St. Bartholomew Anglican church is perhaps the best place to celebrate Easter. The church got a unique character, especially on Easter day. The hymn, the ritual, the message, and the wine. Oh! The wine. Nothing else tastes like the wine served during Holy Communion at St. Bartholomew in Grahamstown. Several Sundays since I began attending the church, I have never missed Holy Communion. Each time the wine vessel is passed on to me, my palate tingles. St. Bartholomew serves the best wine in Grahamstown. Sometimes before I set my lips on the rim of the vessel, I take a quick look at the wine inside. Light red liquid, like diluted drop of blood, winking silently in a golden cup. And the liquid is transparent enough for one to see the yellow floor of the vessel. But the magic moment for me is when I tilt the vase toward angle 90 degree, and the ruby river starts coursing through the smooth rim right into my waiting mouth. How my tongue twitches at that moment. Oh Lord, I love the taste of wine of St. Bartholomew church. The blend is simply divine.
But on Easter day, everything changed. The wine did not only taste like nectar, it became spirit –filled. The Easter hymn of Lyra Davidica seeped from the old organ into the walls of the church. “Christ, the Lord, is risen today, Alleluia!...” For a moment, I felt like one of the 12 disciples sharing the Holy Communion with Christ at the Last Supper. St. Bartholomew started looking like the upper room outside the walls of the Old City of Jerusalem. The figuring of Jesus on the wall stepped out and became flesh. He was no longer half naked. He was cladded in Jewish robe and stood in front of me, offering me wine of St. Bartholomew. “Take, this is my blood”. Like the one in trance, I took the golden vase, and I began to down the red miracle. Oh! Dear lord, I like your blood. A-a-h-h! I love this wine. The sweet wine of St. Bartholomew church. Surely, Cardinal Richelieu is right, “if God forbade drinking, would He have made wine so good”. Wine indeed is good. Friends, drink no longer water, get good wine and drink. Today is Easter.
Happy Easter, everyone!
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Again, I Had Night Visitors
Rude noise from the dark world.
And the silent night carries the echo into my room,
Through a glass window.
It has to be some technicians at work,
Fixing the metal framework or something
And the good fellows would not want to disturb the sleeping occupant
So they go about their business quietly, persistently.
But they were not quiet enough,
Because I later woke up,
In fact, I sprang up,
Only in time to see a hand dart backward through the burglary
Like a huge fang of a strange animal.
And the alarm in my head went off.
“They are stealing! They are stealing!!
“They are thieves! They are thieves!!”
For the second time, I woke up,
Now with less disoriented-ness.
But that happened several seconds late.
My laptop on the reading table had already gone,
So was the external drive.
Just the same way my LG phone disappeared two months ago.
Without thinking, I made for the door.
Ran to the gate.
Oh! I forgot the key on the table.
Ran back, get the key and went in hot pursuit of the night visitors.
Like a soul possessed by evil spirit,
I ran up and down the full length of Market Street,
Alone in the cold night.
But all I saw was empty road
The neighbourhood has gone to sleep.
The time was 2:35 am or thereabout.
Then I started shouting: “Thief! Thief!!, help! Help!!”
And I got some response.
“Gbooh! Gbooh!! Gbooh!!!”
Only the dogs heard me.
At night in Grahamstown,
Only dogs are your true friends.
And the silent night carries the echo into my room,
Through a glass window.
It has to be some technicians at work,
Fixing the metal framework or something
And the good fellows would not want to disturb the sleeping occupant
So they go about their business quietly, persistently.
But they were not quiet enough,
Because I later woke up,
In fact, I sprang up,
Only in time to see a hand dart backward through the burglary
Like a huge fang of a strange animal.
And the alarm in my head went off.
“They are stealing! They are stealing!!
“They are thieves! They are thieves!!”
For the second time, I woke up,
Now with less disoriented-ness.
But that happened several seconds late.
