Cultural Innovation through the Telling of Stories and Fables

By Ayo Morakinyo, Nigeria

Growing up was fun for me because I loved listening to stories and often learnt vital lessons from them. I remember the interesting fables of ijapa (the tortoise), that illustrated how cunning, tricky and dishonest the shelled animal is. His wife too, Yanibo, added a measure of diversity to the stories. Many times, she would support her husband, Mr Ijapa, in the dubious endeavours, and at other times, expose his secret schemes to the victimised parties. In one of the funny stories I remember, Ijapa stole some money from friends and was planning to buy a horse from his loot. So, he informed his wife, Yanibo, about his intention. Yanibo did not care to know how her husband had gotten the money to buy a horse but she was overjoyed. While rejoicing, she frolicked around the bedroom to demonstrate how she would tirelessly ride an imaginary horse. She began by saying, “I will ride it like this and like this and like this and like this and like this…” Angered, Ijapa shouted, “Do you want to kill the horse? Don’t you know it will die if you ride it like that?” But Yanibo deafened her ears to her husband’s queries and continued gambolling. After a while, Ijapa’s fury heightened and he grabbed a stool and hit it on his wife’s head. Yanibo cried out sharply and died suddenly. Eventually, the village guards captured Ijapa. He was brought before the King and judged in the presence of his previous theft victims (the dog and elephant). A few morals from the story would be that: one should not steal; when angry, one should not make a decision or take an action but instead leave the environment; one should not be as talkative as Yanibo and one should not take what belongs to others without their consent.

Most of the fables I loved were those aired on the local television (children’s shows and story time programmes) and tales told by grandma at the appearance of moonlight. Others were read to me from the many storybooks my father bought for me and my siblings. Grandma’s stories were usually family-inclined, complicated and almost unending. She told us stories about the incidents and people that existed before even our mother was born. She would ask us for the meanings of some Yoruba proverbs and smiled at our ridiculous interpretations before providing the right meanings. That was what happened in my childhood and early teenage years. Today, technological advancement and the invasion of our homes by foreign media have sent story-telling behind closed curtains. These days, children observe foreign culture on TV and adopt it as their own. An instance is seen in the new taste of fashion in urban Nigeria. Fashionable mini-skirts did not walk into Nigeria in one day; they were first seen on TV, liked on foreign fashion shows before Nigerians began importing and selling them in boutiques. Guys who wear ear rings learnt it from the hip hop stars and ghetto shows aired on American television. Unless you were a member of the ancient sango family in Nigeria, the wearing of earrings was generally perceived as a poor behaviour and wearers were treated as outcasts. Well, human rights cover all that today and the path-paving factor is that you can wear what you like. These days, almost nobody defines the dressing ethics in many exposed societies. It’s legal. It’s your right. You can wear what you like. A hybrid of foreign cultures have been embraced in Nigeria and are somewhat diminishing the sustainability of Nigerian cultures.

The use of local languages is banned in several primary and secondary schools. Native greeting patterns are discouraged in some parts of the corporate environment. Fewer number of people patronise local-made products. The cultures of countries with more economic power are being superimposed on the core Nigerian traditions through the power of media and a sense of culture inferiority resident in the minds of Nigerians who consume foreign media. This has reflected itself in the modern Nigerian family settings and truly manifested in the areas of story-telling and sharing of home-training fables. Like an elder recently said, “some of the ambitious parents of today hardly have time to do home work with their kids let alone tell fables to them. Kids and the younger youths are trained by the media and the average metropolitan youngster in Nigeria wants to imitate Americana in dressing and speech. Ladies show off their cleavages and wear bum shorts in public, guys sag their pants and wear studs fashionably and the little ones want to dress to like Barbie doll and Ben 10.” While I commented that people have the right to wear what they like, I know that most of the fashion features he mentioned were adopted from the American hip hop culture.

