months, he has already solved so many of our computer problems. I’m sure he’ll be offered a job with us when his traineeship is over.
Bala is a former lecturer. It was he who suggested that we hire a university student to do all the high-tech things we don’t understand. Unlike some nepotistic people, he picked Robot although they’re from entirely different parts of the country. I applaud Bala for creating a win-win situation as usual: Robot gets income, experience, and a guaranteed job offer come October, while Bala gains free time (higher productivity means more free time) to daydream about getting Deeza’s attention, if you know what I mean.
Deeza is our boss. Though only thirty-something, she knows how to handle her job. She balances the need of the directors to see results (results = owo, ego, kudi) with our need to have fun at work and not be too stressed. She makes sure we get good bonuses at year-end and is even negotiating for us to hold company shares.
Ekpenyong is one of those self-effacing workers: you can imagine someone who is always at work on time, ever-willing to fill in for others, and always has wisdom to spare when one of us has a problem. We call him Father Ekpenyong for his listening ear and his good advice. His wife is a fantastic cook, so we always look forward to getting invited to parties at his home. Without him, there would be a big gap in our team, emotionally speaking.
What can I say about I.K.? IK talks fast, walks fast, and only occasionally stops to joke around. Sometimes when we don’t know how to get something done, he just blurts out a simple comment that does the trick. For example, we stopped working with small accounts because IK says big accounts are “the way things are done.” I admire his genius in marketing. I know he’s eager to start his own company, so I doubt he’ll stay long with us.
There! I just introduced my work team. My role at work is communication guru since I actually enjoy writing and working with languages.
We’re planning for the “Unity in Diversity” bid, so Deeza needs my one-page concept this afternoon, and Father Ekpenyong is looking over my first draft. He is reading aloud, “…think of Nigeria as another team, but a team with countless people, a greater diversity of strength profiles, and of course, several languages.”
“This is a good start, in terms of framing the context,” he concludes. “Now you need to think of the mood.”
Bala called out, “is that for United We Stand?”
“Enhe,” said Father Ekpenyong.
“Let me see.” He came round to Father Ekpenyong’s desk. “Mood, you say. It’s true. It’s good though.”
“She’ll still come up with some characters to teach the lesson,” said Father Ekpenyong.
“Just don’t use broom.”
“Funny,” I countered. There was a popular tale about a wise man that showed his squabbling sons that sticks are easily broken, but not when united as a broom. It would be too traditional for our target demographic.
“It all boils down to broom…if you like, call it vacuum cleaner,” Father Ekpenyong quipped. He argued that if the fable wasn’t so effective – simple, relevant, and punchy, as he defined effectiveness – it would not have been preserved a thousand years. “That writer created a phenomenon,” Father Ekpenyong said.
“You’re saying they used brooms a thousand years ago? Maybe the first fable was about cleaning leaves. You can tear one leaf, but many leaves?” Bala was joking again.
“They used fingers in those days, Bala. The man broke his sons’ fingers to teach them about the united hand.”
Bala winced. “Ah, that’s wicked,” he said.
The phone rang for Father Ekpenyong and I decided to get back to writing. “Give me my paper,” I said, my left hand reaching for the sheet.
“But you know what? You can only eat tuwo with all your fingers.”
After I reminded Bala that oyinbos eat swallow with one finger, he offered, “but can one finger scoop the soup with the swallow?”
Father Ekpenyong had just ended his phonecall, and turned to us. “Young man, you’re making me hungry,” he said.
“And I have to hurry. Bala, you’re wasting my time.”
Bala took his leave, saying he had to look over a report. I took my paper back to my desk and got in my head.
Mood. I want to create something very ethnic. I want the audience in the end to smell the cotton and the indigo dye; to hear the sounds. Not moo-d which sounds like patch-coloured cattle on a wet Dutch farm, but the gbam-gbam-gbim-gbim bursting from loudspeakers that go till six in the morning. Onomatopoeia is such a thing with us.
The drum beats - the Yoruba talking drum - plus the silver microphone and large black loudspeakers. With little prompting, Yorubas erect their tarpaulin tents in the middle of the street. Say someone survives an accident, dies, gives birth, gets older, travels, returns, goes to school, gets a promotion, … not to mention marriage, and it’s party time.
There are young men to unstack the rented plastic chairs and wipe everything with gray rags. There are women who stayed up half the night tending the large round pots on outdoor cooking fires. Everybody is welcome to join in but I learned that some people are actually annoyed at the “gbe-gu-ru gbe-gu-ru noise all the time.”
That’s what I.K. told me. It was also I.K. who told me that Yorubas like pepper. Youth Service year found him learning to cook rice and stew, he said, as he could no longer handle the excessive pepper at the bukas.
Soon enough, he got to taste my cooking. It was one day, we needed to go to the office - rare for a Saturday. Since my aunt had taken the car out, I phoned to ask him for a ride. He hemmed and hawed and said he hadn’t even eaten yet. I promised him lunch so he swung by to pick me up. The dining table was laid out with table cloth, serving spoons, and all that. He said that we wouldn’t have time to eat, so I packed our lunch in plastic bowls and we took off.
We ate while doing our edits. Afterwards, he thanked me for lunch, saying that there was not even too much pepper. I tell you: December 6 was a good day. Finally I.K. had noticed me not as the writer-girl-in-skirt-suit, but as a potential wife and homemaker. He offered to drop me off at home after work.
In the car, we talked about insults. There are so many words of abuse: you’re mad, you’re stupid, idiot, your head is not correct, imbecile, monkey, goat, animal, useless, good-for-nothing…
I.K. felt that insults only work on people with low confidence. “If you’re not stupid,” he said, “why would you care about being compared with a stupid animal?”
I asked him what insults people used in his language, since I only knew “onyara.”
“Onyara is a mad person, what you people call we-re,” he replied.
I added, “you know they never just say that. It would be ‘were iranu’, or ‘olosi to ri re ti daru patapata’, never simple.”
“Yoruba people can abuse!”
“It’s like poetry,” I said, interested in explaining how the insults were really verbal displays, and one could rather enjoy the artistry. “When someone says ‘won kan ri goloto goloto bi adiye Agric’ – that is metaphor that is morphologically and dynamically descriptive. It is so full of contempt that it’s funny.”
He asked, smiling, “What is ‘olodo rabata’?”
“When have you ever been called that?” I caught his eye.
“No one insults me. I’m not stupid,” he replied, full of that boyish smile and manly confidence.
We soon arrived at my gate, and he honked so that someone came to open up. I stepped out of the car. When we waved goodbye, I felt I could not wait till Monday to see him again.
What I love about I.K. is how focused he is. While Yoruba men get “honey” wherever they can, Ibo men focus on money. The stereotype is that the Ibo boy will start from apprenticeship and move up to his own business: import-export, contract supply, or ‘whatever’s clever.’ At forty, he is finally considered an eligible bachelor, with enough money to buy a wife.
I.K. is not forty. He is young and well-built. And he went to school.
But, as the stereotype goes, the rich man soon has a dozen in-laws to educate, clothe, house - it’s no joke. His very-highly educated Ibo housewife starts to give birth. She gets fatter and yellower, both considered signs of good living. Assuming his finances don’t crash, the queen of his castle is pampered with head-to-toe gaudiness – red and gold George wrappers, real jewelry, good wigs, trips abroad, …
I won’t get fatter.
When I was up north for Youth Service, the joke was that Yoruba men are great philanderers. Whether newly-wed or grey-haired, they continue to ‘appreciate’ women. Unlike the independent Ibos, the Yoruba focus on respect – of subjects for their king, of women for their men, and respect for elders. Perhaps as a result, their families consist of randy men, long-suffering women, and over-disciplined kids. Only a Yoruba woman would be the bread-winner, cook and clean, look great, and still get beaten up by her husband. She duly diverts her anger into verbal display and physical battery on her kids.
I shudder.
Mood. Mud. Flowing dansiki with cream stripes on a base of red-purple. Mud and dust. Large drums and bata dancers. The stiff, striped cotton twirls like so many peacocks. Women dance with their backsides leading the way. Dancers know true joy. The red-purples jump with excitement. Kpom. Kpom-kpom-kpom.
There is dust. One horse saddled in brightly-dyed leather. A man blows a long trumpet reminiscent of the desert - Agadez or Timbuctu. A thick procession. A giant umbrella covers horse and rider. Rider wrapped in cloths – a flowing robe and a ton folded around and around his head. The horn bellowing pfon-pfon-pfonnn.
A community of ladies in orange George wrappers and white, off-the-shoulder blouses. They cheer and start singing and clapping. Their blouses are embroidered and appliquéd and affixed with sequins and rhinestones. They move with swaying torsos and surprisingly complex footwork. They look queenly with the stiff headties piled atop their shiny black hair. One of them takes a white handkerchief to her forehead. Her arm is fat and reddish-yellow. I know I.K. deserves better.
NOT TOO MUCH PEPPER
by Tosin Otitoju
ootitoju@hotmail.com
My team has a reputation for being capable and effective. We get the job done - no excuses. We are Funmi (that’s me), Bala, IK, Deeza, Ekpenyong, and Robert.
The youngest is Robert, who we like to call “Robot.” He’s spending his IT (Industrial Training) semester with us. In only two months, he has already solved so many of our computer problems. I’m sure he’ll be offered a job with us when his traineeship is over.
Bala is a former lecturer. It was he who suggested that we hire a university student to do all the high-tech things we don’t understand. Unlike some nepotistic people, he picked Robot although they’re from entirely different parts of the country. I applaud Bala for creating a win-win situation as usual: Robot gets income, experience, and a guaranteed job offer come October, while Bala gains free time (higher productivity means more free time) to daydream about getting Deeza’s attention, if you know what I mean.
Deeza is our boss. Though only thirty-something, she knows how to handle her job. She balances the need of the directors to see results (results = owo, ego, kudi) with our need to have fun at work and not be too stressed. She makes sure we get good bonuses at year-end and is even negotiating for us to hold company shares.
Ekpenyong is one of those self-effacing workers: you can imagine someone who is always at work on time, ever-willing to fill in for others, and always has wisdom to spare when one of us has a problem. We call him Father Ekpenyong for his listening ear and his good advice. His wife is a fantastic cook, so we always look forward to getting invited to parties at his home. Without him, there would be a big gap in our team, emotionally speaking.
