A Song for the Puppet

See how they cry out for me

Hear how they call my name

The look on their faces

Fear of heartbreak

My people are hurting

Their souls bleed

From longing and fear

Oh so desperate

Save us will you

Help us, you should

I shudder at the mantle

Office, staff, seal

The weight, the burden

Lead us, great one

Their voices raised

In adulation, nay, worship

Out of the murk and mire

Buried in corruption, steeped in poverty

Their eyes fill with hope

Mine, trepidation

100 days in office

Campaign promises lie still

Unfulfilled, empty, bare

Still I strive, pressing

My friends, officers,

Let’s move this nation forward

Not yet, the coffers need to be emptied

Personal gratification above all

This is not what we said

I look inwards

Nothing. Vapid. Puppet.

A leader must be something

A Voice for the people

Who called you to be that?

We installed you

Get busy. Dig. Empty the accounts.

The streets are empty but not quite

I don’t see them.

They cry for me, but not as before

Now they wail.

Sorrow, deep and piercing

My people have lost all faith

I hurt too. I am weak

We are all powerless

For Nigel Jenkins: Who Made Poetry Enjoyable

Anybody who knows me, knows that I have no love for poetry. I have this totally *nyeh* attitude to that genre of Creative Writing. Now, imagine getting to Swansea and being told that Poetry is a compulsory module.

Yepa! Mogbe t'emi ba mi! 

I worried about failure so much that it didn't allow me to even think I could do it. 

But, Nigel...Nigel made it so amazing. As I type this I remember the awesomeness of Nigel Jenkins. He was the director of the Creative Writing MA at Swansea. Nigel is a notable Welsh poet who was funny, talented and extremely warm. 

I mean, I finished my poetry module starting to think "Nah, poetry isn't half bad". And then not long after we submitted our portfolios for the semester, Nigel passed away.

I was gutted. This man was very kind to me. Who was going to hold my hands through the academic rigours ahead? This was a good man. A really good man.

I will never forget Nigel. I'm sad that he didn't grade my portfolio. But I'm so so so so happy I had the privilege of learning from this great man.

I wrote a tribute to him, which was originally published in The Swansea Waterfront. There are no words what will ever be enough to laud this man. 

He is truly missed.

***

One of the most prominent things in the heart of a person who has travelled thousands of miles away from home is the fear of being terribly alone.  You’re plagued with the fear of the unknown, and the eager anticipation to give yourself a certain sense of validation that you have made the right decision.

As days unfold into weeks, you struggle to make this new place home. You make friends, but you do it with caution. It’s not familiar but you’re willing to make the effort. You attend classes, while making an effort to cope with the sudden surge of work along with the gaping loneliness that hits you every time you go back to your room.

This feeling of trepidation is something that every international student faces. It is that scary sense of detachment that one is without the comfortable anchor of the safety of home. I was fully steeped in this bubble of insecurity when I moved to Swansea in September.

At the first ‘meet and greet’ organized by the Creative Writing teaching team, there was a man, in his mid-60s going round the room, trying to ensure everybody was comfortable. It also helped that he constantly topped up our wine glasses and encouraged us to be as relaxed as possible. This man, whom I will later know to be Nigel Jenkins, was particularly concerned about the fact that I had come all the way from Nigeria. Was this my first time in the UK? Did I have family in Swansea? Oh No! I didn’t? How dreadful! Where was I staying? Did I like my accommodation?  Would I let him know if I needed anything? Absolutely anything. Feel free to drop by my office to let me know if there’s anything you might need.

Nigel Jenkins, passed away on the 28^th of January 2014. As I write this piece, I am unsure of the best way to put down the words which will truly represent the greatness of this man. A Welsh poet and great contributor to Welsh literature, Nigel was more than just a member of the Creative Writing team at the Swansea University. He was integral to the establishment of the course at Swansea University.

As a result of that, poetry is one of the compulsory modules for the MA program. You can only imagine my trepidation as one coming to this course with absolutely no clue on how to approach poetry. In my opinion, poetry was one of those things brilliant creative people write… to show off. I said as much to poetry. I was terrified at the idea of having to write a poem. What did I know about writing words in a certain colourful way? What did I know about rhyme, metre or even Haiku!?

Three months after the course started, Nigel managed to assuage my fears. I can still hear his voice saying ‘find the words within you and write it down’. When I didn’t know if my Haiku was worth the paper on which I wrote, he said ‘Haikus are about capturing that moment’.