The act of story-telling as done by parents in time past is disappearing with the rapidity of new and constantly evolving conurbation. Even in the rural areas, where the telling of fables and stories was a tradition, just a few of the inhabitants share time with their children, telling tales. Culture, especially the art of teaching ethics through tales and fables, is fast vanishing in Nigeria. We are gradually evolving from a people of artistic taste to one leading a hybrid of American and Nigerian lifestyles. But while in every society, the succeeding generation should always seek means of improving culture with current realities, the good part of other people’s culture is what should be adopted, not the condemnable acts. Of course, people have their rights reserved but there is also a need to pride ourselves in our cultural values. We should attempt to illuminate the dark areas of our culture and bring about a cultural innovation that complies with modalities of the modern age. We can simulate the good in our cultural values with new technologies and transfer them to other nations. That’s one major way of creating innovation and resurrecting the good in our own culture. Then, our friends in the diaspora, our media-consuming youths and the forthcoming generations will be reminded of who they are and learn a non-colour basis for defining real Nigerians.


Ayodeji Morakinyo is a graduate of Ladoke Akintola University of Technology. He blogs with Deliberation & Contemplation at www.moraks.blogspot.com and corresponds for the commonwealth youth community. He is a lover of ICT and Media.

 

African Poetry Anthology

By Kristin Wilson
Recently, a number of us have begun assembling works, notably poetry, written in African languages on a blog titled “The African Poetry Anthology”. In one sense this endeavour is trivial. As a molecular biologist, I recognise how many African countries are rife with demonstrations of the Red Queen hypothesis. In fact, just in my experience of a little over two decades in various cities in Africa, there are many ways in which poetry in indigenous poetry, at least in my admittedly limited purview, does little to scratch the surface.However, I have always been partial to the arts. At best, I’ve got an artistic persona but very little of the talent. Kind, otherwise unoccupied people think my work ‘interesting’, whatever that means. Most people are unlikely to bother with it. In my experience of the Arts in various cultures and contexts, I have become convinced that the necessity for artistry is primordial. If I were ever to agree with anthropologists that argue that culture is a uniquely human attribute, I would agree with those who make this argument on the basis of human artistry.

I believe that for every culture, its art, as expressed through music, language or ceremony is fundamental to identity. In fact, the research of many linguists, psychologists and anthropologists has not only brought to light the complex ways in which language interacts with culture but has also demonstrated that the intricacies of that interaction enables culture to evolve language and language to evolve culture. I have read many works of African poets but they have all been in the languages of colonisers. As a speaker of five African languages, I think this is a tragedy. Granted, most of my exposure has been in academic or otherwise formal contexts and this might account for this. But even in my own forays into African oeuvres the overwhelming prevalence of French, English and Portuguese is alarming. For a continent with over 2000 (by some counts 3000) languages, the scarcity of poetry written in our own mother tongues and dialects is something that begs attention. If we compel ourselves and the generations before us to express our thoughts and sentiments in tongues that are not really ours, I am convinced that we lose a tremendous deal of who we are.

A future where African children growing up in the many cities of the world, can grow up reading stories, essays and poetry in their mother tongues is anything but trivial. In my experience, it makes quite a bit of difference to the appreciation of my identity that I can express the intricacies of sentiment and experience in my mother tongue. Indeed, I think it ironic that when one purchases an ‘African Poetry Anthology’ (not in translation) one reads poems in European languages. How can we be intimate with our cultural and historical identities when we describe them in languages that are inherently foreign to them?

I hope that the African Poetry Anthology project is only the beginning. In fact, I hope that the need that my colleagues and I have identified is unique rather than widespread. Most importantly however, I hope that you will join us in addressing this purported gap in our literary experiences. If you have the means to contact established poets, if you know that you possess talent, please consider submitting. Whatever our different cultures, ethnicities or tribes, we all possess a capacity to produce poetry in our own languages.

If you have any questions, submissions, comments or would like to join the team, send an email to: africanpoetryanthology@gmail.com
Check out our blog: http://africanpoetryanthology.wordpress.com/
Twitter: @AfriPoetry
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/africanpoetry

People

By Taribo Osuobeni

From the day that I was born my color put me at a disadvantage. Like my hands were tied around my back, pulling and tugging and bugging about why from birth I started at the bottom of the status quo; The socioeconomic ladder. Why? I questioned like an atheist stressing and questioning the nature of a God, now before I implode and explode I question why? Why were my people born without respect because God decided to glaze us over with the permanent tan that is our color; our identity; our validity; our color of serenity? Why do others automatically gain that respect because they are not, of… THAT color? Take the paint brush and dip it in history; his story, her story, our story. Take that brush and color me with the blood, sweat and tears, fears and trembling hands, hands that picked and plowed this so called land, this nation where nationally we seem as one but that one is divided into one, that one group scaled out at a ton and took their blood stained boots and mounted on the throats and backs of the blacks who already stacked the baggage of lies and put downs of society from the start.

