Monthly Archives: September 2015

THEY THAT WAIT (A Review of Helon Habila’s Waiting for an Angel)

Three friends: Lomba, Bola and an unnamed fellow, set out to the beach to see a fortune-teller who prefers to be seen as a poet rather than a marabout. And just like the four brothers in Chigozie Obioma’s The Fishermen, … Continue reading

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I like to gaze from the left, from where headlights approach and to where taillights recede, and sweep the view to the distant right, towards the River Kaduna Bridge. I like how the road reminds me of traveling; of people and places; of experiences. I like how the road drenches me with sweet nostalgia. Continue reading

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My preferred barbershop is just down the road by the corner. Nothing extraordinary for the slum I live in. A room barely two metres long and three metres wide. A miniature ceiling fan that squeaks like a rat caught in a trap; a television that needs to be slapped several times before the picture steadies; a wall mirror with more cracks than the scars on a Terminator’s face, and a swivel chair that doesn’t swivel. Continue reading

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A Tributary in Servitude is a dirge from a crushed spirit; from a broken heart. I have wondered why or how Servio Gbadamosi could still afford to sing (albeit a sad one) bearing this crushing load of all oppressed people. I remember the book of Psalms 137:4 where the captives at Babylon asked: “How shall we sing (the Lord’s) song in this strange land?” But then, I also remember Samuel Beckett’s: “When you are in the last bloody ditch, there is nothing left but to sing.” Continue reading

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men back then used to like calendars of beautiful homes and posh cars because it reinforced their resolve to not give up on the stringent savings plan they just signed with their banks; women liked calendars with pictures of well-furnished kitchens because they gave them something to pray for; guys loved calendars with beauty queens because it made them feel the reason they were still alone was that they had yet not found the perfect girl; desperate bachelor girls hardly did without the calendars of newly-wedded couples because it assured them that if such a girl could hook such a man, then there was still some place for hope in this cruel life. Continue reading

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Before you conclude that the poet’s profession which exposes him daily to death (and pain and suffering) has benumbed his emotional part, browse through LOVE SONGS (pp 20-25) and see that the poet is not immune to temptation, heartbreak, loneliness and nostalgia. Continue reading

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The erstwhile worthless cottage of Mr. X has become something else since after Holy Mary’s visit, to the extent that soldiers had to be deployed to ensure orderliness by the crowd that daily throng the place. The land itself has become so valuable that word around town has is that the Church has decided to purchase it with money sent all the way from Rome. Continue reading

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In my world, very few would forget the first or the last time they embarked on a long-distance journey without having first written or called to preempt their hosts. Mine was in 2002 when I rode all the way south … Continue reading

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