ktravula – a travelogue!

Browsing the archives for the Opinion category.

Goodwill Towards Men

If I could, I’d get a Santa hat to wear around this little town. The smell of snow and the colour of lights around houses in the neighbourhoods comes with a pleasant feeling of Christmas. If I could, I’ll get a Santa hat like the big American guy I saw early today at Walmart. He wore a pair of jeans, a tee shirt, and a Santa hat. He was not Santa Claus. Santa Claus doesn’t exist. He didn’t look good either. He looked goofy. But he had a Santa hat. If I could, I’d buy a Santa hat. But I won’t. I’m done with all things hats.

Hats are so last year, aren’t they? Let me leave that to Mohammed and Ameenah to project their Africanness wherever they go in the United States. They’re our new royalty of cultural exchange (although she still would not budge to my constant nagging that she takes off the religious head covering and replace it with something more culturally authentic – You’re Yoruba, for goodness’s sake. Get a Yoruba head gear. You’re and not from Saudi Arabia; and he would never stop complaining of how people become automatically distanced whenever they discover that he’s Arab. I wouldn’t suggest to him to wear a turban to class for his students either. Actually, now that I think about it, I would. Isn’t that the whole purpose of the exchange? Now that would be something). It is an interesting time to be here, learning good new lessons in cultural exchange through the eyes and experiences of some others standing at a different front line. Ameenah is Moslem from Nigeria. Mohamed is Arab from Morocco. Same continent, same religion, different people, a different outlook on life.

If I could get a Santa hat, I would. It is cold, and my hair (two months old) will soon become unable to provide needed protection. If my brain does eventually freeze itself off, I will have myself to blame, and lose the ability to do anything ever again. I should get a hat, again, truly. Ignore the fact that the last three I bought all got lost after the very first time I wore them. I ran into poet Eugene Redmond today on campus, almost by chance. An African-American writer from the United States, I met him in 2002 on the campus of my University in Ibadan and what struck me the most about his appearance was that he was always wearing an African-designed hat. Today was no exception.

If I could, I would get a Santa hat if only because it is the Christmas season. I could keep my head warm and fuzzy, and delight in the season, with goodwill towards men.

Why Nwaubani Was Wrong

Many commentators have already responded fittingly to a recently published op-ed in the New York Times by Nigerian writer Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani. (One of them was Carmen McCain in this blogpost). In “The Laureate Cause” which you can read on NY Times or on 234NEXT, Ms. Nwaubani argues a faulty logic that implies that having new authors write in local languages is detrimental to national unity and cohesiveness and thus bad for literature. To momentarily ignore the fallacy in assuming that writers write so as to further nationalistic goals rather than to justify their creative potential by creating using whatever means they have, the argument she makes insults intelligence. Language diversity is one of literature’s best assets as well as one of its most assaulted elements. It doesn’t need anymore drawbacks.

With an array of opinions and ideologies as many as the tools of translation available to linguists, it is already difficult to prevent one work from misinterpretation. (Orwell’s Animal Farm was translated into two different ideological interpretations in East and West Germany respectively during the cold war.) However, the pleasure of being able to read works written in the native thought and tongue of the writer has aways been unquantifiable, as can be seen from the feting of writers like Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Naguib Mafouz, Gunter Grass, Mario Le Clezio and very many others including recent Mario Vargas Llosa who have all written in their local languages. If Ngugi Wa Thiong’o had won the Nobel this year, he would have been deserving of it, not just for the depth of his creativity, but for his contribution to the development of Gikuyu by choosing to write in it. We can only hope for more of those kind, and not less.

Many of the books I read as a child were in Yoruba and I can’t say it enough how much it helped my appreciation of English and all the other languages I have learnt to use. If tomorrow I choose to write in Yoruba – which I have certainly considered, I would represent an important a voice in literature as someone who decides to do it in Igbo or Swahili without care for English as an international language as long as I stay committed to the craft and say something new (or even something old, in a new voice and style) and say it well. We’ll have literary translators to do the rest. To make the case for English as the only medium of creative process is easily the biggest one of the many flaws of her essay, and a disingenuous take on the African literary present and future.

Cross posted at Nigerianstalk.org.