Nigel’s soothing voice as he narrated his various experiences in life as a journalist, of many-a-pint-inspired articles, and as a poet was a constant reminder that even for me, an amateur writer; so far from home… nothing was impossible. In my last tutorial meeting with him, just before Christmas, he was very concerned about where I was going to spend the holidays. He was very concerned about how I might get lonely out here alone with no family, and said I was welcome to spend Christmas with his family.

Such was the largeness of his heart. There are no words to express the depth of gratitude I have to this great man whose presence was integral to my getting settled into Swansea University.  Every international student needs a Nigel Jenkins in their sojourn far from home.

I am eternally grateful for meeting this talented and hard working man.  I hope that I can be half the writer Nigel was. I hope that I can, someday, be an inspiration to other people the way Nigel was to me.

This piece is dedicated to the loving memory of Nigel Jenkins (1949 – 2014)

Villagers! Gather Round...

I was going to write about how pretentious I looked a few hours ago - me, sitting in a room full of Asians and Hispanics, dunking tortilla chips into little pots of garlic guacamole. I was going to write about the importance of people watching when you're pretending to be aware of an All-American tradition - studying what team the majority of the room is supporting and remembering to shout when everyone else is. It doesn't matter that you don't know who the Seahawks are, or why everybody is shouting 'Touch Down!' It's all part of the tradition, and it was what I was going to write about - traditions.

Then, I remembered I was probably going to get flack for talking about 'something unrelatable'. So, let's talk about something more ethnic, and cultural and innate. Our villages, or home towns as some of you finer folk might like to call them.

Growing up, going to our home town every year was a non-negotiable event. It was the time of the year when family members converged to eat the greenest Ewedu and the brownest Amala ever. It was the time when family members who didn't know who was who, would ask: 'Are you Gbemi or Funke?' When you responded that you are Wonu, they would then say 'Ah! The architect!' Suddenly it was okay to be familiar enough to ask you to go and bring some yam and sardine stew for them from the kitchen.

Anyway, I had grown up believing everybody went to their villages, until I went to University and met people who said they had never been to theirs. One of my closest friends said her family never went to the village because her grandmother lived with one of her uncles in Lagos, and they were basically scared of people in their village so they never went. Because both my parents are from the same place, I have a stronger connection to Ogbomosho, so as the older generation died off, it didn't really reduce the 'family ties'. It also helped that we had a house to go to, which minimised the discomfort of going. However, as I grew older, and the compulsion to go to the village was taken off, there wasn't really a pull to go there. As much as I love going to visit my aunty, eating fresh mangoes, there's very little incentive to get on the bad Lagos-Ibadan expressway. Unless of course, there's a burial to attend.

Burials are another reason why people go to their villages. When my friend's father died, they had this huge situation of where to bury their dad. The man had lived in Lagos all his life, built a house in Lagos and died in Lagos. However, custom demanded that he was buried 'at home'. This was where it became a tricky situation. His children now had to posthumously invest in real estate - in a place they would probably never go again. Customs and traditions are a big deal, but real estate investment... now that is an even bigger deal.

In my parents generation, it was imperative to have 'roots' - a house in the village, something small, something to show that you've not just been on a sojourn in a foreign land for nothing. In fact, for some people, it didn't matter that they lived in a rented flat for 22 years in the place that they earned their living; as long as they had a nice 10-bedroom duplex in the village they visited once a year, they were fulfilled. My siblings and I always made fun of my mum and her obsession with taking all the nice things she had to Ogbomosho. According to her, she was shoring up stuff for when she retired. 20 years later and those nice things have become antiquated in their cartons on the shelf of the store in Ogbomosho. The utopia of retiring to the country home still seems like a distant reality.

Today, I don't know many young people who build houses in their home towns or even visit. I think the expenses of trying to pay expensive school fees, summer in Disney Land and trying to pay mortgage in Solar Garden estate has drastically negated the ideology of putting down roots outside of the metropolis. At best, you'll find Lagos residents buying land on the outskirts of Lagos, like Mowe or Ikorodu. One of my friends in Abuja is looking to buy land in the FCT - nothing about Bayelsa State or future repatriation. Times have really changed.

This year, I really want to explore the dynamics of culture and tradition. Some aspects of culture do not really add value to our lives... or do they?

Have a great week ahead. Stay safe, be productive and remember to add value in your sphere of influence.

Short Story Time!!! This one is Called 'Four Months'

It is said that there is a rush of air that fills your head when you’re told you have only so long to live.  

