silifat"s alterego.......................saturday morning.....................

untitled.......................................the fates

Foreplay

This is a Yoruba song. This is Silifat’s favorite song. If there was any spark however minute, in her fallow consciousness of being, this song could possibly set it alit. But soon enough the role play of the obedient self-righteous girl from Abule-Egba would drown the diminutive ignis fatuus to obscurity.
· Romance? This is the foolish day dream of an unbeliever.
· Orgasm? This is a word coined by the infidel westerners with no literal translation in Silifat’s language. Its implications cannot be conceived by Silifat.
· Sex? This is a duty/offering a woman must submit to her husband to relieve the sacred itchiness in his groin. Silifat thought of it as dirty, otherwise why was she required to wash afterwards?
· Music? If it is not religious then it is the language of seduction of satan.
· Wife beating? This is a form of discipline and reformation acceptable for submission in communication. “If she does not listen then slap her face and she will understand.”
These are lesson her mother taught her through the grace of telepathy.

But when Silifat hears this song, she admits the quiet enjoyment of her imagination. This she shall openly enjoy in heaven as her reward. This perhaps is wishful thinking and contrary to her belief. Her heaven is a grandiosity of a harem, where she shall be made a virgin again and shall remain pure through all eternity. She must pray for forgiveness, her pitiable wandering thoughts. Maybe the heavens will permit her this one song, playing over and over in her head.
It is not entirely her blame. Her cousin from Lagos city, whom she silently admires, has put a hole in her clouds. Seki wore paint on her lips and fingernails. Seki never wore a head scarf, far be it that she should veil her face. Seki had a loud unusually deep voice. She used all of her vocal cords to speak with little regard for whom might pick her words. When Seki listened to music, she danced gyrating her hips to imitate sexual intercourse. Seki always played Silifat’s favorite song. Seki had a boyfriend. Seki told Silifat that she had kissed him and allowed him fondle her breasts. She called it foreplay. In response to this, Silifat had promised to pray for Seki’s most definitely condemned soul. But they remained friends.

Silifat always pinched herself when the thoughts of jealousy crept into her quiet place. She must not be jealous of frivolities. But could she be jealous of the freedom to choose her own life partner? She reminded herself of her reward in heaven. Seki spoke with such autonomy that made Silifat almost uncomfortable to be with her. Seki had her own opinion about, love, romance, sex and cooking. When Seki spoke, Silifat would whisper” God is merciful” under her breath. There must be a separate heaven for people like Seki. Silifat liked her too much to have her in hell.

Talk of wife-beating, Seki would say, “If my husband or boyfriend should ever have the guts to hit me, I swear I would punish him, he would rather die! I will grind the coca-cola bottle to fine powder and feed it to him with his meal!” This one she shamelessly concurred with. This is why she wept deeply to her marrows the day her supposed husband slapped her. He is her supposed husband because she was given to the old man as a gift. She consoled herself praying she deserved it for listening to that evil song.

Her husband was too old to kiss and too impatient to fondle her. He never fooled around but aimed straight for the bull’s eye, even with clothes on. She had hoped this night would be different. She had imagined how to conjure foreplay from this man. She wanted to show off her ample, enviable bosoms, he never had the pleasure of groping.

She laid the table and she served him his meal. She bent over so that he could see her bare breasts revealed through the wide neck buba. He got irritated; she must kneel to serve him. Bending over made her head higher than his, this was discourteous. As she poured his soup, she spilled some on her wrapper. This was intentional. The soup was hot so it burned through her wrapper. She had to take off her wrapper. This was also intentional. He was still irritated, she was clumsy. She dished more soup and gracefully poured some on his laps. In her amorphous preparations the concurrent response was to take off his pants. Could this not have been the relevant circumstances to initiating a sensual foreplay? She standing before him with her bare buttocks so close to his face. No! He slapped her. He called her good-for-nothing.

He was a hungry man. Her mother had warned her about the hungry man.

Seki was to blame. Music was a path to foolishness. Seki will always be her cousin, she will be forgiven, but this song, Silifat will never play.

paintings from 2007-2008

New beginings
It all starts where all stories begin. This place of beginnings can only be seen in dreams. The place where the intellect is too limiting to describe what it cannot partake of, neither is the intellect mature enough to express in words the goings-on of this very place.

In this beginning, she is given a garment to wear, “It will keep you warm. When you are judged by appearance, this shall make you familiar,” they say. “And in this,” they hand her a carrier bag made of intangible material, “you shall put all that you find of which you believe is of value to you.” With loving hands they push her on wishing her well. But one of them ran to her even after all was said and done, whispered in her ear, “choose those things that will remain with you for as long as you are, they will help you find your way home.”

