She comes into the shop where I often stop in on my way to work to buy a freshly squeezed juice drink. She is often dressed in the same simple black dress (or perhaps she simply owns a lot of them), and is often wearing sneakers. She is perhaps in her late twenties or early thirties, blonde and slim. Each time she orders the same drink and on more than one occasion when our visits to the shop have coincided, she is just finishing an energy bar. At least I assume that she is, because she is usually holding the wrapper and delicately inserting a finger into the space between her upper teeth and her cheek to extract what I imagine must be a lump of freshly chewed, sticky mass of energy bar. I often wonder at her lack of self-consciousness while engaged in this task, but sympathize as it is one bit of social etiquette that I am yet to work out what the appropriate answer is. How do you dislodge that lump of sticky food paste that lodges in that area (peanut butter sandwiches are a particular hazard), without employing the discreet or indiscreet use of a single digit.....answers on a postcard please
I trek out to the Riverside Studios in west London for the reading to mark the launch of the memoirs of Michael Mansfield QC, Memoirs of a Radical Lawyer. I have taken the trouble to buy a ticket online and so when I arrive, hot and sweaty, having walked briskly from the tube in the muggy September weather that we are currently enjoying, ignore the long line of punters, queuing up and march to the counter, confident that there will be a separate collection point for pre-bought tickets. Alas, there is not and so I join the queue, ten people further back than I would have if I had just meekly joined the queue in the first place and end up missing the first ten minutes of the event. It isn't a reading in the conventional sense, he does not read from the book, but is an hour and a half of a monologue, with Michael perched on what looks like a barstool and offering up random thoughts and reminiscences. It is surprisingly engaging and I find that he holds my attention to the very end, but then as I remind myself, as a barrister, that is exactly what he has spent the larger part of his life doing....
I've just finished Dave Eggers new book, Zeitoun, which is another foray by the celebrated author into the realms of oral history presented as grippingly as a novel, similar to his earlier magnificent What is the What. This time, the hero is Abdulrahman Zeitoun, a Syrian American leaving in New Orleans who finds himself caught up in a Kafkaesque experience following Hurricane Katrina.
In the library, as I do from time to time, I type in the words "Nigeria" into the search box on the catalogue, just to see what new books may have been acquired. This time I am rewarded by finding The Forger's Tale:The Search for Odeziaku, in which Stephanie Newell, an English academic charts the story of John Moray Stuart Young, a wealthy English homosexual trader who was one of the wealthiest men in Onitsha in the early 20th century, building a fortune from the palm oil trade. Apparently he makes a fleeting appearance in one of the short stories in Achebe's Girls at War collection.
The recent news about the apparent rejection of the Nigerian Ambassador designate to the US, Professor Tunde Adeniran on the basis that his son was recently arrested for rape in Baltimore, appears to descend into farce, as claims are made throwing the boy's paternity into question. An aunt of mine has often argued that part of Nigeria's problem has been the fact that most of our leaders have had pretty messy personal lives, citing the numerous affairs, girlfriends, mistresses and wives attributed to most former leaders. Stories like these probably only serve to buttress her arguments...
BTW our erstwhile Finance Minister, Ngozi Okonjo Iweala was in London to give a talk at the LSE last week, I missed it, but there's a report here
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
School starts, Almodovar's return and an exposition of clay feet
Just walking into the train station, two young boys emerge, both dressed in school uniform- black blazers, a blue shirt and a tie. The older, probably about twelve or thirteen is holding on to the hand of the younger , who is maybe ten and they are obviously brothers. The younger boy's uniform is shiny and new, obviously just bought, while the older's while neat and clean, is more of a vintage. The younger boy's face is bright and earnest and he struggles to keep up with the quick steps of his brother.
As they walk along, a larger crowd of boys in the same uniforms emerge in the distance and I notice that the older surreptitiously drops the hand of the younger, as he squares his shoulders and plunges right into the centre of the crowd of old friends. As I leave them to go into the station, I notice the younger brother, slightly bewildered on the fringe of the crowd, looking lost. I flash him what I imagine is a cheering smile and enter the station, hoping he will be alright on what is obviously his first day at big school....
On the platform, there is a little boy of maybe five, curled up on the bench, dressed again in uniform, complete with cap, cuddled up to his grandfather's chest who reads to him from a large children's book ...
To the cinema to see the new Almodovar film, Broken Embraces, as I expect, it is a sensuous feast of colours, the glorious yellows and rich reds of Spain, with shots from unusual angles and a story that grabs and hold my attention till the closing scenes. The reviews I had read had suggested that the plot was labyrinthine, with a film within a film, but to me it all appears very easy to follow. The part of the plot where the secretary becomes the mistress of her wealthy boss in order to pay for her father's treatment could have come straight from Nollywood and evokes unpleasant memories of Lagos...
