Thought Picnic: Enemies present to see me blessed

In the grip of superstition

Sometimes, I find myself at that point of conflict between traditions and beliefs, the things we find ourselves doing because of fear, premonition, superstition, or customs we think the good and good fortune that comes our way is under constant threat from bad forces or persons.

We live with a tendency to believe that ill will exists at every turn, both in its proximity and in its distance, we inadvertently limit agency and facility because we give over the wealth of grace made available to us to the control of possible malevolence than trusting in unassailable benevolence.

Whilst one understands that there is no glory or praise in adversity, any adversity is essentially part of the construct of life, the more consequential matter is how one deals with adversity. For instance, when I was asked how I could avoid conflict from arising in some setting, I posited that avoiding conflict is rarely a function under our control, but addressing the issue in order the resolve it is one we need to have the skill to do.

Enemies present to see me blessed

It is against this backdrop, from the deepest recesses of my beliefs and faith, that I found that some advice I was receiving did not sit well with me. I can attest to many circumstances where I have found assurance, comfort, and solace from a verse of scripture that overwhelms and brings to naught the effect of something that in other situations would be damaging and impossible to overcome.

(Psa 23:5 NLT) You prepare a feast for me in the presence of my enemies. You honour me by anointing my head with oil. My cup overflows with blessings.

My understanding of this verse is that God blesses you for the observation of your adversaries and detractors. They are to see and know that you are blessed and blessed abundantly. The blessing of God is not something to be hidden. To enjoy the blessing of God is not a thing of personal pride, but one of glorifying God as it pleases God to bless His people.

The irreversible blessings of God

(Num 23:20 NLT) Listen, I received a command to bless; God has blessed, and I cannot reverse it!

In this Bible story where the prophet Balaam was spoken to by the ass he was riding, Balaam was being engaged by a king with the promise of a great reward to curse the people of Israel. What is fundamental here is that what God has done in His goodness cannot be repudiated. To the frustrated king procuring Balaam’s services, the clear message was, that what God has blessed cannot be reversed.

(Psa 118:6 NLT) The LORD is for me, so I will have no fear. What can mere people do to me?

(Psa 118:7 NLT) Yes, the LORD is for me; he will help me. I will look in triumph at those who hate me.

As I was writing this blog, the verses above came to me, even as others that I will further meditate on have percolated into my consciousness. This challenges many premises, but until you know your station and status, it might well be meaningless. The fundamental here is that the LORD is for me and with that confidence, I should not fear what people can or think they have the power to do to me.

This is reinforced in the next verse, confirming that the LORD is indeed for me, not just idling, but helping me so that I get to look in triumph at those who do not wish me well for whatever reasons they might have.

Goodness and mercy fully attached

The focus really should be on God rather than them, regardless of what they might be up to. I lay hold of this assurance receiving the honour bestowed on me by the one whose blessings no one can reverse. As always, the issue is getting to appreciate the powerfulness of your standing against the powerlessness of any assailant.

That is what gives the last verse of Psalm 23 its grounding in faith and reality. I remain convinced that famines pass for times of abundance beyond every means or measure of understanding. We only have to trust in the unfailing love of God to know that we always win.

(Psa 23:6 NLT) Surely your goodness and unfailing love will pursue me all the days of my life, and I will live in the house of the LORD forever.

Ash Wednesday as I participated

Learning a new focus of trust

This week has been one of the interesting contrasts in how to maintain focus in an environment of distractions, some harmful and others hopefully more beneficial. One thing I had decided was to be more participatory in this season of the church calendar, and this I mean, the Church of England – Anglican Communion arrangement.

I probably could have given some heed to doing something for Shrove Tuesday, I had the flour, and I could have made pancakes, yet I was exhausted and drawn away in thought and reminiscences that were quite unprofitable and redolent of interactions with seemingly sincere but quite unreliable people. Eventually, I find I can step away from the situation to reflect on how in words of the old hymnal, Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus, ‘the arm of flesh will fail you, ye dare not trust your own’, or that of any other too.

An eerie feeling of compounding disappointment and dejection seeks to occupy your thoughts and reins for which despondency intends to feed you the tears of apparent helplessness, yet you cannot relent for the hope that abounds and the love of God you are striving to understand and learning to believe beyond platitude and the scribed to experience.

A mortal in eternal purpose

The Lenten season is ushered in with Ash Wednesday and I had some excitement about attending the church service which was termed the Holy Eucharist with the Imposition of Ashes. It is one tradition I have never before participated in. When I told my mum about it earlier today, she thought it was a purely Roman Catholic tradition, I guess there are many areas where Roman Catholic and Anglican conventions overlap or are shared.

It was a solemn meeting in a medium capacity seating for that time in the afternoon. The highlight was The Imposition of the Ashes, wherein, the congregation files to the front before the ministers to have the sign of the cross in ashes placed on their foreheads. With the words said:

Remember that you are dust,
and to dust you shall return.
Turn away from sin,
and be faithful to Christ.

