ktravula – a travelogue!

reflections on the world

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On Vain Newspeaks

One of the few things that irk me the most about comments by American government officials from the Bush administration reflecting on their role in the post 9/11 America is the claim that they had kept America safe ever since. Watching an interview with Vice-President Dick Cheney with Chris Wallace on Fox today, I kept wondering whether the interviewers who endure this kind of response merely never think about it, are equally as blind, or just don’t care. The fact that such responses come when asked about the justification of heinous interrogation practices makes it even more disgusting. Let us see how the argument holds up.

Before 9/11, there was only one attack on American soil for fifty years, and that was the bombing of Pearl Harbour. Since 1945, there was no other attack on American soil until the World Trade Centre bombing in 1993. By that stupid logic of claiming to be a grand protector of the country just because the days of danger are far between one another, the Clinton Administration could have made a badge for itself for not having endured another attack between 1993 and 2001. But what sense would that have made? I have found it as laughable (if not naively tragic, and a stupid political gimmick) that the right wing commentators, particularly the administrative officials of the Bush administration, would claim this as their legacy: “After all, we have never had any other attack. We kept the country safe since then.” What kind of an excuse is that? Oh yes I let the house burn once, but look I have made sure that it hasn’t happened again since seven years ago. Don’t I deserve a cookie?  Or like the man in Yoruba fables who had just returned from a witch doctor and then claiming that he is now invincible from all bullets simply because he is wearing a juju amulet. The witch doctor may take credit for this “safety” from now till eternity and get paid handsomely for it too, but he would do well to warn the man to stay away from a shooting range!

I feel very strongly about 9/11. I never lost anyone there (a family friend was in one of the building earlier in the morning and left before the planes hit) but the enormity of the attack, the scope of the damage and the terrible fall-out from that heinous act changed me totally and the way I look at the world. The sight of brave firefighters going up the stairs as wounded and panicking people came down to safety is one that I would never forget. I watched the movie 9/11 some time in 2002 and was heartbroken. The movie examines the bravery and sacrifice of the firefighters from one of the fire stations in Manhattan and the way they gave themselves to save the lives of others. I have never been able to digest the magnitude of their brave sacrifice and commitment. And to think that some politicians in Washington almost totally dismissed the even braver commitment of living first responders by refusing to give them adequate medical care, one wonders where humanity is sometimes headed.

In any case, politicians never kept America safe. Former Vice-President Cheney certainly never did with his enhanced interrogation techniques that has put the country’s soldiers in more harm than ever before. (And he did manage to get an arrest warrant for himself in Nigeria albeit for a different reason). Ten years after the fatal negligence that caused the death of over 5,000 people, we would do well to work for a safer world than celebrate the mediocrity of vain chest-thumping. Mark Twain has one appropriate quote about keeping quiet when speaking would have an adverse effect on the perception of one’s wisdom. I’ll also add “a sense of shame”, and “humanity”.

I’m pissed. Can you tell?

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Welcome New Contributors

This month is the third September in the life span of this blog and thus the beginning of another season. As from this month therefore and in the coming days, you will be reading from new writers who are joining us from different parts of the world to share thoughts, ideas, opinions and creativity, as regular and irregular contributors.

There will be Emmanuel Iduma who co-edits a literary magazine Saraba, and Hilal Ergul a fellow FLTA from 2009 who now lives and travels around Turkey. Benson Eluma will also be joining us from the University of Ibadan, and a few more folks I’m still trying to convince that it always helps to complain and reflect publicly than grumble in private all day long. Where are those in Mexico, Kuwait, Uganda, Birmingham, Tahrir, Casablanca, Benghazi?

I look forward to more contributors and a series of new experiences and viewpoints from around the world. Give them some love.

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Traveling Guest Posts

Visiting Port Harcourt by Funmi

I was in Port Harcourt city twice this summer. If you were born in Port Harcourt or have lived there at all, you understand that there is only one way we eat bole (roasted plantain). This food originated in the West amongst the Yorubas but is eaten there with ekpa (groundnuts). In the south, however, fish is first coated with palm oil and pepper, and  roasted alongside the plantains. Then a special sauce is prepared and the entire meal is covered in this sauce. In PH city, bole is a meal. I had missed bole and fish (as well as isi-ewu, ekpang kukwo, native soup and isam (periwinkles)) and I enjoyed all these while I was there. (More here).

