ktravula - a travelogue! » adventures

Village Boy

Kola — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 10:27:36 +0000

Evenings come with breeze, silence and dust. Across the sky are slivers of brown rustiness finally settling on the town after a long day’s work. A road passes in front of the wooden shack where men young and old sit down to banter in merriment, often with their shirts off. The women sit in groups petting children. When darkness falls and all that lights the day is the moon up in the sky, voices move up and down in modulations that carry the weight of their vain deliberations.

The village is a study of contrasts. On the one side of it is a sprawling mass of huts covered with brown rusted roofs. In the middle of this side of town, also called Aba, was the Christ Apostolic Church – perhaps the only modern building there. Aba burns the eyes with the brown of its thatched huts and of its children’s feet. In a bustling afternoon, the sound of goats and chicken compete with the trail of their smell from one street to another up until the foot of the agbalumo tree…

One hour of traipsing around these edges of the village eventually finds a seven year old boy back at home – a different part of the town. The house overlooks a long equally dusty street that runs from a clinic down to the right hand of the observer to the other part of the village where the barber lives. There is a certain magic in living around here. Grown folks played practical jokes on little children and on each other. A day earlier, on his way back from wandering around the village, he was stopped on the pavement of a certain house where another young boy was being shaven. His head was already bald.

“It’s your lucky day, young man.” A man volunteers. “Stay right where you are. What are you doing around here all by yourself?”

“I was coming from around there. I am going home over there.”

“Why were you staring?”

It is always hard to know where adult conversations were leaning.

“I wasn’t staring. I was on my way home.”

“Like I said, it is your lucky day. All young men your age are being circumcised today.”

What?

“You look frightened. Come closer and sit down here. We’ve been told to go around circumcising all young men like you around town.”

It took a whole minute, then he took off as fast as he could. He never looked back until he got home, panting like a dog. For a long time that evening, he would wonder how grown people managed to make such brutal jokes that seemed at the expense of poor helpless kids scared half to death. And for a longer time after that, he would begin to take a different route home while wandering around the village, but always with a lingering fear that he was not totally out of the grip of mentally bullying elders.

The Lovejoy Connection (2)

Kola — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 00:34:26 +0000

Elijah Lovejoy (after whom the Library at the Southern Illinois University was named) became the first (white) victim of the American Civil War when he was killed by a mob in Alton in 1937.

He was thirty-five years old, a Presbyterian minister, publisher and activist.

These are pictures from a visit to the Elijah Lovejoy monument (and city cemetery), about twenty minutes away from here.

The cemetery had some of the most peculiar European names we had ever seen, some long, some short. Many of them are most likely no longer used. It also boasts of a certain serenity guarded by a few commemorative plinths overlooking the cemetery and the Mississippi river down below.

Conversations with Neil deGrasse Tyson

Kola — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 09:07:47 +0000

America’s most famous astrophysicist dropped by campus today for an event of the SIUE Graduate School. Dr. Neil deGrasse Tyson is the director of the Hayden Planetarium in New York City and the recipient of the NASA Distinguished Public Service Medal, the highest award given by NASA to a non-government citizen. He is also the author of The Pluto Files and Death by Black Hole (and other Cosmic Quandaries).

His talk, titled “Our Past, Present, and Future in Space” focused on the regression and eventual end of the US space program and the contribution of public and political apathy to this end. Those who have heard him talk will be familiar with his worldview: a passionate defense of imagination and a unified, inspiring public policy for science. The end of the space program, according to Mr. Tyson, is one of the worst things to have happened to America in a long time not only because of the now total absence of motivation among young people, but also because of how the general apathy has now negatively affected the status of the country in the world. In a preview to the visitor’s speech, Dean Aldemaro Romero of the Faculty of Arts & Sciences had this to say: “While I was growing up in Venezuela and told my parents that I wanted to be an astronaut, they told me ‘You have to be either an American or a Russian.’ Now, many decades later, as an American citizen, I have found out that to go to space, I’d either have to be Chinese or Russian.”