What can I say about I.K.? IK talks fast, walks fast, and only occasionally stops to joke around. Sometimes when we don’t know how to get something done, he just blurts out a simple comment that does the trick. For example, we stopped working with small accounts because IK says big accounts are “the way things are done.” I admire his genius in marketing. I know he’s eager to start his own company, so I doubt he’ll stay long with us.
There! I just introduced my work team. My role at work is communication guru since I actually enjoy writing and working with languages.
We’re planning for the “Unity in Diversity” bid, so Deeza needs my one-page concept this afternoon, and Father Ekpenyong is looking over my first draft. He is reading aloud, “…think of Nigeria as another team, but a team with countless people, a greater diversity of strength profiles, and of course, several languages.”
“This is a good start, in terms of framing the context,” he concludes. “Now you need to think of the mood.”
Bala called out, “is that for United We Stand?”
“Enhe,” said Father Ekpenyong.
“Let me see.” He came round to Father Ekpenyong’s desk. “Mood, you say. It’s true. It’s good though.”
“She’ll still come up with some characters to teach the lesson,” said Father Ekpenyong.
“Just don’t use broom.”
“Funny,” I countered. There was a popular tale about a wise man that showed his squabbling sons that sticks are easily broken, but not when united as a broom. It would be too traditional for our target demographic.
“It all boils down to broom…if you like, call it vacuum cleaner,” Father Ekpenyong quipped. He argued that if the fable wasn’t so effective – simple, relevant, and punchy, as he defined effectiveness – it would not have been preserved a thousand years. “That writer created a phenomenon,” Father Ekpenyong said.
“You’re saying they used brooms a thousand years ago? Maybe the first fable was about cleaning leaves. You can tear one leaf, but many leaves?” Bala was joking again.
“They used fingers in those days, Bala. The man broke his sons’ fingers to teach them about the united hand.”
Bala winced. “Ah, that’s wicked,” he said.
The phone rang for Father Ekpenyong and I decided to get back to writing. “Give me my paper,” I said, my left hand reaching for the sheet.
“But you know what? You can only eat tuwo with all your fingers.”
After I reminded Bala that oyinbos eat swallow with one finger, he offered, “but can one finger scoop the soup with the swallow?”
Father Ekpenyong had just ended his phonecall, and turned to us. “Young man, you’re making me hungry,” he said.
“And I have to hurry. Bala, you’re wasting my time.”
Bala took his leave, saying he had to look over a report. I took my paper back to my desk and got in my head.
Mood. I want to create something very ethnic. I want the audience in the end to smell the cotton and the indigo dye; to hear the sounds. Not moo-d which sounds like patch-coloured cattle on a wet Dutch farm, but the gbam-gbam-gbim-gbim bursting from loudspeakers that go till six in the morning. Onomatopoeia is such a thing with us.
The drum beats - the Yoruba talking drum - plus the silver microphone and large black loudspeakers. With little prompting, Yorubas erect their tarpaulin tents in the middle of the street. Say someone survives an accident, dies, gives birth, gets older, travels, returns, goes to school, gets a promotion, … not to mention marriage, and it’s party time.
There are young men to unstack the rented plastic chairs and wipe everything with gray rags. There are women who stayed up half the night tending the large round pots on outdoor cooking fires. Everybody is welcome to join in but I learned that some people are actually annoyed at the “gbe-gu-ru gbe-gu-ru noise all the time.”
That’s what I.K. told me. It was also I.K. who told me that Yorubas like pepper. Youth Service year found him learning to cook rice and stew, he said, as he could no longer handle the excessive pepper at the bukas.
Soon enough, he got to taste my cooking. It was one day, we needed to go to the office - rare for a Saturday. Since my aunt had taken the car out, I phoned to ask him for a ride. He hemmed and hawed and said he hadn’t even eaten yet. I promised him lunch so he swung by to pick me up. The dining table was laid out with table cloth, serving spoons, and all that. He said that we wouldn’t have time to eat, so I packed our lunch in plastic bowls and we took off.
We ate while doing our edits. Afterwards, he thanked me for lunch, saying that there was not even too much pepper. I tell you: December 6 was a good day. Finally I.K. had noticed me not as the writer-girl-in-skirt-suit, but as a potential wife and homemaker. He offered to drop me off at home after work.
In the car, we talked about insults. There are so many words of abuse: you’re mad, you’re stupid, idiot, your head is not correct, imbecile, monkey, goat, animal, useless, good-for-nothing…
I.K. felt that insults only work on people with low confidence. “If you’re not stupid,” he said, “why would you care about being compared with a stupid animal?”
I asked him what insults people used in his language, since I only knew “onyara.”
“Onyara is a mad person, what you people call we-re,” he replied.
I added, “you know they never just say that. It would be ‘were iranu’, or ‘olosi to ri re ti daru patapata’, never simple.”
“Yoruba people can abuse!”
“It’s like poetry,” I said, interested in explaining how the insults were really verbal displays, and one could rather enjoy the artistry. “When someone says ‘won kan ri goloto goloto bi adiye Agric’ – that is metaphor that is morphologically and dynamically descriptive. It is so full of contempt that it’s funny.”
He asked, smiling, “What is ‘olodo rabata’?”
“When have you ever been called that?” I caught his eye.
“No one insults me. I’m not stupid,” he replied, full of that boyish smile and manly confidence.
We soon arrived at my gate, and he honked so that someone came to open up. I stepped out of the car. When we waved goodbye, I felt I could not wait till Monday to see him again.
What I love about I.K. is how focused he is. While Yoruba men get “honey” wherever they can, Ibo men focus on money. The stereotype is that the Ibo boy will start from apprenticeship and move up to his own business: import-export, contract supply, or ‘whatever’s clever.’ At forty, he is finally considered an eligible bachelor, with enough money to buy a wife.
I.K. is not forty. He is young and well-built. And he went to school.
But, as the stereotype goes, the rich man soon has a dozen in-laws to educate, clothe, house - it’s no joke. His very-highly educated Ibo housewife starts to give birth. She gets fatter and yellower, both considered signs of good living. Assuming his finances don’t crash, the queen of his castle is pampered with head-to-toe gaudiness – red and gold George wrappers, real jewelry, good wigs, trips abroad, …
I won’t get fatter.
When I was up north for Youth Service, the joke was that Yoruba men are great philanderers. Whether newly-wed or grey-haired, they continue to ‘appreciate’ women. Unlike the independent Ibos, the Yoruba focus on respect – of subjects for their king, of women for their men, and respect for elders. Perhaps as a result, their families consist of randy men, long-suffering women, and over-disciplined kids. Only a Yoruba woman would be the bread-winner, cook and clean, look great, and still get beaten up by her husband. She duly diverts her anger into verbal display and physical battery on her kids.
I shudder.
Mood. Mud. Flowing dansiki with cream stripes on a base of red-purple. Mud and dust. Large drums and bata dancers. The stiff, striped cotton twirls like so many peacocks. Women dance with their backsides leading the way. Dancers know true joy. The red-purples jump with excitement. Kpom. Kpom-kpom-kpom.
There is dust. One horse saddled in brightly-dyed leather. A man blows a long trumpet reminiscent of the desert - Agadez or Timbuctu. A thick procession. A giant umbrella covers horse and rider. Rider wrapped in cloths – a flowing robe and a ton folded around and around his head. The horn bellowing pfon-pfon-pfonnn.
A community of ladies in orange George wrappers and white, off-the-shoulder blouses. They cheer and start singing and clapping. Their blouses are embroidered and appliquéd and affixed with sequins and rhinestones. They move with swaying torsos and surprisingly complex footwork. They look queenly with the stiff headties piled atop their shiny black hair. One of them takes a white handkerchief to her forehead. Her arm is fat and reddish-yellow. I know I.K. deserves better.
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
Photography
music
No, I'm not taking photographs,
but check these out from The Dustbin Estate Story at BellaNaija.com
I commented,
"these photographs are amazing, and I envision using pictures of real people and places – the riverine shanties, the dustbin estates, the pans of sand carried all day till the men are hunched like Quasimodo, and the guys and girls that work solid rock with their hoes in the name of agriculture, etc – for decoration in the government offices in Abuja...
"Currently they prefer “art” that further insulates them from the country. Let’s keep it real. Calling our photographers: our TY Bello and our Yinka Obebe, our Elechi Amadi-Obi and our Sinem Bilem-Onabanjo, our you and our me, to make a gift of true Nigerian photographs of the highest quality (gift or contract, na you sabi) to the State Houses of Assembly, the Courts, the Presidency, the Government Houses, the Central Mosque, the Senate, the Money church, … lest they forget that some people have got toooo little from this Union called Nigeria and we/they need to be inspired by their suffering."
No, I'm not taking photographs,
but check these out from The Dustbin Estate Story at BellaNaija.com
I commented,
"these photographs are amazing, and I envision using pictures of real people and places – the riverine shanties, the dustbin estates, the pans of sand carried all day till the men are hunched like Quasimodo, and the guys and girls that work solid rock with their hoes in the name of agriculture, etc – for decoration in the government offices in Abuja...
"Currently they prefer “art” that further insulates them from the country. Let’s keep it real. Calling our photographers: our TY Bello and our Yinka Obebe, our Elechi Amadi-Obi and our Sinem Bilem-Onabanjo, our you and our me, to make a gift of true Nigerian photographs of the highest quality (gift or contract, na you sabi) to the State Houses of Assembly, the Courts, the Presidency, the Government Houses, the Central Mosque, the Senate, the Money church, … lest they forget that some people have got toooo little from this Union called Nigeria and we/they need to be inspired by their suffering."
Friday, November 26, 2010
Fun this morning
music
I had fun reading the Friday papers: next and BusinessDay
Yes I know The Guardian is classic,
and The Nation is realistic
and This Day is mainstream,
and Punch surprises...
but how I love
the youthfulness of 234next (ps i even saw my youthful self in the paper today - i must be like, a celeb or something)
and the intelligence of BusinessDay.
These two must be my favourite Nigerian newspapers at the moment.
I had fun reading the Friday papers: next and BusinessDay
Yes I know The Guardian is classic,
and The Nation is realistic
and This Day is mainstream,
and Punch surprises...
but how I love
the youthfulness of 234next (ps i even saw my youthful self in the paper today - i must be like, a celeb or something)
and the intelligence of BusinessDay.
These two must be my favourite Nigerian newspapers at the moment.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
Prosefully yours
music
The Nigeria art (literary, musical, ...) space is on fire with content.
