Èrò Ni Gbẹ̀gìrì

  Biyi Bandele (1967-2022): In Memoriam Biyi Bandele was a generous soul who never failed to give all he could to make others richer. His gifts in fiction writing and filmmaking are immortalized in the many works he authored and produced. The yet to be curated monumental record he made in the last two years with captivating photographs of innocence and experience around Lagos markets and waters will perhaps last longest. From those countless images on Biyi Bandele’s facebook page, I have selected the following painterly shots to begin to consecrate our memory of his enriching our lives. 1: Resting Boats, Ikoyi Island. (16 April 2021) ( https://www.facebook.com/profile/581568922/search/?q=ebute%20aro ) After seeing this image, I commented thus on April 16, 2021: “This is "Èbúté Aró" (Indigo Harbor). No doubt. And I beg to be allowed to be unanimous with myself regarding that. Heaven knows you have good eyes. Pardon my speaking in tongues! ”  2: Market People, Lagos Islan

Decolonization Without a Linguistic Turn  is Like  Drinking Sugar Without Tea:  Ọlábíyìí Babalọlá Joseph Yáì (1939-2020) Read article Here

Moyọ̀ Òkédìjí, Before the Amistad Options for resolving the battle of “consciousness” are three (life, death, or captivity) and not two (life or death). No sane person enters a battle with the intent of getting killed or captured, although the potential for either outcome is not unknown. Warriors risk lives aiming to survive, to capture, or to kill their adversaries. If they end up with captives, the burden of sustaining the life of the unkilled, but defeated, adversary falls on the captor. The warrior that enslaves thus brings upon itself the responsibility of managing a reluctantly living person. Hence, a permanent tension that frequently breaks into outright wars between the master and the enslaved obtains in slaveholding societies. Slavery breeds permanent unrest because the enslaved is constantly attempting to be free of the “normative” circumference instituted at the moment the effort to die was truncated. The master, knowing that the enslaved has no reason to be grateful, i

Bí a Tilẹ̀ Ń Sunkún, A Kìí Ṣài Ríran!   Lọ́dun 1975 ni wọ́n kọ́kọ́ tẹ Kolera Kolej , àkọlé tí a túmọ̀ sí Kọ́lẹ́ẹ̀jì Onígbá Méjì nínú ìwé yìí. Ilé iṣẹ́ aṣèwé New Horn Press ní ìlú Ìbàdàn ló gbé e jádé . Òun sì ni ìwé ìtàn aláròsọ àkọ́kọ́ láti ọwọ́ Fẹ́mi Ọ̀ṣọ́fisan, ẹni tí gbogbo olóye ènìyàn mọ̀ gẹ́gẹ́ bí ọ̀jọ̀gbọ́n àti òǹkọ̀wé jàǹkàn. Eré aláṣehàn lórí ìtàgé ni Ọ̀jọ̀gbọ́n Ọ̀ṣọ́fisan gbajúmọ̀ fún. Ṣàṣà ènìyàn ló mọ Ọ̀ṣọ́fisan ní olùkọ̀tàn. Kòtóǹkan ni iye ẹni tó mọ Ọ̀jọ̀gbọ́n Ọ̀ṣọ́fisan gẹ́gẹ́ bí eléwì. Ṣùgbọ́n òǹkàwé tó bá fojú inú wo Kólẹ́ẹ̀jì Onígbá Méjì yóò rí i pé àṣehàn pọ̀ fún àwọn ẹ̀dá inú ìtàn náà; kódà bárakú ni ìṣe onídan jẹ́ fún èyí tó pọ̀ jù nínú àwọn èrò Onígbáméjì àti Oríle Iyá. Síwájú sí i, kò sí bí òǹkàwé kò ṣe ní kíyèsí ipa pàtaki ti ọ̀jọ̀gbọ́n akéwì, ẹ̀dá tó fẹ́ràn ajá rẹ̀ ju ènìyàn lọ, kó nínú ìtàn yìí. Ní tòótọ̀, ẹni wa fẹ́ràn obínrin dé góńgó; ṣùgbọ́n ìfẹ́ tí ó ní sí ajá rẹ

The seriousness with which scholars of African popular non-literary cultures have approached the music of Fela Anikulapo Kuti reaches its high point in Tejumola Olaniyan’s Arrest the Music because this is the first book that locates the meaning of Fela’s life, art, and politics within the larger intellectual milieu whose contours the musician himself helped to shape. The book also stands out for its adamant refusal to accept on face value the many received truisms, many of them self proclaimed, about Fela; his patently radical political statements, for example, are shown to lack ideological coherence or philosophical depth. To the question why is Fela important, Olaniyan responds that the body of work captured the essence of the “postcolonial incredible” (2) in ways no other African popular musician did. Fela became the force he was because he read the Nigerian postindependence situation very accurately and transmitted his observations in musical and verbal idioms most suitable for c

Ebenezer Táíwò Adéẹ̀kọ́ | 1918-2000 My father, E. Táíwò as he was called by many, left his home town at about the age of eight with something like a second grade education in his pocket. I am talking of Òdoláamẹ́sọ̀ of late 1920s to early 1930s. First, he moved to Ìjẹ̀bú Òde (Metropolitan Ìjẹ̀bú) to live with his uncle (the late S.J.O. Òtúbúṣẹ̀n, alias Bàbá Télọ̀) who realized quickly that schooling was not this boy’s thing and sent him further away to Lagos (!) to learn carpentry, one of the newer (historically speaking) building trades. After finishing his apprenticeship successfully and working for a while in Lagos, he followed the call of other relatives to move further away to Kano, in the “land of the Hausa” as we used to refer to Northern Nigeria generally even in my own childhood of the 1960s in south western Nigeria.  At the end of WWII, during which he worked as a rifle carpenter in Kano, he returned south to Ìbàdàn, where he lived the rest of his life.  Ìj