ktravula – a travelogue!

reflections on the world

Yorubaland as Disneyland

It was mentioned almost in passing in our last Wednesday class by one of the American students that whenever I mentioned Yorubaland, as I always inevitably did while telling them about that part of Nigeria (and Benin Republic), it always sounded to their ears and imagination as some sort of a fairytale kingdom. “Like Disneyland?” I asked, and they all shouted, “Yeah”.

Seriously.

Photo culled from http://academics.smcvt.edu/africanart/“Do you still have kings there?” Another one asked.

“Yea,” I replied, but their function is mostly ceremonial, like that of the British monarchy.”

“Do they have rituals of coming-of-age, like public circumcision dance and festivals, like we’ve seen in some movies?” A different student asked.

“Well,” I replied, thinking, “there are some cultures in Africa that has those festivals for boys when they get to a particular age. But not the Yorubas. They cut their male children’s foreskins immediately after birth, and don’t wait at all.”

They seemed to be very impressed, but I was sure that they still retained some exotic ideas about the famed “Yorubaland” or “Yoruba Kingdom” that reminded them either of a Disney Movie or an animated flick, so I dimmed the lights in class, put on the projector, and logged onto YouTube to look at some Yoruba movies and clips. Luckily, there was Baba Wande and a few other actors there who I could point to as archetypes of Yoruba men and women in dressing and mannerism. I typed in “Lagos” and one of the first results there was a documentary about the Megacity project in which Wole Soyinka and a few others were interviewed for the camera. In the end, I felt I’d given a balanced view of life in Western Nigeria. They saw what a typical Yoruba house and street look like. They saw cars and people going about their daily lives, and I wondered if I’m able to help them reconcile that general city look with the many eccentricities that some of our cultural practices present as evidence of another kind of social life that is not seen on the streets.

For future classes, I have promised them a session of reading short stories of the tortoise from Nigeria. Luckily, I have brought along with me from Nigeria a book of many folk stories that captured our imagination as kids growing up in places in Yorubaland. And from the twinkle in their eyes, I see excitement, and I’m equally thrilled by the prospects of being the storyteller in a class of young students in the Western hemisphere, travelling back into a magical kingdom of animals, and folk wisdom from the Yoruba elders. This too will be an experience of a lifetime.

VN:F [1.9.17_1161]
Rating: 8.8/10 (4 votes cast)
VN:F [1.9.17_1161]
Rating: +3 (from 3 votes)
Share

Class Sessions 6

It was fun to be in class again on Wednesday, and revise the many words, phrases and expressions that we had learnt since the class began five weeks ago. Somehow, we all seemed to have grown on the Yoruba expressions and they don’t sound any strange as they probably did to the ears of the new students when I first walked into the class on that first day.

220920091368Yesterday, we had class practices of oral conversations. The students were paired with each other and they took turns to display their knowledge of conversation techniques by dramatizing the scenario of a chance meeting by two previously unfamiliar strangers meeting on the streets of Osogbo or any other Yoruba town.

Speaker A: Káàro o.

Speaker B: Káàro. Sé àláfíà ni?

Speaker A: Dáadáa ni/Adúpé/Àlàáfíà ni o. Ìwó nko?

Speaker B: A dúpé. Kíni orúko re?

Speaker A: Orúko mi ni Títilayò. Kíni orúko tìre?

Speaker B: Orúko mi ni Babafemi. Níbo lo n gbé?

Speaker A: Mo n gbé ní Collinsville. Kíni orúko àbúrò re?

Speaker B: Orúko àbúrò mi ni _______/Mi ò ní àbúrò. Ìwo nko?

Speaker A: Orúko rè ni _________. Ègbón mélòó lo ní?

Speaker B: Mo ní ègbon méjì. Ó dàbò.

Speaker A: Ó dàárò. Inú mi dùn láti mo é.

…and other short phrases improvised for conversation.

As far as elementary knowledge of the language is concerned, we have not done badly so far. Our areas of improvement include pronunciation. Many students still found the word “GBÉ” hard to pronounce, even though they could pronounce the English word “RUGBY” quite effortlessly. Can someone tell me why? In the next class, we will be in the computer lab to do get these expressions on tape, voiced by the students themselves. It is going to be a fun experience.