I've now finished Chika Unigwe's On Black Sisters' Street. a tale of four African women working in the red-light district of Antwerp. It reflected the thorough research that she had done on the subject, and the story was engaging, if slightly implausible in parts. It is a sympathetic look at the lives of women whose voices are often not heard and well worth reading. Jonathan Cape have also recently published Ghanaian Nii Ayikwei Parkes "African whodunnit "novel, Tail of the Blue Bird and Malawian Samson Kambalu's The Jive Talker, subtitled How to Get a British Passport ( that title alone should guarantee it does well in Nigeria :-) and also published Segun Afolabi's Goodbye Lucille. I hope it means someone at Jonathan Cape is building an African writer's list....I've ordered all three to show my "moral support"
It's quite a year for new offerings from writers of Nigerian extraction, what with Chika's new book, Chimamanda's collection of short stories and new offerings from Helen Oyeyemi (White is for Witching) and Diana Evans (The Wonder)....
It's always a pleasant surprise to stumble across an established writer that I've never read, and even better when my second dip into their oeuvre is as captivating as the first. So it has been with the writer, TC Boyle, also known as T. Coraghessan Boyle. The unusual second name, captured my attention, when at a loose end one Saturday in the library. I then took out and read The Inner Circle, his novel about the sex researcher Professor Kinsey, narrated by one of his early acolytes. I enjoyed it so much that I have now just finished The Women, his account of the famous architect Frank Lloyd Wright's life, again seen through the eyes of a protege. He writes beautifully and does a brilliant job of exposing the clay feet of the two "gods"...
Last night to dinner with a friend to celebrate his elevation at work, he had cooked a kedgeree- (think jollof rice with hardboiled eggs and smoked fish), served with a delicious dal and yoghurt. The kedgeree reminded me in many ways of the jollof rice my grandmother used to cook, using palm oil instead of groundnut oil and any odds and ends she found in her kitchen...
Finally, the death of acclaimed Nigerian lawyer, Gani Fawehinmi last week after a dogged fight with lung cancer was sad. Not surprisingly, acres were written about his achievements and his principled commitment to improving the lot of the Nigerian masses and yet, when the man stood for President a few years ago, very few, if any of us came out to support or vote for him...perhaps because of the joke that said even if elected as president, he would organize protests against himself...
Seriously, we are the poorer for his loss
As they walk along, a larger crowd of boys in the same uniforms emerge in the distance and I notice that the older surreptitiously drops the hand of the younger, as he squares his shoulders and plunges right into the centre of the crowd of old friends. As I leave them to go into the station, I notice the younger brother, slightly bewildered on the fringe of the crowd, looking lost. I flash him what I imagine is a cheering smile and enter the station, hoping he will be alright on what is obviously his first day at big school....
On the platform, there is a little boy of maybe five, curled up on the bench, dressed again in uniform, complete with cap, cuddled up to his grandfather's chest who reads to him from a large children's book ...
To the cinema to see the new Almodovar film, Broken Embraces, as I expect, it is a sensuous feast of colours, the glorious yellows and rich reds of Spain, with shots from unusual angles and a story that grabs and hold my attention till the closing scenes. The reviews I had read had suggested that the plot was labyrinthine, with a film within a film, but to me it all appears very easy to follow. The part of the plot where the secretary becomes the mistress of her wealthy boss in order to pay for her father's treatment could have come straight from Nollywood and evokes unpleasant memories of Lagos...
I've now finished Chika Unigwe's On Black Sisters' Street. a tale of four African women working in the red-light district of Antwerp. It reflected the thorough research that she had done on the subject, and the story was engaging, if slightly implausible in parts. It is a sympathetic look at the lives of women whose voices are often not heard and well worth reading. Jonathan Cape have also recently published Ghanaian Nii Ayikwei Parkes "African whodunnit "novel, Tail of the Blue Bird and Malawian Samson Kambalu's The Jive Talker, subtitled How to Get a British Passport ( that title alone should guarantee it does well in Nigeria :-) and also published Segun Afolabi's Goodbye Lucille. I hope it means someone at Jonathan Cape is building an African writer's list....I've ordered all three to show my "moral support"
It's quite a year for new offerings from writers of Nigerian extraction, what with Chika's new book, Chimamanda's collection of short stories and new offerings from Helen Oyeyemi (White is for Witching) and Diana Evans (The Wonder)....
It's always a pleasant surprise to stumble across an established writer that I've never read, and even better when my second dip into their oeuvre is as captivating as the first. So it has been with the writer, TC Boyle, also known as T. Coraghessan Boyle. The unusual second name, captured my attention, when at a loose end one Saturday in the library. I then took out and read The Inner Circle, his novel about the sex researcher Professor Kinsey, narrated by one of his early acolytes. I enjoyed it so much that I have now just finished The Women, his account of the famous architect Frank Lloyd Wright's life, again seen through the eyes of a protege. He writes beautifully and does a brilliant job of exposing the clay feet of the two "gods"...
Last night to dinner with a friend to celebrate his elevation at work, he had cooked a kedgeree- (think jollof rice with hardboiled eggs and smoked fish), served with a delicious dal and yoghurt. The kedgeree reminded me in many ways of the jollof rice my grandmother used to cook, using palm oil instead of groundnut oil and any odds and ends she found in her kitchen...
