On and on and on
Answer truly, if only for a moment and to yourself: how are you in the home of your body?
In the home of my body, there is tranquility or the slow quieting towards it. It is out of this tranquility that this letter finds you hours earlier than usual. The hours that will form my evening, have joys and indulgences waiting for me and I cannot assure you or myself that I could walk out of their embrace, however briefly, to ensure my words reach you. I am taking a much needed day off and if you have exams that have been making draining demands on you, I recommend the respite in whatever form that takes for you. It is the simple things, such as the mango I have in hand as I write to you and mouthfuls of sweetness bitten out of sun-kissed skins. The delight will only swell and grow within me as the hours pass and at the day's end I may find myself saying the word lovely far more times than necessary—whatever necessary means.
Cheers.
The past month did not course on such a lush note, and I do not expect this month to make easier demands. Elsewhere in the home of my body, there is fatigue. Yet, it because of this that I am pursuing respite with such zeal because even the memory of a past joy can give strength. Because when my neck is bent into the leaves growing from spines of books and pages after pages of references, and fatigue calls me to retire, I will remember, there was such respite some time ago.
In the past month, Instagram brought me a memory from a year ago. In that memory, I had written of myself:
Vice: With the exception of a dear few; I tend to be more emotionally involved with fictional characters than real people.
Now, I don’t recall precisely what I intended when I typed that, if I was acknowledging one of my many vices out of self-awareness or assessment. But to a large extent, the vice remains; and against what I must have thought it was then, it is far more likely to be an occupational by-product than a character flaw. Whatever form this vice takes now, it leads me to tell you about a delight I revelled in, in the past month.
In a conversation with a friend, about two months ago, we were talking about a number of things and because like Anne Carson says, some conversations are not about what they’re about—and I find these to be the best kind—we shifted between topics. She with a too-sweet strawberry cake in her mouth and her hands gesticulating as she spoke, and me with ice-cream in my mouth, dissolving as I listened. One topic or another, we arrived at a conversation about the Renaissance and she spoke about the Medici family—who she knew more extensively and I did only by way of my interest in Leonardo da Vinci. Before we shifted into another topic, she made a recommendation, a TV series based on historical accounts of the family, Medici: Masters of Florence.
Later that day, I looked up what had been gifted to me and thought I was in for a treat. Until, by association, the series Da Vinci’s Demons appeared on my screen. I will still return to watch Medici, soon enough; but my goodness, Da Vinci’s Demons was such a delight to watch. And it suffices to say, that in ways that shocked and pleased me, those episodes were quite a companion in the past month. I know I could begin to gush about this, but do you know what it is like, when a man has been the subject of your fascination and imagination and interest, but had always come alive in historical retellings and curious readings; only for him to be embodied on your screen? The series felt very personal. I delighted in the course it took and felt gratitude at many points. The history of course is partly reimagined, and this is a fascination of a different kind. I cannot promise to hold my fascinated tongue, so, I’ll tell you about it later[?]
Knowing that sex is something we love to have, but not have conversations about, I saw something that deeply amused me in the past month; and given the source of my amusement, it was not the only thing that had dropped my jaw concerning Lagos in the past month. The reasons why we feel such discomfort around this subject are manifold, learned, and often unconscious and elusive. On this subject, I saw a flyer calling people to attend a sex party. The image on the flyer was anything but subtle about the intent of the event and left little to the imagination, and all this is well and good really. But the nature of this invite and the party I imagined resulting from it took a problematic turn when I saw the imbalance in the cost of attending. To attend this party, a man is required to pay 40,000 naira and the woman, the high price of nothing.
In my younger years, I saw a few times, and you probably did as well, the entitlement with which many boys pressed their hands to the eager or otherwise stiffening bodies of girls at parties. At these parties, the payment structure was often the same, with the boys buying their way in with a couple of thousand nairas, and the girls, made upon their entrance, the awaited product. This of course is not always the case, but a dangerous potential for abuse lingers in those charged, loud, smoke-filled airs. The boys who purchased entitlement then, have grown into the men who could attend this party now—and the question of how consent or agency would function here arises.