PS: According to the result of the web poll on the right side of this blog, I need to spend more time talking about my class sessions more than I talk about myself. I will keep that in mind as I go on, but I will occasionally have to share my personal experiences as they relate to my appreciation of the programme as a whole. Thank you for voting. I will appreciate as many more votes as possible. This is a chance for me to know what thrills you and what doesn’t. If you haven’t voted, you can still do so. The poll is on the right side of the blog homepage.

VN:F [1.9.17_1161]
Rating: 8.5/10 (2 votes cast)
VN:F [1.9.17_1161]
Rating: 0 (from 0 votes)
Share

The Fifth Class

My fifth class was short, but only because it never took place. I’m blogging about it only because it has taught me another important lesson in my American experience: be punctual. But first, I should tell you why my sleeping pattern has become so irregular. Two words: time zones.

By the time it’s midnight in Illinois and I’m ready to sleep, a chat box beeps open on my laptop and someone in faraway Nigeria has woken up and wants to talk to me. It is six am their time. A little “hi” gradually turns into long phrases and sentences, and by the time my eyelids start closing by themselves, they somehow get the idea, and we part ways. It is not their fault but mine, for staying up beyond eleven pm when I should just shut down the blooming laptop and close my eyes.

"Good day class!"In today’s case however, it was none of the above reason. I was working on a translation task that took much of my time. I slept at twelve, woke up at two and slept again at five thirty. By the next time I woke up, I was thirty minutes late for my teaching class. I have never rode by bike as fast as I did today, and I got to campus panting like a deer. And silly me, I was still expecting to find the students waiting for me in class. I met only one of them the lobby, and I hurried up into the class to find an empty set of seats. Perfect. Back to the lobby, there was Bre reading, and waiting for her next class.

“Hey, where’s everyone?” I asked.

“We left.” She replied. “You weren’t there, and so we left.”

It was as simple as that.

It was another sharp reminder for me to wrap myself around the fact I’m no longer in Nigeria where students have to wait until the end of the hour for the teacher to show up in class.

VN:F [1.9.17_1161]
Rating: 0.0/10 (0 votes cast)
VN:F [1.9.17_1161]
Rating: 0 (from 0 votes)
Share

The Fourth Class

When I was in Kenya in 2005, I remember that one of the most recurrent observations I received from Kenyans was that Nigeria is a place filled with people who believe in witchcraft and practice it in their daily lives. We all believed in juju, they said, and none of the women I spoke to would dare to marry a Yoruba person for fear of one day having to deal with a mother-in-law that could turn them into a piece of metal at the slightest provocation. I have since discovered that this is a very prevalent perception of Nigeria, mostly obtained through our home videos that have been ranked third in the world in terms of output. Is there practice of witchcraft and a prevalent belief in it in Yoruba land today. The answer is yes. Does everyone believe in it. Erm, I would say yes to this as well, but with very few exceptions of the skeptics.

Cut to my fourth class, where I had asked my students to read a short story titled “Why Atide Is Taking To A Coin”, written by a German friend, student of Yoruba and a current PhD student at SOAS. I first read the short story in 2004 while it was still being written, and I got to contribute a few ideas to its storyline. So last week, when I asked my students to list ten things they found strange, new or memorable about the Yoruba culture from the story, and five things that they found similar to their own culture, I was trying to get them more interested in reading and discovering new things. It was also a way for me to get into their minds and see what they see when they look at me through the prism of Yoruba culture. The result amazed me. Of all the answers given to the first question, one was common to all the ten students in the class: They were surprised that a belief in witchcraft still exists/persists in some cultures of the world, particularly mine. They couldn’t understand why people ascribed occurences they couldn’t explain to the evil forces in their family, and they couldn’t understand why somebody who is Christian/Moslem would go to a Babalawo to get help with something that was bothering them.A Class homework