Finally, the death of acclaimed Nigerian lawyer, Gani Fawehinmi last week after a dogged fight with lung cancer was sad. Not surprisingly, acres were written about his achievements and his principled commitment to improving the lot of the Nigerian masses and yet, when the man stood for President a few years ago, very few, if any of us came out to support or vote for him...perhaps because of the joke that said even if elected as president, he would organize protests against himself...
Seriously, we are the poorer for his loss
Saturday, September 05, 2009
Lost bloggers, Yinka Shonibare and a not-by-chance offering
I suppose I only have myself to blame, but coming back to blogville after a long time away, it seems so many of my favourite bloggers, have like me, fallen silent, many of them leaving the same kind of cryptic messages that I left when I disappeared. Glad to see that Jeremy's Naijablog is still going strong , as are Talatu Carmen's Abubuwan da nake tunani, Ore's Notes and Kpakpando. Solomonsydelle and Ms Catwalq remain faithful, but visiting the blogs of many of my fellow contributors to the 14th and Serenity project is a sad and desoalte experience, the last posts, weeks or even months old, spawning a strange and inexplicable sadness. Singto seems to have disappeared on a love-fuelled quest and while Chxta and Toksie continue to blog after relocating home to Nigeria, the hilarious Atutupoyoyo , Adaure and art activist Molara Wood seem to have been swallowd up in the feverish hecticness that is Lagos
And where or where have Jaja, Nkem and Mr Fineboy gone?
Ah well, I suppose it is the way of the virtual world, here today and gone tomorrow...
The plan was to visit the High Line, New York's latest outdoor space, widely touted as the best thing since sliced bread, and so at a loose end on an afternoon, I headed for what I thought would be the entrance, clutching the review from the Financial Times which had what I thought was a useful map. In the event I found myself on the banks of the Hudson, dodging traffic, feet aching and with no way of entry to the nouveau nirvana.....Apparently it's a one-way entrance. Beaten I wandered under the bridge trying to make my way back to the nearest subway station, when a poster for Yinka Shonibare MBE's exhibition at the Brooklyn Museum caught my eye. I made a detour and emerging into the sunshine of Brooklyn spent a delightful couple of hours admiring his exquisite reinterpretations of Western art classics in his signature Dutch wax prints..
Adaobi Nwaubani does not come to us by chance. She has pulled off a stunning feat in her debut novel I Do Not Come to You By Chance, taking the phenomenon of the 419 trade and exposing the flipside in a witty, unnervingly accurate depiction of the milieu that shapes and drives those emails that waft into our inboxes on a regular basis. There are many laugh out loud moments and I urge you to go now and grab a copy of this first offering from the first Nigerian based author to emerge on the international literary scene in a long time....There has been such a harvest of African writing this year, and I imagine it is time I revised my Nigerian/African reading list
It's literally the end of summer and as the weather turns, the leaves begin to flutter down, driven by strong gusts of wind that seemingly appear from nowhere. It's that strange time when it's too early to carry a coat or a jumper and yet, wearing my light cotton shirts, on occasion, I find a gust of ice creeping between the cloth and my skin raising gooseflesh...
And where or where have Jaja, Nkem and Mr Fineboy gone?
Ah well, I suppose it is the way of the virtual world, here today and gone tomorrow...
The plan was to visit the High Line, New York's latest outdoor space, widely touted as the best thing since sliced bread, and so at a loose end on an afternoon, I headed for what I thought would be the entrance, clutching the review from the Financial Times which had what I thought was a useful map. In the event I found myself on the banks of the Hudson, dodging traffic, feet aching and with no way of entry to the nouveau nirvana.....Apparently it's a one-way entrance. Beaten I wandered under the bridge trying to make my way back to the nearest subway station, when a poster for Yinka Shonibare MBE's exhibition at the Brooklyn Museum caught my eye. I made a detour and emerging into the sunshine of Brooklyn spent a delightful couple of hours admiring his exquisite reinterpretations of Western art classics in his signature Dutch wax prints..
Adaobi Nwaubani does not come to us by chance. She has pulled off a stunning feat in her debut novel I Do Not Come to You By Chance, taking the phenomenon of the 419 trade and exposing the flipside in a witty, unnervingly accurate depiction of the milieu that shapes and drives those emails that waft into our inboxes on a regular basis. There are many laugh out loud moments and I urge you to go now and grab a copy of this first offering from the first Nigerian based author to emerge on the international literary scene in a long time....There has been such a harvest of African writing this year, and I imagine it is time I revised my Nigerian/African reading list
It's literally the end of summer and as the weather turns, the leaves begin to flutter down, driven by strong gusts of wind that seemingly appear from nowhere. It's that strange time when it's too early to carry a coat or a jumper and yet, wearing my light cotton shirts, on occasion, I find a gust of ice creeping between the cloth and my skin raising gooseflesh...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
