ktravula – a travelogue!

reflections on the world

Browsing ktravula – a travelogue! blog archives for September, 2011.

The Blood Bank: Two Years After…

I’m happy to inform you that two years after I reported a discriminatory practice in blood donation by the Red Cross on our campus, the situation has been remedied, at least on campus. I walked up there with a friend today, as I’ve done for the last two years, to check their list of exemptions. Nothing in there mentions “Nigeria”, or “sexual contact” as it did the last time, although – now more understandably – people who have travelled to “malaria-prone” zones of the world are required to wait for about three years before donating blood. The science and the common sense are now finally catching up with the other.

Update: On the other hand, the Red Cross website still has the following under its eligibility criteria, under the topic of HIV:

You are at risk for getting infected if you: … were born in, or lived in, Cameroon, Central African Republic, Chad, Congo, Equatorial Guinea,Gabon, Niger, or Nigeria, since 1977… had sex with anyone who, since 1977, was born in or lived in any of these countries… (http://www.redcrossblood.org/donating-blood/eligibility-requirements/eligibility-criteria-alphabetical-listing).

Could someone please inform the Red Cross that you are at risk of getting HIV if you live anywhere on the surface of the earth today and you do things that put you at risk?

 

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With Love from Toto

With Love from my Toto*

 

Did they not chook** me with their cacti

and fill me with bilious waste – those

whose scrota should be jaundiced with

stings from wayward bees?

 

Did they not claw me with callous talons

and grip my vexing veins – those

whose hands will remain guests

to rheumatoid rust?

 

Did they not mock my wailings

and cause my teeth to gnash – those

whose nights should witness

harmonies of terrors and bitterness?

 

Did they not defile my thighs

and maul my breasts – those

whose paths will forever

quake with anguish?

 

Did they not tear me apart

and watch my navel suffocate – those

who should be bobittised with blunt scalpels?

 

Some pricks should be snacks for hungry hyenas.

poem by Chris Ogunlowo ***

_____________________

 *          Nigerian Pidgin for vagina.

* *        The equivalent of fuck in Nigerian Pidgin English, usually used to exaggerate coital thrust.

***       Written in response to the recent infamous rape case that went viral in Nigeria last week. Chris is a Nigerian blogger and copywriter.

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Call for Projects in the Visual Arts

Dear friends,

We would like to let you know of the Urban Transcripts 2011 call for projects in the visual arts, theory and research, architecture and urban design. Registrations of interest to participate with project work in the Urban Transcripts 2011 exhibition and conference close on 30.09.2011.

We would be much grateful if you could forward this information to anyone you think it might be of interest.

Best Regards,

the Urban Transcripts 2011 organising team,

“Urban Transcripts 2011, Rome, the accidental city” is an Urban Transcripts initiative in partnership with:  Provincia di Roma  /  Facoltà di Architettura dell’Università degli Studi Roma Tre  /  Dipartimento di Studi Urbani dell’Università degli Studi Roma Tre  /  ESC Atelier

ENGLISH

call for projects in the visual arts, theory and research, architecture and urban design.

deadline for registrations of interest: 30.09.2011

deadline for project submissions (preview material): 07.10.2011

deadline for the submission of finalised projects: 05.12.2011

Urban Transcripts 2011, Rome, the accidental city

We invite you to explore the accident(al) in the city of Rome: the accident(al) which happens over time and transforms the ‘essence’ of the city that would otherwise remain unchanged, the accident(al) which adds surprise and complexity to our reality and challenges our understanding of the city, the accident(al) which generates the energy to recreate and reshape the city.

Interested participants are invited to register by 30.09.2011 and submit their project’s preview material by 07.10.2011. The Project Review Committee will select projects based on the preview material submitted. Selected participants have until the beginning of December to finalise their projects.

registration form:

http://www.urbantranscripts.org/documents/UT2011_02_registration_form.pdf

for more information:

http://www.urbantranscripts.org

info@urbantranscripts.org

ITALIANO

Avviso per la presentazione di paper e progetti  inerenti l’architettura,  il progetto urbano e  visual art.

scadenza per la manifestazione di interesse: 30 settembre 2011

scadenza per la presentazione dei progetti (anteprima dei materiali): 7 ottobre 2011

scadenza per la consegna dei materiali definitivi: 5 dicembre 2011

Urban Transcripts 2011, Rome, the accidental city

Vi invitiamo all’esplorazione dell’accidentale che Roma nasconde: l’accidentale che ha luogo in ogni tempo e che trasforma l’”essenza” della città, senza la quale essa rimarrebbe sempre uguale a sé stessa; l’accidentale che regala imprevedibilità e complessità alla nostra realtà, sfidando la nostra capacità di comprensione dell’urbano; l’accidentale da cui sprigiona l’energia per ri-creare e ri-configurare la città.