Taken from the second clause in the verse of Genesis 3:19, “for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.”

Quite a moment of spiritual recognition and an almost trembling appreciation of our humble mortality in the context of an eternal dispensation. I do wonder if it would have felt more poignant if that was said in Latin, “Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris.”

Intention for guidance and direction

After that, we then participated in the Breaking of the Bread signifying the work of redemption and the new covenant in Jesus Christ as our gathering ended quietly apart from music from the majestic Stoller Organ.

This period of Lent would be used to help attuned one’s spirit to the witness and the voice of the human spirit, given the direction of the Holy Spirit, away from distractions, distortions, noise, and confusion that can so easily leave one unsure of purpose, direction, peace, and guidance.

On the question of spirituality, I am learning that it is more an individual experience than identification with creed, church, or denomination. Where you are blessed is where you should be.

Dreamscape: Where learning requires example

As you dream of it

It was eerily like real life, but then what are dreams but multidimensional realities played out in the vast mines of the mind where treasures are found and fortunes are created in ways that the imagination is tested of its limits if there are any?

I found myself attending a function at a girls’ school, probably a Founder’s Day and some girls were lined up in two columns as if to give a sword arch parade to their honoured guest, their worldly famous and most successful alumna.

The field was down below and access to it seemed almost impassable at first sight, just as you have in dreams, the easy becomes immediately impossible and the impossible suddenly possible, like you have waved a magic wand.

I was there unawares

I eventually found myself at a vantage point to view the proceedings as a guest of sorts and too prominent to be overlooked after chatting to some of the girls. I had a feeling of déjà vu like I had been at rehearsals for this event somewhere and nothing happened after I was first called to participate and so nothing was learnt about what to do.

I was apprehensive and the more I asked about what was expected, the less I was informed of protocol or practice, it was like everyone assumed I knew and thought my inquiries were unserious and silly. I did not even know what the guest of honour was going to do, I thought I would observe and maybe learn something.

I did not know

To the strains of music, the guest arrived and passed through the parade to the end singing an apparent folk song that was a traditional game at the school on that day. She had done this many times before and part of it was a call-and-response activity between her as the lead and the guests or girls she selected to ask to attend a function and what food they would prefer.

You were not to take the enquiry literally but provide an excuse for not attending and a back-and-forth of teasing and questioning in order to persuade you ensued until someone made the mistake of mentioning food. Guess what happened, I was the first she called out to and I mentioned food.

Hear the derisive laughter and astonishment that I should have known not to have answered as such and it was when she moved to the next guest and her answer was the typical excuse that I realised my faux pas, but I was never in that situation apart from the other time when no one offered to explain the rules of the game.

The assumptions that ridicule us

It transpired as I made conversation and enquiry that this was a core Yoruba tradition that I could have learnt and enjoyed in childhood. Though, when they learnt I was not born in Yorubaland, they somewhat accepted why I made the error. It left me thinking of the gaps in my learning of Yoruba cultural activities, my knowledge of the language was not enough, there was more to culture than that.

On reflection too, we agreed that phrasing an appropriate enquiry to get the kind of information to prepare me for that situation would have been nigh on impossible. If only the guest of honour had selected someone else first, as matters acculturation are best bequeathed through example. Just because my apparent oddness makes me prominent enough to be selected first does not imply, I would be ready or in the know of what is expected.

Do not assume if you have expectations, at least discreetly try to elicit enough information to be sure the game is not ruined by those called to participate who are totally unaware of the rules.

On the faith of my fathers

Of mixed religious heritage

Something excites me about the notion of the return to the faith of my fathers even though fathers in the plural would hardly be the word to use with regards to generational providence as my grandfathers were quite interesting and radically independent persons.

My paternal grandfather was Muslim, and that heritage goes down the line as many of his relations from the town he originated from were mainly Muslim. Of my maternal grandfather who predeceased my birth by almost 5 years I have only recently been learning of, he was essentially Christian, literate, royal, and an anglophile that he was more commonly known by his very English nickname.

Impactful influences

Then my paternal grandfather married my Christian grandmother and together they had children split down the middle as Christian and Muslim; with my father, the first choosing to be Christian, my uncle, the other male of his siblings was a lifelong Muslim.

I think my great-grandmother’s family on my paternal grandmother’s side probably had an overbearing influence on my father’s childhood and development, she, my great-grandmother and her brother, my great-uncle seemed to have decided together my father will be educated in Western ways to the extent they were able to sponsor and encourage.

Each to their beliefs

In any case, having made the rounds of many Christian denominations and beliefs, I have settled into the Anglican faith of my childhood, at least, for some time, it was where my parents seemed to have some agreement and put up an appearance even if they were eventually persuaded of other things.

Upon review, it appears a majority of the grandchildren have adopted the Christian faith apart from what their parents believed and have chosen names that no longer belie their original Muslim allegiance, I am left literally not recognising who they are now.