Her first step takes her to a peculiar world where all things are new to her. There are many like her, myriads of her type. Like her, all are searching. Many do not know what they are searching for, some know and some think that they know. There are those that search in pairs and in small groups and there are those that search alone. Some collect earthy materials inevitably perishable and some collect memories.

Everything collected is stored in the bag and every bag acquires its weight. Some hoard and some share. Some carry their bags on their back and they appear hunched over and those that drag their bags behind them stretch their arms out of proportion. Very many carry their bags on their heads and they always appear to have stiff necks. But if you are fortunate to find a few who carry their bags with their heart, intuitively, you will know them.
She had walked through many paths, she had acquired many good things and a few of them were bad but she carried all on her head and persisted in her journey despite her weary legs. One very good day she stopped for a drink of water offered to her by a butcher in the market. He beckoned her to stay and rest a while. He took the weight off of her and with him she found relief. She opened her bag and all that she had she shared with him. Together they collected new things and began a new journey. In this very journey of theirs a new life is born.

Eight days after she was born, she was given the name Ajantola. Peculiar Ajantola. She is one of very few who search for nothing and if they indeed have bags they never utilize them. The universe was her bag but for some inexplicable reason she could not grasp it. She was a member of a small audience that watched on while majority of the people busied themselves performing on stage. She pursued nothing but expected top-notch choices. She gave nothing but deserved to own the finest. Ajantola, perpetually grumbling. But there is the remedy for her type; the world of material acquisition teaches you cannot own what you have not earned. But Ajantola became angry. This world cheated her of her mother who died too soon. She was not the most beautiful of her peers neither was she the wittiest. Ajantola the very average girl believes the world cheated her from having the best of everything. She married an average man who offered her an average home. The worst of all the frauds she accused the world of was the world gave her a firstborn female child!

The midwife had placed the baby on her breasts. It was bitter for her to labor for so long to have a child with the wrong genitalia. Ajantola would always check to see if she was mistaken. She had hoped or maybe she imagined that by some wonderment her baby would grow new genitalia but after a month she reconciled with her disappointment. The world remained unfair and Ajantola kept her grudge.

Then she heard a message! She learned there was a force bigger than the world and if she immersed herself in religious rites to this force, she just might get all that she thought she deserved. No, Ajantola is not a fanatic but she is very religious and if she prays hard and often enough she will find herself in lofty places. This is a new Ajantola, the mother of a girl child Silifat.

seki................................................ the vine.......................only when it hurts

orange scarf series

compilations

Sugarcane
Remilekun: Everything seems to amuse Silifat. It is as though the wind tickles her, even in its stillness.

Aduni: Always smiling to herself.

Labake: She speaks her words in a sing-song manner.

Aduni: She walks as if she is in a dance procession. She must be hearing music inaudible to all others.

Remilekun: is it not obvious to you?

Labake: what should be so obvious?

Remilekun: what is the one thing that makes a woman’s eyes comparable to polished glass, even eyes that have seen the worst of predicaments?

Labake: It must be the same thing that makes a woman exudes satisfaction.

Aduni: Ha! SUGARCANE!! How can I be so slow? Silifat! Please come. Make me happy. You must tell me so I can also be affected with amusement.

Silifat: Tell you what?

Aduni: Do not pretend. We know you are harvesting plantain.

Silifat: Aduni, you speak in parables.

Remilekun: There are no children here, Silifat I know it is only a man that can make a woman act drunk on a glass of water. And you my dear have been thirsty for a long time.

Silifat: Aunty Remi, there is more to drinking than quenching ones thirst. But you are right, it concerns a man. Aduni, I have feelings I have never known I am capable of. It is as though my heart is so light, it flutters, yet it is so full I think it might burst. I am yet to understand my body.

Remilekun, Aduni and Labake: Silifat is in love!

Silifat: and it feels so good. No man has made me feel this way. He holds my hands and not my breasts. He cups my face in his hands and not my buttocks. I have never met a man that respects my body so. This is new to me. I have been handled and dealt with but none has touched me as this man. And when I first loosed my wrapper for him, he said to me, “Silifat there is no hurry.” I ask myself could this be the love that sister mi Remi warned me about?

Remilekun: My dear, there is love and there is love. The issue is no one would agree on another name to differentiate one from the other.

Silifat: So tell me, which type of love is this?

Remilekun: There is the love that brings you relief and there is the love that brings you trouble.

Silifat: How do I know I am not in trouble?

Labake: I know about trouble but for me it was worth it.

Aduni: Being a married woman loving a man that was not your husband, for you, Labake it would be worth it since you were the cheat frolicking with the forbidden. What trouble did you see when you had the pleasure and your husband the pain?