In Africa, the Laureate’s Curse

Save the Mark Twain Museum

A few weeks ago, I wrote about my visit to the Mark Twain Boyhood home and Museum in Hannibal, Missouri. What I didn’t say was what I didn’t know then: that the facility is underfunded and is in need of serious renovation to bring it to standard. The management of the museum have for a while been raising money through very many ingenious means (one of which was promising to get the names of donors on the famous white-washed fence in front of the home. I did that, by the way. If you ever find yourself there, try to look for my name and the name of this blog on the white fence). Yet it seemed that it won’t get the job done as fast as needed.

Enter Pepsi.

Since the beginning of this year (or God knows since when far back), Pepsi has been giving money to great ideas worthy of monetary support. All they ask for is that the idea be good, and that people vote for it. They have been funding ideas every month to the tune of $1.3 million: (2 Grants at the $250,000 level; 10 Grants at the $50,000 level; 10 Grants at the $25,000 level; and 10 Grants at the $5,000 level.) The Mark Twain Boyhood Home and Museum is one of this month’s contestants for the $250,000 level which would be given only to two great ideas. Their standing as I write this post is #19. Voting ends on December 31st. That is 25 days away.

Now this is what I hope you’d do for me, as very loyal blog readers. Go to this page, and vote. It will take only two minutes for you to register and vote. And voting is free – of course. All I ask for is your time. And in return, I promise to drive back there at some point next year to write about what new things are taking place at the Mark Twain Museum. I also promise to visit downtown Hannibal rather than just the museum, and send beautiful KTravula postcards to some random blog readers, signed of course by the blogger. When you finish voting, please tell your friends to do the same. There’s nothing worse than getting so close to the mark and then falling off to the ground. I believe that the $250,000 will go a long way to save the museum (and perhaps reduce entrance tickets for future visitors too.)

Please vote as many times as you can from now till December 31st. Thank you very much. Alright now, off you go, please. Thank you.

Mark Twain, born Samuel Clemens, is the author of many books including The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, all inspired by his life in the Hannibal countryside village by the Mississippi river.

Studying War in Kansas City

There is soooooooooo much to see at the World War I museum in Kansas City (MO). It is an enormous research institution and monument to one of the most brutal wars the world had ever seen up until that time. World War I was so large it was called “The war to end all wars.” Thus was the level of sophistication that went into its execution, thebrutality of its reality, and the great number of its casualties, the long period of time it took before the guns fell silent, and the implications it had for future wars that have taken place since then.

The World War I memorial is as equally intimidating in size, scope and content. It contains real artifacts of the war: guns, cannons, flags, uniforms, knifes, bayonets, boots, hats, torpedoes, bombs, grenades, canteens, airplanes and numerous flash presentations of the war casualties, fronts, progress and dates. There was also a film show of the situations that led to the war itself, from the Industrial Revolution to the killing of the successor to the Austria-Hungarian throne Archduke Franz Ferdinand. On walls and under the sole of our feet, beneath glass flooring, are so many several other markers from the great war – along with pictures of soldiers from all parts of the world who enlisted in defense of their colonial masters. That includes soldiers from the British colonies in India and much of Africa, including Nigeria.

Outside the large expansive building that houses the artifacts is a 217-foot statue which provides a view of the city. The Museum, also called the Liberty Memorial was opened and dedicated on November 11, 1926. It was named a US Historic Landmark in December 2006. It would be impossible to visit the facility without leaving with a profound appreciation of the power of history to move and to greatly affect. I had a renewed appreciation for the situation of the world before the great war, and added so much to my knowledge while musing on the fact that less than three decades later, the world was entangled in another world war that would change the world or the concept of war forever.

A premier screening of a film at the museum theatre about the life of the 5000 “Polar Bear” soldiers of the United States who had been left stranded in Russia after being sent to fight the Bolsheviks would make it all even more worth it. It was being screened for free to members of the press and the public. Think the US never invaded Russia? Think again. It was the first time the story of those small group of soldiers in the war was being told in film and exhibition, and we were there to see it, and listen to the producer, director, and some of the actors talk about their influences and motivations. Harold Gunnes, the last surviving members of that American unit (was born in 1899), died on March 11, 2003. According to Wikipedia, he was believed to have been the last living American to have fought in the Allied Intervention near the port of Arkhangelsk on the White Sea.