There was a lot more. The maps of the world, when plotted on a chart on the basis of resources spent on science (and, on another chart, on the basis of scientific progress/development in the last decade) shows the African continent virtually invisible. What concerned him however – as well as the members of the audience – was the shrunken shape of the American map as well. Even Brazil, and Japan, on this map showed far more encouraging progress, to the dismay of all who have previously believed this country as being on the farthest frontier of future advancements. Many things are wrong, among which is the absence of a political will and imagination.

I asked for his opinion on the absence of scientific advancement in Africa, and whether the frontier had irrevocably moved west. He disagreed, opining instead that like every great civilization had come and gone, the continent would have its turn again at some point in time. There is a particular initiative at the moment in South Africa, he said, where scientists have begun training young high school students in order to be able to produce the next big scientist (of the stature of Albert Einstein) and a Nobel Prize in Physics from the African continent.

What did he think of Physicist Richard Feynman? “He’s as brilliant as he has been described,” he replied. Known among young people in America today as the man who relegated Pluto from the status of a planet to that of a mere floating astral rock, Neil has contributed to the progress of modern science and astrophysics in popular culture than most people in the world today, and continues to do so. It was quite an enlightening event. His autograph on my copy of his book simply read: “To Kola, welcome to the universe.” His book, The Pluto Files details in a fun manner the arguments and debates surrounding the relegation of the former planet Pluto, including also letters from angry young children and cartoons from the media weighing in on the many sides of the relegation debate.

Previous guest speakers at the Arts & Issues events here include Maya Angelou, Ken Burns, and the Basie Count Orchestra. I recommend this video, by the way, Dr. Tyson in conversation with Stephen Colbert. (H/T @loomnie)

Poetry Reading…

Kola — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 12:56:10 +0000

Hanging out with writers and poets at a cafe downtown last night…

The open-mic poetry reading was sponsored by the English Language and Literature Association. Poets and readers include Jason Braun, David Rawson, Geoff Schmidt and others. Earlier in the day was a similar event at the school library featuring Eugene B. Redmond, the Poet Laureate of East St. Louis.

I read four unpublished poems.

Rights, and Overland Journeys

E Iduma — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 10:29:16 +0000

Put yourself right in, and you’ll never get in; so it seems with Lagos. I am tired, you see, about writing this city – although I have practically written nothing – but there is a lot that have been written about here, so much that it becomes Here, gathering too much attention. This is Lagos, you’re told, a ’!’ beside the words; this is the city that must be written about because of its avalanche of imperial novelty, calcification, and feverish opacity.

Let’s imagine, assume, or consider that we can speak sincerely about Lagos if we – or I – tackle things more imperceptibly, and agree that we – or I – cannot see clearly. This is true about many facets of this city’s life, especially its mobility. Overland mobility is, I believe, this city’s favourite means of dealing with itself – and I think, in using ‘it,’ that I speak not merely about a place, but a Place, an accreted multiple persona, such that in one word I speak of people, idiosyncrasies, language, colour, and existence.

You see, I am interested in overland because I worry too much, each day, about travelling overland. Travel, in my experience – two months or so in Lagos – has become a word that is as intra as inter; prior to now travel held the promise of moving across cities, now it is the very act of moving within a city. It’s travel because I move, and because I See. It’s travel because it accommodates more than just movement; I gain newer colours each day I move between Ikeja and Yaba, or vice versa. And colour is hard to define.

Yet, I will try. Let me presume that there is even logic to moving within Lagos, and attempt to chart this logic. You will, of course, expect that I will present no logic.

It begins with ‘loading.’ There are shrill cries of this or that (Yaba-Maryland-Opebi), then waiting. People come aboard, carrying with their respective entries their respective smells, no-smells, fashion, aura, no-aura. They sit either out of choice or compulsion. If out of choice, you sit because there’re empty spaces in the bus – you sit, with impatient patience, knowing you have no option, cursing and blessing time, saying a prayer to Time that you know will not be heard. And if out of compulsion (perhaps the bus has picked you on the roadside, coming at top speed you had thought you would not join it) you will sit beside an obese passenger, or on a seat without a backrest. The general rule is to redefine what is Time, and what is Not Time, because an overland movement always commands the propriety of a blur.