The question begins in a room darkened with moans and heads thrown backwards under the hold of ecstasy. On a sofa by a dim mood-lamp, a man swirls his whisky, listening to ice cubes clinking as his eyes dart across the room. Through a curtain of beads, he makes out the body of a woman. Her thighs are parted as she watches a pool of bodies rising and falling into itself. A small pool trickles and she sinks into her seat as she reaches into herself. He washes the whisky down in a single gulp and marches towards her. When he whispers, let me help you with that, her shoulders fall with the weight of a body woken from its dreaming. She flicks her moist fingers at him, turning him away. He asks again and the repetition of her disinterest leaves him in shock. Then anger. Her answer curdles the blood that could have served a different purpose.
Now, anything could happen from that anger, a number of hateful, distasteful and violent things have happened and are happening as a result of this kind of anger—but we know too much of this, so there is no need for that image. But here is my amusement, the cost of attending this party is paid with a very specific satisfaction in mind, right? Yet, this is a service rendered by a given set of people, but more often than not, if that room were to be walked through with refunds in hand, hardly would you find a person who would take their money back and leave to hire a sex worker instead. So, I am amused to ask why this is. There are a number of theories concerned with this and I find them rather interesting, yet, I know little. But it is worthy of note, first, that the work does not function with the ease that it appears to—things are hardly what they seem. Also, the danger that often defines the interactions between men and women is not absolved, but continues into sex work—often heightened many folds for women sex workers and takes on different forms for men or queer sex workers.
As I am writing to you, I realize that the moon and stars cereal is in fact coco pops that went to space. The coco pops monkey/chimp went to space to bring us this gift. And of course, space changed him, he now has his tongue out and his thumbs up, but he really is the same monkey/chimp at heart. He still wears his cap, and his space suit still has coco written across it. Why is this important? Well, I’ve been eating a lot more cereal.
In the past month, while reciting poetry to a friend, she misheard me and this miscommunication, these words that arrived differently than they were conceived, brought about a different poem. After its birth, we sat still, our silences pressed against each other's ears before we began gushing about the gulf between meanings, the depth of implications. I was reciting to her, a poem by Safia Elhillo, part of which reads:
the story goes my father would never unwrap a piece of gum
without saving half for my mother
And she heard:
the story goes my father would never unwrap a piece of gun
without saving half for my mother
Similarly, while looking at beauty in various forms on Instagram, I saw on the page of an artist, an Arabic expression in her bio: As Salam ‘Alaykoum Wa Rahmatoulah Wa Barakatouh. Right next to this expression was Instagram’s translate feature and when I tapped on it, a mistranslation was born. If you are Nigerian, you probably know what this expression means, how it greets you with such peace and grace, saying: May the peace, mercy, and blessings of Allah be with you.
Yet, in the mistranslation, the meaning is:
God, until we die, give[s] us the opportunity to understand.
What are the implications of this as a greeting? And do you see how deliciously this returns to my earlier question of: would you rather have more answers than questions or more questions than answers? And what is a question but an opportunity to understand?
Do you know what my preference is now? What does it say that I am asking yet another question?
I’ve been considering recording audio versions of this letter. If you would like a copy—whenever it is ready—kindly write to me with the letter you would like to be read, or if you would simply like any of the letters to be read. I might go through with this in a couple of months.
One of the most beautiful sentences I heard in the past month, and in the year so far, filled my ear from the mouth of a friend: I hunger to commit the act of touch. It is the beauty of this sentence that has led me to the dystopian reality portrayed in the Handmaid’s Tale. In the spirit of dystopia, I am yet to see Mr Robot but that is a pleasure that awaits me in the coming months.
I’ll have fuller thoughts and ironies to share with you when this examination season passes.