My laptop on the reading table had already gone,
So was the external drive.
Just the same way my LG phone disappeared two months ago.
Without thinking, I made for the door.
Ran to the gate.
Oh! I forgot the key on the table.
Ran back, get the key and went in hot pursuit of the night visitors.
Like a soul possessed by evil spirit,
I ran up and down the full length of Market Street,
Alone in the cold night.
But all I saw was empty road
The neighbourhood has gone to sleep.
The time was 2:35 am or thereabout.
Then I started shouting: “Thief! Thief!!, help! Help!!”
And I got some response.
“Gbooh! Gbooh!! Gbooh!!!”
Only the dogs heard me.
At night in Grahamstown,
Only dogs are your true friends.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
War of Two Nations
This week, the pain in my chest returned. And it became worse on Wednesday night. But that was because it rained into the early hour of Thursday, and the cold was excruciating. So, throughout the night, I hugged Salton Heater. That helped, but I had already assured myself that I would see Dr. Pellissier in the morning. This pain robs me of sound sleep. At daybreak, I called to book appointment and I got 10 o’clock slot.
By 10:10am, I was already seated on a black-leather rocking chair. Dr Pellissier’s office looks spick and span. And I was grateful to realise it was warm too. It was still drizzling outside. Looking at the kind face of the old doctor, I know I was in good hands. And that feeling which makes you think you are not as ill as you think in the presence of a doctor was starting to happen. Before I started doubting my illness, however, Doctor Pellissier spoke: Hi, I am Dr. Pellissier. Is your surname Amzat? ‘Yes’, I answered. Then he ran his eyes down my file again and looked up to ask where I came from. I said, Nigeria.
“Oh, Nie-gee-rya. Do you use cocaine or sell it?”
I didn’t believe my ears. So I kept quiet. Dr. Pellissier could not have uttered such plain prejudice to a patient he is meeting for the first time.
“Go on tell me, there are quite a number of Nigerians making cool money selling cocaine here. I mean, you could have sold some cocaine to pay your way through Rhodes.” What! Dr. Pellinsier was saying all this, smiling at the same time. Insulting my nationality was his idea of joke.
Was I angry? No I was not. I was furious. Back in my house, there was some catch phrase my housemates put on the kitchen wall, “When you are angry throw glass.” But there was no glass to throw at Dr. Pellissier’s office. Instead I threw a salvo back.
“Really, you seem to have read quite a number of tabloids about Nigeria. Back home, we also have read that South Africa is a haven of crimes. And that, South African whites are the worst racists on earth.”
Under his peer of glasses, Dr. Pellisseir scrutinized the pupils of my eyes. In turn, I stared straight into his iris. For brief seconds, tension between us rose to the white ceiling of his office. He probably was jolted that I referred to his people as being the worst racist. But I was not done. “And guess what doc, I lost my expensive phone and my bicycle within two months I arrived in Grahamstown. South Africans indeed are interesting people.”
Miraculously, my sickness has taken off. I was battle ready. I wanted Dr. Pellissier to make further xenophobic comment about me and Nigeria before I relay stories that have I read in the South Africa newspapers in the last three months.
But the old doctor would not go that route. Rather he sympathized with me about my loss of phone and bicycle. After, a series of tests, he told me I was fit as fiddle. I thought I had pneumonia or something. “No, you do not have anything close to pneumonia. If you do, you will be as sick as dog before you came here.”
He said I probably was reacting to the new environment. He advised me to eat well and exercise regularly. Finally, he prescribed a painkiller drug, and on a friendly note, we parted at the door of his office.
Sincerely, I think Dr. Pellisier is a nice man. But he is a victim of media representations, that kind of signifying practice that tar every black person, a criminal; every white person ,a racist; and every woman, a weaker sex. It is all in the politics of meanings.
