In Lagos, at the end of each conversation comes the question: So you've moved back?
No, I reply. I'm just here for a few weeks (or months, or through Christmas).
Oh, I see, they reply, eyes glazing over.

Then the conversation stops as though there is nothing really left to say, no reason, as I will not be there long enough to make the saying relevant, the connection meaningful. I am not here and not there, but rather in a purgatory that is not really a place. I would like to be able to say, yes, I have moved back, or no, I will not, but cannot say either with any conviction. Instead, I respond, I am thinking about it, with the close-lipped, tense smile of someone who is stuck.

I have not really lived in New York for years. I am here physically, yes, but not alive. I am working and going to the gym and buying groceries and hanging out. After spending several years storing my belongings and living out of suitcases (to save money, I think), I now live in my own apartment with a giant closet in which I hang the most beautiful clothes. I have a lovely living room and kitchen in which I sometimes entertain friends. There is always music and laughter and joy.

Yet it is often with great reluctance that I return here from Lagos or most anywhere else I visit. Places where people do not live such regimented lives, packing themselves into crowded subways and yet trying not to see or speak to one another. I am aware that I do not have many of the things I would like to have in my life--like stable employment and a family. I do not know if New York has anything to do with that, or if it is just me. Sometimes I cry when I get back here, although I do not know exactly why. Maybe the tears come from feeling like a ghost--here in flesh, yet somewhere (anywhere?) else in spirit. Or maybe I am just lost.

But it is Brooklyn for now. I have been back over a week and still my suitcases lie on the floor, clothes spilling out like vomit. I do not know whether to hang them up or to simply stare, as I do, wondering if I should zip the bags up again and leave. I think if I did New York would not miss me at all. It is a quandary. --AL.

"I left Kano to live with my husband in Aba, a southeastern city near where my father grew up. The air here, I discovered, bubbles with the people’s unrestrained, stomach-clenching laughter, and for the first weeks it made me jittery. I couldn’t put my finger on why. It was not just the southerners’ boisterous talk, or the shocking Western way the women dressed. Here, girls could wear skirts so short they dared not bend over; their makeup stood out like street signs. And when they talked to boys, they stared them straight in the eyes...I realized then what had made me feel unmoored: the absence of fear. I had learned to live with fear in the north. It had become a second skin, and losing it had dazed me. I missed it and the boundaries it set." -- Ukamaka Olisakwe, "Growing Up Fearful in Nigeria"

I have heard stories about how beautiful northern Nigeria was before all the violence set in. It must be heartbreaking to give it up and watch it reduced to bits, piece by piece. Powerful reading. --AL.

"Cocktail," by Namsa Leuba

I can remember, back in 2010, taking a cab to the Civic Center on Victoria Island where I toured one small room with a handful of photos fixed to the walls and a smattering of vendors on hand selling jewelry, books and crafts. There were a few localebrities on hand, like Ade Bantu, but not much fuss apart from that.

Fast forward to 2014 and LagosPhoto has grown in size, scope and international influence. This year the festival runs from October 25 - November 26 and includes exhibitions, workshops, artist presentations, discussions, and "large scale outdoor prints displayed throughout the city with the aim of reclaiming public spaces and engaging the general public with multifaceted stories of Africa."

I look forward to checking it out. Visit LagosPhoto on Facebook for more info and view Okayplayer's Top 10 LagosPhotos. --AL.

What is CULTURAL CONFIDENCE ? from Nollywood Diaspora on Vimeo.

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Elizabeth's Daughter: In Words and Pictures is a volume of essays and photos from my memoir about a would-be nun in post-war Nigeria who became my mother, and my experiences as her daughter, an artist, and Nigerian-American woman. 

Proceeds from sales of the essay collection will be used toward a broader project incorporating video and photography. Consider making a donation today to help me realize this vision. 