From the start it seemed like we were made in the white man’s hands, molded and scolded we stood, pressed down, chewed up, spat out and told that grime and slime is seemingly more appealing than your kind. But under pressure forms diamonds, and under pressure do we form, the pressure of labels and norms of haves and have-nots, of blacks and the occasional cop, of stacks of a cotton box all for the cost of the psychological murder of my people. My people who practically. No. My people who actually built this country, factually they made this country, our lives wade in this country, deep in the ground where they lay in this country, our brothers and sisters, mothers and misters rot and all for what? So that when a black man walks by you clinch your purse? So that the only time you listen to us is when we incorporate a rhyme or a verse? So that my brothers are still packing and stacking and hacking up blood, while bloods are set crippin, slipping and tripping, cocking back pulling the clip in, gun shots ringing and singing those sad songs all the wrongs and what belongs to us but what’s not given, our demoralized woman and children! Our demoralized woman and children. I’ve already gotten to the point but let me restate myself; we live in a land where what’s wrong seems right, a black kid picks up a book all of a sudden he’s white. He’s Caucasian if he’s smart and a little polite, if he doesn’t load up and dump or blow trees am I right?  We came from slavery to shooting three’s and catching touchdown passes, but do you remember when they tied us up and hung us in masses? No. Picture the men, women and children; Dangling, feet clapping, necks twisted, lives strung up on a tree. These were my people; your people; our people; People….

Grey Generation

By Esther Idza; Kenya

Grey generation
Our elders say we are a lost generation, one with nothing to show for our existence.
For our grandparents fought for Kenya’s independence,
And our parents laid the foundation for the prosperity of our nation,
But what have we accomplished?
Like barren pieces of land filled with water craving cracks, they compare us to.
They call us an accursed lot with no comprehensible future too.
With memories so shallow, and with irresponsibility tattooed in the deep of our black skin,
We have forgotten the essence of who we are.
We are a grey generation.

We are a grey generation.
We have succumbed to the beast that came to subdue our culture and heritage.
We have given up our ways to the Western world and spit on our ancestor’s graves.
We have no soul left, not a grain of African substance in us.
We have turned away from our parent’s ways and insisted on treading paths that have never been charted out before.
Bobbing our heads to a tune so different to the one they are used to sway to,
They are frustrated.
We have forgotten the essence of who we are.
We are a grey generation.

But of course we are a grey generation!
We mix black and white to create a hue of grey that aptly defines who we are.
We seek the good in the white and squeeze the bad out of the black so that we can mold a world that will suit us.
We refuse to be limited by dogma and other people’s expectations of us, and we create a completely different channel through which the river of our lives can flow through.
We abandon retrogressive customs that were engraved into the minds and lives of our ancestors.
We shun the degradation of an African woman and place her in an equal place as her male counterpart.
We refuse to judge people based on their tribe as opposed to seeing what they can bring to the table,
We have not forgotten the essence of who we are.
We are a grey generation.

We are a grey generation.
We are modern, not colonized.
We are not afraid to follow our inner voices, and with the tenacity and spirit that dwells in an African’s blood, we go straight for what we want.
And we will raise our voices and speak for Africa, for it is home.
We will revel in the depth of our grace and in the thick of our lips.
We will not bow to the expectations of another people but we will create a new destiny for ourselves.
We will adore the values that our elders have taught us and hand them down to our children.
Yes, we still have soul.
And African substance is what makes us laugh even in the most difficult of times.
We have not forgotten the essence of who we are.
We are a grey generation.

We are a grey generation.
We can be fine on our own, but we still need your guidance.
We need you to understand the meaning of compromise.
For there can hardly be absolute blacks and whites in this thing, there can only be shades of grey.
And no, we are not a lost generation.
The skies have changed and priorities have shifted, and we know change is never comfortable,
What was important for you back then may not important for us now but that is not the point.
We are not without accomplishments; we are exploring ourselves and the world around us.
And no,
We have not forgotten the essence of who we are.
We are a grey generation.