A grandfather’s example

It goes to show that each person in their individuality would determine what belief system they would follow, the kind of purposeful individuality that set my paternal grandfather as probably the most moderate Muslim I have ever known because he was amazingly pragmatic and deferential to the choices others made without imposing his views even in the names he gifted his grandchildren.

Each Sunday I attend church in the Anglican Communion, here in Manchester or when in Cape Town, I am caught in awesome wonder, the ritual, the traditions, the ceremony, the uniformity, the congregational setting, all of that suits me well.

Now, I seek to exercise the kind of pragmatism of my paternal grandfather, accepting that the way people believe is essentially theirs to choose and should be respected without interference or a pretended audacity to proselytization, with one caveat; cults are untenable, where freewill and agency is under threat, it must be challenged on all fronts completely without relenting.

The malign state of cultural programming

The random in Uber rides

I was not going to walk back home with my shopping after visiting the hospital yesterday, so, I called Uber cab to take me home. The name of the driver appeared to be a Christian forename and a Muslim surname; it would have been an interesting conversation point.

When he arrived, the phonetical sounds I heard as he was conversing with someone on his mobile phone was unmistakably Yoruba, so, I engaged him with greetings and a sense of familiarity almost to my regret. The first I have had of a Yoruba person, probably the last I would want if this situation is repeated.

Patriarchy is the default

We seem to have this cultural programming to be first intrusive and probably judgemental. His first inquiry was whether my wife was too busy to do the shopping. There is no accounting for how long our people have lived in the west, some patriarchal views die hard. Even if I were married, nothing regardless of my status stops me from shopping.

So, I answered, I was just returning from the hospital nearby and that presented an opportunity to do some shopping. However, he would not let go, he wanted to know about my wife and my kids. An apparently essential demonstration of my whatever it might be. Wisely, this was not the time to introduce a radically implausible issue as sexuality, but some matters needed addressing all the same.

Moving on to other things

No, I do not have my own children, I cannot have children by reason of many issues including the consequences of chemotherapy. Then indeed I do have children in my nieces and nephews. Knowing I cannot have children I am pragmatic enough not to involve a woman in my complicated situation leaving her attached and yet bereft of issue.

Then, the matter of issue is one of contentment in terms of whether you do require them or not and whether you have made peace with your circumstances. Whether with issue or not, someone would take up that responsibility for interment when you are gone, the more important thing is to have impacted lives enough to be relevant in life and the hereafter.

That being said, we got to the matter of how frequently I visit home. Home to him is different from home to me, but I humoured him, I have not been to Nigeria in over 30 years. There began another inquisition. I volunteered I am English, though it did not tweak that my grasp of the Yoruba language and completed sentences without interspersing with English was probably commendable. I had committed infractions I should be answerable for.

Coming up for air

Obviously, whereupon that kind of situation within the Yoruba construct might well be considered unfortunate, on wife, on children, and on visits, the fact is to be consumed by circumstances over which you have little control or are not persuaded of will distract you from fulfilling other aspects of life and purpose. I reckon my message was clear from our interaction, I neither castigated nor excoriated him, I just provided another perspective to things.

That he was taking me into the centre of town elicited another comment about me being quite wealthy, to which I responded in Yoruba, the blessing is there to be shared to all. Yet, that cultural programming impervious to review does grate. I bet he has never done any domestic shopping before, but that is none of my business, I just want to get home.

Good Friday traditions upheld

Remembering the times

At church earlier today, it dawned on me that I probably have never attended a Good Friday service. In the Netherlands, Good Friday is usually not a holiday, though the Monday after Easter is. Thinking of Nigeria, the only observance I can recall was we did not eat meats at home on Good Friday, only fish. The only day of the Passion weekend we celebrated was Easter Sunday.

As I sat in church, at one point the dean of the cathedral born a large cross that he walked down the aisle to the altar where the cross was set up and a mallet was used to knock it into place. The sound of the hitting was quite impactful almost like hearing the nails being hammered into the palms and the feet of the Lord as narrated in the gospels.

Traditions holding firm

Again, there was no sermon as the readings were long enough to pass for a sermon itself. There were a few familiar hymns sung by the lay clerics along with Latin recitations which had accompanying English translations. During Communion, an African American spiritual was sung which had none of the inflections or stirrings of African American spirituals, yet, a very good rendition, all the same.

At the end of the service, the clergy walked to the back of the hall just under the tower and as the last hymn was concluded, the doors were slammed shut, signifying the closing of the tomb. All the symbolism and back at home, I had a slow-cooked fish curry bubbling away. I think, in terms of celebration, I have upheld to an extent the traditions of old.

A very befitting farewell

Learning new things

My thoughts have been contained in the events of the past few days surrounding the sending off and interment of a remarkably great man and my father’s best friend from childhood, Otunba Gabriel Ogunjimi Taiwo, who passed on in early November 2020.