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Cheesy Berlin by Temitayo

It is important to mention that Germany has adopted many meals from its settlers. Many of the dishes were brought by the Russians, the Arabs, Asians and of course Africans. There were restaurants that specialised in this. I ate Spaghetti, prawns, soup and nuts at Asian Cosiate. I came home with the sticks I could not use. I had chicken and chips at McDonalds. Not much different from what you would get at KFC. I ate falafel, vegetarian food at an Arab food spot, where I met an Arab who had stayed in Berlin for less than two years but spoke fluent German. Food was loads cheaper, with 10 euros, I was well fed. Food was a way to celebrate difference. It created that cultural potpourri; each meal, an encounter with a culture. Different smells, unique tastes, different people. (Read more here)

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The Festival of Nations in St. Louis

On Saturday there were 40 different nationalities grilling, stewing and stirring ethnic treasures in booths that lined a promenade through the eastern end of the park. The choices ranged from bratwurst to Turkish borek, a pillowy pastry stuffed with spinach and feta.

The Paces had already sampled several sweet Malaysian drinks including rose milk; tried a thick slice of himbasha bread; indulged in Bosnian food; and had heard buzz about Eritrean food, piled high on thin, spongy rounds of injera bread.

Under a shady tree, Kyle and Jean Schenkewitz of St. Louis must have heard the buzz. They were already sampling several Eritrean delicacies, including stewed spinach, spiced lentils and a hearty tomato beef stew. The couple were aware that St. Louis has had an influx of immigrants resettling from Eritrea, a country in the horn of Africa. Both said they are fascinated by how other cultures get their protein from beans, noting that America is one of the few countries that primarily depends on meat. (Read more: here)

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Transition

The 60s in Nigeria was perhaps as tumultuous as it was in the US, but only for different reasons. While Nigeria was dealing with its value and governance problems, this one was dealing with race, drug and gang issues. I still hear it spoken of with a tone that suggests an underlying dread of the heaviness of the times, although much of what I glean from reading Lewis Black’s irreverent autobiography Nothing Sacred is that much of those who lived in that decade went through it only through the aid of consciousness-blurring drugs and culture. Much of what I know of the Nigerian equivalent however are still in and around the nation’s politics today, but mostly calcified in Wole Soyinka’s memoirs The Man Died, and (most especially) Ibadan, the Penkelemes Years.

I thought back to an episode tonight on the drive back home from school through the open night surrounding the university town. The young writer – then a professor at one of Nigeria’s new universities – had been kicked out of his campus residence, so he moved his company of thespians into one of the abandoned government buildings at Eleiyele. He simply colonized it, without authorization and without paying rent to anyone, and they lived there for months until the government – responding also, not simply according to principle, but in a political retaliation for the man’s already rebellious reputation in the political terrain – sent in policemen to route them out. It sounded like some really fun times.

What got me thinking about all this, of course, is me wondering what it would be like to do the same here and now, in a country like this, and in this economy. An empty building. A terrible economy. A hungry young professor and a restless entourage of a young colleagues, friends and hangers-on hunting for deer and geese at night and living – for as long as the adventure lasts – in a socialist utopia that actually exists nowhere else. I like the kind of mental tickling I get from thinking about scenarios like this. And then I get to blog about it. :)

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Reading in Lagos

Join the Jalaa Writers Collective this weekend for a day of reading by some of Nigeria’s most promising writers. Join them as they address questions about publishing in Nigeria and what a Writers’ Collective may offer, what Jalaa Writers Collective offers. The event is FREE!

Date: August 13, 2011

Venue: Freedom Park, Broad Street, Opposite. General Hospital. Lagos.

Readings by:

A. Igoni Barrett, one-time editor of Farafina Magazine is the recipient of a Chinua Achebe Center Fellowship, a Norman Mailer Center Fellowship and a Rockefeller Foundation Bellagio Center Residency. His first book, the story collection “From Caves of Rotten Teeth”, was published in 2005 in Nigeria. His second story collection is forthcoming from Graywolf Press in 2013.

Akachi Adimora-Ezeigbo is a lecturer, writer, novelist, critic, essayist, journalist, and administrator. She has written over twenty books. Her latest work “Roses and Bullets”, published by Jalaa Writers’ Collective is about the Nigerian Civil War. The former winner of the NLNG Prize for Literature, the biggest prize for literature in Nigeria, heads the Prize’s panel of judges this year.

Jude Dibia is the author of “Walking With Shadows”,” Unbridled” (winner of the 2007 NDDC/ANA sponsored Ken Saro-Wiwa Prize for Prose and finalist in the 2007 NLNG Nigeria Prize for Literature) and the newest, “Blackbird”.

Odili Ujubuonu is the award winning author of Pregnancy of the Gods (Winner, 2006 ANA/Jacaranda Prize for Prose), Treasure in the Winds (winner, 2008 ANA/Chevron Prize on Environmental Issues) and the newest, “Pride of the Spider Clan.”

