ktravula – a travelogue!

reflections on the world

Browsing the archives for the Opinion category.

Dancing Through Brazil

Guest post by Luciene Souza Farias

Traveling has always been one of the great pleasures of my life. I have been to several different places, met incredible people, tasted awesome and terrible food… Oh, well, I guess life has been good! When asked to write about my traveling experiences, I felt very honored and worried at the same time. So, after some time deliberating, I decided to quickly write about three experiences I’ve had so far.

My first nice recollection of traveling to a place far from my hometown is from the age of six. My parents moved from the Northeast area of Brazil to the Southern area in search of a better life before I was born. For the first time, we would visit my relatives in the Northeast area and you can imagine by that how important this trip was. Three days by bus! Yes, three days! By the time, we lived in a slum and, as a consequence, money to travel was very short. Well, maybe that’s the reason this trip was so fantastic. As the bus crossed the country, I could realize for the first time how people had different accents, appearance, attitudes… Everything seemed impressive: The nauseating smell of sugar cane being burned and the gentle smell of wet dust after a soft rain; how the bus window was mildly warm because of the hot sun; how the moon seemed to follow the bus as it crossed the country. Oh, the ocean… I could never forget how crystal clear the water was and the sand… the sand was colorful when looked closer and white when observed at a distance. Wow! What an amazing mystery for a kid.

My second really cool trip happened when I was sixteen. I used to study in a public school in Sao Paulo and, because I was a good student (namely, a nerd), I won a trip to the South area of Brazil. Because this area is mainly occupied by German and Italian descendants, the whole place has a European aspect. Tudor houses, innovative public transportation, perfect gardens, and, yes, incredible traditional Italian food! Oh, well! What can I tell? Great days!

My third and last trip that I will share with you occurred this year at the age of twenty-six. After being selected to present a paper in a conference and received travel grants, I flew to Iowa City. What a neat place! While taking a walk, I saw sculpted animals on top of the buildings that made me remember of all the historical symbolisms men had given to each one of those animals: wisdom, strength, persistence… One word maybe the perfect one to express all I could see: lovely!

The other interesting thing I noticed is that the city merged with the university. People all over the place acted like if they were unified by one purpose: to discover; they breathed knowledge. I had a very distinctive kind of feeling while there. I was free and confined at the same time. Free to get to know everything I wanted and confined to walls made not only of old bricks, but also books and accusing minds. Oh, well! Everything smelled like knowledge. So exciting! Well, I am not a great writer, so I hope you were not bored to death! One last thought that it’s actually not mine but explains exactly why I like to travel is: “I think that travel comes from some deep urge to see the world, like the urge that brings up a worm in an Irish bog to see the moon when it is full” by Lord Dunsany.

Lucie is a friend and colleague from Brazil with an unexplainable craving for the ability to dance, and – obviously now – to travel as well. She also speaks Portuguese. Thank you Lucie! 

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Ibadan: An Evening, A Movement

By Emmanuel Iduma

 

Perhaps the objective of this post is to signify a clarion call against what I shall term literary amnesia, that lapse in the collective conscience of writers where we do not speak to our generation. It is a journey, this movement against literary amnesia; and I draw relevance and strength from what has been called an institutional amnesia – where diplomats, journalists and anyone who has been dipped into the current of a hoax (say, the Sudan crises) has no idea about its root cause. And when I speak of journey, I speak in both abstract and tangible terms. In relation to the former, I speak of the objective of ensuring that, as writers in this generation, we define ourselves, our art, speaking to our time so that in retrospect our essence can be identified.

In relation to the later, which is the tangibility of my journey, I speak of a recent trip I made to Ibadan. This journey, in hindsight, seems to have begun the movement I speak about. I will, for sake of space and simplicity, create sub-headings, speaking about my encounters, the thrills, challenges; I shall speak of the aesthetics of the encounter. For, it is this word – aesthetics – that seems apt as a definitive word, concept and (if I may be ambitious) narrative tool.

Tade

I set sail with Damilola Ajayi, my dear friend and brother (who, heavens be praised, officially became a child of Hippocrates last Thursday). Our mission was simply to see Tade Ipadeola, poet and intellectual property Lawyer, who heads the Nigerian PEN chapter. We had prepared not to meet him even before we left Ife, for we had been unable to reach him on phone. And, indeed, we did not see him, for he had to be home with his Mum.

Tade’s name falls easily in my list of supporters of a movement against literary amnesia because he was the first person to review my poetry aside my close peers, in public space. I quote him: “We have a young metaphysical poet in Emmanuel Iduma, whose offerings leap upon the imagination from past, present and future. His handling of space and time is remarkable and a comfort to those wondering where the next great poets of this continent are hiding.”