Here are three novels that I think you will have so much fun reading. Fun is important, no?
Tenants of The House
An intelligent and fast-paced adventure about politricks in the national legislature.
Buy online or in a few bookstores.
I Do Not Come To You By Chance
I previously discussed it here.
It's on amazon, goodreads, in stores, etc.
Under The Brown Rusted Roofs
Oh-so-funny Yoruba-Literature-In-English, a love song to Ibadan, full of wit and wisdom.
It's probably not online yet, but I get it at the University of Lagos bookshop.
My book is not online yet (so sorry) but I hear it's in a bookstore on Lagos Island, with more coverage to come. Thanks to all those who've showed lovve for Comrade in various ways.
The Nigeria art (literary, musical, ...) space is on fire with content.
Here are three novels that I think you will have so much fun reading. Fun is important, no?
Tenants of The House
An intelligent and fast-paced adventure about politricks in the national legislature.
Buy online or in a few bookstores.
I Do Not Come To You By Chance
I previously discussed it here.
It's on amazon, goodreads, in stores, etc.
Under The Brown Rusted Roofs
Oh-so-funny Yoruba-Literature-In-English, a love song to Ibadan, full of wit and wisdom.
It's probably not online yet, but I get it at the University of Lagos bookshop.
My book is not online yet (so sorry) but I hear it's in a bookstore on Lagos Island, with more coverage to come. Thanks to all those who've showed lovve for Comrade in various ways.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Flower Seller
music
I'm reading Capital, by Karl Marx.
Diego Rivera's paintings seem to fit the theme of exploitation of labour that so consumed Marx.
In the middle of this, I got to attend (and be on a panel at) the Nigerian Economic Summit. Let's just say it's about time truth gave corruption a knockout punch.
I'm reading Capital, by Karl Marx.
Diego Rivera's paintings seem to fit the theme of exploitation of labour that so consumed Marx.
In the middle of this, I got to attend (and be on a panel at) the Nigerian Economic Summit. Let's just say it's about time truth gave corruption a knockout punch.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Brother Nielsen
music
Michael Nielsen shares a lot.
His is one of the first blogs I followed (from 2003-ish)
I'm going to re-read some of his essays soon.
His general essays discuss the scientific method and the scientific enterprise.
I used to have his popular technical book on Quantum Computation and Quantum Information, bought at Borders.
He is great because it's easy for him to think outside the box about such issues as collaboration and incentive in science, where surprisingly many other genius-y people are stomped. How many professional innovators find it hard to innovate when it comes to their own accepted ways of doing things!
The other day a Prof. I admire was talking about promotion criteria, journal rankings, and all that scientific village culture, and I said audibly to myself: but I don't care.
Michael Nielsen shares a lot.
His is one of the first blogs I followed (from 2003-ish)
I'm going to re-read some of his essays soon.
His general essays discuss the scientific method and the scientific enterprise.
I used to have his popular technical book on Quantum Computation and Quantum Information, bought at Borders.
He is great because it's easy for him to think outside the box about such issues as collaboration and incentive in science, where surprisingly many other genius-y people are stomped. How many professional innovators find it hard to innovate when it comes to their own accepted ways of doing things!
The other day a Prof. I admire was talking about promotion criteria, journal rankings, and all that scientific village culture, and I said audibly to myself: but I don't care.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
A Quick Review
music
If folks had CPUs between their ears
and not some fiber-optic pipes,
they would have all Jah consciousness
since the first Redemption Song.
But as it stands, Robert Marley
had scarce choice but to send
his sage, romantic, Naija son
to message the true word:
Alas, our blessings stand behind doors we refuse to open.
When asked how we're doing, we take a sip and say, "we are coping!"
That's how the man flows. Rhyme is how Akaahs rolls.
No surprise The Lyricist has a way with words.
Book title:
A-Way With Words, by Alexander Akaahs
The quote (Alas...we're coping) is from his poem Refusing Salvation. The remaining lines are mine.
If folks had CPUs between their ears
and not some fiber-optic pipes,
they would have all Jah consciousness
since the first Redemption Song.
But as it stands, Robert Marley
had scarce choice but to send
his sage, romantic, Naija son
to message the true word:
Alas, our blessings stand behind doors we refuse to open.
When asked how we're doing, we take a sip and say, "we are coping!"
That's how the man flows. Rhyme is how Akaahs rolls.
No surprise The Lyricist has a way with words.
Book title:
A-Way With Words, by Alexander Akaahs
The quote (Alas...we're coping) is from his poem Refusing Salvation. The remaining lines are mine.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Facebook blurbs
music
What I was thinking today, copied from my facebook:
You ever feel like you're completely doing the right thing? Yeah, I feel good right now. It could also be the brunch I just had, washed down with juice - the extra sugar is a rare treat, and all is right with the world. (this morning)
the way politics works - name recognition - she has a better chance than almost anybody else.
comparing her with who *should* be a Senator in a giant country like Nigeria, you would hiss and say "no really how is this Madam Turai qualified?"
But comparing her with the Senators we have, you might hope that she brings sense into the machinations (and what word better suits the ex-first Lady than machinations?) of the upper house.
Read Tenants of the House, please.
(in response to rumours that Hajia Turai Yar'Adua might run for Senate.)
I think the problem with being a "researcher" at the most elite places is often too much talent on too little scope/applications. Every now and then, the talent finds a mission that's big enough...otherwise this restless ennui nags at the hapless human, just nags. (just now)
What I was thinking today, copied from my facebook:
You ever feel like you're completely doing the right thing? Yeah, I feel good right now. It could also be the brunch I just had, washed down with juice - the extra sugar is a rare treat, and all is right with the world. (this morning)
the way politics works - name recognition - she has a better chance than almost anybody else. comparing her with who *should* be a Senator in a giant country like Nigeria, you would hiss and say "no really how is this Madam Turai qualified?"
But comparing her with the Senators we have, you might hope that she brings sense into the machinations (and what word better suits the ex-first Lady than machinations?) of the upper house.
Read Tenants of the House, please.
(in response to rumours that Hajia Turai Yar'Adua might run for Senate.)
I think the problem with being a "researcher" at the most elite places is often too much talent on too little scope/applications. Every now and then, the talent finds a mission that's big enough...otherwise this restless ennui nags at the hapless human, just nags. (just now)
Saturday, July 03, 2010
From earlier today, the speech
music
Pass on the torch
Still brightly gleaming
Pass on the hopes
The earnest dreaming
To those who follow close at hand.
My warmest greetings to all: our distinguished guests (naming them), as well as our distinguished hosts – the students and staff of Queen’s College Lagos.
Since 1927, the Queen’s College torch has been passed on.
Eighty-three years - that is four generations. That is, of the earliest classes of QC girls, some may have had grandchildren whose granddaughters have become QC girls. So we
Pass on the thoughts,
The skills, the learning
Pass on the secrets
In most yearning
That they may build where we have planned.
The words of a poem. The lyrics of a song. When Miss Dorothy Peel wrote these words, how did she know that the most beautiful ones are not yet born? That where our set planned would be where your set built the house? That our biggest accomplishments would be but a starting point for your set?
Your dreams will be bigger. Isn’t there a lot to excite you as you look around and see a world filled with delicious problems that your ancestors have not solved?
The effort of your forebears over the last fifty years has yielded a democratic state. Still, in this government for the people, the percentage of people served and the quality of this service both need to be increased by orders of magnitude.
In Lagos, we have seen the recent miracle of road-improvement projects, refuse collection, urban beautification. Still I am sure that we can envision a still more beautiful environment with functional public architecture, excellent mass transit, with flowers everywhere.
Yes, your dreams must be bigger than ours. In particular, your dreams must be bigger than money. I like the phrase “poverty of ambition.” As Obama put it, “There’s nothing wrong with making money, but focusing your life solely on making a buck shows a certain poverty of ambition. It asks too little of yourself...”
Pass on the songs
Pass on the laughter
Pass on the joy
That others after
May tread more lightly on their way
I hope that you always remember these words. Remember to sing, to laugh. Remember to play (do you need to be reminded to play?) Remember to dance a little. Keep the tradition of Queen’s College ladies as joyful and fit, as we
Pass on the faith
That naught can alter
Pass on the strength
Lest they should falter
In hours of stress some future day.
We are pilgrims now. We’re on a journey now. We tread lightly, joyfully on our way. We who have studied the Bible and reflected on the Qur’an. We preserve our faith.
For you, my young sisters, this is not even enough. Draw strength also from the Bhagavad Gita. Read also from The Origin of Species. Take a lesson or two from ‘Things Fall Apart.” Do you hear the wisdom in DaGrin’s flow? How do you feel about God and religion? Comment on non-local interactions in quantum science. Who can quantify the vastness of the known cosmos?
In short, get what the giant of African-American history W.E.B. DuBois referred to as “intelligence, broad sympathy, knowledge of the world that was and is, and of the relation of men to it.” This is the sound education for which YOU must strive.
Pass on the firm determination
To guide a later generation
By gentle influence in the home
It may be true that a woman has a domestic role. In days past, fitness for the domestic role was the entire purpose of a woman’s education. The home. Home economics, essentially.
But some things have changed. In those days, few people went to school. Now, many children will be raised primarily in schools. Now, many fathers, men, will participate in raising their own children. These days, you as a woman need not divide your day between scrubbing wooden utensils – along the grain! – and cutting patterns for your next party dress. There is a machine for the wooden spoon, and we all know where to shop for the dress.
With home tasks outsourced, shared, and mechanized to such a large extent, you, we, women, are called outside the home as well as in. There is a public sphere, is my point, and how could you not want to stamp your mark on it? Let everybody know: I was ‘ere in class and style.
As a young woman, you are invited to be a politician - of the excellent kind.
Or to be an actor and make us dream.
Be a scientist – they are not just people you read about in books, they are flesh and blood like me.
Be a teacher, and guide that later generation.
Be a sculptor; be something we haven’t heard of before, or do something traditional - but do it with style.
Be a man. I’m not saying don’t be a woo-man. I am saying you can be omo-seggsy if you wish, or even if you’re big-bosomed and nurturing, or you’re shy and sensitive, or you’re this short and fragile and you love pink, pink everything, when it comes to greatness, feel free to be a man.
If ever good advice was given, it was Rudyard Kipling’s poem titled “If”:
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you.