By 10:10am, I was already seated on a black-leather rocking chair. Dr Pellissier’s office looks spick and span. And I was grateful to realise it was warm too. It was still drizzling outside. Looking at the kind face of the old doctor, I know I was in good hands. And that feeling which makes you think you are not as ill as you think in the presence of a doctor was starting to happen. Before I started doubting my illness, however, Doctor Pellissier spoke: Hi, I am Dr. Pellissier. Is your surname Amzat? ‘Yes’, I answered. Then he ran his eyes down my file again and looked up to ask where I came from. I said, Nigeria.
“Oh, Nie-gee-rya. Do you use cocaine or sell it?”
I didn’t believe my ears. So I kept quiet. Dr. Pellissier could not have uttered such plain prejudice to a patient he is meeting for the first time.
“Go on tell me, there are quite a number of Nigerians making cool money selling cocaine here. I mean, you could have sold some cocaine to pay your way through Rhodes.” What! Dr. Pellinsier was saying all this, smiling at the same time. Insulting my nationality was his idea of joke.
Was I angry? No I was not. I was furious. Back in my house, there was some catch phrase my housemates put on the kitchen wall, “When you are angry throw glass.” But there was no glass to throw at Dr. Pellissier’s office. Instead I threw a salvo back.
“Really, you seem to have read quite a number of tabloids about Nigeria. Back home, we also have read that South Africa is a haven of crimes. And that, South African whites are the worst racists on earth.”
Under his peer of glasses, Dr. Pellisseir scrutinized the pupils of my eyes. In turn, I stared straight into his iris. For brief seconds, tension between us rose to the white ceiling of his office. He probably was jolted that I referred to his people as being the worst racist. But I was not done. “And guess what doc, I lost my expensive phone and my bicycle within two months I arrived in Grahamstown. South Africans indeed are interesting people.”
Miraculously, my sickness has taken off. I was battle ready. I wanted Dr. Pellissier to make further xenophobic comment about me and Nigeria before I relay stories that have I read in the South Africa newspapers in the last three months.
But the old doctor would not go that route. Rather he sympathized with me about my loss of phone and bicycle. After, a series of tests, he told me I was fit as fiddle. I thought I had pneumonia or something. “No, you do not have anything close to pneumonia. If you do, you will be as sick as dog before you came here.”
He said I probably was reacting to the new environment. He advised me to eat well and exercise regularly. Finally, he prescribed a painkiller drug, and on a friendly note, we parted at the door of his office.
Sincerely, I think Dr. Pellisier is a nice man. But he is a victim of media representations, that kind of signifying practice that tar every black person, a criminal; every white person ,a racist; and every woman, a weaker sex. It is all in the politics of meanings.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
This Day, I Choose a Boring Path
Some writers are like Don Williams in his graying years; they put you to sleep with their piece; not for the melody in their art though, but for the boredom that runs through their lines.
I read works of some of those writers, this week. Ever heard of Stuart Hall, Lawrence Grossberg, Nicholas Garnham, Nancy Fraser and others in the Cultural Studies and Political Economic Legion? Never mind, you won’t ever come across them if you don’t stick around your nose where Lynette teaches. Yes, Professor Lynette is my teacher in Rhodes. She teaches Media and Society in MA class once-a-week, sometimes, twice. A darn good lecturer she is. Behind, we call her the Witch of Rhodes. She knows too much for one person. But I like her. Her erudition constantly reminds me of my hollow head.
Anyway, I read dry articles written by these fellows. Lynette prescribed them for the semester. And guess what? I read into the night without a wink for days. I dared not stop. I got Friday deadline to produce my own seminal article after reading those boring stuff. And by 11:05 pm yesterday, I submitted. Barely one hour before deadline. From what I garnered, I was the last to submit. Today, reading what I submitted again, I nearly believed I penned no such humdrum. Flat piece! As boring as Nigerian constitution. This is not the kind of writing I want to spend the rest of my life doing. No! I want to be able to write stuff that would keep multitude awake many nights; writings that would make me more popular than Agatha Christie, and richer than Bill Gate.