He spoke of Damilola’s poetry in a different fashion, and of Adebiyi’s. It seems, then, that our generation needs to be spoken about in terms of what we are doing at the moment, how we are writing at a time of less renown.

Prof

Remi Raji, who heads the English Department of the University of Ibadan, has warmed his way into my head, and heart. Given that it was unlikely that we see Mr. Ipadeola, Damilola contacted Prof. Raji, who gave us a description to his house. The house was nearly habitable, and he informed us he went there on weekends to supervise the work being done.

We spoke on several matters; an anthology in the works, which is to include our poems, and the poems of a number of young poets that we had either suggested or confirmed their artistry. But what dominated our conversation was the attempt, in various ways, to define what our generation was, and what we should be concerned about.

There were, of course, questions about the social media revolution, the sheer amount of information available and the falling standards of education. I made the point that it was necessary to put all the cards on the table – social network, post-colonialism, ease of access and availability of information, the publishing hoax – and see if there is a pattern of redemption that jumps at us. This pattern, I argued, would ensure that we can cross the borders of our peculiar challenge. We agreed, standing beside Prof’s car, that our generation was peculiar in certain respects, although Prof had stated that this peculiarity was not necessarily opposed to the challenges of the Soyinka generation, for instance.

Prof will turn fifty in November, and there is a program of events lined up to mark his jubilee. While looking forward to the events, I state that Prof’s willingness to engage with us, struck me as an important stimulus, and an indication of his range of vision. We have had, as a continent especially, a hole, a lapse of consciousness, an absence. There has been a disconnect between the formed and the forming. The discourse tables have been empty for a long while. But Prof, by engaging us (we spoke of language, Saraba, a paper he is writing) has begun to negate that absence that exists. We need to learn from those above us, as fast as we can, for they would not be here forever. And we will not, too.

Benson; Rotimi

Damilola referred to Benson Eluma and Rotimi Babatunde as the intellectual thugs of Ibadan. His choice of words couldn’t have been more apt; their private library proved this acceptable form of thuggery. When we entered the University of Ibadan Staff Club, we saw two men. Damilola walked up to one of them and asked, “Are you Benson Eluma?” He said, “Yes.” And later, Benson said that was the most foolish thing he had ever done – for an age where the fear of Boko Haram is the beginning of long life, one cannot be too sure of who is asking. The other guy, Yomi Ogunsanya, whose fine poetry we had discovered for the first time, seemed to be Benson’s cleansing fire, in a way that cannot be explained.

We danced to Fela; Benson has a huge collection, and when Niran Okewole joined us we argued about books, spoke of the influence of booze (I was nagged for being a teetotaller, Niran called me ‘Emma Malt’), and Benson let us on into his life, frustration and iconoclasm.

Once, before Rotimi Babatunde’s arrival, Benson spoke to us as though a parent. He advised us to read, read, read. He noted that we were doing well, but that we needed to read. It is difficult to forget his voice as he emphasized the advantages of scholarship, calling to note the work of Teju Cole, and warning that what he spoke of did not necessarily connote name-dropping, but the pointers in a text that emphasizes wide scholarship.

When we left Ibadan I caught the flu from sleeping under the fan, and, I believe, from inhaling too much nicotine. Cigarettes came with the Ibadan package. Yet, what I held onto was the dialogue we established. The guys we met, and spoke with, were ahead in terms of scholarship and depth. We might share positions in this generation, or not. We might be peers, or not.

What I think we were doing – listening to Fela, sharing links, drinking together, sleeping in the same rooms – was an attempt to herald a coming pattern of definition. Questions will be asked when we are gone, or when we have sagged. The foremost question will be: how did they speak to their time?

And if we are found wanting, what will be said about the Ibadan evening? It will, of course, be said that we have lapsed into a literary amnesia, a generation that slept away its definitiveness.

 

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The Nigerian Prince

I have finally settled with the reality that international email scam will always have a Nigeria name tagged to it, whether or not it has a Nigerian face notwithstanding. My skin has finally got thick enough. I don’t know how it happened, and it did take a long while, but yesterday while Jon Stewart was making fun of Sarah Palin’s decision to take all the money from donors through her SarahPAC for as long as possible all the while knowing that she wasn’t going to to run for office, and then compared her to “the Nigerian Prince” scam category, I strangely found myself laughing. So, that’s it folks, scam jokes with “Nigeria” in its punchline have come to stay. Git with it!