DONATE: http://bit.ly/elizabethsdaughter

(Pictured here, L-R: My mother Elizabeth and her friend Philomena as Girl Guides)

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i always enjoy watching theater in lagos because nigerians have a natural flair for drama.

in honor of wole soyinka's 77th birthday, renegade theater presents the fifth annual season of wole soyinka at terra kulture. i braved a torrential downpour to see the strong breed a couple of sundays ago, and next sunday the troupe will be performing camwood on the leaves. the cast did not disappoint--altho, for some reason, i found the helpless, scapegoated characters of ifada and the schoolgirl more compelling than the main ones. maybe that has something to do with my psychology.

festival director/producer wole oguntokun announced that he will be participating in the world shakespeare festival in london next year, an event leading up to the 2012 olympics featuring 38 plays in 38 languages. he plans to adapt the winter's tale into a yoruba drama complete with sango and ogun.

it's great to see wole recognized on a global stage, both for his own sake and for nigeria. he's an immensely talented individual. the show sounds like a can't miss--of course, you would have to speak yoruba to enjoy it! --AL.

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1
i have met so many courageous nigerian women who empower me to speak my heart. one, a radio host and poet, says that she sat and asked herself about the things that make her happy--writing, family, friends, fulfilling work--and realized that she could achieve the happiness she seeks without ever getting married. she is tired of singledom being portrayed as an affliction one must be delivered from, imagines that if most women sat and really asked themselves whether marriage was right for them, the answer would be: no. as she speaks, i cannot believe my ears, that she dares say these things out loud that i have thought in private. i want to shout 'amen' or something of the sort, but i am still afraid to speak as loudly as she does, lest someone hear me.

another friend of mine says simply, of a man she is dating, 'we could have five or ten happy years together, with or without children.' i have never heard anyone say something like this before. she is lovely, an academic and a writer, committed to taking her career to the next level. she also confesses that she does not cook very often, the stress of market and all, to which i reply, 'i can't believe you're saying these things out loud.' we gist about all these women who talk of 'combining' career and family and motherhood. who drive from their full-time jobs back home at night to prepare dinner, who must look beautiful at all times and be good in bed. it is simply too much, she thinks. we laugh heartily at this unrealistic expectation nigerian men have, that we will be everything at all times. she refuses to combine.

2
a local uyo publisher, who heard i was writing a memoir about my mother, has offered to do a feature story on me in his magazine. he invites me for a drink during which he will conduct the interview. he does not know my house, so i wait by the side of the road for him to pick me up, the occasional car slowing down as tho i am a prostitute. finally a truck stops and it is him, i climb inside and we drive the short few blocks to the hotel where he is meeting a friend--a pdp politician, fat with open teeth. another friend joins them, and another, and then i imagine i must really look like a prostitute--young, unmarried, surrounded by all these brash older men.

they order a bottle of red wine and the publisher removes his sandals as tho at home, rubbing on his big toe. they talk of the floods in lagos. the politician, a geologist, tries desperately to describe the laws of tectonic plates to the publisher, who refuses to believe that a tsunami will ever sweep away the island. the pitch of their argument rises and rises, until i excuse myself to check my e-mail. i have work to do and this outing is proving a waste of time.

at the front desk, i learn that the internet is not working. on my way back to the bar, i pass the restaurant where a table of youngish men are finishing eating. one waves at me and i wave back--as i am the sort to say hello to a perfect stranger--and he jumps up from the table to come talk to me. in a slight british accent, chuma tells me that he and his friends performed at a huge concert for the governor's birthday party, missed their flight and are stuck overnight.

he asks what i am doing here. i say that i'm supposed to be getting interviewed about my work, but the interviewer hasn't asked a single question, instead keeps topping off my glass of wine. chuma jokes that perhaps the guy isn't as much interested in my art as my art, tracing an hourglass figure in the air. i laugh. he gives me his card, i say i'll call, knowing i won't. back at the bar, the publisher makes a point of asking why i spoke to this other man, why i accepted his card, when i am supposed to be here with him. i realize that this isn't an interview over a drink at all, but just a drink. he is a fool. i pity his wife and son--who is always jumping on him and disturbing his sleep, he says, and is the reason he rents a fifteen thousand naira hotel room in the middle of the day for a siesta.

i tell him i'm going home.