Blog - The Vulture died of a ripe old age

The benefit of modern technology has allowed many of us who would have wanted to participate in honouring him with our presence to share in the moments with live broadcasts on Facebook. There are times we could have been swept into the situation and overcome with emotions it entails.

The traditions and the ceremony also revealed to me how somehow foreign everything seemed to me, it is like there has been a fundamental shift in these ceremonies from the solemnity I once knew that greets the preparations, the Service of Songs, the wake keeping, and the funerary rites to the outward flamboyance with performing pallbearers and much else.

Exhausted by spectacle

I could not begin to think of the energy and resolve of my friends in organising this feat whilst shouldering the broadest spectrum of feelings from sorrow through gratitude and joy of a life more than worthy of celebration, I, watching from afar, was exhausted that I feared whether I might ever have such strength.

My father gave a speech at the wake yesterday, he must feel the great loss of a friendship with the likelihood that in a quiet place, he could have let go of his emotions, it is a situation we cannot begin to fully understand apart from giving him support, consideration, and love.

For now and later

Then much as I want to be miffed about the untrammelled insatiable appetite of the clergy who steward our village church for donations, gifts, commitments, and other largesse after all that these men from their youth have contributed to the Ijesha-Ijebu community, using every opportunity to inveigle, plead, and entreat ever so unashamedly and blatantly, I will leave that to another time. Calmness and diplomacy demand that out of respect for our patriarch, we bring to a close the essential as it is needful.

Folusho, Niyi, and siblings, you have done well and done proud the legacy of your dad. May his soul rest in peace and the fond memories of his extraordinary life fill you with hope, strength, and grace into the future. Ẹkú Àṣẹ̀hìndè bàbá, ọjọ́ á jìnà síra. Gbérè!

The Vulture died of a ripe old age

Boys being boys

Gúnugún kìí kú léwe, in Yorubaland, there are sayings put to song and then played out with the talking drum. The tonal percussion of the talking drum with its musicality immediately registers with us and we engage by singing out the lyrics being played.

Then some boys probably took one of those sayings in songs and made a catcall out of it, whistling to the tune of the song. It became their call sign through adulthood into old age. Whenever one arrived at the other’s house, you heard the visitor whistle and the host responded. We soon learnt what it meant to great amusement.

Every kind of old

The first part, as written above translates to, ‘The vulture never dies in youth.’ The full saying itself speaks to growing old and growing old well.

Gúnugún kìí kú léwe, kí ẹ dàgbà kì ẹ dogbó, kí ẹ fi gbogbo ara hewú bíi ti Ṣẹ́ṣẹ́ Ẹfun. The vulture never dies in youth, may you grow old and wizened, growing grey hairs all over your body like the beaded crown of the Alaafin of Oyo.

The monarch of the Oyo kingdom in Yorubaland is known as the Aláàfin, meaning the owner of the palace. He wears the rare Ṣẹ́ṣẹ́ Ẹfun crown which according to tradition is first worn at least 10 years after coronation. It was made centuries ago. The colourfully decorated white crown has a veil of white strings looking like braids of hair, hence, the simile of grey hairs and the Ṣẹ́ṣẹ́ Ẹfun. Click on the link for the pronunciation of Ṣẹ́ṣẹ́ Ẹfun.

The Ṣẹ́ṣẹ́ Ẹfun crown courtesy of NairaLand.

The whole saying reads like a prayerful incantation for long life and between these boys and lifelong friends, it seems to have been fulfilled.

Back to their story

Their lives more or less ran in parallel similarities, both went into the same profession of accountancy, whilst debatable, they were lotharios and Casanovas at one, they took second wives and started second families, built homestead houses literally opposite each other in our village. The comings and goings of one were always known by the other. The children are good and tight friends even if we live in far-flung places.

He was a jovial, affable, humorous man who anytime he saw me called me by the nickname Akinse, Akinse, and the last time we chatted on the phone he wondered why I hadn’t visited after all this while. That is another story. I do recall that my stepmother also pressed me about visiting Nigeria for years, it was left an unfulfilled promise that the vicissitudes of the times has put out of reach. She passed on just over two weeks ago.

He was my father’s best friend from childhood, and I know he will be sorely missed by many, including his children. Adieu! Otunba Ogunjimi Taiwo, may your gentle soul rest in peace. The vulture did die at a great number of years in his 80s. A life to be remembered, celebrated, and honoured.

In gratitude, I acknowledge the help of @KolaTubosun & @Bishopade who on Twitter helped me find the meaning and use of Ṣẹ́ṣẹ́ Ẹfun.

Start a bonfire to change the cake

The ache of a cake

It feels strange, the kind of humour that comes to mind in these times. Greater Manchester of which Mancunium is the centre was moved into Boris Johnson’s Tier 3 level of coronavirus restrictions. It does not change much of what I do, my walks, my apparent self-isolation, my shopping, my churchgoing are all intact.