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But give allowance for their doubting too…
Some of you must know the rest. The poem ends:
…Yours is the earth and everything in it,
And – which is more - you’ll be a man, my son.
Be a great woman!
While I was a student here at Queen’s, our PQC Marinho instilled the following words, ascribed to the 19th century writer Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:
The heights by great men reached and kept were not attained by sudden flight, but they while their companions slept were toiling upwards in the night.
Pass on the health, the youthful vigour,
Pass on the love that can transfigure
The darkest hours that yet may come.
We’re on a journey now. We’re on a journey now. The little we have we have passed on to you.
The little strength they have, your parents have passed on too, in the hope – no, in the certain confidence – that you are greater than they are. Although I am a little older than you, I recently lived with my parents. Let me tell you what I found: Parents will worry.
A story: once I was at lunch with two North American executives, in Detroit, Michigan. We were eating in the company cafeteria when one man complained about his teenage son, bemoaning that the young man was not motivated. The other man replied, “Bill, you know, there are many ways to skin a cat. Maybe your boy is just doing things a different way, that’s all.” To this he said, “Daniel, you’re talking about skinning a cat. I just hope my son knows there’s a cat to be skinned.” They laughed. Lunch continued.
Across cultures, parents really can’t stop thinking and talking about you. They care about you. They will worry.
Some girls here will like to beg their parents (yes?) for less worrying and more listening. Parents, if you will listen to us, you may discover that we care even more about the future than you. We know that there is a cat to be skinned. We’re boiling the water, we have filed the knife, …
Before this gets too macabre, I’ll continue…Poor cat!
The love that they have, your teachers have passed on to you. It takes a village to raise a child. It takes bursars and matrons, Principals, language teachers and business teachers, artists and scientists. Here at Queen’s College, the teachers – the Principal and all the staff – give you their all everyday, so that you may be prepared, not only when things are easy, but for the tough hours that yet may come. Cherish their love, and I say to our parents and teachers: Thank you.
To our dear students, I say, take advantage of Queen’s College. Make effort. Some of you are winning prizes today because of the effort you have made. Some of you are winning so many prizes today, that we’ll just have to wonder – how? How do you do it? (Answer : The heights by great men reached and kept… )
Some of us are not there yet. But we’re on a journey. And I quote this student favourite, attributed to Benjamin Cardozo: “In the end, the great truth will have been learned, that the quest is greater than that which is sought, the effort finer than the prize, or rather, that the effort is the prize, the victory cheap and hollow were it not for the rigour of the game.”
Bill Clinton liked that quote in his student days and I kept it as my laptop screensaver for many years. The effort IS the prize.
The truth that I know, I have passed on to you.
With a great sense of history and a great sense of hope, I ask you finally to sing with me, the final stanza of our school song:
Pass on the torch, the cry inspiring
Unites us here in hopes untiring
In bonds no future years can sever
We forward press not backwards turning
That this our torch more brightly burning
May yet pass on and on forever.
Text of a Speech delivered by Oluwatosin H. Otitoju (FRM)
as Guest Speaker at the Annual Speech and Prize-Giving Ceremony of Queen’s College Lagos on 3rd July, 2010
as Guest Speaker at the Annual Speech and Prize-Giving Ceremony of Queen’s College Lagos on 3rd July, 2010
Pass on the torch
Still brightly gleaming
Pass on the hopes
The earnest dreaming
To those who follow close at hand.
My warmest greetings to all: our distinguished guests (naming them), as well as our distinguished hosts – the students and staff of Queen’s College Lagos.
Since 1927, the Queen’s College torch has been passed on.
Eighty-three years - that is four generations. That is, of the earliest classes of QC girls, some may have had grandchildren whose granddaughters have become QC girls. So we
Pass on the thoughts,
The skills, the learning
Pass on the secrets
In most yearning
That they may build where we have planned.
The words of a poem. The lyrics of a song. When Miss Dorothy Peel wrote these words, how did she know that the most beautiful ones are not yet born? That where our set planned would be where your set built the house? That our biggest accomplishments would be but a starting point for your set?
Your dreams will be bigger. Isn’t there a lot to excite you as you look around and see a world filled with delicious problems that your ancestors have not solved?
The effort of your forebears over the last fifty years has yielded a democratic state. Still, in this government for the people, the percentage of people served and the quality of this service both need to be increased by orders of magnitude.
In Lagos, we have seen the recent miracle of road-improvement projects, refuse collection, urban beautification. Still I am sure that we can envision a still more beautiful environment with functional public architecture, excellent mass transit, with flowers everywhere.
Yes, your dreams must be bigger than ours. In particular, your dreams must be bigger than money. I like the phrase “poverty of ambition.” As Obama put it, “There’s nothing wrong with making money, but focusing your life solely on making a buck shows a certain poverty of ambition. It asks too little of yourself...”
Pass on the songs
Pass on the laughter
Pass on the joy
That others after
May tread more lightly on their way
I hope that you always remember these words. Remember to sing, to laugh. Remember to play (do you need to be reminded to play?) Remember to dance a little. Keep the tradition of Queen’s College ladies as joyful and fit, as we
Pass on the faith
That naught can alter
Pass on the strength
Lest they should falter
In hours of stress some future day.
We are pilgrims now. We’re on a journey now. We tread lightly, joyfully on our way. We who have studied the Bible and reflected on the Qur’an. We preserve our faith.
For you, my young sisters, this is not even enough. Draw strength also from the Bhagavad Gita. Read also from The Origin of Species. Take a lesson or two from ‘Things Fall Apart.” Do you hear the wisdom in DaGrin’s flow? How do you feel about God and religion? Comment on non-local interactions in quantum science. Who can quantify the vastness of the known cosmos?
In short, get what the giant of African-American history W.E.B. DuBois referred to as “intelligence, broad sympathy, knowledge of the world that was and is, and of the relation of men to it.” This is the sound education for which YOU must strive.
Pass on the firm determination
To guide a later generation
By gentle influence in the home
It may be true that a woman has a domestic role. In days past, fitness for the domestic role was the entire purpose of a woman’s education. The home. Home economics, essentially.
But some things have changed. In those days, few people went to school. Now, many children will be raised primarily in schools. Now, many fathers, men, will participate in raising their own children. These days, you as a woman need not divide your day between scrubbing wooden utensils – along the grain! – and cutting patterns for your next party dress. There is a machine for the wooden spoon, and we all know where to shop for the dress.
With home tasks outsourced, shared, and mechanized to such a large extent, you, we, women, are called outside the home as well as in. There is a public sphere, is my point, and how could you not want to stamp your mark on it? Let everybody know: I was ‘ere in class and style.
As a young woman, you are invited to be a politician - of the excellent kind.
Or to be an actor and make us dream.
Be a scientist – they are not just people you read about in books, they are flesh and blood like me.
Be a teacher, and guide that later generation.
Be a sculptor; be something we haven’t heard of before, or do something traditional - but do it with style.
Be a man. I’m not saying don’t be a woo-man. I am saying you can be omo-seggsy if you wish, or even if you’re big-bosomed and nurturing, or you’re shy and sensitive, or you’re this short and fragile and you love pink, pink everything, when it comes to greatness, feel free to be a man.
If ever good advice was given, it was Rudyard Kipling’s poem titled “If”:
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you.
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But give allowance for their doubting too…
Some of you must know the rest. The poem ends:
…Yours is the earth and everything in it,
And – which is more - you’ll be a man, my son.
Be a great woman!
While I was a student here at Queen’s, our PQC Marinho instilled the following words, ascribed to the 19th century writer Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:
The heights by great men reached and kept were not attained by sudden flight, but they while their companions slept were toiling upwards in the night.
Pass on the health, the youthful vigour,
Pass on the love that can transfigure
The darkest hours that yet may come.
We’re on a journey now. We’re on a journey now. The little we have we have passed on to you.
The little strength they have, your parents have passed on too, in the hope – no, in the certain confidence – that you are greater than they are. Although I am a little older than you, I recently lived with my parents. Let me tell you what I found: Parents will worry.
A story: once I was at lunch with two North American executives, in Detroit, Michigan. We were eating in the company cafeteria when one man complained about his teenage son, bemoaning that the young man was not motivated. The other man replied, “Bill, you know, there are many ways to skin a cat. Maybe your boy is just doing things a different way, that’s all.” To this he said, “Daniel, you’re talking about skinning a cat. I just hope my son knows there’s a cat to be skinned.” They laughed. Lunch continued.
Across cultures, parents really can’t stop thinking and talking about you. They care about you. They will worry.
Some girls here will like to beg their parents (yes?) for less worrying and more listening. Parents, if you will listen to us, you may discover that we care even more about the future than you. We know that there is a cat to be skinned. We’re boiling the water, we have filed the knife, …
Before this gets too macabre, I’ll continue…Poor cat!
The love that they have, your teachers have passed on to you. It takes a village to raise a child. It takes bursars and matrons, Principals, language teachers and business teachers, artists and scientists. Here at Queen’s College, the teachers – the Principal and all the staff – give you their all everyday, so that you may be prepared, not only when things are easy, but for the tough hours that yet may come. Cherish their love, and I say to our parents and teachers: Thank you.
To our dear students, I say, take advantage of Queen’s College. Make effort. Some of you are winning prizes today because of the effort you have made. Some of you are winning so many prizes today, that we’ll just have to wonder – how? How do you do it? (Answer : The heights by great men reached and kept… )
Some of us are not there yet. But we’re on a journey. And I quote this student favourite, attributed to Benjamin Cardozo: “In the end, the great truth will have been learned, that the quest is greater than that which is sought, the effort finer than the prize, or rather, that the effort is the prize, the victory cheap and hollow were it not for the rigour of the game.”
Bill Clinton liked that quote in his student days and I kept it as my laptop screensaver for many years. The effort IS the prize.
The truth that I know, I have passed on to you.
With a great sense of history and a great sense of hope, I ask you finally to sing with me, the final stanza of our school song:
Pass on the torch, the cry inspiring
Unites us here in hopes untiring
In bonds no future years can sever
We forward press not backwards turning
That this our torch more brightly burning
May yet pass on and on forever.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Heroes: Sadosky
music
Dr. Cora Sadosky taught me Differential Equations and Fundamentals of Applied Mathematics at Howard University. She made most of her students feel very special. She fought for people, sometimes maybe too much. Dr. Sadosky dramatized mathematics in an appealing way one can only call sexy, with talk about live meetings with dudes we had read only about in books, an accent that belonged everywhere - what are you? Italian? Russian? , eclectic dress too: the necklaces of real coral (Cora loves coral) and Soviet-style boiled-wool suits and those up-to-the-minute stylish loafers she wore on the first day I met her, and this biography online (of course we looked her up online) that explained some of who she is.