3
on a long walk from the hotel, she thinks of how it was when they first met. when he spoke to her and she glimpsed the softness he hides beneath all the jokes and laughter. she liked the way he smiled and kept looking off to the side as tho seeking refuge from the intensity of her stare. did not notice him taking tiny steps backward, too, uncomfortable with how close she was standing. perhaps it was all there in that first meeting--her coming forward and his backing away, her coming forward again, oblivious. and on the long walk to the lekki gate, past the water that she wants to sit and stare in, she does not know whether to laugh or cry at having seen him again.

he stood there in his brown caftan, waiting as she ran to him. they hugged and she exhaled a breath she'd been holding for months into the space between his chin and collarbone, breathed him in again, filling her lungs with his scent. they kissed. and then he pulled away to go inside where they talked--with none of the urgency of those past months, when he'd say, i miss you, i love you, when will i see you again? and when he slept off that night, she lay next to him wondering why she still felt on the other side of the world. as if he had erected some invisible, impenetrable force field guarding himself from the ferocity of her love. and before she left the next day, when she gave him a gift--a book--it was not out of love, but rather fear that she might never see him again.

and that morning when she leaves, walking past the boats and water, she thinks of her life and her lost love; until night covers day, and the pain of loss no longer dwarfs the ache of love.

4
ambo comes on foot through the front gate, a surprise that he has come at all on such short notice. we met by chance last christmas in calabar, through friends of friends, and i'd recently heard he moved to lagos. he is tallish, thick through the neck like a rugby player, a former fashion designer turned lawyer specializing in oil and gas. manages to stop by the house in ikeja mere hours before i'm heading back to new york.

we exchange pleasantries, chat about our mutual friends, while my cousin's three children play nearby. i introduce him to my cousin's wife, who has come into the parlor. when she leaves, he asks, 'are these her kids?' 'yes,' i say. 'wow. she looks so young.' 'well, they're tall, so they look a lot older than they are,' i say. the eldest, named after my mom, is seven, and the youngest is two. i try and imagine having had a child at twenty seven, when my cousin's wife was pregnant with her first. i can't. 'so when are you ready for yours?' ambo looks at me, smiling. i suppose, at twenty nine, it is not a ridiculous question to ask, though i find it slightly off putting.

'i have a lot of projects i'm working on and i can't seem to figure out when i'll have twenty years to devote to a child project,' i say, laughing, hoping this will be the end of it. but ambo launches into a retrospective about his career, being formerly married to fashion, how the top five nigerian designers are all unmarried workaholics. he tells me i should combine my career with family and, as he goes on talking about a colleague whose son just graduated law school, i see the genuine longing he has for a different life than the one he leads.

his eyes are wistful. 'i wish i had not neglected that part of my life. i really love this,' he says, taking in the children, their story books, the cartoons on television. it is the kind of tender moment i am unprepared for, the kind of thing i find completely disarming. i sit quietly for a minute, and somehow manage to articulate something i've never said out loud--an explanation, of sorts, or perhaps a peace offering.

i say that the thing i know called marriage is a thing of sacrifice and struggle. that i do not think of a wedding and a home or even a handsome man, but rather the struggle i will pass through as a wife. that it is something i do not want. there is the distant hope, yes, that i could enter into it and not be crushed by the weight of this institution. but i am more likely to meet a man and fall in love and spend the rest of my life with him than to marry and become his wife, an unconditional servant. it is something i would hardly wish on my worst enemy. ambo argues, trying to reason with me that my marriage could be different from all the ones i've ever seen, that every person has a different story. this makes rational sense, i suppose.