Now, I could have easily said that it was the fault of the writer of the story for painting the Yoruba people in such a light, but when I look around Yorubaland today, I find not one but many leaders and public figures who would take their supporters or followers to shrines so as to get them to swear and take oaths of allegiance. Recently there was a case of a prominent state governor, and a lawmaker whose naked picture was taken at a shrine where he had gone to perform rituals. The fact is, belief in rituals are still as strong today in Yorubaland as it was before the British came. Whether this is a good or a bad thing is beyond my scope to say, but it took me some time of readjustment to deal with the truth, being a little lost to the effect such disclosures might have on the impressionable minds of my brilliant students, and their ability to see this somehow as a positive attribute of such a people with a complex culture and outlook on life.

Are we a modern society in Yorubaland, or are we still attached to the deep vestiges of the past? If the texts of our literature, the lines of our poems and the plots of our dramas are anything to go by, the answer might be far from what we always like to believe.

VN:F [1.9.17_1161]
Rating: 10.0/10 (2 votes cast)
VN:F [1.9.17_1161]
Rating: +1 (from 1 vote)
Share

The Second Class

The teacher did not think much of his own language advantage when he entered the second class where his foreign language students waited expectantly, but he did make space for a few discouraging responses that might come from those who had found the first class rather intimidating. It was never an easy thing learning a new language, not in the least the one with tone marks, subdots, proverbs and really strange-sounding consonants. But then, when he found that most of the students had already chosen their favourite Yoruba names by the begining of class on Wednesday, he almost hopped in excitement. A few more followed suit on the following Monday, and by the second Wednesday (which would technically be the fourth class), everybody had become Yorubanized, if only by name. Students had gone online to find their unique names, it’s meaning, and pronunciation, and they each took turns in class to speak about it, eagerly and with a twinkle in their intriguing eyes. “I will be Yéjídé,” Keonia said when prompted. “It means mother has come back early.” The traveller looked a little amused as he asked the student where her mother or grandmother had gone when she was born. “Nowhere,” she replied. “They’re still alive, but I love the name.” That seemed fair enough. Ross was absent. He had dropped the class, and would not be returning. Adam stayed, and would be “Babáfẹmi” from then on. When the teacher inquired again with a playful sneer if Adam really believed that his father loved him that much, the  student replied that “It depends on which day of the week it is.” to rounds of priceless hysterical responses. Bre would be “Olúfunkẹ, given by God to love” and Trish would be “Àkànkẹ, a specially treasured one.” Kate wanted to be “Abiodun” because she was born during Thanksgiving, and Andrew preferred “Ọlánrewájú” for his “wealth keeps advancing”. Cassidy was “Títílayọ, the everlasting joy”, and Amber simply became “Fẹmi: love me.” (Hey Steve Marth, what’s yours?)

The teacher did not think much of his own language advantage when the oral exercise in the Yoruba alphabets began. “It would all be easy,” he must have thought. “It can’t be as bad as Russian, Chinese or Japanese where the visual cues to the language’s letters are never much help to the new speaker learning to speak or read.” And so he went to the chalk board, wrote out the twenty-five letters of the language alphabet, pointed at them from the top downwards, one at a time, and challenged, “Say after me everyone, Ah!”

All, “Ah!”

Say “Bee.”

“Bee!”

“Dee.”

“Dee!”

Say “Eh!”

“Eh!”

“E!” As in Egg.

“E!”

“Fee!”

“Fee!”

Giggles.

Now, say “Gee!” Don’t pronounce it as it’s written. Not Jee as in Jesus, but Gee as in Geek. Think sounds, not letters.

“Gee!”

Beautiful!

Say “Gbee.”

Silence.

Giggles.

A few random looks of misery.

“Can you all say “Gbee”, Gbee as in ‘Gbenga’.'”

“Benga?”

“Noooo. What of “kpee”? Can anyone pronounce “Kpangolo” or “Patapata”?”

“Nooooooooooo”.

“Oh my.”

The traveller did not immediately despair. It’s not always as bad as it looks – or sounds – the first time. And surely, as he thought to himself a bit afterwards after two hours of practice with the new “strange” consonants, it was going to be a lot funner than he thought at the begining.