She is unforgettable to me, especially because she fought for me to attend my dream summer program in Applied Math at Carnegie Mellon and my too-good-to-even-dream-of Institute for grad school, all the time claiming that I was that good.
I try to be an inspiring math teacher now, with examples like hers from my undergraduate days.
This weekend, I'm the Guest Speaker at the Speech Day and Prize-Giving Ceremony at my alma mater, Queen's College, Nigeria's premier (1927) secondary school for girls. I'm impressed.
Dr. Cora Sadosky taught me Differential Equations and Fundamentals of Applied Mathematics at Howard University. She made most of her students feel very special. She fought for people, sometimes maybe too much. Dr. Sadosky dramatized mathematics in an appealing way one can only call sexy, with talk about live meetings with dudes we had read only about in books, an accent that belonged everywhere - what are you? Italian? Russian? , eclectic dress too: the necklaces of real coral (Cora loves coral) and Soviet-style boiled-wool suits and those up-to-the-minute stylish loafers she wore on the first day I met her, and this biography online (of course we looked her up online) that explained some of who she is.
She is unforgettable to me, especially because she fought for me to attend my dream summer program in Applied Math at Carnegie Mellon and my too-good-to-even-dream-of Institute for grad school, all the time claiming that I was that good.
I try to be an inspiring math teacher now, with examples like hers from my undergraduate days.
This weekend, I'm the Guest Speaker at the Speech Day and Prize-Giving Ceremony at my alma mater, Queen's College, Nigeria's premier (1927) secondary school for girls. I'm impressed.
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Friends I just met
music
The Wayfarer is a nice blog by a friend I just met.
I've been on a socializing blitz since at least Tuesday. Considering I like never go anywhere, this was a great effort. My parents are probably happy their recluse child chose to leave the house :) Olakunle, I even "met someone."
Let's see:
Monday - wrote a training manual and got very tired.
Tuesday - finished The Abyssinian Boy in an upstairs classroom in Unilag with a fresh fragrant forest breeze. Then hung out with "my children" at Creative Arts. Then to Taruwa, a poetry/live music gathering, where I actually first met Seun2 who gave a couple of us a ride home, lest I forget. Taruwa is nice. Bi-weekly. Hosted by Bez, a gifted musician and one of my favourite.
Wednesday - NLI Notes2Note launched, then I caught a movie, ran into Seun-in-a-suit, another movie, then followed him to his church fellowship where I met Seun2 who writes The Wayfarer. It was too cold so I waited outside like one witch.
Thursday - went to watch High School Musical (theater performed for Children's Day for rich kids, one of my children played a lead role otherwise I have no business with HSM) after work. It started hours late.
Friday - Met The Onyeka I Adore - that was a treat, and then went to this awesome Nigerian Leadership Initiative seminar as a visitor.
Saturday - nice lunch then the Farafina Writers shindig that had Seun Kuti and then to the dinner for the NLI seminar where people stayed up talking till 3am. See brilliance.
Sunday - chilled.
Monday - a holiday so to the movies with the "met someone" who revealed at the end of the evening that he was born in 1988. Great dramedy, you should have been there.
The Wayfarer is a nice blog by a friend I just met.
I've been on a socializing blitz since at least Tuesday. Considering I like never go anywhere, this was a great effort. My parents are probably happy their recluse child chose to leave the house :) Olakunle, I even "met someone."
Let's see:
Monday - wrote a training manual and got very tired.
Tuesday - finished The Abyssinian Boy in an upstairs classroom in Unilag with a fresh fragrant forest breeze. Then hung out with "my children" at Creative Arts. Then to Taruwa, a poetry/live music gathering, where I actually first met Seun2 who gave a couple of us a ride home, lest I forget. Taruwa is nice. Bi-weekly. Hosted by Bez, a gifted musician and one of my favourite.
Wednesday - NLI Notes2Note launched, then I caught a movie, ran into Seun-in-a-suit, another movie, then followed him to his church fellowship where I met Seun2 who writes The Wayfarer. It was too cold so I waited outside like one witch.
Thursday - went to watch High School Musical (theater performed for Children's Day for rich kids, one of my children played a lead role otherwise I have no business with HSM) after work. It started hours late.
Friday - Met The Onyeka I Adore - that was a treat, and then went to this awesome Nigerian Leadership Initiative seminar as a visitor.
Saturday - nice lunch then the Farafina Writers shindig that had Seun Kuti and then to the dinner for the NLI seminar where people stayed up talking till 3am. See brilliance.
Sunday - chilled.
Monday - a holiday so to the movies with the "met someone" who revealed at the end of the evening that he was born in 1988. Great dramedy, you should have been there.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
More Arab Film Festival 2006
music
I'm still blogging the 2006 Arab Film Festival. What Procrastination.
I'll develop my blog notes from 2007, copied here.
Start with Zozo. Watch it. More than sold out.
Kiss Me Not on the Eyes. I bought the soundtrack. More than sold out.
Seeds of Doubt
Ahlaam
Waiting
Wesh wesh
Bosta
Bab Aziz
Once upon a time in the Wadi
Khadija Al-Salami http://www.arabia-felix.com/arabia-felix-11.html
Also post picture give me liberty
Where are they now?
Zozo just worked perfectly as a movie. It made me cry, with its depiction of a boy's childhood in some Northern country (was it Sweden?) Sort of an autobiography. There was a bird that was used to very special effect. Zozo made you laugh too. You can imagine, happy-sad, immigration, very clear white pictures, Q and A with the writer/director Josef Fares afterwards. The Arab Film Festival had used Zozo and Dunia on opening night. The word got out about those films and it was a mob that came to watch them later on in the week. Zozo became Sweden's representative to the Academy Awards for the Best Foreign Film Oscar. More about the Zozo film, including a synopsis. Be sure to check this good blog review.
Dunia (Kiss Me Not on the Eyes) is, as Raj put it, poetic. You hear the cadence of ancient love poetry, you do also taste the souk spices, and feel a little with the girl her escape from repression into sensuality. Unforgettable for me is the drumroll in lak, lak, lak (on the soundtrack CD) to which beat the pro-dancers gyrate without shame, the song which is also used to sell underwear in the market, the market like the one this guy walked me through in Cairo one of my last nights there - not a big respectable market like the tourist souk at Khan El Khalili near El-Azhar, but the place near my house I didn't even know it was there that had a boy up on a table dancing while shaking silky underwear for sale (or did this only happen in the film?) The main actress is very very beautiful, arrestingly sultry, like the best of Catherine Zeta-Jones. The movie is sensuous enough from just having a camera closely following her action, but then add the colours (red especially), the deliberate and slow pace, the storyline, that scene with the bangles and the lesson in fore-foreplay, and now, the fact that I associate Mohamed Mounir's love songs with the film.
Seeds of Doubt (Folgeschäden, original German title) is another thought-provoking immigrant film. This guy is an important doctor in Germany, has been there forever, even thinks he's German really, until something happens that makes people think of terrorists and of course of him with his Arab self. Paranoia all around. The production is very clean and Western really. The actor looks very like the director, who is an Egyptian based in Germany. Maybe even half-German Egyptian based in Germany. Very effective film it was. It was a TV-film and went to a few film festivals. I had a crush on the filmmaker Samir Nasr.
Ahlaam made me want to die in Iraq. Or at least go to Baghdad and eat the completely dry sand. It was melodrama overlaid on cinematography. Baghdad is burning, a woman is crying going mad widowed dying all at once. She drags her messy body from place to place (I think wearing her wedding dress, I think she broke out of prison or lunatic house when the war started) and all I can see is these views of scorching sun and dry earth that is brown like over-burnt sand dunes. Even in the city where the shoot-outs happen under a bridge or across a wide road, there is that sand and it's the sexiest saddest sand I've ever seen and I just want a mouthful of that. The film continues the festival tour - check the Ahlaam Facebook fan group - and has been awarded at many of them. I'm guessing they haven't got an aggressive seller behind the film, really. Mohammed Al-Daradji made the film, there's a nice interview here.
Ahlaam = plural of hilm = dreams. Aflaam = plural of film = films. Gotta love the language.
Waiting. Is about waiting. If you have ever been in a God-forsaken place, where you wait all your life - maybe for a signature, maybe for petrol to arrive so that you can get a pen to give to the officer who will someday arrive and then someday give you the signature... - you will say of this film, yes, this is waiting. About life in Palestine. Always waiting. Bloody good art. (Titles in other languages: Attente. Intizar.) By Rashid Mashrawi.
Wesh Wesh. Was this the Algerian film about the sort of slum-dwelling gangster immigrants in some European town (Paris?) If so, I was not connecting, man. It was gritty, maybe a lot of slang, and a little like that Jimmy Cliff "The Harder They Come" film. To start with, the title has "wesh" which is not any Standard Arabic word. You know how all those mesh, mashi, mafish, mush, words (used to) annoy me. Apparently it means like "what's happening, what a-gwan" The director Rabah Ameur-Zaïmeche also did Bled Number One which was popular at that film festival, and completed the multi-award-winning trilogy with Dernier Marquis (2008) The lesson is: Paris has housing "projects" and they suck. I remember the drama now. Watch Wesh Wesh here.
Algéries, mes Fantômes, is another film from Algeria. It had this escapist aesthetic, a road trip on a divine stretch of coast and some friends simply shacking up at the beach, if memory serves. By Jean-Pierre Lledo. Trailer here.
Bosta. It'sa let'sa havea some-a fun. It was alright, a lot of colour and dancing and colourful dancing. Like Breakdance (feelgood films from the 80s about breakdancing) but in shiny MC Hammer Aladdin trousers, crossed with Zorba The Greek. It was the best-selling film in Lebanon in 2006 and was submitted to the Oscars as well.
Another movie with even shinier clothes was Once Upon A Time in the Wadi, originally Il Etait Une Fois Dans L'Oued. Dude, I wasn't laughing. I guess the crime caper (I learned that term in 2003 watching a preview screening of The Big Bounce) is not my genre.
