ktravula – a travelogue!

reflections on the world

Browsing ktravula – a travelogue! blog archives for December, 2009.

On That Nigerian Guy

Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab is a 23 year old man from a comfortable home in Northern Nigeria who attends a university in the United Kingdom. He’s now notorious for trying to denotate an explosive device on a plane. I have tried not to talk about him before now, but who am I kidding? It’s in the news on every station and the word “Nigeria” pops up every time. Even on twitter, the words “Nigeria” and “Nigerians” have now become trending topics. By now we know that his father is a Nigerian banker who had warned the US about three weeks ago about his son’s suspicious affiliations. Well, three weeks ago, the US was busy debating the Tiger Woods story to pay attention to an errant Nigerian…

On a more serious note, that idiot from Katsina state has given the rest of us a bad name, as if we didn’t have enough troubles of our own already. Think of how many people are now subject to more restrictions because of a foolish act by one unthinking idiot. I’m happy that I am not travelling to anywhere soon, but I don’t envy those who are, and who are from Nigeria. I’m disgusted enough with having to remove my shoes, jacket, sweater, and even belt every time I try to board a plane. Now, they’d probably want to search my anus as well for firecrackers since I’m from a country whose name is now popping up now and then beside the word “terrorism”. For many Americans, it must be hard to see us in any other light now, except the people from whose country the terrorist came from. On the bright side, this takes the shine of “Nigerian Internet Scam”, if only for a minute. Heck, it even takes the shine off the death of South Africa’s anti-apatheid writer, Dennis Brutus, who died on the 26th December. Very sad indeed. (Update: another Nigerian passenger was arrested today Sunday the 27th because he spent one hour in the airplane bathroom on a similar flight, and was “verbally disruptive” – read Nigerian “uppity” – when questioned.)

Since the story broke, I’ve been trying to look on the bright side, trying to find the laughable side to it. Yesterday, I started looking for verses in Nostradamus’s predictions that mentioned “Nigerian”, “Christmas” and “terrorism” in the same sentence. No luck. I hope that soon, my search engine will come up with something I could use. For now, my hope is that if or when the suspected “Nigerian terrorist” is eventually convicted, he will be taken straight to Guantanamo to have a taste of the American countryside he so desperately desires. He can do with himself over there whatever he wants. Only for his sake, I will be petitioning the President Obama to keep open that detention facility indefinitely. We do not want the fool in any prison in Illinois like the president is planning for other Guantanamo inmates, and I’m pretty sure that they do not want him in Nigeria any time soon as well. Don’t take my word for it, check out this Facebook Group that has been set up primarily to throw the disgraceful Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab under the bus, virtually, since – the horror of horrors – we are not able to do it physically.

At age 23, I was struggling to get a University degree rather than of playing around with explosive firecrackers. At age 23, I’d never even been on a plane before. Well, there’s a lot you can do if you’re a spoilt kid with a privileged background. Who cares for common sense when you can easily and effortlessly disgrace your family and country with one thoughtless act of jackassery in a foreign country?

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For Laughs

“Barking as a Second Language”

Seen on the door into the Department of Foreign Languages where I work. I found it funny.

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It Was White

I could have missed it had I not mistakenly pulled my curtain apart when I noticed that the colour outside was not what it was less than an hour earlier. In any case, I’m glad I pulled back the curtain because the snow, even though not as much as in the other parts of the country, was a wonderful reminder of the seasons, and why it is called a White Christmas. I’m glad that we don’t have a blizzard. It’s little enough to impress, so far, and plenty enough to look like a real White Christmas.  Here are a few of the shots.

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My 2009 Timeline

May 31: Short Story Behind the Door first published on Story Time

August 10: Made a first post on this blog. Well, not technically on this blog. It used to be this blog.

August 13: Arrived in the United States for the first time after travelling for almost twenty-four hours, and had my sorta first culture shock.

August 15: Discovered that America had mosquitoes too, and at first thought it had been sent after me from Nigeria.

August 16: Left Providence, Rhode Island for St. Louis Missouri, riding a Cadillac to Boston Massachussetts somewhere along the way.

August 17: Arrived at Edwardsville Illinois, and experienced my first and truly memorable power outage in America that lasted more than 12 hours.

August 18: Found out that I could be Jewish, after all.

August 21: Met Papa Rudy, my colleagues at the Department, and got a bicycle as a gift among many other surprises.