AFRICAN WOMEN: MAKING A DIFFERENCE

By Oriyomi Adebare

Many things have been said about the African woman and she has been repeatedly stereotyped as the weaker sex, the one who must live in the shadow of her husband, the one who has no say in political or economic issues, and one whose responsibility is only to her husband and children. All of these are in line with many African cultures which are male dominated and any woman seen behaving differently is seen as an ill-mannered woman who was not properly brought up. In spite of all these constraints, a few women have dared to live outside the norm and they remain forces to be reckoned with. One of such notable women is Wangari Muta Maathai, the first female to earn a doctorate degree in East and Central Africa, the first African female Nobel peace prize winner and the founder of the ‘green belt movement’.

Wangari Muta Maathai was born on 1st of April 1940 in Ihithe, a small village in Kenya, to a rural farming couple. She was the third of six children and the first girl child. She had her primary and high school education in Kenya at a time when educating female children was seen as a waste of time but because of her elder brother’s and her mother’s determination she enrolled anyway. She got an opportunity to have her university education in the United States under the John Kennedy scholarship just before Kenya regained it’s independence from the British imperialists.

On completion of her undergraduate studies in 1966, Wangari returned to Kenya where she hoped to work as a research assistant at the University of Nairobi. However, this was not to be. The professor she was to assist later denied her the job and instead offered it to someone else who was not only a male and also from his tribe. This was to be the first in a long line of sexist and ethnic battles she had to fight. She would eventually get a job at the same university where she progressed to become a professor of veterinary anatomy

Besides challenges in her profession, Wangari Maathai was also dealing with challenges in her marriage life.. She got home one day to discover that her husband of eight years, with whom she had had three children had packed out of their matrimonial home. Her husband had decided that he couldn’t tolerate her boldness anymore and gave in to societal pressure that did not give room for women to outshine their husbands. Since her husband was a politician and he wanted to humiliate her, their divorce was open to public debate. Wangari did not let this deter her and instead got more involved with environmental and societal issues eventually founding the ‘green belt movement’, an organization committed to replenishing the trees exploited by the colonialists and fortune seekers. With the help of other women she succeeded in planting more than 20 million trees.

Her outspokenness on societal issues which the then authoritarian administration in Kenya saw as an affront on their leadership got her into trouble many times. Between January 1992 and July 2001 she was beaten, jailed, forcefully arrested and detained five times and was even hospitalised from the beatings she got. However, this only added to her zeal to continually speak out against barbaric environmental practices and oppression of the poor. Her efforts were eventually recognized by the international community which  awarded her a number of awards including the Nobel peace prize in 2004.

Wangari’s story is one of hard work; determination and the will not to allow anything deter one from achieving their dreams. In her own words:

I have always seen failure as a challenge to pull myself up and keep going. A stumble is only one step in the long path we walk and dwelling on it only postpones the completion of our journey. Every person who has ever achieved anything has been knocked down many times. But all of them picked themselves up and kept going, and that is what I have always tried to do.

Wangari died of ovarian cancer on 25th September 2011. She will always be remembered by many; the women she paid to plant trees, the women that she organised to secure the release of their wrongfully detained sons and the countless others who were blessed through her in one way or the other.

Illegitimate!

By Dimeji Abidoye; Nigeria

March 7 1999.

Seven year old me sat, bouncing in the front seat, waiting impatiently for everyone else (who hadn’t even taken a shower yet) to get to the car so we could finally get going. I flipped through the pages of the thick book that sat in my lap, ingesting eagerly story after beautiful story of great impossibilities that seemed to defy nature at every turn. A sea, not a bowl of tomato soup, a sea was split in half and more than one person was raised from the dead. Prophecies came to pass and the wicked were punished over and over again in such beautiful prose.

March 27, 2012.

I have not set foot in a church for almost six months now.
I am not an atheist, I am not an agnostic, I am a believer, what I believe in I will not disclose, however I am a believer with many questions, questions to which I have found few satisfactory answers, questions which I will share with you.

March 7 1999

I started reading very early, before I was three if my mother recalls correctly, and the first book I ever read was the King James Version of the bible. Therefore I had the good luck (depending on how you view these things) of knowing beforehand all the bible stories that I was being taught at Sunday school. I say good luck because I quickly became bored with the repetitive patronizing nature of the lessons that we were fed week after week. My teachers quickly became very fed up with my boredom (this would happen many times over the course of my life) and kicked me to the adult church. I say kicked because I was quite literally kicked. This violence led me to my first question, why do believers treat other believers viciously?