Although I didn't watch Bab-Aziz, from browsing the reviews in the feedback sheets at the AFF, I still long to have seen it. It seems that it took people's breath away, and they would just comment: WOW, or something like that. On amazon. Directed by Nacer Khemir.
There was another film about music and mysticism with more swirling dervishes, in Morocco. Sound of the Soul, by Stephen Olsson. I must have seen part of it. It must have been beautiful. You can buy it here, and it's been on LinkTV.
Michael Franti's documentary I Know I'm Not Alone (on amazon)shows him taking music and cheer to the streets of Iraq, and Palestine/Israel from an American with love. I think there was footage of Iraq's rock and garage bands etc. Would it take more than music to heal this war? Charming film - what was that simple chant he had everyone singing along - yes - habiibiibii habiibiibii habiibiibii habibi. Habibi simply means friend or beloved. It seems there was a CD with the same title, lyrics here.
Linda and Ali seems like a wonderful film. I still really wish I had watched this documentary about the Qatari wife from Arizona. Curious how their interracial marriage works out. Susie's Big Adventure is a cool blog by a woman in a similarly interracial marriage in Saudi Arabia. It won a Bloggie last year.
Yasmine's Song (good review) is a 20minute short film. More melodrama, more wedding dresses. I remember being touched by this story of lovers separated by *the* wall. I don't remember if the wedding actually happened, with a parade on the street and a skirt of paper to keep some tradition, maybe that was a different film. Najwa Najjar wrote/directed Yasmine TuGhani/Yasmine sings. I suspect The Syrian Bride, a significantly more popular film, (not at that festival) is similar. It features Hiam Abbass.
When you watch The Blood of My Brother (Dam Akhii), you see the life of a family member taken pointlessly by wartime chaos in Iraq and you get angry and you wonder along with those left behind what to do with the grief - work, revenge, be bitter, be silent, be soldiers, what? The blood of a ram or goat was spilled in the film and this upset some in the theater. That it upset them (more than the gunned-down human beings upset them) upset some others. Film by Andrew Berends, available on amazon, reviewed on rottentomatoes.com
Little Beirut (watch here, by Mirella Habr) is a short documentary that is exactly this: reactions of Lebanese expats in a Parisian neighborhood at a pivotal moment in history: the Cedar Revolution of April 2005. It went to Cannes Film Festival.
Le Thé d'Ania (OK film, download here. by Said Ould-Khelifa, Algeria), is really a French film, I missed most of it.
La Femme Seule (Short Film, by Brahim Fritah) is an authentic voice (preview) - the life of a West African housemaid - presented in an original style. I wonder how much the style has been copied now.
Beit Min Lahm (House of Flesh, a short film by Rami Abdul-Jabbar, Egypt) is scandalous and the story is consistent with its dark shadowy closeted images.
When Yemen was back in the news this year thanks to a Nigerian would-be terrorist, CNN/Amanpour showed A Stranger In Her Own City to introduce the world to aspects of Yemeni life. Nijmiya is a star. Nijmiya = like/of Nijm = like a star. Documentary film by Khadija El-Salami, a Yemeni diplomat with a crazy story of her own, a Yemeni feminist that is also famous. I'm going to watch the short film online here (still can't find 2/3 of it.) By the way, Nijmiya is doing free and OK. I love her.
Occupation 101: Voices of the Silenced Majority was the big issue documentary. Palestine is the issue. And Israel and the US. None can forget footage of the little diva, this child of about four years, complaining about the artillery spoiling all her things. I adore the filmmakers (The Omeish brothers) and the film is (or at least was) a must-watch-and-get-others-to-watch-too. Watch it online, buy it on amazon.
Goal Dreams (by Maya Sanbar and Jeffrey Saunders) is simply awesome. Combines "waiting" with humour, hope, and football. A documentary that is really fun to watch, Goal Dreams shows Palestine's forming a national football team to bid for the 2006 World Cup. Among the Palestinians on the team is a dapper Wall Street banker, an Argentine, a player from Gaza strip that may/may not cross the checkpoint in time. The coach uses translators who confuse left and right; when the team plays, obviously not on home soil, it's to an empty stadium, when the home fans would have so loved to watch. Just more occupation craziness wrapped in a very good sports film.
So finally, 44 months after the show, I finished the review. Find the previous reviews here and here.
I'm still blogging the 2006 Arab Film Festival. What Procrastination.
I'll develop my blog notes from 2007, copied here.
Start with Zozo. Watch it. More than sold out.
Kiss Me Not on the Eyes. I bought the soundtrack. More than sold out.
Seeds of Doubt
Ahlaam
Waiting
Wesh wesh
Bosta
Bab Aziz
Once upon a time in the Wadi
Khadija Al-Salami http://www.arabia-felix.com/arabia-felix-11.html
Also post picture give me liberty
Where are they now?
Zozo just worked perfectly as a movie. It made me cry, with its depiction of a boy's childhood in some Northern country (was it Sweden?) Sort of an autobiography. There was a bird that was used to very special effect. Zozo made you laugh too. You can imagine, happy-sad, immigration, very clear white pictures, Q and A with the writer/director Josef Fares afterwards. The Arab Film Festival had used Zozo and Dunia on opening night. The word got out about those films and it was a mob that came to watch them later on in the week. Zozo became Sweden's representative to the Academy Awards for the Best Foreign Film Oscar. More about the Zozo film, including a synopsis. Be sure to check this good blog review.
Dunia (Kiss Me Not on the Eyes) is, as Raj put it, poetic. You hear the cadence of ancient love poetry, you do also taste the souk spices, and feel a little with the girl her escape from repression into sensuality. Unforgettable for me is the drumroll in lak, lak, lak (on the soundtrack CD) to which beat the pro-dancers gyrate without shame, the song which is also used to sell underwear in the market, the market like the one this guy walked me through in Cairo one of my last nights there - not a big respectable market like the tourist souk at Khan El Khalili near El-Azhar, but the place near my house I didn't even know it was there that had a boy up on a table dancing while shaking silky underwear for sale (or did this only happen in the film?) The main actress is very very beautiful, arrestingly sultry, like the best of Catherine Zeta-Jones. The movie is sensuous enough from just having a camera closely following her action, but then add the colours (red especially), the deliberate and slow pace, the storyline, that scene with the bangles and the lesson in fore-foreplay, and now, the fact that I associate Mohamed Mounir's love songs with the film.
Seeds of Doubt (Folgeschäden, original German title) is another thought-provoking immigrant film. This guy is an important doctor in Germany, has been there forever, even thinks he's German really, until something happens that makes people think of terrorists and of course of him with his Arab self. Paranoia all around. The production is very clean and Western really. The actor looks very like the director, who is an Egyptian based in Germany. Maybe even half-German Egyptian based in Germany. Very effective film it was. It was a TV-film and went to a few film festivals. I had a crush on the filmmaker Samir Nasr.
Ahlaam made me want to die in Iraq. Or at least go to Baghdad and eat the completely dry sand. It was melodrama overlaid on cinematography. Baghdad is burning, a woman is crying going mad widowed dying all at once. She drags her messy body from place to place (I think wearing her wedding dress, I think she broke out of prison or lunatic house when the war started) and all I can see is these views of scorching sun and dry earth that is brown like over-burnt sand dunes. Even in the city where the shoot-outs happen under a bridge or across a wide road, there is that sand and it's the sexiest saddest sand I've ever seen and I just want a mouthful of that. The film continues the festival tour - check the Ahlaam Facebook fan group - and has been awarded at many of them. I'm guessing they haven't got an aggressive seller behind the film, really. Mohammed Al-Daradji made the film, there's a nice interview here.
Ahlaam = plural of hilm = dreams. Aflaam = plural of film = films. Gotta love the language.
Waiting. Is about waiting. If you have ever been in a God-forsaken place, where you wait all your life - maybe for a signature, maybe for petrol to arrive so that you can get a pen to give to the officer who will someday arrive and then someday give you the signature... - you will say of this film, yes, this is waiting. About life in Palestine. Always waiting. Bloody good art. (Titles in other languages: Attente. Intizar.) By Rashid Mashrawi.
Wesh Wesh. Was this the Algerian film about the sort of slum-dwelling gangster immigrants in some European town (Paris?) If so, I was not connecting, man. It was gritty, maybe a lot of slang, and a little like that Jimmy Cliff "The Harder They Come" film. To start with, the title has "wesh" which is not any Standard Arabic word. You know how all those mesh, mashi, mafish, mush, words (used to) annoy me. Apparently it means like "what's happening, what a-gwan" The director Rabah Ameur-Zaïmeche also did Bled Number One which was popular at that film festival, and completed the multi-award-winning trilogy with Dernier Marquis (2008) The lesson is: Paris has housing "projects" and they suck. I remember the drama now. Watch Wesh Wesh here.
Algéries, mes Fantômes, is another film from Algeria. It had this escapist aesthetic, a road trip on a divine stretch of coast and some friends simply shacking up at the beach, if memory serves. By Jean-Pierre Lledo. Trailer here.
Bosta. It'sa let'sa havea some-a fun. It was alright, a lot of colour and dancing and colourful dancing. Like Breakdance (feelgood films from the 80s about breakdancing) but in shiny MC Hammer Aladdin trousers, crossed with Zorba The Greek. It was the best-selling film in Lebanon in 2006 and was submitted to the Oscars as well.
Another movie with even shinier clothes was Once Upon A Time in the Wadi, originally Il Etait Une Fois Dans L'Oued. Dude, I wasn't laughing. I guess the crime caper (I learned that term in 2003 watching a preview screening of The Big Bounce) is not my genre.
Although I didn't watch Bab-Aziz, from browsing the reviews in the feedback sheets at the AFF, I still long to have seen it. It seems that it took people's breath away, and they would just comment: WOW, or something like that. On amazon. Directed by Nacer Khemir.
There was another film about music and mysticism with more swirling dervishes, in Morocco. Sound of the Soul, by Stephen Olsson. I must have seen part of it. It must have been beautiful. You can buy it here, and it's been on LinkTV.
Michael Franti's documentary I Know I'm Not Alone (on amazon)shows him taking music and cheer to the streets of Iraq, and Palestine/Israel from an American with love. I think there was footage of Iraq's rock and garage bands etc. Would it take more than music to heal this war? Charming film - what was that simple chant he had everyone singing along - yes - habiibiibii habiibiibii habiibiibii habibi. Habibi simply means friend or beloved. It seems there was a CD with the same title, lyrics here.