Then, there’s ‘collection.’ It’s really an art (and act) of your-money-for-back. This asking-for, this demand-for, is a direct assault on have-nots, which is to say you cannot move for nothing, you must part with something to have moved. Of course, there are other interesting features of the process – the bus conductor, after your-money-for-back, announces (almost often) that there’s no change. E wole pelu change yin o! There’s, he’s saying, zero tolerance for incompatibility – this is movement on a basic level, which can be afforded by Anyone, there’s no need to tell us you’re as rich as a 1,000 Naira note, e wole pelu change!

Let me tell you a story of how change (change mi da?) became a fundamental passenger right. This guy is sitting beside the man beside me. He’s holding a church bulletin, he’s just returning from church. It’s a Sunday. The driver is standing outside the bus, asking for his money. One passenger, behind this-guy, passes his 200 Naira (consisting of 2 hundred naira notes) through this-guy to the driver. But, this-guy intercepts the 200 naira. He is being owed 300 naira as change. The driver is beside himself with fury. You don’t do this in my bus, see this devil intercepting my money, give me the 200 I will give you 200 naira note, please, you people look at this devil, oya get down from my bus, I am not carrying you again. This-guy says something like, I am just coming from church, I will say nothing to you, you’re just insulting yourself. And there’s this exchange between both men – other passengers interfere, begging This-guy to relinquish his right, somewhat, so that we can move in peace, on time. He relinquishes a 100 naira note, holding on to the other.

Change mi da is a declaration of a passenger’s right, an affirmation that every passenger who responds must be responded to. There’s no trivializing of any amount – not even ten naira is small enough, ten naira can be the basis of a fight. There’s another story, of this-guy who’s reading David Abioye’s book beside me (if you know David Oyedepo you’ll know the other David). He’s to stop at a point, but for some reason or the other, the driver stops him elsewhere. He asks for a refund of his ten naira. You see, this-guy is wearing a suit, he’s dressed middle-class. But when the conductor and his compadre the driver refuses him the entitlement he has declared, he starts a fight, dragging the errant conductor by the belt. You see, then, that it’s really not about the amount. It is something else; I am thinking there’s a You Can’t Take Me for Granted, This Is My Money, and all other screams that point to affirmation, entitlement, and possession.

And let’s consider another story. This-man is given a certain amount as change; he rejects, vehemently, saying he does not want dirty money. He has a heated argument with the driver, who’s quite famous for his impregnable insistence. Passengers, as onlookers, the audience in the unfolding (free to watch) drama, throw themselves onstage, arguing about dirty money. One says no one should reject it. The other says you can reject it if you know you are not guilty of making it dirty. The first contributor goes further to posit that women are most guilty of making Nigerian money dirty – squeezing and hiding cash in such-and-such places. There is protest from the womenfolk, which is not coherent, and the argument goes back and forth. This-man keeps demanding for a cleaner currency, the driver keeps refusing, until he drives into a filling station, paying the attendant with the money that had been rejected, and making a sarcastic comment, saying to the attendant that this is the money that was rejected and it is being used to pay you.

If I speak of overlanders’ rights I must not fail to speak of filling stations and vulcanizers. You would never get used to this, never. Every time the driver drives into a filling station after takeoff, you’d scream at his insensitivity, how na only himself ‘im dey think of, why you no buy fuel since, na now you know say you go pump your tyre, foolish man.

But these rants and declamations pass too quickly, and that is my grouse. I am not interested – do not get me wrong – in the longevity of insults and ravings. I prefer, however, that drivers take their passengers seriously. Well, not seriously. More fraternally. In short, I wish drivers could be more human with their passengers. But, you see, the word that is used is ero, which is translated ‘load.’ You see, further, that there’s every attempt to detoxicate the relationship of its humanity, or to lessen the severity of a tangible human interaction. All conversations, all exchange, is premised on the rites of passage, the constancy of movement, the fact that what’s seen (who’s seen) may never, ever, in this world or the next, be seen again.