Once at the adult church I sat down in the front pew, judiciously taking notes in my cipher-like scrawl while the pastor preached “Jesus is the truth the way and the light”. But my paternal grand-pa did not know Jesus. He was a “traditionalist”.

If you went to school in Nigeria, or Kenya from what I hear, you must have at some point done religious studies. In R.S. you are taught that there are three kinds of religions; Christianity, Islam and African traditional religions or Traditionalism. If you were the kind of kid who believed everything that you were fed, you swallowed this whole. If you were the kid who took joy in proving his teachers wrong, you found the nearest book on religion, and you sat down till you found out that the name “African traditional religions” deliberately made indistinct, the finer aspects of what were complex belief systems that quite shockingly, unlike you were led to believe, had little instances of cannibalism or ceremonial gang rape to appease the gods so that they would send rain.

Sitting there in the front row, with the knowledge that my grandfather “the traditionalist” did not know Jesus, I was immediately scared for him. He was dead already, but he must be in heaven right? I jumped to my feet and asked “what about the ancient traditionalists?” No one ever interrupted the sermons and I was once again, much to the embarrassment of my parents, kicked out of church.

I waited till they came out at the end of the service and asked again, what about the traditionalists. Traditionalism is evil was the reply, and so I asked “what about grand-pa? Was he evil?” I got not reply that time. This led me to my second question, what gave Christianity its exclusivity? What gave the pastor or my textbooks the right to render illegitimate the religion of my dead grandfather?

September 16 2004

My first day of “Christian” boarding high school; that day is really important as it marked the beginning of six consecutive years of regular punishments. Why was I punished? Because I had the audacity to ask questions and because I had the audacity to suggest on a regular basis that perhaps not everyone shared the same “unwavering” belief in Christ. I will not go into details but my six years there led me to ask, is faith nothing more than intellectual cowardice? Why, if they were so confident in the supremacy of their God, was I not allowed to question his very tenets and such? Why was I always told to be quiet?

March 7 1999.

What gave Christianity primacy? In my family the first born always took precedence, so I had to ask, which came first, Christianity or my grandfather’s traditionalism? I got sent to bed early for asking that one.

July 9 2010.

I graduated from the Christian school, and I finally had my answer. His religion, for him came first, and Christianity had not existed for him until there was colonization in Nigeria. Christianity became nothing more than the relic of a colonizer used to further imprint the inferiority of the African into his own mind. The traditional beliefs of my Grandfather were worthless specifically because they had not been European.

I wondered if the colonizers religion had been some exotic esoteric cult that necessitated sacrificing your pinky finger to the moon goddess on the eve of your eighteenth birthday, using only your teeth for the extraction, if my parents and the pastor and my teachers would have held it in the same high regard.

I became agnostic; but only for a while.

March 27, 2012.

So what is Christianity, was it a legitimate belief system and could I just group it into “western traditional beliefs” along with being a Mormon and scientology? What made it legitimate where the religion of my grandfather was not? If I were raised Buddhist or Muslim or to follow the teachings of Confucius, how would my world view be different? What if I was raised atheist?

Is atheism a faith? Is not non-choice in itself a choice? Is non-belief in itself not belief, only belief in nothing?

I told you I believe, and that I would not tell you what my beliefs are. I spoke a bit hastily. I still am a Christian today, in spite of all of my questions. But I am not a Christian because of my upbringing. Quite frankly that must have contributed to the contrary. I believe because there is evidence in my life of the existence of a God, and the way I have access to him is Christianity. I believe because of my own experiences and not because of what was forcibly thrust into my hands.

Ask your questions, I doubt you will find satisfactory answers, but do not hesitate to question what answers you do have because your questioning will force you to greater belief or force you to unbelief.

I would rather you were a confident atheist, than a “Christian” peddling half-truths and semi-lies in eternal fear of damnation.

And mother when you read this, I’m not wavering; not at all.

I’m just unafraid of having unanswered questions.


Dimeji likes asking questions and looking for answers even though he may not find any.  He also writes mediocre poetry in his spare time

A Patriot’s Manifesto

By Kristin Wilson

When we engineer the Country of our dreams, we envision a country, a habitat where man is free and at peace; one that represents a part of a whole; an instance of an instance of a continent’s success.