Linda and Ali seems like a wonderful film. I still really wish I had watched this documentary about the Qatari wife from Arizona. Curious how their interracial marriage works out. Susie's Big Adventure is a cool blog by a woman in a similarly interracial marriage in Saudi Arabia. It won a Bloggie last year.
Yasmine's Song (good review) is a 20minute short film. More melodrama, more wedding dresses. I remember being touched by this story of lovers separated by *the* wall. I don't remember if the wedding actually happened, with a parade on the street and a skirt of paper to keep some tradition, maybe that was a different film. Najwa Najjar wrote/directed Yasmine TuGhani/Yasmine sings. I suspect The Syrian Bride, a significantly more popular film, (not at that festival) is similar. It features Hiam Abbass.
When you watch The Blood of My Brother (Dam Akhii), you see the life of a family member taken pointlessly by wartime chaos in Iraq and you get angry and you wonder along with those left behind what to do with the grief - work, revenge, be bitter, be silent, be soldiers, what? The blood of a ram or goat was spilled in the film and this upset some in the theater. That it upset them (more than the gunned-down human beings upset them) upset some others. Film by Andrew Berends, available on amazon, reviewed on rottentomatoes.com
Little Beirut (watch here, by Mirella Habr) is a short documentary that is exactly this: reactions of Lebanese expats in a Parisian neighborhood at a pivotal moment in history: the Cedar Revolution of April 2005. It went to Cannes Film Festival.
Le Thé d'Ania (OK film, download here. by Said Ould-Khelifa, Algeria), is really a French film, I missed most of it.
La Femme Seule (Short Film, by Brahim Fritah) is an authentic voice (preview) - the life of a West African housemaid - presented in an original style. I wonder how much the style has been copied now.
Beit Min Lahm (House of Flesh, a short film by Rami Abdul-Jabbar, Egypt) is scandalous and the story is consistent with its dark shadowy closeted images.
When Yemen was back in the news this year thanks to a Nigerian would-be terrorist, CNN/Amanpour showed A Stranger In Her Own City to introduce the world to aspects of Yemeni life. Nijmiya is a star. Nijmiya = like/of Nijm = like a star. Documentary film by Khadija El-Salami, a Yemeni diplomat with a crazy story of her own, a Yemeni feminist that is also famous. I'm going to watch the short film online here (still can't find 2/3 of it.) By the way, Nijmiya is doing free and OK. I love her.
Occupation 101: Voices of the Silenced Majority was the big issue documentary. Palestine is the issue. And Israel and the US. None can forget footage of the little diva, this child of about four years, complaining about the artillery spoiling all her things. I adore the filmmakers (The Omeish brothers) and the film is (or at least was) a must-watch-and-get-others-to-watch-too. Watch it online, buy it on amazon.
Goal Dreams (by Maya Sanbar and Jeffrey Saunders) is simply awesome. Combines "waiting" with humour, hope, and football. A documentary that is really fun to watch, Goal Dreams shows Palestine's forming a national football team to bid for the 2006 World Cup. Among the Palestinians on the team is a dapper Wall Street banker, an Argentine, a player from Gaza strip that may/may not cross the checkpoint in time. The coach uses translators who confuse left and right; when the team plays, obviously not on home soil, it's to an empty stadium, when the home fans would have so loved to watch. Just more occupation craziness wrapped in a very good sports film.
So finally, 44 months after the show, I finished the review. Find the previous reviews here and here.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Aqua
music
Been reading A LOT. More on my African Literature findings later.
I went to a mega book reading - slash - book signing called Book Jam on Saturday. Glad to have heard about it. I met a lot of people who were very very kind to me. My first time attending an in-store book-reading, ever.
A year ago, I thought I'd never do the circuit, the artsy-fartsy scene, but by now I know a lot of the literary folk in Lagos. It's cool reading stuff by people you know. More on Lagos events later. Lagos is still lame, like L.A.
My first book is out in a couple of weeks. Yes!
The blah blah on this book:
My first book will be available for purchase from June 12, 2010.
It is a poetry collection titled COMRADE.
COMRADE is a delightful treasure trove of lyric and theater; a call to link arms in our varied, collective struggles; and milk to refresh us as we forge a future of better government and sweeter childhood.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Tosin Otitoju
http://www.LIFELIB.blogspot.com
070 5677 7120 (for press and distributors)
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I'm currently reading "Crime and Punishment" - Fyodor Dostoevsky, dead Russian dude - and The Abyssinian Boy - Onyeka Nwelue, Nigerian dude. I met him on Saturday too.
Onyeka lives in India these days. He described a friend in the bookstore as "the black girl?" and I pointed out that errr, in Nigeria dude, so saying someone is black is irrelevant. We laughed. He's cute. I've read the first half of his book and it's, well, very Indian, it feels authentic, down to the Indian-English grammar and very-white paper.
The style is foreign too, very unlike common literature. You know how you watch a Spanish movie by some three-named person like Feliciano Lopez Iñárritu or something and it's not actually like a movie it's this symbol consisting of an embrace (nude, always nude) followed by a swim and the fish swallows the blue rose petal. Like Spanish filmmakers are children of Dali and not descended of Hollywood studios at all. Or like how you read Lolita (Nabokov was Russian too, but he usually wrote in English, I think he worked in America or something) having never read anything so strange and think "is he even allowed that many relative clauses in one sentence?" and wow, this is a lot of psychology, and then the tangents off the digresssions, and though there is a plot, it's secondary to the intimacy you've developed with the inner life of the protagonist (ugly word - protagonist) and the lessons in this and that social science.
Anyway, Onyeka's style is weird. He's Aquarian, no wonder (they are the "unconventional" sign, very eccentric, Age of Aquarius and all that.) I would wish him a Nobel except what do I know about great writing? Plus I haven't read the second half of the book where the plot supposedly thickens :) - the family comes to Nigeria from India. All the time I kept recalling - 1988. The author Nwelue is a c-h-i-l-d, born in '88. How does he even have the sense and exposure to write this? There are a dozen blurbs in review of the book, and all are spot-on, using the same adjectives I would use: stylish, original, mystical? I can't wait to get to the bed and finish The Abyssinian Boy. Laters...
Been reading A LOT. More on my African Literature findings later.
I went to a mega book reading - slash - book signing called Book Jam on Saturday. Glad to have heard about it. I met a lot of people who were very very kind to me. My first time attending an in-store book-reading, ever.
A year ago, I thought I'd never do the circuit, the artsy-fartsy scene, but by now I know a lot of the literary folk in Lagos. It's cool reading stuff by people you know. More on Lagos events later. Lagos is still lame, like L.A.
My first book is out in a couple of weeks. Yes!
The blah blah on this book:
My first book will be available for purchase from June 12, 2010.
It is a poetry collection titled COMRADE.
COMRADE is a delightful treasure trove of lyric and theater; a call to link arms in our varied, collective struggles; and milk to refresh us as we forge a future of better government and sweeter childhood.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Tosin Otitoju
http://www.LIFELIB.blogspot.com
070 5677 7120 (for press and distributors)
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I'm currently reading "Crime and Punishment" - Fyodor Dostoevsky, dead Russian dude - and The Abyssinian Boy - Onyeka Nwelue, Nigerian dude. I met him on Saturday too.
Onyeka lives in India these days. He described a friend in the bookstore as "the black girl?" and I pointed out that errr, in Nigeria dude, so saying someone is black is irrelevant. We laughed. He's cute. I've read the first half of his book and it's, well, very Indian, it feels authentic, down to the Indian-English grammar and very-white paper.
The style is foreign too, very unlike common literature. You know how you watch a Spanish movie by some three-named person like Feliciano Lopez Iñárritu or something and it's not actually like a movie it's this symbol consisting of an embrace (nude, always nude) followed by a swim and the fish swallows the blue rose petal. Like Spanish filmmakers are children of Dali and not descended of Hollywood studios at all. Or like how you read Lolita (Nabokov was Russian too, but he usually wrote in English, I think he worked in America or something) having never read anything so strange and think "is he even allowed that many relative clauses in one sentence?" and wow, this is a lot of psychology, and then the tangents off the digresssions, and though there is a plot, it's secondary to the intimacy you've developed with the inner life of the protagonist (ugly word - protagonist) and the lessons in this and that social science.
Anyway, Onyeka's style is weird. He's Aquarian, no wonder (they are the "unconventional" sign, very eccentric, Age of Aquarius and all that.) I would wish him a Nobel except what do I know about great writing? Plus I haven't read the second half of the book where the plot supposedly thickens :) - the family comes to Nigeria from India. All the time I kept recalling - 1988. The author Nwelue is a c-h-i-l-d, born in '88. How does he even have the sense and exposure to write this? There are a dozen blurbs in review of the book, and all are spot-on, using the same adjectives I would use: stylish, original, mystical? I can't wait to get to the bed and finish The Abyssinian Boy. Laters...
Saturday, May 08, 2010
Vavoom
We Are Africans is a fly and catchy musical video. #1
Then they made a remix. #2
And another remix. #3
Which is your favourite? For me, it's not #2. Maybe the original 1. I like the local remix too #3. It's a worthy remix for sure.
My life is filled with music right now. Hahaha, because I'm supposed to be an engineer. Also been writing poetry so I'm happy. Also been driving up and down - I bleeping hate that. Which is why I bought so much music to keep from being pissed on the commute. A lot of DaGrin (hehehe) in my life. DaGrin media have been rushed to market, like his pre-CEO music, an album of his collaborations, and a collection of videos he featured in. I bet the tributes (like this one by M.I.) will get their own album too pretty soon.
What else have I been thinking about? That Rihanna Rude Boy video is so cheeky lol. And there is real talent on the Jesse Jagz album. The JJ album, it's called Jag of All Tradez, has some stealable lines: I love "M.I. is the lightning, I am the thunder, and Ice Prince is the rain." Very sweet and experimental work. I was also thinking Folasona (my smart ethnomusicologist friend that I keep trying to set up with my little sister) should get in the country and help make sense of all this music.
Then they made a remix. #2
And another remix. #3
Which is your favourite? For me, it's not #2. Maybe the original 1. I like the local remix too #3. It's a worthy remix for sure.