August 23: Visited Six Flags at St. Louis where I lost a camera.

August 25: Discovered the value of a quarter.

September 10: Moved from ktravula.wordpress.com to ktravula.com

September 29: Met Frank Warren of PostSecret.

September 29: Began writing Home Alone, Traveller, a poem.

October 3: Showed off my new camera.

October 5: Met Maya Angelou when she came to campus here at Edwardsville.

October 15: Visited Principia University. Became an American.

October 23: Wrote “America Tonight,” a poem on returning from a walk in the rain.

October 24: Visited the African American museum at Carbondale

October 27: Got news that short story Behind the Door will be published in an anthology in the UK in 2010.

November 11: Wrote my name on the “Berlin Wall” on Campus.

November 09: Published my translation of Richard Berengarten’s poem Volta online.

November 14: Visited Chicago, the windy city. Went to the Sears Towers, among other famous places.

November 21: Visited the museum at Cahokia, Illinois, and had my first taste of pounded yam at Nubia Cafe in St. Louis.

November 23: Visited the St. Louis Gateway Arch, and its Museum of Westward Expansion.

December 1: Wrote an unpublished poem titled This step, This spot.

December 2: Got a Secret Santa.

December 4: Found out that I couldn’t donate blood if I wanted to.

December 6: My poem Home Alone, Traveller and a few others published on Africanwriter.com

December 7: Fried Dodo to class for my students to eat on their last day of class.

December 10: Arrived in Washington DC where I’d gone to attend a Fulbright Event. I toured the city on foot, visiting the Lincoln Memorial, the Capitol, the Washington Monument and the White House, taking pictures.

December 11: Published the 200th post on KTravula.com

December 12: Went to the White House, again.

December 15: Visited Howard University, Washington DC in the rain.

December 15: Visited Maryland, where I met a few Nigerian bloggers, and ate food and drank wine like no man’s business.

December 15: Poem America Tonight and a larger Home Alone, Traveller published on Canada’s Maple Tree Literary Supplement, Issue 5.

December 19: Found out who my Secret Santa was.

December 20: My short story Behind the Door reviewed for Critical Literature Review.

December 25: Saw real snow.

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My Merry Christmas Cards

I’ve never received so many cards and gifts in my adult life as I did during this Christmas season. The last time I felt this special, I think I was really very young. Reham bought me a very cool branded shirt. Yvonne a professor sharing my office got me a cordless mouse. At the office party last week, Professor Doug Simms gave me a very thoughtful Christmas card and a surprise monetary gift, among the many other things received from friends and colleagues in the mail. Yesterday, I received a chapbook from Richard Berengarten whose poem Volta I translated into Yoruba in November, along with other Christmas cards.

Here then is a collage of my Christmas greetings and postcards, some received, some given. Merry Christmas to you wherever you are. May the happiness go around.

With love from KTravula

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I’m Not A Writer, And I know It

I have a problem reading myself for a second time. I can barely read it for the first time at all. I write a piece of work, I try to read it again with an editing eye and I get strangely disgusted. I can barely make it through to the end. When I eventually do, I see only the things in my head, and not the words on the sheet, and I find that I have not edited it at all, but just endured another needless ordeal of re-reading.

I am lazy. With fiction, I fail with imagination but succeed somewhat with memory. I may thrive on details but sag on the fictive dexterity of their expression. I’m not a writer, and I know it. I am only a bearer of stories. With poetry, it becomes a little different. The muse descends, rides me roughly like the spirit in a possessed body, and leaves, leaving something pretty behind that I sometimes like to read again and again, although it scarcely leaves space to take full credit. So I can’t write a poem on the spot to save my life, or so I like to think. I will find out perhaps when there’s a gun to my head and an loud order to “Show me you’re a poet. Write something before I waste your brain on this concrete floor.”

Knowledge is for philosophers. Imagination is for writers. Only one of them changes the world, and -hint, hint- it’s not knowledge. Really. So as soon as I can exchange my junk of knowledge for liberty of imagination, I will be a writer. Until then, let me just be me, the quiet observing traveller in this American wilderness. Perhaps also, a bearer of stories.