I use ‘detoxicate’ because that’s what it is. Being too kind is, as it seems, reprehensible. In the ethics of molue-driving, one must refrain from too much affinity, warmth, and kinship. The driver cares less if he stops the bus (the conductor screams final bus stop!) in an inappropriate spot, two hundred yards or so away from the right bus stop. You are not a person; you are load, a product; you are not being rendered a service you paid for; a driver is simply making ends meet, this one that has had life so hard he had to resort to this means of livelihood (one driver says, ‘You think you are more educated than I am, because you see me driving? I have children your age in the university!’)

Is it preposterous to think that this driver who shuttles between Ogba and Yaba would have commuted 60% of Ogba’s residents? Or perhaps that’s not even statistically correct. It might be easier to say he has commuted 50% of all those who know those that make up the other 50%. Please, do not take me serious. I am simply trying to prove ‘coming and going, these several seasons.’ Our overland vessels have become a contemporary repository of abikuism, a state of come-go and waka-about and Ajala-travel.

And what if there is no end to this?

- Emmanuel Iduma

I Am Confident…

Kola — Sat, 22 Oct 2011 06:32:18 +0000

…that one other positive thing about the regime change in Libya is that there will now be new Fulbright FLTAs from that country from now on. The year 2009/10 was the first time that anyone from Afghanistan was admitted into the FLTA program in a long time. A new day will hopefully lead to more understanding and better relation with these parts of the world.

Save Your Life Using Fear As You Go!

E Iduma — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 10:09:47 +0000

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

Bling Bling Panda

E Iduma — Mon, 12 Sep 2011 04:50:42 +0000

By Emmanuel Iduma

Lagos is a curious and endless space. I will account for this, albeit briefly, in what I call the reality of the bling bling panda. Bling bling panda is a simple coinage that mocks as it accommodates – ‘bling’ being a synonym for ‘shiny’ as influenced by rap culture, especially with regards to the paraphernalia that surrounds rappers. And then ‘panda’ is a Yoruba term for fake jewellery (what is called ‘gold’). So, put am together (as Fela sings), you have the idea of shiny fake jewellery.

Lagbaja has a song titled Bling Bling Panda. The first words of the song are: Because of panda, wey I no dey wear, they say I no dey bling, ordinary panda…eeh, panda. Then, few verses later, he asks, Shey everything from abroad we must copy, which defines his objective for the song – a calculated and satirized swipe on the business of ‘copying’ Western fashion by Africans. Lagabaja reminds me of the word ‘Africanist’ which seeks to confer on some the temerity of being African spokespersons, the voices of African heritage, expressionists of everything that is desirable about a utopian African heritage. I admire his zeal, the dexterous wit and humour he employs in his music – but I also like to think that it might be necessary to sustain the tension; some of us might need to keep ‘copying’ because we are used to copying. The only way, sometimes, to survive, to discover and question identity, might be to remain involved with a westernized version of modernity. We might change this, but right now it is still with us, like it or not.

Ah, I get carried away easily. I am thinking today about Lagos, where I have now lived for a week. I do not fear that a lot has been written and imag(in)ed about this city. I have a personal testimony, representations that I believe are peculiar. It is because of Lagos that bling bling panda took a different twist, for me, and because of Lagos that I assert that superficiality is a major component and requirement of being in Lagos. For instance, I noticed that there are a lot of cloth stores – boutiques, road-side retailers, cloth hawkers, etc. etc.

When I speak of superficiality, I do not speak in derogatory terms. I even speak of essentiality. The Lagos life, as I have discovered, is one that demands a certain level of conformity with the scheme of things – you pay a lot for transportation because Lagos cannot be grasped in one location, everything is not everywhere, and there is no rail transportation in the megacity. But this is superficial because it only feeds our needs; it does not accommodate our need. A trip does not necessarily mean a destination; a job interview is not a job.

What is necessary then, is a system that accommodates the need of Lagos-haters, like me. I find that most are drawn to Lagos for the promise of opportunities – which is why I am here, in the first place. There is a truth in the Lagos meal being garnished with parsley that cannot be found elsewhere. But it is a lie to believe that one can be satisfied with the Lagos Meal – when eaten, it seems to create bottomless holes; ask those with 9-5 shifts, who leave home at 5.30am and returns at 10.00pm. And for some of us who work less, who even work from their home, Lagos stipulates a glamour that should be attained, so that we fear for the day of want, of homelessness, of trendless dressing.