Labake: Aunty Aduni, what makes you think that the burden of guilt is easier than the pain from betrayal? What makes you think that guilt is less punitive than any other pain? I tell you, in infidelity, the punishment often comes with the eating and afterwards. Aunty Aduni have you not been with a husband that was not yours?

Aduni: I have also been with a cheating husband. I’ll tell you I would rather feel guilty.

Remilekun: Silifat, forget them, tell me how this all begun.

Silifat: for me, it all started at the waterfall

Labake: At Erin-Ijesha? Has that place not been the start of many love affairs?

Silifat: ten years I have lived here in Erin-Ijesha and only last month I first climbed up the seven levels of the waterfall. He lead and I followed. To my amazement the top of the waterfall was a flat ground with many trees and nothing else but open skies with silver clouds. I thought the water came from an oracle of some sort bellowing out words that turned to rain and if it were to be less dramatic than that at least I expected a river cut in half.
He said tiny drops of water are collected by leaves and stones from cloud dews. The droplets fall to the ground and find each other and together trickle through dirt, mud, rocks and tree roots. They gather continuously and form great movement and energy. Only from being spread out do they gather and return to the sky clean and clear.
He said this is like the journey of woman on earth. He said a woman visits the earth white from pure heights. He said her very first steps upon touching the earth brought color to the flowers and fruit to the trees. She brought humanity to man and salt to earth. “But it is not all glorious for her,” he said. Like the droplets she too will lose herself and will not remain white. Her journey will be laborious. She must lose herself only to find herself.
He said to me, “Silifat please let me walk with you. Let me be with you as you find yourself. I can only but become with you.” I tell you, I have never heard such words or known such a man! You tell me, am I in trouble?

Remilekun: He seems to be a knowing man. I do not know him but he has won me over. Such words could get me drunk in abstinence. He cannot be from around here. Silifat please who is this man?

Silifat: you have all met him before. It is Adamu.

Labake: Which Adamu? Is it the trader?

Silifat: yes

Aduni: Adamu the albino?

Silifat: yes

Labake: Adamu, Subomi’s husband?

Silfat: yes

Aduni, Remilekun and Labake: You are in trouble!


the red scar desperately labake

convert of a jagged cross

The Convert
What quicker way is there to make a believer out of a man?
A woman!
It is in her stride,
The way her hips sway with each step,
It is in her eyes,
Even when she never looked at him,
It is in the bulge of her breasts,
Although they are carefully disguised in layers of fabric,
It is in her small delicate hands,
The way she holds the loom and weaves beautifully patterned fabrics,
It is in her laughter,
That exposes the gap between her teeth, that makes her lisp when she speaks,
It is her way with words,
Every conversation confirmed her belief in one creator,
It is the way she listens,
She tilts her head slightly, what a graceful neck!
Most of all,
It is in her presence,
That makes him loose his ability to speak, keeping him in awe of her.

She was a Muslim and he was anything that could bring him profit. He approached her family to ask what was required of him to become husband to her. Three simple things they said. The first, he and his household which includes almost two wives must observe the Islamic faith, their daughter will not live among heathens; the second, he must pay a hefty sum in bride price; the third, he must remit the first two as quickly as possible. He was not the only to show interest in her.
It all seemed easy. He was ready to convert and more than ready to sell off all he had even if it included his two daughters. He hissed when he remembered they were too young to be useful to him. He has almost two wives because his first wife left him with the daughter they shared for a rich widower when he decided to bring home a second wife. Now his second wife could be the only obstacle in his path. The thought of Ajantola clawing his eyes out in protest put reasonable fear in him.
What is the easiest way to make a believer out of woman? He was not wise enough to know. He had told Ajantola that they would be attending the Friday prayers in the local mosque. Passive Ajantola trailed behind without asking a single question. As they approached the building, she saw many men outside, washing their hands, feet and behind their ears. It seemed odd to her. Her husband directed her to the women’s section.
As she walked in, she realized why she had reluctantly left her slippers outside the door, the floors were swept clean. The room was tidy and everyone in it seemed clean and quiet. She joined them sitting on the praying mats. Some were counting beads and some were counting their fingers. A loud voice came in through the speakers, “Olorun o to bi!” and with a harmonized response, all exclaimed, “Alawuhakbar!”
With synchronized uniformity, they all stood on their feet. She joined them in standing, kneeling, bowing and sitting. She had never been a part of orderliness. The seemingly piety bowled her over.
Ajantola attended the next Friday prayers with her daughter Silifat.

What certain way is there to make a believer out of a woman?
The reward for belief?
The promise of good fortune?
The healing of the womb?
Peace in the afterlife?
A home in the here and the beyond?
The protection against evil and its doers?
For Ajantola, it was all and the thought that it would keep her husband to herself.

blue in the face

once a gazelle