In the Country of our dreams a child is like a diamond – treated with utmost love and significance. Its youth are comparable to an energy source (say oil) whose valid contributions are acknowledged as unrivalled and inimitable – critical to the success of the nation. Within its elders, a display of the peculiar royalty of our nature; of the radiance of our exquisiteness and the immense value of our people.

In the Country of our dreams each man works to achieve for the nation’s good. Our leaders are blessed with the understanding that leadership is in essence service and our people comprehend that a government is empowered only by the people. A place where life progresses in such a way that each lives knowing that as he walks and works, he treads on chords that vibrate for all eternity affecting the futures of not only of his progeny, but of the children of many to come. This is a world of adherence to time, of foresight and long-term plans. It is one where many, if not all, possess the acuity to see both long- and short-term benefits as each seeks the good of fellow man as brother and co-compatriot.

This is a place where a man is his word and his value is in his work. Labor is fruitful, for on the harvest ground we each have sufficient bundles. It is a place with a system of law, order and accountability, where society’s elite, working class and ‘lower’ class have access to the same definition of justice. A place with legislation that looks out for the common man and a judicial system that stands independent enough to effectively preserve all of his rights.

It is a Country where we have educated, enlightened and open-minded adults whose lot does not rest on ’government’ but is earned on the merit of their own hard work. It is a place where national pride exists not only during football matches but where our various anthems are etched into the cores of our very hearts. A Country like ours can possess wealth that extends beyond the monetary to a wealth of culture and people because we will not be limited to an appropriated ‘Westernism’ that belittles our intrinsic and attested worth. We are the sort of wealthy that is displayed on the African child’s face as a smile emerges not because he can finally dream of eating something (dear God anything!) after three days, but because he is aware that years ago that may have been his reality. It is a smile born of the ambition and determination of this generation and a legacy that he too will carry on.

The Country of our dreams provides fertile soil for its youth to imbibe the art of excellence and create a verdant nation. Here, the child has a voice – a powerful one at that- trained and refined by the virtues of our cultures. He is keen and apt in ways that are enhanced by a sound education which is coupled with the blessing of youthfulness. Each child has access not only to indoctrination but to a holistic education that covers principles, ethics and academics; values of honesty, integrity and passion for one’s work. We are a nation of continuing students whose quest is enlightenment so that we can put it to use.

It is a beautiful thing to see each of us rejoicing because we have traversed the world without selling  either our souls or the beauty of our heritage. It is a beautiful thing to be part of a Country that reaches out to those in need because it can afford to and it genuinely wants to. Most importantly though, is the fact that we are consistently at the drawing board- because we are aware it is our responsibility to keep making things better.

African Thinking

By Kevin Biwot; Kenya

There is elephant dung in London. It is dark and shaped round like balls. These balls of elephant dung support beauty and expressiveness on top of them. There is elephant dung in New York too. And the mayor does not like it.

It may sound crazy but these are true instances. I am not talking about zoos, dear friend. I am talking about the works of somebody I would like you to know. First, let me tell you where to find elephant dung in these distinguished cities. In London, the place is the Tate Gallery. In New York, the place is the Brooklyn Art Museum. In a while you will find out how elephant dung found its way there.

I have the pleasure of introducing to you to one of the most brilliant artists of our time. He is Nigerian by birth but he grew up in Manchester, Britain. His work has been exhibited in three different continents. In 1998, he received the Turner Prize for Artists, which in my estimation, is an Oscar for artists. His name is Chris Ofili.

There are many ways to describe Chris Ofili’s works. Some call it beautiful, some claim it is shocking. Some say it is worth applause while some would rather deflate their eyes than see his work. One element that stands out in his work, however, is that he is an active social commentator.

While doing his masters at the Royal Arts College in the U.K., Mr. Ofili had the opportunity to travel to Zimbabwe to study rock painting  It is while he was in Zimbabwe that he got the inspiration to use elephant dung in his work. He loved the way elephant dung was used to make lines in the rock painting. He considered it attractive.

On his return to Britain, Chris Ofili had the opportunity to showcase his new style by commenting on a sensitive issue. On April 22, 1993, a teenager by the name Stephen Lawrence was stabbed by a gang of white youths chanting racist slogans. The crime bore much weight considering the heavy tension between blacks and whites in Britain at that time. The aftermath of the murder, however, was extremely disappointing. The police investigation into the Lawrence case bore no fruit- not because the police were professionally challenged but because the institution itself was rife with racism, as many critics pointed out. The debate created by this issue was immense and at the heart of this debate was the deceased’s mother, Doreen Lawrence. Chris Ofili made a painting of her and named it “No Woman No Cry”. The painting depicts an African woman crying. In the tear drops are the pictures of her son. It was an impressive statement. The picture is big and stands on map pins made of elephant dung. This painting led to his being awarded the Turner Prize.