These are random thoughts on this city. I hope to add a few more paragraphs in future posts. I have set myself to the task of questioning normalcy. And hopefully in the next post I will make a list of what is normal about life in Lagos, however amazing or despicable I find it to be. After all, I have taken a liking for everything that represents bling bling panda, life in Lagos inclusive.

In Redneck Country*

Kola — Fri, 29 Jul 2011 19:59:12 +0000

The invitation from my friend for me to come along to Highlands – a town about twenty-five minutes away from Edwardsville – included a caveat that I would be entering a “redneck” zone. I immediately conjured up images of a rural and underdeveloped small town with no non-white person in sight, and everyone driving trucks with “NObama 2012″ bumper stickers. The immediate second thought of course was that it was going to be a fun experience witnessing a county fair or a demolition derby for the very first time. I absolutely have to go see this, I said, and started looking for my camouflage fisherman hat.

I have now returned, and I am alive which must mean something (especially to those whose imagination of a “redneck” town includes a horde of black-hating, gun totting, motorbike riding people with tatoos all over their bodies who eat hamburgers, listen to Rush Limbaugh and watch Fox News). In actual fact, what constitute a small town is not really its ethnic homogeneity (even though that is certainly noticeable). What makes a small town a small town is the ordinariness of the way they look at the world, their down-to-earth-ness (as literally as you can interpret that), and the otherwise silly, playful ways in which they spend their leisure (and the seriousness with which they take it).

The county fair is an annual event, I’m told, and it includes a public auction of farm animals. The ceremony is graced by the distinguished presence of the year’s beauty queen of the town who stands gracefully with a tiara on her head beside the stall of the waiting animals. There are also live barns in the fair where if one chooses one could purchase of any of the animals. The cattle are extremely huge and in pretty colours. I saw a sheep wearing a military camouflage jacket. We also saw a hall full of rabbits all for sale for about $2 each. “Do you eat rabbits?” I asked Karla who immediately began to giggle. “No, I don’t.” She said “They’re pets. They’re cute.” Yea right! A few seconds later, the barn owner who had overheard us had a few more words to add. “Of course we eat rabbits. And more, we use parts of them for very many other things too. You know those pee sticks you use for pregnancy tests at home? They’re made from rabbit brains! Their eyes are used for glaucoma testing and the animals are also used to test beauty products before they are released to the market… Of course we eat them. We have about 1,200 of them in our farm at home.” Well, there you go.

There were roosters of various colours and kinds which reminded me of Chicken George in Alex Haley’s Roots. I have never seen so many different kinds of cocks in one place. (I have a different post coming up on this come later. There was something distinctly familiar about the smell of so many free-range roosters put together in one place, cackles, colours, and all. It comes from distant memories of my own childhood).

The demolition derby itself – the fair’s biggest attraction – took place in the arena surrounded by an anticipating crowd. Imagine the arena in Rome with gladiators in the ring. The gladiators in this case are trucks constructed specially for the occasion. The aim is to ram them into other competitors’ trucks as much as possible until there is only one functioning truck left in the arena. Think again of the WWF’s Royal Rumble of those days. By the time we arrived, one truck was already out of commission. The remaining five slugged it out in the mud for a while, and by the time we left, there were three of them left chasing each other around the muddy stage. I’m told that the grand event will take place today with even smaller vehicles still driven by real people, playing the same game. I guess the idea of building something that will eventually be crashed for the purpose of entertainment makes a whole lot of sense. From sitting in the stand and watching along with the intense excitement of fellow spectators, I can at least say that it has its thrilling moments.

All that remained was walking around the fair grounds, observing small town park entertainment, having a first taste of some new snacks (a corndog is a hotdog covered in corn bread and fried. A funnel cake is not a cake. It’s a fried sweet dough covered in icing sugar). In the end, I also discovered that I was not the only black person in a fair of many thousands of people. There was this other guy I saw at the auction close to the horse, but he was probably American.

_______

* I use the term advisedly. Wikipedia tells me that unless you are one yourself, it’s not a word you should use to refer to someone else.