later on, after he leaves, i think about something a gifted writer told me once when we were discussing my book. we talked about how my mom wanted to be a nun, but came to the u.s. instead and married my father. i spoke about the difficulties she passed through in the marriage, the crosses she carried. when she asked whether i was married, i said no, that i didn't quite 'understand' its usefulness. and she said that one of the most interesting parts of the book will be understanding why the main character (me) feels the way she does about marriage and motherhood. why she resists and rejects it. that it has everything to do with her mother.

i suppose i only half heard her then. it was not until i said this to ambo, months later, that i finally realized the truth in it.

5
she longed for a mate who wanted nothing from her, but to whom she could freely give her entire self. someone elusive, whom she had not been able to find in all her years. so she loved and lost and loved some more, until their faces and names blurred together like the swill at the bottom of a pot of stew. and at the end of loving, of filling herself up with them, she wondered why she had not considered simply loving herself.

i went to tinsel's 500th episode party at the oriental hotel in victoria island last weekend. there was a marquee, red carpet, modelesque women in matching champagne-colored gowns who served us wine and finger foods. and of course the cast and crew of tinsel, the continent's longest running soap opera that airs on mnet africa.

i'm not a huge socialite, but i thot the party would be a great opportunity to meet some industry people, which was easier said than done. they set the ballroom up in parlor-style groupings of chairs that made it difficult to mingle--especially if, like me, you barely knew anyone in the room.

the comedian/emcee was amazing and i definitely enjoyed watching the shoutout vids from other industry personalities, like tunde kelani and patrick doyle. but my entire evening consisted of watching videos, music performances and the cast having a really great time from the back of a very large crowd. with some vision and creativity, it could have been a lot more interactive, fun, and less crowded.

the highlight of my evening, apart from the prawns, was seeing ajibade gbenro emmanuel (soji bankole) up close and personal. the boy is fine, which makes sense since i learnt he used to be a model.

the night also coincided with the birthday of managing director biola alabi, who joined mnet from new york a few years ago after launching sesame square, the nigerian version of sesame street. i think she's my new shero. --AL.

having recently met with some wonderful representatives of fidelity bank plc, i have decided to remove this post. i do believe they were sincerely apologetic for the offensive messages sent to me by james eze regarding my blog, and i think his conduct should be attributed to his own recklessness and nobody else's. all the best to them! now let's get back to writing. --AL.

pictured above: jamal mahjoub, fidelity ceo reginald ikejiani,
diana evans, ik mbagwu, and helon habila

i'm in lagos again, after a week in enugu for the fidelity bank international creative writing workshop at the university of nigeria, nsukka. it was a mixed bag--the good parts being the instructors, in the persons of helon habila, diana evans, and jamal mahjoub. the bad part, which threatened to undermine the instructors' efforts, was fidelity bank itself. they were inept. disorganized. laughable. and i seriously questioned their ability to execute any manner of things, including meals and photocopying.

the workshop was held in abuja last year, but was moved to enugu this time around--a fact that likely posed some financial and travel difficulties for some, myself included. that said, the trip was worth every kobo given the close-knit relationships we forged with our instructors over the course of the week. they were wonderful teachers, coaches, and i look forward to continuing to share my work with them in the future. there is plenty more to say, but perhaps it is better addressed to the organizers themselves.

you can find out more info about dreams at dawn, an anthology of writing from past fidelity workshop participants, here. i'm not yet sure where the book is available for purchase, but will post the info here when i get it. and find out more info on the farafina trust writing workshop, taught by chimamanda ngozi adichie and binyavanga wainaina, here. it is going on now in lagos and will culminate with a literary evening on saturday, july 2 at eko hotel, victoria island. --AL.

Update: Read a response to this blog from Fidelity Bank's James Eze here.