Thinking of tiers, it might just be a cake of tiers but what will the third tier of cake taste like? I would have no idea, a phantom cake has no context of form or taste, it is a figment of my imagination or a coping mechanism for forces somewhat beyond one’s control.

The national cake is being cut into regional conflicts between the central government and the local leaders, most of the regions not getting enough of cake to keep them fed. But we have Prime Minister whose hands on the till is a wasteful squandering the cake, because he thinks he can both have and eat his cake. A profligate, prodigal, reprobate, he is.

[Quote Brexit: Boris: “Our policy is having our cake and eating it.”]

No change in our pockets

The other night, a man and his dog was accosting anyone who will listen and I was eventually engaged, he had a pocket full of coins that he wanted to exchange for paper money or plastic money as some of our denominations are now. It appears, no one carries money around anymore which is a radical change to our society.

We have inadvertently become a cashless society, I have not taken money out of an automatic teller machine for months, everything is done by contactless payments by mobile phone or bank card. It means you do not have change for anything, especially those in receipt of alms. It got to a point the man walked off into a side alley on the way out of town cursing and raging, having not changed his money and somewhat thinking the world was against him.

A bonfire of useless parliamentarians

We are all up against a lot and it is easy not to see how things have affected others in the midst of things that impact us directly. A number of cultural and traditional events would suffer for this. Halloween coming up at the end of the month will entertain no trick or treat, it would be unsafe to take sweets or treats from strangers.

The 5^th of November is Guy Fawkes Night, though you wonder if with the crop of representatives with have in our current parliament, we would not be best served with a bonfire of their vanities. Imagine voting against free school meals and defending the position as if the Tories are the victims rather than the children, some of whom will go to bed hungry. [BBC News: School meals: Marcus Rashford 'proud' of community response]

Locally, it will be no penny for the Guy, an effigy of Guy Fawkes created by kids for which they can ask for donations. For all that we do to maintain a sense of stability, the subtle changes going on around us cannot be ignored. We keep at what we can and hope for the best.

Opinion: He was British, what changed him?

He was British

The Manchester bombing suspect has been named as a 22-year old British-born son of Libyan refugees. His parents were refugees from Muammar Gaddafi and they had recently returned to Libya.

Obviously, many questions arise and flags raised about how a person born in England, having attended local schools, was a Manchester United fan and was at one time a student at the University of Salford before he dropped out, became more religiously devout and outwardly hostile to his community before he took on a suicide terrorism quest against innocent people in Manchester.

In some of the news stories I have read, there are words and phrases that worry me, they show tectonic plates of acculturation that stand at the nexus of integration, assimilation, indifference or abnegation within the societies in which we exist.

How do we relate?

Wherever we were born, we have many roads to travel to some sort of self-ideation and completeness of personality and life within the communities and societies in which we live. I was born in England, I was exposed to significant culture norms of my parents but at the same time, I was raised in a culturally diverse community.

There are areas where certain animist activities of my father or the religious extremism of my mother could have impacted negatively on my outlook and worldview, for some reason, there was a part of my education and observation that meant that there was a more independent streak in me, as I have not so fully imbibed any culture, I am more of a world citizen with hopefully a healthy respect for our diverse humanity.

However, we cannot entirely ignore the influence of what the media terms ‘closely-knit’ communities, ethnic minority groups that cluster in areas for social, religious, cultural, economic and traditional validation and affirmation. To say I am suspicious of settings that attempt to create for offspring in host culture the semblance of home cultures long departed by forebears creates serious psychological problems for the children.

Dangers of little-stans

The tendency to create uprooted little-stans and ghettoes to ensure the children do not become alien to the culture of their parents, whilst laudable can be quite damaging too. Culture has become a fluid existence that is an amalgamation of many influences garnered from all the many places in which we interact, that to limit interaction to close-knit communities bereft of accommodation of the wider setting in which they exist is dangerous.

One such significant indication of this is where a cultural predilection to consanguineous marriages amongst certain communities in the UK is the leading cause of child mortality or congenital deformities in the newly born in the UK. The science is clear, but a deference to fatalism seems to reinforce the need to keep the traditional despite the avoidable heartache that comes with it.

The same goes for beliefs and teachings that appear to reject or criticise the norms and values of host communities. I remember whilst looking for a church to attend in the Netherlands walking into two services in different churches in two major cities one Sunday and thinking these were literally slum churches transplanted from Nigeria to the Netherlands.

The language was alien, the teaching was fundamentalist, the views were ultra-conservative that I left with the decision to seek out a church representative of the city in which I live, accepting of the broadest spectrum of humanity from all walks of life with an international and yet integrated cultural viewpoint. I found such in the Christian City Church which was consequently renamed to C3 Church. I felt I not only belonged but I could also contribute without the imposition of some Pharisaic authority over me.