But that’s a cheap dream. Hell, no. No cheap dream for me. I would rather go for a higher calling. Instead, I choose to write for the few. Those ones who will find my writing boring and still stay up the whole night reading it. People who will have no other option than to read me, because their claim to power depend s on it. He who shapes the mind of the powerful wields more power, you know. And the truly powerful are few in this planet.
Hello, you probably are dozing already. See, I am no longer your kind of writer. I am a bore. Go grab yourself a soft sell instead – thriller or tabloid.
And please accept my apology, I have chosen the boring path – without your consent.
I read works of some of those writers, this week. Ever heard of Stuart Hall, Lawrence Grossberg, Nicholas Garnham, Nancy Fraser and others in the Cultural Studies and Political Economic Legion? Never mind, you won’t ever come across them if you don’t stick around your nose where Lynette teaches. Yes, Professor Lynette is my teacher in Rhodes. She teaches Media and Society in MA class once-a-week, sometimes, twice. A darn good lecturer she is. Behind, we call her the Witch of Rhodes. She knows too much for one person. But I like her. Her erudition constantly reminds me of my hollow head.
Anyway, I read dry articles written by these fellows. Lynette prescribed them for the semester. And guess what? I read into the night without a wink for days. I dared not stop. I got Friday deadline to produce my own seminal article after reading those boring stuff. And by 11:05 pm yesterday, I submitted. Barely one hour before deadline. From what I garnered, I was the last to submit. Today, reading what I submitted again, I nearly believed I penned no such humdrum. Flat piece! As boring as Nigerian constitution. This is not the kind of writing I want to spend the rest of my life doing. No! I want to be able to write stuff that would keep multitude awake many nights; writings that would make me more popular than Agatha Christie, and richer than Bill Gate.
But that’s a cheap dream. Hell, no. No cheap dream for me. I would rather go for a higher calling. Instead, I choose to write for the few. Those ones who will find my writing boring and still stay up the whole night reading it. People who will have no other option than to read me, because their claim to power depend s on it. He who shapes the mind of the powerful wields more power, you know. And the truly powerful are few in this planet.
Hello, you probably are dozing already. See, I am no longer your kind of writer. I am a bore. Go grab yourself a soft sell instead – thriller or tabloid.
And please accept my apology, I have chosen the boring path – without your consent.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Now I Can Die Another Day
God bless Joe.
Joe is my housemate who appears to have assigned to himself the duty of looking after me in Grahamstown. In my first few days in the chilly town, Joe got me two blankets that provided me warmth for the cold lonely night. It was Joe also who arranged for the two comfortable chairs I now use in my room. When a stranger walked into my room and stole my LG phone, Joe walked with me to the police station to lodge complaint. It is important that the police is aware in case someone uses my phone to commit crime. Just as we stepped out of the house, walking down Market Street to the police station, rain started. But Joe would not have us wait for the rain to stop. He had a class to attend that morning, and he did not want me to delay reporting the matter to the police. By the time we got to Grahamstown Police Station, we were both soaked to the pants. His fluffy hairs flattened on his pink head.
God bless Joe.
When Joe notices I stay too long in the room, he would quietly knock at my door and ask: Jibleezy, would you like to join us for drink? To all his friends, I am his friend from Nigeria.
God bless Joe
But despite Joe care and fret, I fell sick last week. My head pounded. Every part of my body was wracked with pain. But it was the pain in my chest that was the most excruciating. Throughout the night, I was uncomfortable. If I should die here, who would be the first to know? I asked myself in my dis-ease state. That probably would be Joe. But Joe doesn’t know any of my relatives or friends. And for the first time since I arrived Grahamstown, I was terrified by the fear of death. Bussie already is counting days for me to come back to her bosoms. Our baby would soon arrive anytime in June. In fact, s/he would be one year old by the time I am through with my MA programme in Rhodes. How terribly I long to see that child! The least I can do, therefore, is to live.