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taking great pleasure in reading some of my writing today. at the risk of oversharing, thot i'd post this. a nothing passage, really, part of something much larger, but i like it. this is my voice. i feel it much stronger now. --AL.

I rest my head on the seat, watching the palm trees on the horizon as we make our way over the hilly, unpaved road leading from the village back in to town. My driver, Ekemini, turns the radio on to a station playing American R&B. I am content and at peace and without a sound. Speechless. It has been a great day. A success. I have spent time with my Uncle Joseph, listened to all the old stories about my mother. Am beside myself with pleasure, so much that I can feel it bubbling up and out of me like a divine radiance.

And I want to feel love, to be touched, to express my joy on somebody. Badly. So badly that the feeling squeezes my womb and turns my insides around. I want to see A— tonight. To smother his face in kisses. To love and be loved. As we turn onto the main road and the bars on my cellphone return, I see he has texted me a message, likely hours ago, that he is coming to the house. I send a reply that I am on the way home from the village, have been swallowed in a bad network for hours. He replies, see you later, which I know could mean hours or days.

Leaving behind the peace and tranquility of the village, we descend through a police checkpoint into town. Surrounded by the chaos and friction, the lusty feeling in my gut fades as my insides harden up again. I sit in silence all the way home until I hand Ekemini a fistful of Naira notes.

"Is that enough?" I ask, glancing back into my lean wallet. Money is depressingly short these days.

"Yes, yes. Aunty, thank you. Thank you very much." He gives me a wide, boyish grin, his dimples shining from cheek to cheek.

And I am grateful for this man--the only one in my life who shows up when I need him. I thank him for his time and wish him a good night, slamming the car door behind me and walking in through the front gate.

My mind drifts back to earlier today, when I sat drinking a cup of coconut water in Uncle Joseph's backyard and Ekemini wandered in to ask permission to leave for awhile. The sun cast a beam of light across his face and lean shoulders--clad in a rumpled green shirt--and I felt myself drawn to him for the first time. I saw his patience and devotion, his willingness to accept whatever it is that I give him from my heart. At times like this, when I am lonely, I find myself wondering whether he could love me.

As I walk into the house, I think that I should give him something to remember me by when I leave. Yes. I will buy him a new shirt.

had a very interesting exchange last week. a bbc reporter had emailed a colleage of mine, a nigerian woman writer, about commenting on the 2011 election for their 'focus on africa' program. when she couldn't fit the program into her schedule, my colleague deferred to me and a couple of other women writers as potential commentators. but lacking the knowledge and insight to really speak authoritatively on the election, i deferred to another friend of mine, a lawyer and writer, who comments regularly on the election and follows the minute-by-minute developments. he also happens to be male.

the bbc didn't end up calling him then, since they needed women's voices to counterbalance a male-heavy roster of participants. (they later called him to comment on post-election violence, or some such, a few days later.) in the end, none of us women really felt knowledgeable enough to comment on the 2011 election. and when my friend emailed me later, wondering whether the same could be said for any number of similarly situated male colleagues, i couldn't give a straight answer. "but i'm an artist!" i said. "i don't like to get into the nitty gritty of these things."

truth be told, though this was merely an anecdotal sampling, i don't imagine many of my female friends sit and talk politics as readily as do many naija men i know. i used to hate this as a child; my mother off in the kitchen, preparing the meal, while my uncles and father debated around the dining table. i thought it a grave injustice that she wasn't given a prominent seat at the table and asked, quite simply, what she thought about everything. and yet here i am, abstaining by choice from any and all conversations on the matter.

i think of it as a protest, in some ways: i hate dirty politics. and politics in nigeria is dirty, desperate, haphazard, bloody. it isn't something i condone or understand or can relate to. which makes it rather interesting trying to parse these matters out as i write a book that not only explores my family's history, but also the present/past/future of akwa ibom. when i hear of yet another heinous act committed in the name of politics, i find myself descending into a cocoon inside where these events appear hazy and unreal as they unfold. i am afforded this luxury because these things tend to happen to folks just removed enough from me to say it's happening to 'them over there,' as though there really is any distance between us.

