reflections on the world
I took these series of photos in April.
The flatness of the land here makes it easy to have some of the best sunset views I’ve ever seen. My current apartment also overlooks an expanse of westward land that makes it a very delightful place to be relaxing between five and six during summer and fall evenings.
Memorial Day comes up on Monday, which means that we have a four day weekend, and time for Pirate of the Caribbean 4, Hangover II and some good old home theatre with leg stretched on the leather sofa. In an alternate world, there will also be some tone project transcribing, short writings, bibliography gathering for forthcoming MA project, and some hours of being serious reading abandoned books and babysitting cats. Four days is not so long when one thinks about it. Have a good one, readers.
The picture that I had intended for this post remains in my head. It is a sheath of red and green Christmas flowers bound in a perfect circle and hanging by the side of the wooden bridge over the Tower lake at the entrance of Cougar Village. It has been there since winter began as a sign for the season. I don’t know who put it there but it always makes a good sight every time I drive by, and I have always been too preoccupied with driving to be able to take a perfect picture of it. And so, it remains in my head.
One more disadvantage of being able to drive is the laziness it induces. All my favourite haunts on campus once familiar to regular thread of my bicycle tyres have now become distant acquaintances. But for that battery run-out on the car a few weeks ago that forced me to walk home at night in the cold, I probably won’t even have recognized what the bike paths look like. It’s sad, I know. It is also fattening. Goodness knows how large I’m going to become by the end of this school year. We have not even mentioned the cost of gas made higher often, no less, by Nigerian agitators in the Niger Delta. It has warmed up for a while in the last few days and a bike ride is looking very likely now, if only I can muster the patience to walk again to campus in order to pick up my bike where I’d left it a few weeks ago.
But this post is not about the bike, the car or the Christmas sheath. It is the treasures of the little city. Not much a delight as it was last year through a stranger’s eyes, it is growing into an even more familiar friend. From new wineries being discovered in the most obscure corners to making friends in wine shops downtown with the hopes of getting my picture artworks displayed on their walls. If what this is is the subliminal instinct working towards replicating an already picturesque childhood, this will be more interesting than expected. All we need now is a dog. I already have many stories to tell.
The last time I went wine-tasting was in September. There was an exhibition of the wines of Missouri and wineries from parts of the state came to showcase what they have. It took place at the Botanical Garden. I returned home with a bottle of Chambourcin.
Last Friday evening however, I went for another one – a private event at a local winery in Edwardsville. The house, built in the 1800s, was nicely decorated with warm lights and wall pictures with other cozy features and a live band playing slow music in the basement. The wine was very sweet and distinctive. The company was pleasant, warm and relaxing, and after a few gulps that counted for much more than just tastings, I was loosened enough to go ice skating at an ice rink thirty-five minutes away.
Oh, I almost forgot. We were actually celebrating something: the joy of blogging, and the pleasures/treasures it brings.
The parade at downtown Edwardsville yesterday night was a jamboree. As early as six o’ clock in a car driving towards the venue of the annual Halloween rally, I had wondered if all of America had decided to converge here after all. The traffic was long, some roads had been closed, there were policemen at every junction, and all visible parking lots were already filled up. On roadsides were people in different costumes in family-size groups. On another side were tents and sheds, and people preparing for the parade.
I eventually made it to a safe place to park, and headed out to the road to await the start of the parade. It was cold, very cold. (You don’t have to take my word for it. I’m Nigerian. But remember that by this time last year, I’d already bought gloves.) Between six thirty and six forty-five the first group marched by. They were a band of firefighters from the city with musical instruments and a matching costume. They were followed by a bunch of school children also in costumes, and musical instruments. It soon became clear that the parade was going to follow a similar pattern. From then until about eight thirty when I have had enough, there were trains of people, cars, politicians, little children and uniformed employees who had come out to celebrate the season the way they’d done so for years.
There was plenty sweets (or candy) to go around, as any of the kids on the side of the roads watching the parade and catching them as they are flung would admit. Maybe for them, it would be enough to justify their coming out in such a cold weather. On the other hand, maybe it’s not that cold or the event would have taken place in the early fall or summer. But then, doesn’t the Mardi Gras take place in February when it’s the coldest? The other way to look at it is that this is one time during the year when whole families come out for a common purpose that is neither political nor polarizing. I saw three year olds, and I saw seventy-year olds, and a town suddenly made alive in a hopeful celebration of optimism and the fact that life always goes on.
I’m glad I went. I was a good chance to breath the fresh air of the outdoors, though I’d have preferred if it was just a little less cold.
Thirty days after packing my bags and hopping on the plane from St. Louis outwards from the United States, it is time already to take stock of what I’ve learnt so far.
1. That Paypal doesn’t work in Nigeria.
2. That one year of living in America has turned my football allegiance from my colonial masters (who originated the game) to my host country. Go Team USA! (at least until you meet with Nigeria).
3. That all anxieties about returning to a long-missed place are usually exaggerated. One would always adapt and adjust in no time.
4. That I miss Edwardsville, its people, my friends, the squirrels, and hot morning baths, lemonade and chappati. Very much.
5. That I would not be making any more youtube videos in a long time.
6. That I can survive without grapes.
7. That Summer in Nigeria is better than the summer in Edwardsville. Just a few Fahrenheit difference 
.
8. That this blog will go on, at least until I run out of sensible things to say, forget to renew my subscription, or forget my log-in password.
9. That more people have read my blog per week since I arrived in Nigeria than when I was abroad. I don’t understand it.
10. That, in spite of all, it’s good to be home.
PS: I know I’m expected to write something grand and philosophical about returning home after such a long time. Right? Well, right now, with sounds of rain on the roof of my house, I’m at peace, and all I can think of are the simple things.
I remember, no have forgotten, the evenings when night fell at 3pm. A lonely child on the streets of America squinting at his watch and wondering where all the daylight went. Then there were days of killing cold at lonely bus stations, while waiting for the scheduled bus. Dull summer evenings. Bright afternoons in the face of a deceptively bright sun. What happened? It all seemed like a dream. Did it ever happen? Was I, a few months ago, a curious face in the jungle of shops, brands and malls? I pour water on my face. No, it didn’t happen. It must have been a dream. Did I really fly for almost twenty-four hours over a dozen countries last fall, and returned again via the same route the cool harmattan evenings? My new iPod says yes. My old Dell says no.
It’s cool here, like the temperature of a cool spring, and I dreamt. I arrived in Edwardsville again and started looking for familiar spots. I looked at my phone and there were two time zones. Darn! That always happened. There was no one else to speak to so I called yarinya and she too was not available. She was in a different time zone. Am I in America? I ask. No, I’m here dreaming out the malaria in my flesh. I’m drenched in sweat, on a bed with yellow covering. There is no fan to provide the desired utopia. Nepa! And it’s May, in Ibadan, the breeze wheezing along with the soft clouds and burnt wisps of grass from a faraway place. What manner of dream!
I’m up now to put on the generator. Time to blog.
SOPA breaks our internet freedom!
Any site can be shut down whether or not we've done anything wrong.