At the end of our tour of the many rooms and exhibitions of the facility, we took a trip to the top of the tall Liberty Memorial monument and had a few pleasant moments enjoying the breeze and taking in the beautiful sight of the city from 217 feet. After that, we returned downstairs to examine another exhibition titled Man and Machine. It was there where one of the curators took a look at the four of us and asked, seriously, “are you guys soldiers?” I laughed, until I realized that he wasn’t joking. He later explained that he asked because he was looking for whom to ask what purpose the bolts at the two ends of standard issue soldiers’ helmets were used for. None of us could provide an answer. (I’d be glad to take answers from knowledgeable military men out there.)

After taking in sights and knowledge of war for two nights straight, it was only fitting that on our way back, we dropped by at Independence, Missouri at the home and Presidential Library of the man who ended the second war with two atomic bombs, Mr Harry Truman. A journey that began with a visit to the Museum that holds the artifacts of Winston Churchill – the British reporter, soldier and politician whose life spanned the two wars was fittingly ended through the town of Truman on the way home.

It all made sense. Iran and the US are on a constant face-off that is likely to escalate, North Korea had just attacked the South on a reason that seems mundane from a distance of common sense, Pakistan and India are always at each other’s throats, and there are numerous other conflicts and alliances in places all over the world, in the Middle East, all waiting for the little igniting match.

All it took for the World War I to start was the sound of gun shots on the streets of Sarajevo. Who knows what is going to trigger the next one, and where its museum and memorial would be sited. (Maybe it would be on an abandoned mountain in a desert island – the only remaining healthy place to live in the world.)

On returning, it all seemed like an intensive dream of several noise and scary images, a discordant feeling of sweat, shortness of breath, and running through trenches and sound of cannon guns. Maybe the knowledge of past wars would be enough to halt the beginning of the next one. Or maybe not.

Is this my land?

A guest post by Temie Giwa

I often wonder how people go about deciding which country or countries deserves their allegiance. I suppose if you have lived in one country all your life it wouldn’t matter. However, when you have the special fortune of having dual citizenships then it becomes a topic worth exploration. I am Nigerian. I was born there. I also have an interesting relationship with the USA. I live here, and I vote here. I am often told by my Nigerian friends and colleagues how American I am. And anytime I attempt to pronounce “house, hot, and or home”, I am reminded that I am a proud daughter of Oduduwa, and his stamp remains in my syntax.

I had the opportunity of spending last evening with a group of individuals learning English and the American culture at the international Institute in St. Louis Missouri. They hail from as far as Bhutan, a little country in the south of Asia and some were Mexicans, our Southern neighbor. I also had a conversation with a Nigerian woman from Ogun State and another from China. They all were interested in America, eager to learn her history and above all so grateful to their teachers and the country that has given them a second chance. For a moment I was touched and I could not help but sing along with everyone to the song that best illustrates the magic that is America. “This Land”. This land, I hope truly belongs to all of them.

I love Americans, but I never expected to become one, or to like being one. The citizenship was not something I sought nor did I have control over it. My parents gave me a blue passport on my 16th birthday and that was that. I suppose if I had gone through the naturalization process like the men and women in the American citizenship class, I might have felt more comfortable with my American self. Oh I get away with a lot. People already expect me to be loud, obnoxious and fat. So I just shrug away moments when I feel like being loud, obnoxious and fat as my American moments, it suits me well. And whenever I find my self in Nigeria, any rudeness to the elders is automatically forgiven, this I tell you is a major blessing.

The evening started with a tour of the Institute and one thing that arrested my attention was a little poster displaying famous American immigrants. Among them were Albert Einstein, Madeline Albright, and Pulitzer. These individuals like myself immigrated to the United States and were able to create lives that still inspire the world. The evening proceeded predictably. On the main stage was a PowerPoint presentation of flags and snapshots of all countries whose members have migrated to the United States. Turkeys were given out in celebration of thanksgiving and we sang and laughed and clapped. I am especially thankful for a country that invokes hope in the heart of so many. The people who spend their free time teaching others how to make a new life in a new country are the very essence of what makes this country oh so great.

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