Gli interessati sono invitati a registrarsi entro il 30 settembre e ad inoltrare una anteprima del proprio progetto entro il 7 ottobre 2011. Un Comitato di Valutazione selezionerà i progetti sulla base dei materiali provvisori inviati. I partecipanti selezionati avranno tempo sino agli inizi di dicembre per ultimare i propri progetti.

registration form:

http://www.urbantranscripts.org/documents/UT2011_02_registration_form.pdf

per informazione:

http://www.urbantranscripts.org

info@urbantranscripts.org

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Save Your Life Using Fear As You Go!

It is not new gist that Nigeria is an empire of paranoia. Well, ‘paranoia’ is not exactly the word; fear is better suited to what I speak about. This is the feeling that danger is looming, even close as breath. Although this is not exclusive to Nigeria, I am perturbed that here security is sort of a fool’s paradise, as government is probably a faceless, nameless being. I will tell a story to illustrate this.

A friend’s friend was given a house by her friend. This friend’s friend accommodated another friend in the house that had been given to her by her friend. So, we have Friend A (my friend), Friend B (my friend’s friend), Friend C (my friend’s friend’s friend who gave her a house), and Friend D (my friend’s friend’s friend who is accommodated in Friend C’s house).

Friend D is alone in the house one night, a few weeks ago, when the door, which she left locked, opens. She is greatly surprised, and when she goes to the door, it is a certain guy who asks for Friend C. He is told that she is not in, as she is not in Lagos at the moment. He claimed he was his girlfriend, but Friend D only saw two guys at the door with him, which left her wondering if he was gay, and all three of them exited together. Already Friend D is confused, as she has never seen any of the guys or the girl (whom she later saw in the vehicle they drove off in) before then. She shuts the door after their exit. A couple of minutes later, two guys knock. She opens for them, and her nightmare begins, as they were the two guys with the guy that had access into the house earlier.

In sum, they try to rape her. She is forced to the room and kept under the bed, which muffles her shouts. An argument ensues between the pre-rapists, and Friend D finds a way to escape. It is her mode of escape that baffles me, that tugs at my dignity, starts a question in my head.

She jumps down from a height of close to 12 feet, escaping her assailants.

What she did, in my thinking, was to compare a post-rape feeling with the danger of falling from a height of 12 feet. She considered the latter preferable, more dignifying. This is akin to a story of a group of Mozambican women who, during the civil war of the ‘80s, huddled together and threw themselves into a river. They had been raped.

Yet, I am concerned that Friend D, aside the obvious consideration of her dignity (the face she would see in the mirror if she is raped), used a method most Lagosians are used to – Fear As You Go! This method suggests that one acts because of fear, ensuring salvation on the grounds of what has not happened, and what should be prevented from happening. So, we have those who will scamper out of their offices because some Policemen have alleged that a bomb is in the premises (this happened about two weeks ago, in the Secretariat of a Local Government, where I had gone to see a friend). And because I have been infected with this method, a policeman asks me why my hands are shaking, when I am showing him the contents of my bag, which had my laptop.

It is a dangerous world, agreed, and I refuse to consider Lagos the most dangerous city in the world (I do not even think it is, or that there is safety anywhere). But what baffles me, and what I am concerned about, is how our Lagos-life is one that is established on the possibility of danger, of unwanted experiences, rapes, stabs, arrests, thefts. There are everyday instances I have witnessed – I was accosted by my friend’s (who I live with) landlord (or son of the landlord), and with a raised voice he said he didn’t know who I was, and therefore was not the right person to open the gate for me. I was amazed at his defensiveness, not to speak of his perceivable readiness to strike, especially if I gave away any hint of thuggery.

The wise thing, I suppose, is to continually live on the edge – after all, isn’t the world scheduled to end in 2012? With the close of the age upon us (thank you Mayans!), our collective persona should be one of effective trepidation – effective because we have to save our lives, we have to survive, and because Lagos seems to be at war against us.

I suppose this is not a peculiar Lagos model. Our world calls to us, as in an advert, saying, ‘Save Your Life using Fear As You Go!’

By Emmanuel Iduma

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Halfway to Sixty

Seeking time comes often to a rote around edges of reason, my friend,

when tomorrow moves away from reach into the lengths of a near past.

It is not just the distance of time and space, or memory, but what portends

In-between the fast changing chords of our once rhyming flat bombasts.

Look at it here: movements, shapes, forms, people, hope, desires, and lusts,

And pleasing exuberance circling within one spot of deferred dreams.