A crush once told me that her mother warned her to beware of Nigerian men, before politely qualifying it with more information about how the warning wasn’t different from the warning the woman also gave regarding other men from her own country. Don’t worry, she’s not American, but that hardly changes a fact: there is a perception out there that makes for good comedy, or malice, that whenever there is an international scam involving emails, there is a Nigerian somewhere close to it. This, to be fair, is rooted in some fact. Between 1985 and 1999, Nigeria was ruled by some of the most corrupt, most morally bankrupt, must brutal military dictators who rendered extinct a thriving middle class. Along with their looting of the country’s coffers, they also rendered to waste the hitherto reputable social conscience, and ethics. A nation that thrived on hard work and equal opportunity turned to one of vanity and hopelessness, and a futile chase of wealth by all means at the expense of dignity replaced the ethics that once made the country the hope of the continent.

By the late 90s, majority of young (and at the beginning, mostly educated) citizens embraced the new opportunities that the internet brought, and to put it to the use best suited for the loneliness and hopelessness that the situation provided on the ground in the country: for crime. Thinking about it now, I doubt that crime was the real intention of the first people to take advantage of the powers of internet communication. I imagine someone mistakenly discovering that from his apartment building in Lagos, he can have a real romantic relationship with someone as far away in the world as Chicago, or Adelaide, or Brisbane. And then, another one discovered an idea that e-relationship could become a profitable venture. I do not claim to know how this began. I can only guess. I was nineteen years old in 2000 when I entered the University of Ibadan as an undergraduate and I had used email for the first time only one year earlier.

So naive was I of this scamming phenomenon that had, by then, become quite lucrative (that every internet cafe had at least one person using the computers there to send scam mails to unsuspecting people around the world) that when I first came into contact with a sender, I thought that my life was at risk. I worked for a few months between January and September of that year in an internet cafe where emails were still first written on paper, then typed onto the computer, and then sent massively. It was like fax, or telegrams. Only a few people had personal email addresses, and those who did still had to have their emails typed out on the computer in the cafe before they logged on to the internet to send them. My job was to get those typing done, and help customers trying to reach their loved ones. One of the customers we had however was a hairy man of around 33, well built, tall and spoke Hausa, English, and pidgin English. All the emails he had me type always began with “I am the nephew of the late General Sani Abacha, the recently demised Nigerian Head of State”. It went on to say how many millions the late General had stashed somewhere and pleaded to the reader of the email to contact him so that they could transfer the money together to some other account, and share it.

For those familiar with Advance Fee Fraud, this is usually the catch. There is a bogus amount of money somewhere, usually very large and tantalizing. All the reader had to do is to show interest in being an accomplice so that the sender can share some of the loot with them. It usually never works out like that in the end, of course. The unsuspecting responder would be asked to send his/her account number, and then some advance fee to “process” the withdrawal of the loot, and then the criminals go for the kill. By the time the responder discovers that there was no loot in the first place, he/she has already committed a large amount of his/her personal funds and will not be getting it back. There are other variants, of course. A man pretends to be in love with a woman he meets in a chat room. He makes her fall in love with him and then he feigns poverty and the woman starts sending money and gifts to him until he decides that he’s had enough. Sometimes he gets her to loan him a large sum of money, and then disappears. The woman then shows up in Nigeria and makes the front page of a newspaper. She’s looking for so-and-so person who she fell in love with. In many cases, the man had used a fake name as well…

Back to the story. At the moment of typing the said emails, the only thing in my mind was that I had finally met my nemesis. Relatives and family members of Sani Abacha were known to be brutal. People had disappeared and many had been shot for opposing his reign as a military dictator. So here I was talking with his nephew and helping him send emails that detail a series of large financial transactions with foreign correspondents. I was knowing too much and my life was about to change for the worse. I would not know until very much later that my fears were unjustified, and that there was no need for me to have immediately started avoiding the man for fear that he would soon want me dead for knowing his secrets. He was most likely not related to anyone relating to Abacha. All he was doing was trying to swindle whoever was stupid (and greedy) enough to respond to the email.

Of course, in the intervening years, I have also realized the very fine line between romantic scams and real love that transcends distance. I met and dated for a few years someone that I met online who has remained my friend and colleague ever since. I have also discovered the very many scams that dot the internet landscape, including ones that trick you into signing up for “free trial” products only to charge you a month later, or ones that tell you that you’re their “50,000th visitor” and try to get you to sign up for offers that you don’t need and that might either cost you, or clog your email bandwidth. There are thousands. Telemarketers call you with polite requests that you provide your address and then sign you up for magazines you didn’t want who send you the check in the mail a few weeks later. Credit card companies put hidden fees in fine prints and surprise customers across the country every day (with a sustained backing by the conservative political right who insist that banking regulations that look out for consumers are “job killing”.). In short, access to the internet and its many possibilities brought about as many negatives as positives.

