ktravula – a travelogue!

Browsing the archives for the Soliloquy category.

So Where Are We From Then?

The most famous story about the origin of the Yoruba people is that we all descended from one man called Oduduwa. It is also the most misleading of stories because the man called Oduduwa who was said to have come from a place called Mecca (or, as historians have agreed, somewhere in the Middle East) most possibly found some indigenous people already living in the area now called Yorubaland when he landed with his travelling party from Mecca, and could not have been the sole progenitor of the now over thirty million people. In any case, he was said to have had only one son, who later had seven. So, for all intent and purposes, it was a conquest, kind of like the Founding Fathers arriving on the American continent from Europe, or Christopher Columbus “discovering” America after a long ride on the ocean, or Mungo Park “discovering” the Niger river. If that is the case, then when as citizens we use the now famous self reference “Omo Oduduwa” to refer to ourselves, we engage in a kind of deceit, or self-disservice, or at least a subservient acceptance of the prehistoric conquest. The verifiable children of the man Oduduwa were the original seven kings who descended from his son Okanbi, and their own living descendants who now occupy the kingship thrones in Oyo, Benin, Popo, Sabe, Ife and two other Yoruba towns. That said, we are all Yorubas, just like the occupants of Britain are now all Brits, not Normans, or Romans, or Celts just because they were once occupied by those forces.

But where did we come from, the Yorubas? Going by the Oduduwa story, we (at least those Yoruba citizens that have “royal” blood) are all descendants of Oduduwa, who in turn is a descendant of Lamurudu. Lamurudu interestingly is the Yoruba’s corruption of the name Nimrod from the bible, according to the Reverend Johnson in his book The History of the Yoruba. So there it is! We’re confirmed descendants of the Jews. Yet history does not rule out the possibility that Lamurudu/Nimrod was not even the immediate ancestor of the man Oduduwa, or that Oduduwa himself was not the immediate ancestor of Okanbi, so it is fair to take liberties with the fact. It is possible, almost certain by these accounts, that we were descendants of Nimrod the son of Cush, grandson of Ham, great-grandson of Noah. Now, even to me, that’s far removed. Why? Because Nimrod’s personality has never been fully established, and every once powerful civilization from Egypt to Greece to Jewish cultures have their own written perception of him that are not always complimentary.

So where did we come from then? A literal mecca? Quite possibly. The islamic civilization has it recorded that many years before/after Mohammed the prophet, many so called idolators were expelled from the city into the world outside. The man Oduduwa and his entourage who later settled South West of the Niger river were believed to have arrived there not only with magic and graven images (which were markers of idolatory for which they were said to have been expelled from the religious middle eastern city in the first place), they also came with peculiar forms of dressing, communication and way of life that marks them as from that part of the world. They worshipped man-made gods, they made sacrifices to them through priests, they wore long robes, greeted each other in a particular way, and their women covered their heads as part of their cultural identity. The staff of Oranmiyan in Ile-Ife today still has the words “Oranmiyan” engraved on it in Jewish letters, and it was erected before the coming of the Europeans to that side of the world. Have you ever wondered why the Yorubas name their children on the eighth day of the birth of the child? I have. Could it be, as suggested to my surprise by an American student in my Yoruba class on Wednesday, that we are following the tradition of the old Hebrews who always circumcised their children on the eight day after birth, as ordained by their God? I don’t know, but I won’t bet against it. There is so much that I don’t know, that I wish I knew. There is so much more we need to know about ourselves.

The real wonder for me is where we are from, we Yorubas who are not descendants of kings or the patriarch Oduduwa. Any takers?