So we wonder restlessly where all the time went. We trade masks that must

Hold fears within claypots of growth. We howl our tears into the stream.

We don’t own then, it seems, balms that soothe with scents of silent mimesis,

Else we would sway with wine bags in reclined poses, seconds spent to please,

Which held us then when time favoured the pockets of our scant playfulnesses.

We would not wonder where they went, days spent sprawled in the shades of ease.

It could be only relief that mischief remains, and love’s comfort in the end,

To sew a new tapestry, and to daily, patiently mend. It was never ours to rend.

___________________________

Being too lazy to write a new pre-birthday poem, this will have to do it for the last day of my twenties.

Edited, from Dec 2009.

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Will the World End this Week?

There are a flurry of diplomatic activities in Washington this week in an attempt to prevent the Palestinian authorities from seeking recognition at the United Nations later in the week, or to deal with the fall-out that must surely come therefrom. It is one of the major issues on television and the internet these days. However, as Greg Gutfeld said on last week on The Five, if you turned on the television today and you didn’t know what year it is, you would still not feel any sense of disorientation. The issue of the middle eastern conflict seems to follow us wherever we turn. Has been so for centuries. Will remain so till the end of time. Or so Greg says.

I’m mostly worried about how the United States managed to get itself into a position where it would have to veto the genuine aspiration to statehood of a victimized people. Under Nobel Peace Laureate Obama’s leadership, no less.

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Facing Mississippi

Under the banner of the Gateway Arch, the tallest monument in the country, his body perfectly aligned as a human compass, he ponders.

Here ahead is east where the sun rises. Washington DC lay ahead, as well as New York, Boston, Connecticut, Rhode Island and all those other early states where settling pilgrims first set foot from across the Atlantic and where Irene caused some damage a few weeks ago. Here where he stands was a frontier. To think that all the country was in space are ended right here by the banks of the river. Then came the Louisiana Purchase that gave the country a new lease of life and a chance for the whole of the body of land for a country. Lewis and Clark stood here with boats and tools as they set forth to discover the source of the river, and what else lay out west.

It is easy to ponder what would have happened if another country began from right here which spoke only French. Even without that, all the language influences remain in the town names all around here: Edwardsville, Maryville, Fayetteville, Collinsville, Louisville, Carlinville, Belleville, Taylorville, Greenville, Catonsville, Merrillville, Vermontville, Danville, Warrenville, Romeoville, Pinckneyville, Nashville, Shelbyville, Jacksonville, Lawrenceville, Naperville, Libertyville, Higginsville, Aullville, Boonville, Wentzville, Noblesville and the very many dozen -villes dotting this area and the Mid-western landscape.

On the last frontier at Arizona, Nevada, Texas and California (which, in this position, would be behind him) was of course the other country whose language was mainly Spanish. What is exceptional, in the end, is the way the circumstances were turned to an advantage, and the luck of being able to forge one country that occupies a distinct geographical space.

Standing here, facing Mississippi, even without the positioning of the sun, the moving waters carrying debris from everywhere, left to right, point to the direction of the south. That’s where Katrina went.

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Here Comes Trouble

Michael Moore’s new autobiography follows the sometimes ordinary, sometimes extraordinary, life of one of America’s most controversial commentators. His movie Fahrenheit 9/11 is the highest grossing documentary of all time. Aptly titled Here Comes Trouble because of the perception of the author and movie maker during the first few years of the George W. Bush administration and his war in Iraq. He describes in great detail and with sufficient personal reflection what it felt like to criticize the administration on live television during his first Oscar win acceptance speech, and the turbulence of his life after he became public enemy number one.

The memoir-writing style of American writers (mostly public figures) has often amazed me in their ordinariness. No attempt at lyricism or any special verbal sophistication. Just facts, told sometimes with a flourish, and with humour. Not much with any real attempt at literary brilliance. This commentary of mine is ironic, of course, because the straight-forwardness of the narrative makes it a fun and light-hearted read. But it ends there. I’ll remember the facts in the book more than the beauty of how the facts were told. In short, it doesn’t challenge me even though the recollection surely delights. I’m sure this makes some sense.

Michael Moore is a controversial figure, and holding his book with me around campus has already got me a few stares. We no longer live in a George Bush America but it is still fascinating the kind of response his name elicits. A few minutes ago, a student saw it on my desk and asks what I thought could be a tricky question: “So you like Michael Moore, eh?” “I like his work,” I replied. It seems like the safest answer to give given the circumstance. As the book shows, he is however a man bold enough to take risks, and who because of those risks – and some other coincidences in life – has lived a truly remarkable life.

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