Chris Ofili has proven that he is not one to shy from controversy. In 1998, he made an entry into an exhibition called “Sensitive”. This exhibition was organized by a group of artists who called themselves the “Young British Artists”. Chris Ofili’s entry was the “Holy Virgin Mother Mary” and it was extremely controversial to the extent that the Catholic Archbishop in New York had to speak of its “ugliness”. The painting was of a black Madonna, the Virgin mother Mary. If the painting were left with the Black Madonna alone, it would be worth showing off in a church. Chris Ofili added impressions of butterflies flying around the Madonna and included his trademark lines and collages of elephant dung. It does not sound controversial in any way, does it? But if you include the fact that the ‘butterflies’ were cut outs of women’s buttocks and vagina from pornographic magazines, it brings out a whole new picture. The mayor, Rudolph Giuliani, called it ‘sick stuff’ and threatened to withdraw funding from the Brooklyn Art Museum for exposing such offensive material. The painting faced protests from the public and was defaced by a 72-year-old retired teacher at one time. The issue at hand was his offensive depiction of the Catholic religion but Ofili’s intent was way deeper than that. Some critics argue that he was questioning the stereotype that has the Virgin Mother Mary depicted as a white woman and has on the other hand black women being the face of pornography in Britain.

Chris Ofili’s paintings comment on pop culture, relationships and others are simply created for beauty. I chose his work as a topic because it reflects how at the time of our youth, we feel a sense of expressiveness biting at us. I often have strong opinions on issues of sexuality, politics and religion but I always ponder on what the ‘African approach’ in these matters would be. I have often questioned myself what ‘African thinking’ is.

I cannot explain the content of ‘African thinking’ but I can tell that if the ideas of an African were juxtaposed with the thinking of other communities, it would stand out.

A case in point is Chris Ofili. Many people have argued that Chris Ofili’s use of dung is revolting. However, that is not the case in Zimbabwe where he got his inspiration. He found out that the elephant, was a revered animal among the natives and as such use of its dung was not in any way revolting. You can also look at Chris Ofili’s paintings. At first sight, you can tell they were done by an African. They are colorful, bold and have an element of culture in them. They are beautiful, yet they have a meaning as similar to most African artifacts such as sculptures, cave paintings and ornaments. You cannot imagine that the work was done by a youth who grew up in Britain. Why so? It is because they exude a spirit and culture that can be found only in Africa.

There is no probably no ideal African thinking is but if there were I know it would entail boldness, empathy and it would not necessarily be politically correct.


To read more on Chris Ofili http://www.africancolours.com/african-art-news/142/nigeria/in_chris_ofili_lesson_for_young_nigerian_artists.htm

Fasten your… man

By Evans Mbora Campbell, Kenya

You may have already filled the void that the dots allude to,
Yet in reality the void left by the man who left any idea of that answer for Kenyans remains vacant,
We were once nothing more than vagrants, begging for direction in a country where carnage was the order of the day, as night follows day,
But now we think twice seated in our cars, in the matatus that take us from A to B, and we have more hope, hope that we’ll make finally make it to C

His name was John Michuki,
Title fitting for the service he rendered to his country; Honourable,
A minister who caused ripples for his stern, focused opinion, a man of no indecision,
Such were the bold character traits our country needed at a time when fatal road accidents were as ubiquitous as the matatus accused of causing them,
A time when seatbelts were never a matter of concern and advertisements became nothing more than ignorable attempts at pun!
At THAT point in time, it was his firm voice, his urge to see a country transformed, that helped us achieve this state now substantially reformed!

Admittedly I had never heard of the speed governor before the year 2007,
And in all honesty, the introduction of a mechanism that could curtail how fast I would get somewhere I urgently needed to be was bound to fail!
But the Honourable minister was RELENTLESS, settling for nothing less than consistent obedience,
Setting a standard that still remains unforgettable, that still lives on as one of his most amazing achievements, deservedly memorable,

And though we may mourn the loss of an amazing gentleman, leader and patriot,
We must also celebrate the lives of those he has helped save and remember that his was not an effort lost,
But one that shall surpass the lives of all it touched to reach generations upon generations for a beautiful nation.