VN:F [1.9.17_1161]
Rating: 0.0/10 (0 votes cast)
VN:F [1.9.17_1161]
Rating: 0 (from 0 votes)
Share

Is "Oyinbo" A Derogatory Word?

While teaching my second Yoruba class on Wednesday, I had mentioned the word “Oyinbo” to my students in passing, within a conversation, when I didn’t intend to, and when the topic of discussion at the moment could have proceeded a bit smoothier had I not committed the second unforgivable error of subsequently attempting to explain its usage in Nigeria. I have had cause to think about the word usage for quite a while now and I have mostly questioned its use, so I might have been a little too enthusiastic in responding when the questioner took cue from my explanation on a totally different matter and asked whether when I said that children called foreigners “Oyinbo” in my country, I meant that they used the word to make jest of them. In any case, I reasoned, it was just a matter of time before one Nigerian teacher in an American class somewhere drops the unlucky word into a class conversation and sparks an unending racial debate, so I jumped in and tried my best to explain. The choice such an unlucky professor might face would be easier if he would just ignore the gentle tug of his own academic conscience and not pause for a moment to explain to his whole class the meaning, connotation and usage of the word “Oyinbo”. Most sane instructors would go for the first option mainly perhaps because it is a less complicated one that saves a lot of sweat and time. However, a totally naive and perhaps optimistic young teacher might actually take a stupid chance and proceeded nevertheless, never being fully aware of the possible end result of his thankless venture.

Now, let’s examine the word, “Oyinbo”, which is supposed to refer to “(a) White Person/Caucasian/Non Black-African”. The etymology has never been agreed on, and even though a famous scholar once wrote that it is derived from “Oyin + bo” which roughly means “(Someone) peeled by the honeybee,” the word still doesn’t make much sense on its own. The word is used today both in urban, rural, and in educated circles to refer to the foreigner, most especially those with fairer skin colour (African Americans included). Those excluded from the authentic list of Oyinbos and are often called into the list mostly in jest are the really fairskinned Africans, and the Albinos. Every other person with European/Caucasian blood in them are Oyinbos, and they are called by that name both in public and in private, which brings a huge question on whether the users of the word ever mean it as a derogatory expression. The answer of course would be a NO. However, I personally have never considered it a compliment of any sort when while walking with a white/caucasian person (even within a campus environment), passers-by most of whom are complete and unwelcome strangers yell “Oyinbo!” while pointing and giggling excitely at the now totally embarrassed stranger. Most of all these cases are a confirmed result of illiteracy, mental retardation or some sadomasochistic instinct on the part of the yeller to make a public nuisance of both themselves and their foreign target. Of course! But this fact doesn’t remove from the despicableness of the act, or make the word in that instance less derogatory-like. “So, when used in a civil, polite conversation, Oyinbo is mainly a harmless term of reference, but it is insulting only when it is yelled out loud, especially by a(n unaquainted, unfriendly) stranger.” How does one explain all of this easily in a class of an elementary course on language and culture without raising red flags and unnecessarily preconditioning the mind of impressionable students to a hostile, negative cultural experience? That was my dilemma on that beautiful Wednesday afternoon.

I resolved the situation in favour of common sense, and the concise explanation I gave before moving to the next topic was a “No please, that’s not a derogative word. It is a fun word of endearment used by the Yoruba to refer to those they perceive differently because of their skin colour.” But I left the class a little worried that I myself do not totally agree with that description for its lack of depth and breath to capture all that the word “oyinbo” entails, and for the way that definition might be wrongly construed as a racist/derogatory tag. Fact is, the image that flashed across my mind when I think about it is that of a cacophonous horde of dirty little stray children chanting “Oyinbo pepper” after a foreign pedestrian on a public Lagos park, and totally enjoying the embarrassment on the face of that now despairing foreigner who curses under her breath, wonders what went wrong with this world, and wishes she had not taken up the invitation to come visit Nigeria. Yorubaland.

What do you think?