The reaction is slightly varied depending on how long you’ve been given. A year; and you’re thinking…bucket list -travel plans and wild adventures; depending on how much exertion your now failing shell will let you. 6 months, you’re thinking of calling lawyers and making peace with people you’ve crossed along the road.

The reel of film that plays your life comes in different hues, depending on how well you’ve lived. This reel unfurled before Wale Cole now. 

For 64 years, he had lived like his father before him, and his father before him.

Fierce.  Ruthless. Calculating. Wale’s father had told him that the first Wale Cole had been the true embodiment of all three. And although he didn’t live longer than 46, his son had watched him crush any sign of weakness with a swiftness that was cold, yet admirable.  It was a shame that he died from lung cancer. Wale Cole II smoked his last pipe at his father’s internment.  He walked away from the graveside, promising himself that he’d raise his son to be a man even greater than his father.

He stayed true to his promise; and 2 decades later, Wale Cole III had grown the Cole brand in exponential proportions- operating out of Japan with services across Asia, Africa and the Middle East. The pride of the memory of his ancestors stayed with him, along with memories of the day he met Shalewa.

It was a narrow hallway at the Ikeja High Court. She blew a ring of smoke in his face, her eyes daring him to revolt. With one hand holding up her hand bag, she said, “Are you one of the good guys… Or one of the bad ones?”

 It was the smirk and the complete lack of reverence that jarred him. Her plain face did nothing for him. Eyes trailing slowly down, he wondered if she knew that the colour grey was meant for her. The dress clung to every part of her body that all he could think of was fucking her into submission - make her whimper till she never had to ask who he was.

“No. I’m the really bad one. I have to be at court; but nobody says I have to be in there staring at the whimpering faces of losers in there.”

They were married the following year. 32 years of marriage had done very little damage to that body. He watched her approach him gracefully. Her smile, priceless. 

“How long?”

“4 months”

He pulled the lounge chair closer, pushing the deck table between them.

“Did you bring it?”

“Yes. The Macallan 1939 and my personal favourite brand of Cubans”

She poured out their glasses, and lit the cigar.

“Here’s to my first drink”

With a deep throaty laughter, she replied,  “And your first smoke! It’s time to live”.

Your Will & Mine... Because ELKAFT

I got on a plane last week... and I was terrified. The closer I got to the door of the aircraft, the more I felt a cold draft of fear – acute and intense fear – go through me.  The first thing I did when I got into the plane was look in the direction of the cockpit – as if for some sign that I was going to be okay. As I fastened my seatbelt and stowed my bags away, I wondered “Girl, what was that about? I thought you stopped being afraid of death 5 years ago?”

The month of March is a particularly difficult one for me. Every day from the 17^th to the 26^th ,  I find myself rehashing and re-living the process of my brother’s accident, death and funeral. The utter and sheer unexpectedness of it all is still very hard to grasp; and as the years have rolled on, I have taught myself that death would come, whether I want it to or not. I also know that neither me, nor my household is immune from the randomness and the scythe of The Grim Reaper.

Who’s to say you’re not going to get on a plane with a depressed pilot in the cockpit? How do you know that you’re not going to be standing at Cele bus stop and you won’t get run down by a drunken tanker driver? What are the odds that you’ll wake up tomorrow?  Before you mutter ‘It’s not my portion’, you have to remember , ‘ Eyan Le Ku Any F**king Time’  (ELKAFT) – translated to mean “A person can die at any frigging time”. ELKAFT is something that we all need to be aware of, consequently, we need to pay attention to some things like planning for when you’re no longer around.

As Nigerians, deeply steeped in eternal faith based optimism, we don’t really put a lot of stock in having properly documentation in preparation for death.  Every time I talk to someone about having a will, they smile and say “I’m not going anywhere yet. I shall live to declare…” The lawyer in me keeps wondering what that even means.

Family law and law of Succession were arguably my favourite courses in Unilag.  Between Professor Uzodike, and Mr. Tunde Oni, I was well inculcated into the advocacy of having a last will and testament.  We had a lot of interesting cases of family wars started as a result of intestacy. Interestingly, a lot of notable intestate cases involved lawyers. Like chain-smoking doctors, the world is full of intestate lawyers

While having a will doesn’t necessarily make all your problems disappear, it helps a lot. At least you know there’s a document to be followed in sharing your assets when you’re gone.  With a will, you know that your children are provided for and your debts are paid off (You don’t want your creditors cussing you out on the way to heaven, do you?)

So, I asked my friend, Alfino,  when he thinks the best time to start thinking of a will is, and he responded “When you get married.”  His wife added a modifier stating, “If you have dependents, then you should start thinking of a will.” We then went on to talk about some utterly murky situations created by intestacy.