My life is filled with music right now. Hahaha, because I'm supposed to be an engineer. Also been writing poetry so I'm happy. Also been driving up and down - I bleeping hate that. Which is why I bought so much music to keep from being pissed on the commute. A lot of DaGrin (hehehe) in my life. DaGrin media have been rushed to market, like his pre-CEO music, an album of his collaborations, and a collection of videos he featured in. I bet the tributes (like this one by M.I.) will get their own album too pretty soon.
What else have I been thinking about? That Rihanna Rude Boy video is so cheeky lol. And there is real talent on the Jesse Jagz album. The JJ album, it's called Jag of All Tradez, has some stealable lines: I love "M.I. is the lightning, I am the thunder, and Ice Prince is the rain." Very sweet and experimental work. I was also thinking Folasona (my smart ethnomusicologist friend that I keep trying to set up with my little sister) should get in the country and help make sense of all this music.
Thursday, May 06, 2010
Ram
music
President Umaru Musa Yar'Adua died at night yesterday, May 5, on my father's 55th birthday. My father is on TV now commenting on the politics.
Previously there was Muslim prayer being recited musically on TV, with images of Hajia Turai praying alongside her husband. Yar'Adua looked like a humble schoolboy. I thought, she must be so sad, and especially feel so alone. You see, Turai was Yar'Adua's only wife, whereas as a Nigerian Muslim he was free to take more than one wife. This says something of their devotion to each other.
The melodious Muslim sounds made me want to find a mosque to pray in. Maybe I'll let this tugging pass, but like a battering ram, there may yet be another push, until one day, I'll pray as a Muslim. Ram: the most favoured food animal of Muslim festivals in Lagos. Have you ever seen rams fight? Maybe the battering ram is so-called because it's also relentless.
There is too much illogic in religion, so it's not that I want to be very religious. I have attended a Mass a week (thanks to living with my parents) for the past ten months and am now desensitized to Catholic prayer. These days I come to the end of Mass with the thought, wow, I can't remember anything the Reverend Father said. On the other hand, I remain responsive to the sights and sounds of Arabia/Islam.
Another commentator on TV just used the phrase "complete gentleman" to describe Yar'Adua. It is very heartening that we have come this far, from the hoodlums that ruled the country to the era of "gentle" persons. Thank God.
President Umaru Musa Yar'Adua died at night yesterday, May 5, on my father's 55th birthday. My father is on TV now commenting on the politics.
Previously there was Muslim prayer being recited musically on TV, with images of Hajia Turai praying alongside her husband. Yar'Adua looked like a humble schoolboy. I thought, she must be so sad, and especially feel so alone. You see, Turai was Yar'Adua's only wife, whereas as a Nigerian Muslim he was free to take more than one wife. This says something of their devotion to each other.
The melodious Muslim sounds made me want to find a mosque to pray in. Maybe I'll let this tugging pass, but like a battering ram, there may yet be another push, until one day, I'll pray as a Muslim. Ram: the most favoured food animal of Muslim festivals in Lagos. Have you ever seen rams fight? Maybe the battering ram is so-called because it's also relentless.
There is too much illogic in religion, so it's not that I want to be very religious. I have attended a Mass a week (thanks to living with my parents) for the past ten months and am now desensitized to Catholic prayer. These days I come to the end of Mass with the thought, wow, I can't remember anything the Reverend Father said. On the other hand, I remain responsive to the sights and sounds of Arabia/Islam.
Another commentator on TV just used the phrase "complete gentleman" to describe Yar'Adua. It is very heartening that we have come this far, from the hoodlums that ruled the country to the era of "gentle" persons. Thank God.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
I'm hungry
music
This is yummy: The Ottolenghi Cookbook was a publishing phenomenon. His follow-up, Plenty, looks set to repeat the trick, with new recipes and updates on dishes devised for his New Vegetarian column in Guardian Weekend magazine. Here's an exclusive taster of what's on offer
This is yummy: The Ottolenghi Cookbook was a publishing phenomenon. His follow-up, Plenty, looks set to repeat the trick, with new recipes and updates on dishes devised for his New Vegetarian column in Guardian Weekend magazine. Here's an exclusive taster of what's on offer
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
The Eko Festival, Lagos poem
music
I saw The Tragedy of King Christophe yesterday at the auditorium in Unilag. Although the space would seat about a thousand, there were about as many people in the cast/crew as in the audience (about 30.) The show was gooooood, and it only cost 250bucks (less than $2 - even I can afford that.) It was performed by the Jos Repertory Theater, so basically, good stuff.
I don't want to get attached to the place, but there I go falling in love. Anyway, now I've seen a play at Unilag, only one more social to-do item: swim at the guest house. My last sweetheart/ex plans to visit, so that could be the occasion.
Other things to certainly do, math/tech-wise: give tensors many more hours of study, figure out what Finite Element Analysis is and teach the software part, and do a Mathematica club starting next week (so I can learn along with others as Caltech taught me to do.) The mathematica club could be extended to a cool teacher-training thing so I may push for that, and the FEA stuff would be extended to some research project thingie on lung modeling - Jesus!
This play was part of the ongoing Lagos Black Heritage Festival (let's just call it the EKO FESTIVAL), a week-long funfest with an average of ten events a day from the Island to Mainland to Badagry even. Wish I would go to Badagry - it's been many many many years - and the beach. Why am I thrilled about the festival, even if I'm only doing a few events? For Lagos to be cool, there must be these public events, we must break the class-centrism a bit and have a collective cultural space.
I checked out the regatta on Saturday in Lekki, a play last night in Yaba, likely to see another play - A Season in The Congo , also written by Aimé Césaire - at TerraKulture tonight , then maybe roam around Victoria Island tomorrow. The festival closes on Friday and will be missed. P.S. I know it will be bigger next year. Eko o ni baje o.
Might as well share my Lagos poem here. Wrote it over a year ago. You should love it. Whatever.
SUFFERING AND SMILING
We hold these truths to be self-evident:
That where there is a child
There must be a cane.
That before you make ends meet
There will be some pain.
That Lekki is the part of Lagos
Closest to heaven.
That after such a brutal week
We deserve a good wedding.
That Fashola does the work,
Tinubu dey behind am.
That Allahu Akbar
No dey disturb Revival.
Say do me I do you
God no go vex.
Say jazz pass jazz
Na so sense pass sense.
Say my people for village
Never sabi Rat Race.
If no be for football
Man pikin for don crase.
One Nation under Fela,
we dey suffer, dey smile.
“Eko o ni bajẹ:”
this town no go spoil.
I saw The Tragedy of King Christophe yesterday at the auditorium in Unilag. Although the space would seat about a thousand, there were about as many people in the cast/crew as in the audience (about 30.) The show was gooooood, and it only cost 250bucks (less than $2 - even I can afford that.) It was performed by the Jos Repertory Theater, so basically, good stuff.
I don't want to get attached to the place, but there I go falling in love. Anyway, now I've seen a play at Unilag, only one more social to-do item: swim at the guest house. My last sweetheart/ex plans to visit, so that could be the occasion.
Other things to certainly do, math/tech-wise: give tensors many more hours of study, figure out what Finite Element Analysis is and teach the software part, and do a Mathematica club starting next week (so I can learn along with others as Caltech taught me to do.) The mathematica club could be extended to a cool teacher-training thing so I may push for that, and the FEA stuff would be extended to some research project thingie on lung modeling - Jesus!
This play was part of the ongoing Lagos Black Heritage Festival (let's just call it the EKO FESTIVAL), a week-long funfest with an average of ten events a day from the Island to Mainland to Badagry even. Wish I would go to Badagry - it's been many many many years - and the beach. Why am I thrilled about the festival, even if I'm only doing a few events? For Lagos to be cool, there must be these public events, we must break the class-centrism a bit and have a collective cultural space.
I checked out the regatta on Saturday in Lekki, a play last night in Yaba, likely to see another play - A Season in The Congo , also written by Aimé Césaire - at TerraKulture tonight , then maybe roam around Victoria Island tomorrow. The festival closes on Friday and will be missed. P.S. I know it will be bigger next year. Eko o ni baje o.
Might as well share my Lagos poem here. Wrote it over a year ago. You should love it. Whatever.
SUFFERING AND SMILING
We hold these truths to be self-evident:
That where there is a child
There must be a cane.
That before you make ends meet
There will be some pain.
That Lekki is the part of Lagos
Closest to heaven.
That after such a brutal week
We deserve a good wedding.
That Fashola does the work,
Tinubu dey behind am.
That Allahu Akbar
No dey disturb Revival.
Say do me I do you
God no go vex.
Say jazz pass jazz
Na so sense pass sense.
Say my people for village
Never sabi Rat Race.
If no be for football
Man pikin for don crase.
One Nation under Fela,
we dey suffer, dey smile.
“Eko o ni bajẹ:”
this town no go spoil.
Saturday, April 03, 2010
Rapping in Yoruba - DaGrin
I love his album C.E.O. "aimoye many coloured t-shirts but one red shoe."..."but mo wa determined, mo si wa focused, tori bee loruko mi se spread bi staphylococcus" hehehe..."and my favourite"...nkan ti o n wonder mi, ki lon shake nibe, ki l'awon guys n rush fun, ki n'won fe take ni be?" hehehe.
In other Naija music news, NNEKA is doing Lilith Fair. Go girl.
Thursday, April 01, 2010
Declutter . Unclutter .
music
Lin Yutang: Besides the noble art of getting things done, there is a nobler art of leaving things undone. The wisdom of life consists in the elimination of nonessentials.
I kept quotes cutout from Oprah mag below my whiteboard over my desk for a few years in grad school. This was one of three? six?
I held on to the truth therein in the faith that one day, I would understand...the elimination of nonessentials.
How does one focus? smile? win?
Part of the answer is in selectively leaving things undone. The result is more resources, quality time, for fewer things. Or as Oprah used to say: spend major time on major people, minor time on minor people.
I like all this hokey, Oprah, pop-psych stuff :)
Lin Yutang: Besides the noble art of getting things done, there is a nobler art of leaving things undone. The wisdom of life consists in the elimination of nonessentials.
I kept quotes cutout from Oprah mag below my whiteboard over my desk for a few years in grad school. This was one of three? six?
I held on to the truth therein in the faith that one day, I would understand...the elimination of nonessentials.
How does one focus? smile? win?
Part of the answer is in selectively leaving things undone. The result is more resources, quality time, for fewer things. Or as Oprah used to say: spend major time on major people, minor time on minor people.
I like all this hokey, Oprah, pop-psych stuff :)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)