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Random Confessions

The successful outing of my My [State/Country] posts on this blog (after Texas and Saudi Arabia) is giving me many more great ideas. How many states will I be able to “visit” virtually and publicly thank before my time here is over? Who wants me in their area? I definitely would like to show here to you my readers all the relevant ktravula hot spots all around the world, just in case it ever occurs to anyone someday to organize a get-together/reunion party of all my blog readers, fans and commenters. 🙂 But I can’t. Or so I think. Physically, I’ve now been to Providence RI, Washington DC, Boston MA, St. Louis MI, Edwardsville IL, Cahokia IL, Principia IL, Chicago IL and Olney MD, among a few other small places. But virtually, I’ve been in many more places I probably would never see. Here’s the plan, as time permits, I will go around the world from here. The traveller is coming to a location near you. 😀

School resumes on Monday. I have not yet confirmed whether classes resume too. If so, then I will use this weekend to plan my class schedule for the year. It’s the hardest (I think) part of the work. When the plans are set, it not so hard to follow through in class, even though there usually occurs along the way some things never before planned, like public holidays, snow storms, and other engagements. But I like to have a plan. It helps to keep me focused. The last time I checked, I will now have sixteen students. That’s a higher number than the last nine who, like they told me on the last day of class, must have told their friends to sign up for that foreign language class where you could get an A (if you work really hard for it) and have fun all at the same time. Talking about As, all my last students but one got As. The person that didn’t get an A got a B, deservedly. She wasn’t as punctual as she should have been. And she did really poorly in the mid-term test. As for my own Linguistics class, I have not yet seen my results. Next week, maybe.

How did I spend my Christmas? I went to the house of my Professor A., originally from Nigeria, who was spending Christmas in town for the last time. He had resigned from this university and was moving into government work in the capital (Springfield). The most memorable part of the very beautiful evening was the “lucky dip” where everyone was asked to pick choice presents from a whole lot gathered in the living room. I got a wall clock. Now I can see what time it is while sitting on my bed without first having to pick up my phone or computer. However, there was not much Nigerian food at the table, surprisingly. There was mostly American foods, which I enjoyed. And there was moi-moi. It was a very memorable and enjoyable evening in company of people of different nationalities, behaviour and beliefs. I met his young children and their friends. One of his children’s young cousins in attendance had attended St. Patrick’s school, Bashorun Ibadan before relocating to the States. Our discussions brought back memories of truancy in secondary school days when we snuck out of our school premises to attend Christmas parades in the compound of the Broadcasting House just across the road…

New year’s eve. This one was a story with a k-leg, because Chris from class who had checked with me many times about our earlier plan to spend the eve together at his house partying, playing, reminiscing and flirting around with American girls suddenly had a work schedule! Oopsie. (Sorry Chris. I know you might not believe it, but not all of us from that side of the world play around with firecrackers around festive periods. 😉 ) In any case, I believe(d) him and stayed indoors since Ben also had suddenly disappeared earlier in the day to go to his folks at St. Louis. I fell asleep at nine, and woke up barely at a quarter to twelve, so I slept again, hoping my some miracle to wake up before twelve. The next time I opened those eyes, it was 1pm and I had two messages on my cell phone, from Nigeria. Happy New Year, they said. There were no fireworks like it would have been at New York’s Times Square, or back home in Nigeria (yes, we use fireworks too. Note to Chris: They are festive fireworks, not explosive firecrackers). I went back to sleep a few hours later, consoling myself that in some other parts of the world – in California, for example – they were still in 2009 by a few minutes.

I broke my first and major new year resolution on the third day of the year. I ordered a $24 pizza from Papa John’s! And as guilty as I felt after placing the order, I enjoyed it. It was coming after a few gruesome days of needed abstinence. Thankfully I didn’t have to eat it alone. But on the (not altogether so) bright side of this matter, a freak error/mixup of communication between me and woman at the housing office on Monday when I went to make payments for my housing rent has cleared my bank account/card of ALL available funds. The situation, as she apologetically promised afterwards, is now being rectified. Five days later, it has not, and I’m mad! One week, and perhaps more, is a very long time to wait. This means of course that there would be no more Papa Johns, even if I crave it. And as soon as my supplies of food run out, which they will, very soon, I will be very screwed :D, not literally. So, sigh, wish me luck people, or send relief, or remember me in your prayers. But whatever you decide to do, when you eat your nice meal of turkey, moi-moi, amala, potato salad, stuffing, egusi, pounded yam, broccoli, jollof/fried rice, ogufe, or whatever else you have on your plate on your side of the world tonight, please remember this American child that is now surviving on less than a dollar a day. Don’t look for any paradoxical punch-lines to this. There are none! 🙂 😀 🙁

My Saudi

Saudi Arabia from my Google Analytics (Click on picture to enlarge)