The following day, I decided to see a doctor. After all, I paid about R400 (N80,000) for my medical insurance before I left Nigeria. Immediately after Media and Society class on Tuesday, I headed straight to Dr. Pellinser’s clinic on New Street. But the old lady whom I presumed to be Dr. Pelliser’s secretary told me I was not on appointment. She later fixed appointment for the next day. Here, it looks like you book an appointment before you go see a doctor, else you will be asked to come another time. My Zimbabwan friend, Mphathise was not happy with that kind of arrangement. “What if someone’s case was very critical, are they going to insist that a patient visit the doctor on appointment still?” he asked.
Anyway, I returned home without seeing the doctor. That night, Joe gave me his Salton heater to warm my room with. Gawd! I never realized how terribly cold my room was until I put on that heating machine. The room was comfortingly warm. In fact, I slept like a baby. Surprisingly, in my dream I found myself racing side by side with Tyler Hicks, the New York Times ace photo journalist. We were both running along with other journalists covering Libya crisis on the street of Adjabiya. Libyan air force fighter jet just flew over our heads at only 2,000 feet. As Tyler swung his camera in order to gain good balance, his camera hit me on the face; I was blinded by pain and fear of death. Gratefully, I woke up sweating but alive. My body was, in fact, no longer in pain. I was as fit as fiddle. The room was so cozy that I wanted to continue sleeping. I turned head towards the left side of my bed, there was Salton heater humming and breathing warm healing air over the brown blanket covering my lanky frame. I had no need to see Dr. Pellinser again. I had just found a cure.
God bless Joe.
Joe is my housemate who appears to have assigned to himself the duty of looking after me in Grahamstown. In my first few days in the chilly town, Joe got me two blankets that provided me warmth for the cold lonely night. It was Joe also who arranged for the two comfortable chairs I now use in my room. When a stranger walked into my room and stole my LG phone, Joe walked with me to the police station to lodge complaint. It is important that the police is aware in case someone uses my phone to commit crime. Just as we stepped out of the house, walking down Market Street to the police station, rain started. But Joe would not have us wait for the rain to stop. He had a class to attend that morning, and he did not want me to delay reporting the matter to the police. By the time we got to Grahamstown Police Station, we were both soaked to the pants. His fluffy hairs flattened on his pink head.
God bless Joe.
When Joe notices I stay too long in the room, he would quietly knock at my door and ask: Jibleezy, would you like to join us for drink? To all his friends, I am his friend from Nigeria.
God bless Joe
But despite Joe care and fret, I fell sick last week. My head pounded. Every part of my body was wracked with pain. But it was the pain in my chest that was the most excruciating. Throughout the night, I was uncomfortable. If I should die here, who would be the first to know? I asked myself in my dis-ease state. That probably would be Joe. But Joe doesn’t know any of my relatives or friends. And for the first time since I arrived Grahamstown, I was terrified by the fear of death. Bussie already is counting days for me to come back to her bosoms. Our baby would soon arrive anytime in June. In fact, s/he would be one year old by the time I am through with my MA programme in Rhodes. How terribly I long to see that child! The least I can do, therefore, is to live.
The following day, I decided to see a doctor. After all, I paid about R400 (N80,000) for my medical insurance before I left Nigeria. Immediately after Media and Society class on Tuesday, I headed straight to Dr. Pellinser’s clinic on New Street. But the old lady whom I presumed to be Dr. Pelliser’s secretary told me I was not on appointment. She later fixed appointment for the next day. Here, it looks like you book an appointment before you go see a doctor, else you will be asked to come another time. My Zimbabwan friend, Mphathise was not happy with that kind of arrangement. “What if someone’s case was very critical, are they going to insist that a patient visit the doctor on appointment still?” he asked.