One afternoon in the past month, I observed a curious thing. I watched four children at a distance, playing. Three of them stood over a child who was rolling on the ground, laughing and ecstatic as he was being beaten by the three. For this beating, they used a variety of implements. One of them—who was himself a toddler, tottering on his unsteady legs—used his hands, rising and falling with both his hands meeting the body of the child on the floor. The others used a whip and a cane as an instrument for this curious enjoyment. Not once in this moment of observation did I notice anything other than enjoyment. Despite how curious I found this; I could not say they were not playing—since it was clear this was their intention. After minutes of this strange music of whips and canes and hands meeting a body raising dust around itself while mimicking what was perhaps a memory of himself—begging for a mercy he did not want this time, denying what he was being accused of, what he was being beaten for—the girl among them introduced another element into their play. She asked the child to confess. She told him that after beating him a few more times, he would now begin to say that he had indeed stolen the meat when he ought to be fasting. And after a few more minutes of this strange music, his confession broke through like a falsetto. He rose to his knees, performing remorse and smiling at the short pause in the music, the heavy breathing as they rested their hands. The truth had been found, the play had fulfilled its purpose. Then he fell to the ground again and they all laughed, and when their laughter ended he knew the song he must sing, and he began begging them again for mercy and they all raised their hands to give him music.
This observation has various implications but I’ll explore later[?]
Poet’s Dictionary
Accent [noun] / [verb]
\ ΄ak- ¸sent \
Definition of accent
Because sometimes the only definitions we have for a concept, is by what it isn’t.
1a : isn’t a sound.
Example: an accent isn’t a sound. / Only those to whom it seems alien / would flatten an accent to sound.
Etymology: English word accent; from excerpts of Kaveh Akbar’s poem My Father’s Accent.
Reading
Would you like me to point you in the direction of law textbooks?
Playlist
During the past month, I returned to a song that contains one of my favourite of Drake’s wordplays. In a bar on Gold Roses, he raps: Roxx'll do you filthy for me soon as I give him the nod // Meanin' he'll blast for me like puttin' the 6 with the God. In his pronunciation of blast for me, he hints at blasphemy; which works interestingly with his honorary title of 6God—putting the 6 with the God—following the If You’re Reading This It’s Too Late’ album. At another time, I was listening to a playlist of Stravinsky, Shostakovich, Vivaldi, Mozart and others as the violins strained and the pianos brooded. For some reason I kept returning to Mozart’s composition in the playlist, feeling a strange familiarity, like I had heard the swelling of that instrument elsewhere. Then I remembered. Meek Mill had sampled Mozart’s Lacrimosa on the intro track—Lord Knows—to his album Dreams Worth More Than Money; a song which was also a memorable score for the movie Creed. On another note, Silk Sonic’s premiere single Leave The Door Open, I think, should replace all you up? or come through texts. Just send the song. Miguel's Funeral and Triangle Love also play this role on a darker, naughtier level.
These lines from Sabrina Claudio’s Hurt People resonates deeply: You know I'm tryna heal some things // And you're tryna hurry up the process just to find love // And me knowing you feel empty, baby // I try to give you what you need while taking all that you got. In the last chorus for the Cavemen’s Oye Ma Uche, I hear what could be the voice of our generation, and is certainly my voice, echoing: Teach me how to love // Teach me how to love // Show me how to be // Teach me how to love // Show me how to be // Teach me how to love.
Enjoy listening to Labrinth’s Demanding Excellence and We All Knew, Doja Cat’s Streets, Young Stoner Life, Young Thug, Gunna featuring Drake’s Solid, The Cavemen’s Onye Ma Uche and Anita, Amine’s Riri, Daniel Caesar’s Cynide, Summer Walker’s Shame and Show Dem Camp featuring Amaarae and Tems’ Too Bad.
I wish you a blissful month. I hope to read from you soon.
Love,
Ọbáfẹ́mi