(Picture credits: A fridge sticker at the house of Nigerian writer Ikhide Ikheloa, taken in Maryland on the 14th December 2009)

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Of Townships and Ownerships

I was not too surprised when a fellow FLTA from France said to me two weeks ago over dinner at the Union Station in Washington DC that the city was developed by a French person. Then, as she said so, everything had just fallen along the line of positive French stereotypes. They designed the Eiffel Tower and the Statue of Liberty, they must also be the big brilliant brain behind the planning and beautiful layout of the country’s capital. It was my first time of hearing the story, and though she didn’t have the name of the said designer, I believed it.

Today, I had a different conversation with Papa Rudy who says the city was developed by a black man. Now I’m confused. I told him of my discussion with the French girl, and he insisted that a black man did the city’s design. And somewhere in the conversation, the name Du Pont came up. Now I am familiar with a DuPont Circle in Washington DC, and reading more on it this afternoon showed me that it was named after a man Samuel Francis Du Pont (from the famous Du Pont family who really were originally from France). However, he is neither black, not an architect. He was a rear admiral during the civil war. The wikipedia article on the beautiful Paris-like city does not say much about the “designers” of the city, so I’m giving up.

Or not. I now have my own theory, that the person who conceived the brilliant layout of the city with the Washington Monument obelisk standing almost in its centre, could only have been the son of Oduduwa (the fabled progenitor of the Yoruba people). That’s the only explanation that can suffice to clear the air on the similarity between the Opa Oranmiyan obelisk in Ilé-Ifè and this Washington Monument obelisk. The Opa Oranmiyan was erected at a spot once believed to have been the burial site of Oranmiyan, a grandson of Oduduwa. Archeological evidence has now shown it not to be standing on any burial spot at all, but to be just a visible memorial to the fabled progenitor whose name it bears on it’s body. On the Opa Oranmiyan, as has been since its (undated) erection is an inscription in middle-eastern letters that archeologists have accepted as corresponding in sound to “Oranmiyan”.

It’s not the same in height and size to the Washington Monument, but that’s beside the point. Sue me if you like, but the muse behind that American capital city came from Ilé-Ifè in Yorubaland. Deal with it, will you?

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The Continuing Story of Mary & Joseph: “It’s A Boy”

MARY: Joe, we’re gonna have a baby.
JOE: What? That’s impossible. All I ever do is put it between your thighs.
MARY: Well, I don’t know. Something must’ve gone wrong.
JOE: Who says you’re pregnant?
MARY: An angel appeared to me in the backyard and said so.
JOE: An angel?
MARY: An angel of God. His name was Gabriel. He had a trumpet and he appeared to me in the backyard.
JOE: He what?
MARY: He appeared to me.
JOE: Was he naked?
MARY: No. I think he had on a raincoat. I don’t really know. He was glowing so brightly.
JOE: Mary, you’re under a lot of stress. Why don’t you take a few days off from the shop? The accounts can wait.
MARY: I’m telling you, Joe. This Angel Gabriel said that God wanted me to have this baby.
JOE: Did you ask for some sort of sign?
MARY: Of course I did. He said tomorrow I’d start getting sick.
JOE: But why should God want a kid?
MARY: Well, Gabriel said that according to Luke it’s kind of an ego thing. Plus, he promised the Jews a long time ago, it’s just that he never got around to it. But now he feels ready for children he doesn’t want to just make them out of clay or dust. He wants to get humans involved.
JOE: Well, is he going to help toward raising the kid? God knows we can’t do it alone. I could use a bigger shop, and maybe he could throw a couple of those nice crucifix contracts my way. The Romans are nailin’ up everything that walks.
MARY: Honey, Gabriel said not to worry. The kid would be a real winner. A public speaker and good with miracles.
JOE: Well, that’s a relief. Anyway, now that your officially pregnant I cant start puttin’ it inside you.
MARY: I’m sorry, honey. God wants it to be strictly a virgin birth.
JOE: I don’t get it.
MARY: That’s right, Joe.
JOE: Don’t I get to do anything?
MARY: He wants you to come up with a name for the kid.
JOE: Jesus Christ!
MARY: Don’t curse, Joe!

END

Culled from When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops, New York Times Bestseller by George Carlin.

NOTE: Those familiar with the original text will notice that I have changed the last line, the words from Mary, for effect. You may head here where I got the online text from to see the original text and decide which you prefer. I have thought long and hard before deciding on this as the ktravula post of the day. By some luck, somebody somewhere might find it funny without wishing brimstone on my head. Have a Merry Christmas.

(Photo taken at the Nativity play by children at the Episcopalian Church at Edwardsville on Sunday)

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