In honour of a great man, and his all-inclusive life plan,
Fasten your seatbelt man.



Evans Mbora Campbell describes himself as a  young, free-spirited gentleman interested in living diversity and writing about life and its experiences. Visit his blog at http://evanscampbell.com/

Chasing Dreams: A Champion

By Rebecca Njeri, Kenya

Think like a child but act like an adult
คิดเหมือนเด็ก ทำเหมือนผู้ใหญ่ (kid muen dek tam muen phu yai)~ Thai saying

Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly ~ Langston Hughes

This is a journal about a champion in your life. Someone who stands tall in the arena holding a huge banner that declares “My Rebecca is a winner!!”  A mentor; someone who will see the potential within you and guide you towards achieving your full potential. A critic- someone who will keep you grounded.

In this first video, Franklin Kipruto who turned 12 years old on the 14th of February 2012 shares his dream to be the  Chief Justice with all of Kenya. I am immediately struck by Franklin’s story because he is able to do something a lot of people forget to do- he has the audacity to dream. He reminds me of my experience as a reading programme volunteer at a community library. Every time we read with the kids you could see how much they wanted to succeed; to do something for themselves and  for their families. The kids would say “I want to be a nurse, a teacher, a policeman” All these were people that had succeeded in their society, people who they knew and looked up to; people they could be like. And then I listened to Franklin’s mother describe how Franklin had always wanted to be a judge and how  his dream had even become more ambitious after he met Willy Mutunga; Kenya’s Chief Justice. It made me realise how I and a lot of other people older than 12, are probably no longer as impressionable and fickle as 12 year olds. We have learnt so much, but worse we have faced failure, discouragement and began to be  made aware of our limitations. We have started seeing that the numbers on our termly report cards mean that we are less talented and inclined to accomplish less in our futures.

At Alliance Girls High School, I had a Physics teacher who repeatedly told us a metaphor. “Imagine a students does well in their end of primary school examinations and are admitted to Alliance Girls High School. As they join the school , their dream is to be a neurosurgeon. Then they go through their first year here and they get a little discouraged, there is so much work and they discover that maybe they aren’t as talented as they thought. At the end of their first year, their dream has changed. Now they hope that one day they will be a doctor. The second year starts and things do not get any easier; there are more challenges to be overcome. By the end of it; the dream has been lowered once more, I want to be a nurse. What makes a person lose so much faith in themselves, what makes a  person lose the “audacity to dream?” I ask myself this so many times because I have tutored kids younger than me for such a long time and I want them to keep this faith; because you’ve got to know you can do it; want to do it; before you eventually do it.

Still I think I know a way to get around this. I listened to Franklin Kipruto’s mother describe the incredible faith she had in her son. She said “Hakuna kitu Franklin hawezi fanya,” “There is nothing that Franklin cannot do.” And Franklin heard her say that. I almost know she must have told him this over and over. telling him you will be the best judge there ever was. Or telling him that one day he will be Kenya’s Chief Justice driving a 4-wheel Rav 4 to visit her. And in my mind I see Franklin’s mom as a champion; holding a huge banner at the finishing line and saying “Franklin you can do this! Franklin you are talented and smart. Franklin this world is for your taking.” And then I watched a TED talk about Caroline Casey,who is legally blind, in which she  reveals that she had not been aware of her condition until she was 17. And all this time she had been seeing. As she says how much she had looked forward to learning how to drive; and she must have been carried in a car, I wonder at the folly of her dream; so beautifully borne out of her lack of knowledge. And I realise how much our faith in ourselves depends on the conditioning that we surround ourselves with.

My mum always tells me that she loves my writing. Truth be told, even if  I wasn’t a good writer, I would have kept writing. I would have improved. I would have mastered the art. Maybe I dream too much. And I have to, I have listened to one too many people tell me that I can do whatever I set my heart to.

Inspired by a speech given by Ndindi Nwunelo at the third annual Barnard’s Global Symposium in Johannesburg- South Africa


Rebecca Njeri is an undergraduate student at Wesleyan University where she is majoring in English and Economics. She loves writing and hopes to use her words; time and talent stimulate a revolution that will spark entrepreneurial ventures on the African continent.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 252 other followers