Since the president of Nigeria left for Saudi Arabia over six weeks ago to treat his ailing self, I’ve developed a new interest in that country called Saudi Arabia. Well, not really. My interest in the country actually predates my country’s recent and now (in)famous healthcare dealings with them. My fascination is very old indeed. The country holds a kind of fascination for me as an exotic tourist destination that so many people adore as a kind of spiritual homeland. Not me though. I’m just mostly intrigued by the large stone cube in the centre of the city of Mecca called the Ka’abah which was said to have been erected by Abraham in the olden times. In many Islamic tracts, on youtube and on some illustrated maps of the world, I have also read that the site of the Ka’abah is also the literal centre of the world.It is said to be equidistant to all corners of the world. This should go on to explain why that is the direction that every moslem faces when they pray. How true is that?

I don’t know if I can ever make it into the country in my lifetime, seeing that I’m not a moslem, nor an intending pilgrim, but it would have been a fascinating trip to get close to that prehistoric monument, touch it, and imagine what it would have been like in those days when faith did not always include killing a fellow human being. It would definitely have been a place to visit on a sight seeing tour. Well, thinking about it now, I wonder if there was ever really a time in history when faith was totally without blood and gore. Even father Abraham was said to have once been asked to slaughter his own son to prove his faith.

In any case, here was what my Google Analytics turned up as statistics of readers from that famous country. Only five hits between August 2009 and today. Interesting. And contrary to my earlier thoughts and wishes, the readers are not from Jeddah where the president of my country now resides (perhaps in a hospital bed), but in Riyadh. It is very sad to realize that the president has not been reading my thoughts and opinions after all, but well, I’ll survive it. However, this knowledge now begs the questions: Who were they who read my blog? What did they read? Did they enjoy it? Was it censored? And would they be coming back soon? Of course, I will not be getting answers to those questions. Or will I?

Cartoon from www.ofilisketches.com. Used by permission.

Salaam Alaikum: Peace be unto you, folks in Saudi Arabia. Please take good care of my president if you know where he is. And if you really do know where he is, please drop me a line. If you come across him anytime soon, tell him to send me an e-mail of acknowledgement. Or at least place a phone call to the BBC, or at least a popular morning radio show in Nigeria so we know that he is still alive, agile and in charge. Tell him that, contrary to what anyone around him, countrymen are really pissed, agitated, and running out of patience right now. They believe that if he were in office during Christmas time, the United States might not have placed our country’s name on a security list of countries with suspicious citizens. I mean, when you think about it, it’s not the fault of the United States that whenever President Obama could have tried to call the Nigerian president to discuss the matter, the phone would have rung for a while, and then either gone into voicemail, or been picked by a woman who spoke English with a really muffled foreign accent. I know you understand, and that you care enough to help. That is why you have read my blog for those five long times. Thank you very much for listening, and for your support. I look forward to your response soonest.

Ma salaam.

Love from Edwardsville.

(NOTE: That drawing from Ofilisketches is used by permission. Please feel free to print as many copies as you want, and paste on the streets of Riyadh and Jeddah, just in case someone comes across him and has useful information for us. This is urgent, please. Thanks.)

To Good Times

I like to be happy, most times. Actually, I like to be happy all of the time, although I have realized that it is when I am not so extraordinarily happy, yet charged with sufficient energy that I am the most creative. I like to be happy because there is no trophy for sadness. Nothing is romantic about it. There is no medal for a constant gloomy state of mind. I have discovered that cheerfulness, laughter, conviviality are better alternatives to gloom, and sadness. I like to be sarcastic only because it gives me more avenue to laugh and be happy. I am an optimist in a way that can sometimes manifest in occasional pessimism, or is it sacrasm. But I love life, and I enjoy it, each second of the way. This is my affirmation of life.