We must attend to it

The process of acculturation is both slow and demanding, yet it is necessary for everyone who departs a home culture for a host culture to have discernment and make the best of every influence to be a net contributor to the fabric of society in which they exist. It means there is less stress on affirming who you are and reduces the necessity to adopt imported practices inimical to a proper and fulfilled life in host communities.

It should cut a swathe through demands of tradition that forbids intermarriage, that requires religious affinity or the person risks ostracism, that supports Female Genital Mutilation which is by terms an evil practice of butchering girls for some deluded idea of tempering sexual expression and worst of the lot, the murders termed honour-killing.

We must be careful what we project on our offspring as culture and traditions that they do not begin to rebel and revolt against sense, sensibility, reason, reasonableness and accommodations of diversity despite our innate beliefs.

What made the young man give up his life to such an atrocious terrorist cause? We may never know, but the signs were there and through the normal cause of minding our own businesses, he in plain sight became the mass murderer whose memory would attract eternal ignominy not only to himself, but maybe unremittingly and unfairly to his family and his close-knit community, when we should all gather together in our shared humanity to mourn the lost, comfort the wounded and strengthen the bonds that celebrate the best of who we are.

South Africa: Originally from the expected

The identity conundrum

Every time I travel, I am always caught in the other person’s dilemma of cultural identity and their expectations based on assumption or stereotype.

Telling them who I am usually does not align with who they expect me to be, some might express polite surprise whilst others will indignantly expect me to fit into some preconceived pigeonhole to satisfy their inability to understand the concept of third culture kids.

The number of times I have had to argue the idea of where I am originally from on this trip to South Africa has tested my patience, much as I tried to offer an educational context to the matter of cultural identity.

All that I am

I am an Englishman, born of Nigerian parents in England, for what is essentially my outlook to life based of cultural influences of affiliation and residence, I am generally European with a strong Nigerian heritage I cannot repudiate, neither do I intend to repudiate all the cultural inputs that make up who I am.

Yet, I know that for all the time I did live in Nigeria, I was treated as an outsider, given much liberty to either ignore or be excused from traditions those originally Nigerian were expected to observe and adhere to. That does not mean I have not been in the deep recesses of certain ritualistic activities that are impossible to narrate to any logical mind.

Then, I am expected to be married with children, it appears to be the norm, yet, I don’t do norms, I have rarely ever done norms and so to the question of family, I always respond, I have a large family of one.

The gleam and shine

So, when on Friday, I passed through the domestic terminal of the O. R. Tambo International Airport and after the security checks I was accosted by a number of good-looking young men in black waistcoats, I soon realised they were offering to shine my shoes for 30 Rand.

I was persuaded to take up the offer and I sat on one of the high chairs to have my shoes, cleaned, buffed and shined. After the application of the polishing wax, I noticed the shining process also involved dipping the buffing cloth in water to bring out the shine, bringing out a gleam that lasted days after the job.

I soon learnt they were all on commission, hired by some gang master who probably creamed off their tips too, the young man who shined my shoes had studied electrical engineering.

Such amazing craftsmanship

He could not stop commenting on the quality of the workmanship of my shoes, and I could say, he had seen a good few shoes. I proudly told him they were made in England, I bought them online from Samuel Windsor whose workmanship in shoes, suits, shorts, ties and trousers, I cannot fault. They are only let down by the courier agents they use for delivering the orders.

In the end, so a good job was done that it was easy to part with multiples of the cost of shining my shoes in gratitude and pride.

It was one of those mornings where you just felt so proud to be an Englishman with the realisation that some elements of exquisite craftsmanship have not be lost to our isles.

Thought Picnic: Pouring libations to our naked past

Secrets of loyalty

Two weekends ago, I had one of my incognito escapades where the planning and execution were literally revealed to no one. When I did tell my friend what I had planned, he was surprised because my planned trip to Amsterdam and Antwerp was both sudden and expressed in a way that seemed I was going round the corner from my home.

My recent trip to South Africa had boosted my air miles reward scheme status to enjoy a number of priority access services through the airport. I had garnered no less than 21,000 miles from that journey accumulated over 6 flights.

It meant I had fast track access through security regardless of the ticket I had purchased. As I did the typical security strip-tease without the music, the customs official engaged me in conversation about where I was from, where I was going and so on.

Maybe a coincidence

As it transpired, I answered, “I am English and my parents are Nigerian.” He asked what part of Nigeria and that got drilled down to the South West and Ijebu. He then responded that he was from Ijebu Imodi-Imosan.

That was quite uncanny because the traditional chief of Imodi-Imosan is also an Agemo masquerade and an uncle of mine.

He, however, was planning to return to Nigeria, to Imodi-Imosan where he said he was under obligation to offer appeasements to the animist traditions of his grandmother who apparently belonged to an Agemo masquerade affiliated lineage in Imodi-Imosan.

It occurred to me that this quite unlikely event of lives clashing on the improbability that we are linked by whatever degree by the familiar and yet strange coincidence calls for some reflection.

