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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It was a pleasant surprise therefore to open those thick photo albums and find, after about thirty minutes of browsing, a few pictures of my campus days that brought back great memories. As it turned out, my paper images have indeed preceded my arrival in the United States by a few more years than I could have confidently taken credit for just a few days ago. And to my pleasant surprise, I also found a few more candid shots of others people from Ibadan in that thick album. I promptly removed them, with permission, and scanned them into my flash drive. Let me share them with you here, along with a few other shots that I took today. Those pictured in the old photos would surely remember the thrills of those campus times.

Click on the images to enlarge

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Today is a beautiful day of many surprises. I’m still reeling from the exhilaration of the very distinguishing welcome, and I don’t know where to begin. It is not up to twenty-four hours ago when I talked about the generousity of my hosts, and now, with both hands full and head spinning as if in the clouds, I realize how blessed I am, and how blessed in return my hosts must be – for it holds true every time that givers never lack. Today was a welcome event for international scholars/students.

Here’s how it all started. I had woken up iin the morning feeling all dull and lethargic, and I didn’t feel like going out. I looked at my blog and found that I had made only one reflective post on the 19th. I thought of making some more posts on America’s awkward signs, London from above, the taste of strawberry, but I got lazy and played around the internet instead. Then I got an email from my secondary supervisor here, who is Nigerian, and he arranged for me to come over to school to meet up with him. Reluctantly, I got up and did so, and we went over a few of the things I needed to know as a faculty member. I went from there to my department (of Foreign Languages) and was hijacked by the Chair, Belinda, who invited me to lunch with other new and old members of the faculty. They were from Spain, McGraw Hill (the publishers), Germany, Mexico, France, and Nigeria (Me). It was a good lunch. I had to teach everyone how to correctly pronounce my name.

In the evening, Reham and I attended the International Welcome for foreign students/scholars where we were treated to a very large banqet. It was organised by the Internation Hospitality Programme people: the guys that gave me that spectacular fruity choclatey welcome. Along with plenty to eat, there was also plenty to take away. There was a hospitality stand where students could get cutleries, beddings, electronics and plenty many other things to take home, all for free. The most unique part of the evening was where students got to sign up with host familes for “adoption”. As a foreign student/scholar, your host family would be responsible for making you birthday cakes, taking you out to occasional dinners, calling you when you’re sick, and generally doing things your parents might do if they were here. It is a very responsible programme, and Sai says he was moved almost to tears by how caring these adoptive parents could be, and how seriously they took their “parenting” jobs. My adopted parents now include an Indian father and an American mother.

My second family has an African-American parent, both already almost of grandparenting age. Very nice. They’ve asked me for what I need, and I told them I’d make a list when I can. I can’t think of anything right now. I have their home addresses, and I will be visiting them soon, on my new bike. Yea, I finally got a bike, and in less than fourty-eight hours after I put it in my notes to self. Well, let me tell you about how I got it, but not before this report. Sometimes during this evening’s programme, our names were drawn in a lottery, and twelve lucky people out of about three hundred of us were picked out randomly to be given gifts. I was the second draw, and I was presented with a bag of even more stationeries: jotters, pens and pencils, and a branded SIUE t-shirt. Now what were the chances that I would make that list of twelve out of that large number? I was never a lucky person when it came to odds, and yet there I was with a bag of free gifts. Then came Papa Rudy.

I first met Rudy Wilson in Ibadan in 2003 while I was an undergraduate of Linguistics. He was one of a team of University professors on an exchange programme from Southern Illinois University, Edwardsville to the University of Ibadan. He was in company of Ron Schaefer, Matt Emerson, Eugene Redmond and a few other scholars from SIUE working with the likes of Remi Raji, Francis Egbokhare, Samuel Asein (who ironically died here in Edwardsville a few years later). I was just a bloody undergraduate then, but I remembered him. We had some very nice time in Ibadan at the time, especially during a get-together celebration we had then for the then newly crowned Professor in Ibadan, Francis Egbokhare, who was at the time Ibadan’s youngest professor.

The programme featured poetry readings, small talk and food. I remembered Rudy as one of the hip, mischievous, but lively members of the SIUE crew, and his name stuck in my mind for a long time. I met him again today on the floor of the basketball court where the event took place. He didn’t remember me, but I reminded him of those times we had. We were taken to each other instantly, and we exchanged addresses. We talked a lot about some old stuff, and he told me lives in Edwardsville. I said I would come check him out when I got my bike, and that was when it came:

“I do have a bike I could give you.” He said.
“Really?” I asked, surprised.
“Yea. It’s pretty new. I haven’t used it a lot, but it’s just sitting at home idle.”

“That would be nice.” I said. “I would appreciate it. I have been meaning to get a very cheap one when my paycheck comes in.”
“No, don’t worry. I’ll give it to you. Do you want to come for it this evening, or tomorrow?”
“Today will be nice. I can ride it home from your house, if you don’t mind.”
“No, I’ll give it to you, and then drop you off back at Cougar Village. I won’t want something to happen to you on your first night in town. After all it’s getting dark. Can you ride a bike?”
“Of course I can ride one.”
“But you have to ride it with a helmet always.” He said.

I should have told him “It’s like sex: one never really forgets the techniques,” because later on the way to his beautiful house in town where I met his nice, beautiful wife and pets, and back to my apartment where my nice bike now rests, I found out the more how much of a nice, brilliant, mischievous and utterly down-to-earth person he is. If he had known that I would be coming, he said, he would have arranged that I stayed with him in Edwardsville rather than the Cougar Village apartment that I now have, and pay for. I explained to him my preference for the Cougar accomodation.

It would give me some insight into the students life here, and I would need that experience. Rudy also happened to be a very avid collector of art items, which was a good thing, since I had one of my Nigerian artworks with me to give him as a present in return. It was both our lucky day, but mostly for me it was super superb. And to top it all up, I finally met someone taller than me during the evening event. Yippie! Well, it’s not so surprising considering that the program was held on a basketball court. He is a student, who also plays basketball. His name – if you can imagine – is Nikola, but he’s from Serbia. Kola and Nikola. Hmm.

Over all, it was a fantastic evening, even luckier for me, and hopefully for Rudy and my new host families. Now I know why the folks at home think I might not want to return!

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