Uche Peter Umez is one of the 24 winners of the 2006 and 2008 Commonwealth Short Story Competition. No, he is not the actor. He is the winner of the 2006 ANA/Funtime Prize for Children Literature for his unpublished novel,” Sam and the Wallet, and 2008 ANA/Funtime Prize for Children Literature . He is the author of Dark through the Delta (poems), Tears in Her Eyes” (short stories) and “Aridity of Feelings” (poems). His latest work “The Runaway Hero” is on the NLNG Prize shortlist for 2011.

More information on Facebook.

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Pen for Chickens

The smell is familiar. Almost every family at one time or the other in South-Western Nigeria has kept a chicken farm. And a farm is usually too serious a name for it. Free range chicken running around the house cackling and providing needed amusement for little children with idle hands. There is a rooster that crows unfailingly at five in the morning, and then there is the hen which lays cute little white eggs and then sits on them for about twenty-one days before little chicks come out looking like tiny little dolls. Get close to them while they waddle around their feisty mother around the large compound of the house and see the wrath of a woman (bird) scorned. An angry mother bird is not a pleasant sight to see.

Grandmother had a theory about predating hawks who found these little chicks a delicious specimen and preyed on them regularly for lunch. Paint them in bright red colours and the hawks and kestrels thought they were dangerous aliens and stayed away. I don’t know how well the theory worked but it was usually funner to see the motherbird walking around with a set of red coloured little chicks hand painted with red ink obtained from a certain leaf… The sight of a hawk swooping to pick up its favourite dinner of little chicks from behind the nursing motherbird is usually a sight too, but it happens usually really fast. One moment you have a piece of boiled yam on the way to the mouth. The other, you are staring at a noisy little battle that lasts just a second. A bigger bird has swooped down and made away with its living lunch and the angry mother is out there in the sun wailing in loud chicken cackles. Some times, the other little chicks are still too frightened to come out of where they had gone to hide at the prompting of the mother.

My first other conscious memory of chicken pens comes from the brown, sometimes black, imported “agric” type ones in fancy cages, fancy feeds and fancy golden eggs. Those lay eggs without mating, get large in no time and usually get slaughtered for Christmas “because they taste good”. But they are never usually allowed to range around the house, staying confined to a specially made pen with saw dust all over its ground which is changed after a few days. Too much work, if only mother cared about that. She was always already too busy worrying about raising us to bother with how much time and effort it took to change dirty saw dust layers on the floor of a large poultry. That, of course, unless we had to do it ourselves. Thinking back to this specific time, it always made it necessary to hope that one didn’t grow old fast enough to be able to take up the responsibility of cleaning a whole room full of chicken dung. It was a hope that never manifested.

Back to the large smelly room of the county fair in Highland last week was that moment where all that sounded, smelled and surrounded the traveller was a sight from a very distant past. He wasn’t a graduate student travelling with an equally adventurous colleague to check out the “country” side of America in form of a hundred cackling roosters of different shapes and sizes in familiar cages, he was a little boy by his grandmother’s side smelling chicken poo all over the house, discovering the delight in a boiled white egg of a local breeding chicken, crying over the death of one run over by a careless driver, watching her paint little chicks with locally-made crimson dye, running scared of the little white covering around the chicken’s eye whenever it blinks, and wondering with a thousand unanswered questions how chickens always found their way home to roost after such long wanderings around the neighbourhood.

The smell in that room came with a little more than just memories.

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Pollution

I have just return from Alton, a little town twenty minutes away from my current location. The most dominant news item on the radio was the record heat waves that has got the whole country talking for the last ten days and will continue for the rest of the week. One other prominent feature of that trip was the enduring image of the Alton refineries purring “loud” smokes and fumes into the atmosphere.

I could only ponder the irony of it – on the one hand a deadly record heat all around the country occasioned by gas emissions and other environmental ills, and on the other the sad reality that things won’t change at once just because we wish it to. We can at least still take pictures from inside of air-conditioned vehicles.

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Burning Up!

These two statements are very true: America is a very hot place. America is a very cold place. There is one reason however why one of the statements will raise an eyebrow anywhere else across the Atlantic. The most enduring image of this country is that of white flurry snow falling down on lighted trees at Christmas. Somehow, for some strange reason, none of the images of sweating pedestrians, smelly cowboys and dusty roads of Nevada and California survived childhood memories and a transatlantic flight.

The temperature in Edwardsville yesterday was over 100 degrees F (about 37 degrees C). In Minnesota just two days ago, the recorded temperature was 115 degrees F. (That is 46 degrees C for heaven’s sake!!!) Thirteen people have already died from heatwaves. It is very telling that this happened in Minnesota, a usually cold place that still had snow until April when everyone else had already started having sunlight. If there was ever need for anyone to see that climate change is a harrowing reality, this is it. The question is, how do/would people survive the summer here, especially people already used to cold weather for half the year?

This statement is also very true: although coming from sub-saharan Africa, I’ve never been in a hotter or colder weather anywhere else.

 

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