Essentially, it’s about making provision for those you love and care about. For the sake of argument, I asked what it should matter how people left behind deal with themselves. After all, you won’t be there, so why should it matter? We concluded that the messiness created from improper planning usually does more harm than good.

We talked about a wealthy Nigerian family whose dying patriarch called his children together in one room, declared his assets and told everybody what was due to them. He asked anybody with any dissatisfaction to speak up or forever hold their peace. Nobody was going to be allowed to sully his name after his death.  There has been no news of family squabbles. I like this style.

In another family, even though the patriarch knew he was dying and he left a will, a new mysterious will surfaced. Let’s just say lawyers have been cashing out from that mess.

There’s something about the idea of free money, and free property that makes people go crazy. Even the nicest siblings start fighting over bungalow in Maryland, land in Osapa London, town house in Mayfair. You imagine a family unit is the closest you’ve ever seen, and then a super valuable piece of real estate comes into contention and suddenly the claws come out.

Cultural nuances and dynamics don’t also make planning your estate easier. The question of what law should govern your succession process comes into play. If you have a will, and you’re a notable traditionalist – living your life fully according to the dictates of customs and traditions – it becomes more difficult to apply the specifics of a will. Disgruntled parties will argue that the will, drafted under the Act is invalid as you lived as a traditionalist and your estate should be divided accordingly.

Some estate battles become so bitter and protracted that one begins to wonder about whether anything in life itself is worth fighting for. There’s nothing sadder than having the memory of a loved one becomes coloured by the messiness of money disputes.

It’s never too early to start talking to a lawyer or a financial advisor about planning your estate. And no, having a will isn’t the exclusive right of rich people. Read up about it, make preparations and plan for your future; because… well…

ELKAFT!

My Friends Keep Pushing Boundaries! Laolu Senbanjo at the SXSW | 9elumi & the Endometriesis run

So my friends are basically kicking ass left right and centre! When 9elumi started talking about giving awareness to the Endometriesis condition, I thought 'how does she want to go about this?' I mean, it's not something a lot of people know about. Many of the by-products of having endometriesis is usually overlooked by our people. Protracted and painful periods? Well suck it up... you're an African woman. Don't be lazy. That amongst other things made her decide to organise a run. She contacted the guys at Truppr and they're going to give out free yellow t-shirts to create awareness. Little woolen keepsakes will be sold at the run too. The money will be collected and sent to an existing endometriesis research place. Pretty impressive!

If you're in Nigeria and you wanna register for the run, visit www.truppr.com/5krun.

**
Another of my friends, Laolu Senbanjo is a creative genius. He is a lawyer (hey... all cool people are aren't we?)

Anyway, he got into the SXSW FESTIVAL!!!

No seriously... it is a big deal! He is an artist and an artiste! The afromysterics band, and Laolu are going to be performing under the world music line up {check out the schedule here}

I interviewed Laolu some years ago on BN... I'll look for the link and upload it here. Really, he's 'cool peoples' and his song"Love Before" is one of my absolute favourites in the whole wide world.

The write up from the press release is right after the photos.

Laolu is about to head from New York City with his band, the Afromysterics to Austin, TX to South by Southwest, alongside fellow Afro Artists Ayo and Rafiya.  Only a year old, this is the band’s first SXSW performance. 

Laolu will be performing at Speakeasy Kabaret (412 N Congress Ave, Austin, TX 78701) at 10:30 pm Thursday March 19, 2015.  The showcase is presented by Digiwaxx and powered by OkayAfrica.   

Laolu & the Afromysterics / SXSW  DATES

03/19 – Austin, TX @ Speakeasy Kabaret

xxx

Laolu & the Afromysterics is the brain child of Laolu Senbanjo, a self-taught musician, visual artist and a human rights lawyer.  He’s the lead singer, composer, and the acoustic guitarist.  Born and raised in Nigeria to Yoruba parents, he left his legal career behind to chase his dream of being a musician and artist full time in New York City.  His band, the Afromysterics are made up of an eclectic group of musical geniuses from all over the globe.  With influences from the likes of Fela Kuti, King Sunny Ade, and Sade, the music definitely has its roots in the typical Yoruba traditions, yet Laolu blends in reggae, afrosoul, and hip hop into the songs.  You have to witness this band live to feel the African groove for yourself. 

**
Yeah... so my friends are doing things...

Me.. well... when you know cool people it just makes you wanna be more and do more.

These guys inspire me!

Now, go forth and kick some major butt!