Writing, Making Friends.

Kola — Thu, 30 Jun 2011 19:19:54 +0000

Not altogether the ultimate reason for writing, it is possible that one of the perks is being able to make friends after just a few minutes of conversation. In my case, a cultivated reticence has kept my list of friends and acquaintances manageable, but like it happened again yesterday, I gave in to the delights of socialization and made a new friend.

I was at the Writing Centre where students usually get a half hour with the designated editor who looks through their papers in order to help them get it to the best possible form. A few minutes into our joint editing of said paper, he asked the question that I have now heard more times than any other: “You speak very well. Where are you from?” From there, the sequence of the conversations always take a predictable form.

“I’m from Nigeria.”

“Oh really? That’s great! How long have you been here?”

“Oh, less than two years, but not a consecutive stretch. This is my first summer in the country.”

“I like your English. Have you always spoken it?”

I say yes, explain why, and say a little more about the post-colonial situation of the continent and how most middle-class and/or educated section of the country speak both English and at least one other language from birth to adulthood.

“It is fascinating. Do people sometimes mistake you for an American because of how you speak?”

“No, I doubt it.” I reply “I think I always let out my identity too quickly before they form any such assumption. I think Americans speak differently anyway.”

“So what else do you do other than being a student? Or what would you do when you’re done?”

“I write, actually. I’ve published one collection of poems”

“Really?” His face lights up.

“Yes. I’ve also written some short stories. One of them was published last year in an anthology of some of Africa’s best stories.”

By now, I knew that the hope of spending my half hour working on my class paper had gone out through the door.

“And I can see it here online?”

“Yes,” I said, and got on his computer. Here it is, on Amazon. African Roar. The second short story in there is mine. It’s titled Behind the Door.”

“Did you write it when you were here?”

“No, fortunately.” I smiled. I live for little conceits like this. “I wrote it in 2008, I think, before I came here, but it was published last year.”

“I’d like to read it.”

“You should” I said. “I’d like you to. You’d have to order the book though. You can’t find the story itself online anywhere else.”

“This is fascinating. I’m glad we had this conversation.”

“Thank you.” I said. “I have a blog too. You should check it out.”

“Is that it, KTravula? Is that you in that video?”

“Yes. That was at a talk I was invited to give a few weeks ago. I’ve written on it since I got here. I started it mostly to record observations on the places I visited and the things I see.”

“That’s great. Have you been around a lot?”

“I have been to a few places. From Chicago to Joplin, to DC etc.

“Have you been to Principia?”

“Yes, I have. It was a beautiful place. I wrote about it too.”

“I’m impressed. So you like to travel huh?”

“Sometimes. It is fun.”

“Are your parents or siblings here?”

“Oh no.”

“Interesting. Have you been to Alton?”

“Yes, I believe, but as I remember it, it was a short visit.”

“There is a large statue of (I’ve forgotten the name now) close to the SIU Dental School in Alton. Did you see that?”

“Unfortunately, no. But I’ve been close to the Dental School.”

“Well, thank you for sharing with me. I’ll come to read your blog. I’ll get the book too. Behind the Door you call the story?”

“Yes.”

“I have a friend who started a blog but hasn’t been writing on it. I want to show her what you have, maybe she’d get motivated.”

“Thanks. I hope it helps. I try to update the blog as often as time allows. Do leave a comment whenever you come, so that I know it’s you. Nice to talk to you too.”

“Nice to talk to you too. You work at the Foreign Language Department. One can always find you there, right?”

“Yes, mostly.”

“See you around sometime then.”

“See you too, and thanks for the help with my paper.”

________________________________

This is an abridged recreation of the conversation that lasted about an hour of actually very productive tete-a-tete. I got very useful prompts on the paper I had taken there (at least before our conversation moved into a discussion about writing, travel, migration and family). Along with lessons on the proper use of comma, I also took away from there the name of a new writer, Ambrose Bierce, said to have lived in the time of Mark Twain and written a story called “The Boarded Window”. I promised the editor that I’m going to read it.

ktravula - a travelogue! » adventures

Village Boy

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