i am not cut out for politics or law enforcement or anything that requires facing the dark self-centeredness of humanity. i'd rather be dancing, quite honestly, floating above the muck and the mire in an everpresent now of creation. but this self-induced haze produces a natural distance between myself and many others for whom politics is a passion, a livelihood, an inescapable certainty. i must acknowledge that, as necessary as it seems to live this way, i am at times disengaging and disempowering myself to have any impact on these circumstances.

again, i don't have any answers; only food for thought. speaking of which, read a wonderful post-election interview/reflection online today by a dear friend, elnathan, the same interviewed by the bbc. he says it better than most i've heard comment on these times, so i defer to him. read it here. --AL.

i met a wonderful visual/performance artist, wura-natasha ogunji, last month in lagos. she works with textiles, thread, video, and paint, creating visual tapestries that conjure history and memory.

wura was in nigeria to "gather images and sound" from the birthplace of her late father, whom she hardly knew in life while growing up with her white mother in the states. we took a day trip to abeokuta, chatted on the way there and back about the process of tracing our parents' footsteps, about being cultural insider/outsiders. in the course of our journey we climbed olumo rock, visited itoku market, and took photographs of the (very polluted) ogun river.

i am very eager to see what art comes out of her journey. perhaps even more so after seeing a review online of one of her shows, a collaboration with performance artist jelili atiku (who had a wonderful video installation piece in the green spaces exhibit @ cca).

in light of recent blogs of a more personal nature, i was also rather pleased to find this short video up on her blog that she made while in abuja. enjoy! --AL.

there is a question i have asked frequently ever since i was a little girl. that is, who am i? i suppose this stems largely from being born in the west to nigerian immigrants. without the luxury of being born in my parents' place, the question begs an answer.

i live at the nexus of over a half dozen cultures. there is white america, black america, brown america, immigrant america, akwa ibomites in america, akwa ibomites in nigeria, nigerians in the diaspora, and of course nigerians in nigeria. i have always held it up as some miraculous thing, having access to all these cultures, but it is a major task to remain conversant in all of them.

at some point, tiring of the politics of black america, i can simply say i am a cultural outsider and don't understand what they're on about (i used to do this alot as a kid, in fact, i hardly understood some aspects of black culture although i secretly wanted to be "cool enough" to be black).

at some point, tiring of the politics of being an akwa ibomite in america, i can simply pronounce my name in that weird way that sounds like 'spoon' instead of 'song' and pretend i don't know how to say good bye in ibibio. this is much how i walked by the 'concerned citizens of akwa ibom' group three weeks ago, protesting kidnappings near the UN. although i came to join them, they looked like a bunch of crazies shouting on the street with their placards raised, while a passerby shouted back that akpabio's built so many good roads and how could they possibly jeapordize the success of the state in this way. i was happy to pass by unnoticed.

and tiring of politics in general, i can always sit among a gathering of my white friends and pretend to be somewhat cultureless and colorless. (it is the path of least resistance, and yet the one i shun the most.)

but who am i really? i tried going through all my blogs to find a place where i say definitively who and what i am and found nothing. a part of it is i love personas, am intrigued by the way other people project their realities on to me. there are friends who've known me for decades and have been told on several occasions that i was born in the u.s.of.a. and still don't believe me. i am a sleeper cell, in their eyes, who will one day take over america and redistribute all her resources appropriately to the developing world. or i'll simply take over hollywood and move it out of country, hire native nigerians (and maybe indians) to run it and say to hell with white people. (i am not that interested in hollywood. i might also respond that the nigerians and indians would label me as not being 'authentic' enough and reject the offer, not before chopping all the money and running it into the ground, of course.)