Anyway, I returned home without seeing the doctor. That night, Joe gave me his Salton heater to warm my room with. Gawd! I never realized how terribly cold my room was until I put on that heating machine. The room was comfortingly warm. In fact, I slept like a baby. Surprisingly, in my dream I found myself racing side by side with Tyler Hicks, the New York Times ace photo journalist. We were both running along with other journalists covering Libya crisis on the street of Adjabiya. Libyan air force fighter jet just flew over our heads at only 2,000 feet. As Tyler swung his camera in order to gain good balance, his camera hit me on the face; I was blinded by pain and fear of death. Gratefully, I woke up sweating but alive. My body was, in fact, no longer in pain. I was as fit as fiddle. The room was so cozy that I wanted to continue sleeping. I turned head towards the left side of my bed, there was Salton heater humming and breathing warm healing air over the brown blanket covering my lanky frame. I had no need to see Dr. Pellinser again. I had just found a cure.
God bless Joe.
Friday, March 18, 2011
My Baptism at St. Bartholomew
Two Sundays ago, I had a difficult time going to church. I just didn’t feel like stepping out of my brown blanket and reach for shower. But a still voice said to me: “If for nothing else, try go to church and observe some quiet moment. And who knows today might be the Second Coming of the Prince.” I never like my still voice when it reminds me of duty, and not of my rights.
But I obeyed. Hot shower, black trouser and blue-stripe shirt; and I was ready for church. Breakfast had to wait. Few minutes later, I was riding my one-month old Raleigh bicycle down the hill of Market Street to St. Bartholomew church.
And a peaceful service, it turned out to be. The Rev. Father’s English was impeccable, and so was his cassock. Spotless white. His serious aspect reminded me of Mr. Omiwole (God bless his soul wherever he is now), my principal at St. Charles Grammar School, Osogbo.
Within one hour, we were through with service. No razzmatazz of latter day churches of Lagos. It was a church for the old people anyway. But I am feeling old these days; and funny enough, I am enjoying it, just like Mr. Hardcastle in She Stoops To Conquer. I live in an old house, in an old town. And my room is filled with old newspapers. God! I love to read old newspapers. They make good company in the toilet especially. And lately, I realise I am feeling pretty well at home in a church for the old folks of Grahamstown.
After the service, a kind hearted old woman, Sister Barbra, asked me to wait for tea. But I declined, for no reason. “Ok, do try and drink with us some other time.” She said in the most cheerful way that made me feel guilty of turning down the offer. “Sure, I will madam.” And I stepped outside to get my bicycle. Lo and behold, my bicycle was gone!
Welcome to Grahamstown.
But I obeyed. Hot shower, black trouser and blue-stripe shirt; and I was ready for church. Breakfast had to wait. Few minutes later, I was riding my one-month old Raleigh bicycle down the hill of Market Street to St. Bartholomew church.
And a peaceful service, it turned out to be. The Rev. Father’s English was impeccable, and so was his cassock. Spotless white. His serious aspect reminded me of Mr. Omiwole (God bless his soul wherever he is now), my principal at St. Charles Grammar School, Osogbo.
Within one hour, we were through with service. No razzmatazz of latter day churches of Lagos. It was a church for the old people anyway. But I am feeling old these days; and funny enough, I am enjoying it, just like Mr. Hardcastle in She Stoops To Conquer. I live in an old house, in an old town. And my room is filled with old newspapers. God! I love to read old newspapers. They make good company in the toilet especially. And lately, I realise I am feeling pretty well at home in a church for the old folks of Grahamstown.
After the service, a kind hearted old woman, Sister Barbra, asked me to wait for tea. But I declined, for no reason. “Ok, do try and drink with us some other time.” She said in the most cheerful way that made me feel guilty of turning down the offer. “Sure, I will madam.” And I stepped outside to get my bicycle. Lo and behold, my bicycle was gone!
Welcome to Grahamstown.
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