Not forgetting our ordinariness

For, no matter what the enlightenment of travel, exposure and schooling does to us, we are primarily human with the persuasions of the ordinary that goes far back before we existed, in genes that we bear or in the traditions passed down to us to return to the grottos of our ancestry where we take root having branched out literally beyond sight and mind of the roots that give us standing and sway.

The memorials are now in tombstones and fleeting memories, sacrifices and words now to be written on Facebook pages of those dearly departed too. We find imprints in the sands of time, weathered beyond recognition of frequency, but blown back like a leaf to obey the laws of gravity once the breeze settles.

For all the sense of culture we can muster, devoid of superstition and ceremony, we are essentially one step ahead of primitive, bound to things and secrets that rule our minds and decisions to walk into the future whilst keeping a keen eye on the past.

Essential Snobbery 101: Revisting the age of respectful address and proper communication

Fathering odds

As one's age begins to reach significant numbers, you begin to realise some changes in how you are viewed and addressed.

In my case, I guess my style of formal dressing has made me stand out to be respected and accorded courtesies in ways that could be rather inconvenient for some.

The other day, I was out to a Nigerian restaurant in a Manchester suburb with a colleague from work who is, well, two-thirds my age, whilst I stepped away from our table, the restaurateur asked him if I was his father.

Chaps on the lip

Apparently, she surmised that my dressing put me in an age bracket to be his dad, and with that, some banter mixed with mirth ensued, yet it was a bit revealing. Where some people are suspicious of being addressed as ‘Sir’, it does not really bother me; yet, there are places where I expect to be addressed properly.

I remember calling a repair service, a few weeks ago, and the receptionist calling back to ask if I was the ‘chap’ – the effrontery – you wonder where they get such uncultured people from; I do not think I paused to correct her by saying I was indeed, the ‘gentleman’, with emphasis, ‘that called earlier’.

A mugshot to pose for

Then, the descent into familiarity with strangers, people addressing me as mate, whilst it might be customary for certain people to do that, I take exception to being called mate because the first image that comes to mind of ‘mate’ is more of a cellmate than a schoolmate. That Australians have ‘mate’ as a standard form of address is no attempt to point to elements of interesting history.

However, as an information technology consultant, I get many calls from recruitment consultants, and you can imagine, any recruiter who addresses me as ‘mate’ has lost me from the get-go; we will not be doing business based on that call. Certain standards of address and decorum have to be kept, and in my case, when abused or infringed, demanded – I have no qualms about such old-fashioned views.

Back to basic English-speaking

Recently, the attempt to keep standards of communication up has gone to dating forums where you get messages that leave you in near-shock. You are hailed with ‘Hey!’ and then this, ‘Wruu2’. At first, I pretended not to understand it, then I decided I should start as I meant to go. So, I responded with, “Hello, Can we try English, please?” and the response was, “Sorry, I meant, ‘what are you up to?’” It makes you wonder how technology and the ease of communication have taken us back to the equivalent of when smoke signals were the best technology of the time.

Obviously, you then realise that since many in my age range are already parents and even grandparents, ‘uncle’ and even ‘daddy’ are expected forms of address one has to accommodate without quibble. The lesson or moral of the tale being, whilst a few of us might well be old-fashioned, we do not intend to go out of fashion. Until we are gone, some things will just have to be right and proper.

Thought Picnic: Catching my breath

Reassessing the situation

A bit of quiet is the essential for rest and recovery, this being in blogging and other things that tend to occupy yet not distract.

However, one must not be given to recidivism and lethargy, there is much to do, much to achieve and much more to be thankful for.

The month past was to one from one engagement to another, the beginning of new relationships and a rediscovery of self in matter whether one once blazed a trail of lasting activity praised long after one had departed.

Challenges around

Between the continuous and the chequered, to a point there was the former and in the recent times there reigns the latter whilst demands are made for sainthood in issues where one for life and issues is just human. A journey difficult but truthfully told might be insufficient, it is all one can do.

Besides, we rehashed, refreshed and upgraded, at least that is what took up most of yesterday where one walk brought profit and the longer walk was just fruitless. That desire to be revisited elsewhere.

In these times one is inconvenienced by some radical changes one encounters, everything traditional, unusual, unique and useful seems to have disappeared from the shops, they are only to be found online and delivery becomes a difficulty if where you are is far from where you say you stay.

Life and changes

Immediacy is lost to expectancy trimmed by doubt as to whether what one desires is what would be delivered.

All sensuality has been lost to relative virtuality, you are spoilt for choice presented on screen but abstraction is game of dreamy reality as we elevate trust to the pantheon of escrow systems, this technological civilisation makes the experience more plastic than it is human.

The honest truth is, I hate this, but this is where the world is at and one has to adapt to this change as it begins to dominate all things.

Yet, in all, opportunity and means becomes the empowerment of desire and attainment for which one must first be thankful and never blind to those who cannot for every reason reasonable and unreasonable.