VN:F [1.9.17_1161]
Rating: 0.0/10 (0 votes cast)
VN:F [1.9.17_1161]
Rating: 0 (from 0 votes)
Share

The First Class

It was with a little apprehension that I walked slowly into that Peck Hall classroom at 1.30pm on Monday to begin my first teaching assignment. I had waited for this day for a long while, but when the reality stared me in the face just before I entered the class, I wondered for a micro-second whether it would be worth all the travel. My outfit already stood me out of the crowd, and anyone who bothered to look in my direction on the corridor could not have missed the fact that I looked different, and could only be “that professor from Africa.” I mean, who still wears native caps these days but the Africans? On one hand was my bike helmet, on the other were the copies of the course syllabus and behind me was the bag that had needed texts. They were all waiting for me when I entered, on time, and I immediately contrasted that fact with Nigerian university system where students would still stroll into class thirty minutes after the lecture would have already started, offering no word of remorse even when the teacher stops talking and stares at them from his lectern. Two students came in just some seconds before I closed the classroom door, and they were apologetic.

24082009956

“Ẹ káàsán o. Ẹyin akẹkọọ,” I started, and the class went silent! A thick, almost disqueting silence quieter than a deafman’s graveyard.
A second trial yielded a few suppessed sounds, but it attracted a more encouraging response. “Ẹ káàsán o. Ẹyin akẹkọọ.” I said, again and I picked up a chalk to write it out. Then I wrote my name, in full, pointed at it, and contined.
“Orúkọ mi ni Arákùnrin Kóla Ọlátúbòsún. Ẹyin Nkọ?”
Everyone kept quiet, and looked a little amused. A few giggled, and it was just what I was waiting for.
I touched my chest, moved away from the board, and repeated. “Orúkọ mi ni Arákùnrin Kóla.” Then I pointed at the one with the most mischievous smile. “Iwọ nkọ?”
She looked lost, as did a few more, and then after a little moment of almost uncomfortable silence, the bulb lighted in someone’s brain and he shouted from the back, “Ross!”
“Beautiful.” I responded, the first time I would speak English in the class. They all felt at ease from then on, and each volunteered their name in turn: “Keonia, Adam, Amber, Tonde, etc.”
“But you shouldn’t just say your name,” I corrected. “You should preface it with ‘Orúkọ mi ni…’ then put in your name. Let’s do it again in pairs, shall we?”
“Kíni orúkọ rẹ?” “Orúkọ mi ni Amber. “Iwọ nkọ?” “Orúkọ mi ni Tonde.”
“Kíni orúkọ rẹ?” “Orúkọ mi ni Trish. “Iwọ nkọ?” “Orúkọ mi ni Ross.”
“Kíni orúkọ rẹ?” “Orúkọ mi ni Keonia. “Iwọ nkọ?” “Orúkọ mi ni Adam.”
…and that went all around the class of thirteen students, only three of whom are black – out of which one (Tonde) is a Nigerian Ijaw.

24082009955

I turned out to be a better experience than I imagined, and I left the class feeling elated and swollen-headed. This is going to be fun. I am actually teaching my language in an American university. The aim of the course, if you’re interested in knowing, is to make authentic Yoruba speakers out of those bright and brilliant American students. By the end of the class that lasted one and a quarter hour, we seemed to have forgotten about time, and all they wanted to say is “Sé alàáfíà ni”, “Báwo ni”, “Dáadáa ni. Iwọ nkọ?” If you have a child in Nigeria, Britain or America today to whom you have refused speak your language, you would have only yourself to blame when after they reach the age of twenty-one, you have to put thousands of dollars out just to make them learn it well, this time from those to whom it’s not even a first language. As for me, I’m having fun here, and discovering interesting new things about my language, and how it comes across to the complete strangers hearing it for the very first time.

By the next class, each of those students would have chosen their own personal Yoruba names to be used in class and everywhere else. No more Ross, Trish or Adam. Let the Yorubanization begin!

VN:F [1.9.17_1161]
Rating: 0.0/10 (0 votes cast)
VN:F [1.9.17_1161]
Rating: 0 (from 0 votes)
Share
.