I’m thinking back to some good times I’ve had in life. Some times, the days appear long and a simple conversation with a pleasant company either over the phone or in an internet chat brings back moments of familiar conviviality, I relapse into a sweet nostalgia of the fun care free days. They are not gone yet. They are here still. I smell them in the cold night air. Tonight I remember Ibadan, not of childhood and innocence, but of youth and pseudo-recklessness and revelry. Well, not so much. I remember Sola Olorunyomi with his truck, his bicycle and his guitar at the Students Union Building bar in the Ibadan University campus in the early 2000, discussing poetry and politics within cigarette smokes, beers and music. There was Loomnie. There was Benson. There was Bukky who loved Benson, and there was Benson who loved his bottle. There was Luvles. There was Olads. There was Kemi who later became Idayat. There was Pinheiro. There was Lola. There was Kunle. There was fun. There was the religious Seni who had a bible verse for every situation. There was Chiedu, and Chido. There was Busola, who had a first class in Linguistics. Then there was Ropo, and Chris Dudu, and Funmi who liked to write daringly. There was poetry. There was Ify. There was Najite. There was harmattan and the dry wind of November. Then there was Uncle Prof whom we embarrassed by reading his love poems back to him in that public get-together. There was his lovely wife. There was Adelugba. There was the Arts Theatre which never ever ceased to be a fun place to be at evenings. And then, there was Nike who was so thin she almost didn’t have a shadow. There was Sophie who smuggled tobacco in from Germany to give to Benson, and there were Nadine and Bettina who saw Ibadan once with Sophie and could not wait to return, just to see us. There were days of walking all night from the University all the way to Dugbe. There was Noffield House. There was palm wine and pepper soup at Niser. There was Elizabeth. And there was Bidemi. There was fun Biodun who died, but was so tall that his legs stuck out of the coffin. There was Henrietta who I liked, and who Olumide liked, but who perhaps thought that we were all bad boys. There was Demola who was going to be a monk, and who became a butt of beer jokes. And later there was changed Demola who finally fell in love and got Ope before Pinheiro made his move. There was UCJ, and the different folks it attracted. There were endless dinners. There were endless protests. There was Mellamby Hall. There was Upper Mellamby. There was room A52 and its many adventures. There was Fidho. There was Ibukun. There was Kunle. There was Ositelu. There were riots. There were strikes. There were moments of silliness and idleness. There were moments of stupidity. They were good times.

I remember Lagos a few days before I travelled to the United States, at the Silverbird Galleria for a mini bear summit. There were books. There was laughter. There were jokes. There was Tolu, and Chris, and Rayo and Kris, and Bukky and Sunkanmi, and music. And ice cream. There was fun. And food. Before then, there was Bimbo on the expressway. Then Elizabeth, sometimes earlier in the day. Then there was Food Major, and roasted beef. And family. And Jolaade. And Leke. And Yemi. And Laitan. And strawberry juice. And suya. Tonight, I remember the good times. Whenever the cold wind blows within recurring laughters, whenever I smile, whenever the days seem long and only a phone conversation, or a pleasant internet chat, connects me with a world I have since left for a little while, I remember the good fun times. Those are the moments that count.

Re-Reading Myself

Re-reading oneself can be such a boring chore that I’ve always tried to avoid because of the emotions it inevitably brings back. Most times, one is just too glad to be rid of the overwhelming feelings that make one write in the first place to go back at will. I’ve just finished looking through all the poems that make up my first collection of poetry and all of a sudden I’m back with the overwhelming nostalgia of pre-University and University life. Maybe this year would be a good time to re-issue the collection into the public after five years of hibernating fermentation.

I am now officially looking for publishers for the electronic and print reissue in America, Europe and in Nigeria. Here, below were the lines I penned for the year 2000, written a few hours into that year while I sat in church on that December evening, bored to my bones.

The Year of the bug

It’s a new dawn because a year is born,

But are hours years for zero to mark one?

Men have flown to realms of high imagination

with anxiety and snippets of loose contrite illusions.

Of human clock, a stroke of the thin long second hand,

Or the gradual droop till the final grain of sand

Marks a whole new start – a thunderous landmark.

And new time commences, yes it remains dark.

Here begins a new dull span of restless days

Of ends unseen, unsure even when one strongly prays.

Called it a new phase, named it a new rolling life –

new day into pay; new life into more human strife.

And yet remains too cryptic and strange remnants

of words, thoughts, fears and imagination parts,

And of pregnant signs, sights and sighs unblown –

of things not yet seen and yet all unknown.

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