The Agemo Traditions of Ijebuland - A Primer

Ìjà Olóko dancing in full Agẹmọ masquerade costume

Ìjà Olóko in full Agẹmọ masquerade costume

A lot to be said

“Ọmọ alágẹmọ mẹ́rìndínlógún Ọ̀rọ́pọ̀ o” [Son of the sixteen Agemo masquerades, there is much to be said; though Ọ̀rọ́pọ̀ in that context was the name of someone being praised in song.]

Many a Yoruba speaker who has listened to the classics of Chief Commander Ebenezer Obey will remember this line from one of his albums in the early 1970s.

The Jùjú musicians of that age along with praise singing included gems of Yoruba history and the intricacies of tradition from which the attentive can glean some very useful information.

In this case, the musician was singing the praises of an Ijebu indigene and referring to the Agẹmọ masquerades, fetishes and grottos of Ijebuland, which is in the middle of the Yoruba kingdom with the Egbas of Abeokuta in the north and the Lagos to the south.

Getting to the crux of the matter

Playing host to the Ìjà Olóko of Ìjẹ̀bú-Imọsàn, the traditional ruler, Oba Tajudeen Adekunle Muili - one of the most revered and respected of the Agẹmọ priests and dancers known in Yorubaland. He honoured me with answering a few questions of what can be revealed of the Agẹmọ traditions, cult and practices.

As the story of the Yoruba is made up of historical fact, myth, legend and fable, he said the Agẹmọ are the Òrìṣà brought from Wadai, purported to be the place from where the Ijebu’s migrated to present-day Ijebuland in the company of Bílíkísù Súngbọn (The Queen of Sheba). [More on Bílíkísù Súngbọn.]

Bílíkísù Súngbọn was barren but on her return journey, five important Agẹmọ figures said she would have a child if she takes them to the setting of the sun (Iwọ̀ Òòrùn). The Ìjẹ̀bú apparently set down where the sun went down.

Knowing the Agẹmọ

The five Agẹmọ figures included Ìjà, Nọ́pà, Olúmọ̀rọ̀ and the Ògbinkòjohùn of Òké ẹrì amongst others of the entourage where they warred in Ilé Ifẹ̀ and won before Bílíkísù Súngbọn settled and eventually died at Òké ẹrì.

Ìjà had a son who follows the Agẹmọ tradition in Ilé Ifẹ̀ named Olúyarè, much of this makes for the much to be said and told of the Agẹmọ cult, the unveiling of which must never be seen of the womenfolk.

The Ijebu led by the Ajẹbú and the Olóde predates the Agẹmọ, but for the Ìjẹ̀bú to eat the new yams of the harvest each year, they must first celebrate the Agẹmọ festival.

The Awujale depends on the Agẹmọ for counsel and for divination, the Ìjà, a hunter, is the most powerful of the Agẹmọ cult and he was first at Ìdẹ́wòn before he travelled to Ìmòwé and then to Imọsàn where he first sighted the Agẹmọ grotto.

On sighting the Agẹmọ grotto, the Awujale of Ìjẹ̀bú Òde sent the Ogí Aláwọ Ọba there and the Olújàgbórí was installed as the high priest of Agẹmọ.

More on the Agẹmọ

The Oro and Agemo cults

Ijebu deities

Pomp as Ijebu celebrate Agemo Festival

The Agẹmọ masquerades of Ijebuland

Àwọn alágẹmọ mẹ́rìndínlógún ti Ìjẹ̀bú oníjó – The sixteen prominent Agẹmọ masquerades of Ijebuland who have priestly duties along with dancing at the festivals. There are more than sixteen but these are the main personalities of the Agẹmọ cult.

Tàmì láti (from) Òdoógbolú
Olúmọ̀rọ̀ olórí (traditional ruler) Ìmọ̀rọ̀
Ṣeréfùsì láti (from) Ìgbílẹ̀
Pòósà láti (from) Imọsàn
Olúmokò láti (from) Ọkùn Ọwá
Alófèé láti (from) Ìjẹ̀ṣà Ìjẹ̀bú
Ònúgbó láti (from) Òkénugbò
Ìjà Olóko Ògún olórí (traditional ruler) Imọsàn
Láṣẹ̀n Àjágà L'órù láti (from) Orù
Màgòdò láti (from) Aiyépé
Lúbamísan láti (from) Àgọ́ Ìwòyè
Petu láti (from) Ìṣíwọ̀
Ògegbó láti (from) Ìbọ̀nwọ̀n
Ìdẹ́bì láti (from) Àgọ́ Ìwòyè
Nọ́pà láti (from) Imushin

Àwọn alágẹmọ aláìjo - Agẹmọ priests who do not dance but handle rituals.

Olújàgbórí láti Imọsàn - High Priest of Agẹmọ
Adùẹ láti Àgọ́ Ìwòyè
Ogí Aláwọ Ọba láti Ìdogì ní Ìjẹ̀bú Òde