Today, as it has been even before the internet came, fraud, by very many political names, have taken over the world – from a criminally-minded Nigerian (and non-Nigerian) youths aiming to swindle greedy western businessmen, or thieving marketing gimmicks aimed at the unsuspecting internet user. The “Nigerian Prince” variety however takes the cake, of course, because everyone at one point or the other has received such a mail claiming to be the relative of a recently dead corrupt politician, be it Saddam Hussein or a recently removed one, like Hosni Mubarak. Not all of those emails are Nigerian nowadays, of course. I know for a fact that regulatory efforts by the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) has made it hard to commit internet fraud in the country and go free. The “product” has been exported to other parts of Africa and the world. That doesn’t mean that the jokes will go away, but that Nigerians will – and should – begin to laugh with it as it goes on. According to Jon Stewart, they now also have Sarah Palin on their side.

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Lost Jobs!

Some people pass through the world (often without fanfare) and remind us of the value of vision, the importance of perseverance and the gains of bravery. Steve Jobs stuck through with his ideas and vision through thick and thin and the world is not the same again because of him.

I have not used any of Apple’s product beyond the iPod classic which I got in 2009 but I have had a lot of fun with the iPad/iPod phonetic peculiarities at some point in time. I never got around to falling in love with a Mac but I have always admired the ingenuity that went into its design and conceptualization, and the idea of providing an alternative to the PC itself. The iPhone changed the way we use mobile phone forever. An although I would probably be the last ones to get one, it is hard to knock the great vision that went into its production, design and marketing.

Another great inventor is gone. The world would never be the same. The iPhone 4Gs should probably be called the iPhone 4G-Steve now, and deservedly so.

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Phonetics for Dummies

Students of a compulsory phonetics class have often asked me what the best strategy is to get through the course. I have often always responded with the same answer: open-mindedness, and focus. Phonetics happens to be one of the most interesting subjects in linguistics, and an important base for anyone interested in moving forward in the field.

So what is special about phonetics? The answer is, everything. All the sound systems of the world are represented on the IPA phonetic chart, and even though one may not be able to pronounce all of them, it is important to realize that they are all legitimate sounds. And more, one can actually pronounce any one of them using the simple knowledge of their place and manner of articulation. Many of the sounds are not available in English – which explains the dilemma of most English-speaking and American students. The easiest way out is for them to realize from the start that they shouldn’t hope to be able to pronounce all the sounds, although it matters that they know how they are pronounced and what makes each of them unique.

[f] and [v] are different only in voicing. They are pronounced in the same place and with the same manner of articulation. It’s the same with [k]/[g], and [t]/[d], [s]/[z] etc. This makes it easy to distinguish between the fricatives at the end of “breath” and “breathe”. In text, they look alike, in sound, they sound different. A little step further into phonology, and we begin to ask what conditions exist that make it likely that a voiceless consonant becomes (or is realized as) a voiced one.

But for this phonetic beginning, let us just adjust to the fact that sounds are fascinating, and that our vocal tracts have evolved over the years to be able to make an almost infinite type of sounds. Our job in the phonetics class is to group those sounds according to stipulated categorization methods.

Picture of cake by Jenna Tucker

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Three Worrying Things

1. According to some reports, about 700 people were arrested yesterday for their role in the Occupy Wall Street protests. Many have also been pepper-sprayed by the NY police or attacked just for participating in the protests that has now spread to many states and has received endorsement from many activists.

2. An American-born terrorist (so-called because of his not yet disclosed links to the Fort Hood shootings and the Underwear Bomber of 1999) has been assassinated in Yemen through a direct order from the current Administration. Repeat: He is an American, the first in recent memory that has been denied the due process of law before any allegations against him has been proven. Most of what has been proven about this man is that he engaged in hate rhetoric.

3. Salman Rushdie, a writer known for his brilliant prose as well as for the number of years he spent underground being protected from a draconian death sentence placed on him by an Islamic (police) state has just gone on television to defend the extrajudicial killing of the man referenced in #2. On Bill Maher’s show last Friday, he opined that when someone has been accused of treason, they lose a certain percentage of their rights (and can therefore be killed without being brought to trial).

Worrying times!

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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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September 11, 2001 – a poem

Raining debris of a thousand dreams over Manhattan

And tears of pain, a gaping hole in the eye of summer.

The world morphed suddenly into dust and heat

and a flag-draped beginning of a new, frigtening day.

There we were, going our separate ways, waking.

Working, living, arguing – a usual rite of passage,

And there they were,  willing acolytes of a sad resolve,

boarding jetliners with armoury of a cultivated god.

 

Here we are, a decade away, still a bewildered folk.

Just a little step from the true vanity of all our pain.

So we hope, and dream, and watch, accordingly,

and live with the same wondering resolve: any lessons?

The world remains what it is – a weird blubbering ball

hanging in the daunting mystery of its core, warts and all.

 

Dedicated to the memory of victims, first responders, firemen and all other casualties of the 9/11 attacks and the war therefrom.

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