so what does it all really mean? are place, race, culture, custom, and nationality everything? or are they relative? i have always fancied myself a bridge between cultures and it seems that, despite the many internal questions that still prevail, this is finally becoming a reality. i'm now the family historian, of sorts, and the first person people think of to ask obscure questions like what year my mother came to the u.s. from nigeria. (it was my uncle, her elder brother, who asked. he's also the one who brought her here.)

they place their hope in me, marveling at how i am able to simply plop myself down in akwa ibom and not complain about the electricity or have a care for what's going on in the states. some of them have never thought of going back, but secretly long for the courage. i imagine that, as a person who craves an existence that is not relative, it has been very important for me to create a space for myself there. perhaps also why i am an artist, so that i can live and create any- and everywhere.

if i could only choose one thing to be, it would be an inspiration. appropriately so, my life now seems to be less about 'who i am' than my chosen purpose and what i represent for other people. i am not sure whether to raise disclaimers about being their great hope, or to simply embrace it and rise to the occasion. i only hope that i will be able to express the pluralities that exist within me in a way that i do not misrepresent myself.

i have no answers and certainties, only questions and relativities. i exist as a being in the flesh, but perhaps am closer to a concept than a reality. i think it would be easier for me and those around me if i was some other way, but it wouldn't be authentic to who i am. such is life. --AL.

concerned citizens of akwa ibom state of nigeria are organizing anti-kidnapping demonstrations to take place tomorrow, saturday, february 26, around the world. the marches are geared toward urging president goodluck jonathan and akwa ibom state governor godswill akpabio to take action against a host of politically-motivated kidnappings and assassinations that have plagued the state in recent years.

visit the link for more info on the campaign and a letter you can send to your congresspeople. keep in mind that the ideas and opinions expressed in the letter do not necessarily reflect my own (particularly those stating that ibibios have suffered the most; although i am ibibio, i think it's dangerous and divisive to bring up ethnicity at a time like this).

the campaign comes on the heels of liberation movements in tunisia/egypt/algeria/bahrain/jordan/libya. i didn't intend my first blog on the matter to involve nigerians jumping on the bandwagon, as they say, tho a friend of mine warned that something like this might happen. i honestly thought nigerians were far too apathetic for such a thing. and i'm still not sure what to make of it, since i've never seen a gathering of concerned nigerians do more than spout baseless political slogans. will have to wait and see what happens.

i support a movement toward greater accountability and good governance in akwa ibom and nigeria as a whole. i'm not sure that i would stake my life on it, but i can certainly spread the word. --AL.

had a great time at the architectural identities exhibit, curated by white space lagos founder and architect papa omotayo. inspired and enlightened by omotayo's (subversive) vision and thinking about how architecture can redefine how lagosians view themselves as individuals and a whole. just had to share this conceptual tidbit from one of his storyboards, the bamboo experiments. --AL.

"The need for security has become over the years one of the dominating features that have defined the organisation, planning and visual aesthetic of buildings everywhere, in Lagos and Nigeria as a whole.

The idea is that an open house allows for a greater possibility of armed robbery--an unfortunate possibility and reality we live with daily. But can this reality also be reversed by reducing our isolation and self-sufficiency? In what has been termed by some as an architecture of fear--gated communities, high fences, window bars and the reduced use of terraces and courtyards--buildings have become one dimensional boxes. The relationships between internal and external spaces that have historically defined our living experiences no longer exist.

We are sealed in.

The bamboo experiments looks at the possibilities of subverting these ideas and creating buildings and forms that challenge these prevailing notions defined by an architecture of fear. Using a material that is contextual, traditional, readily available, natural, sustainable, and also strong." -- The Bamboo Experiments, O+O Architecture + Design

a new architecture and design exhibit, architectural identities, is opening at white space, ikoyi, lagos this friday, february 11. i don't know why this is really exciting, except that i've never actually seen a nigerian architecture and design exhibit before, and i'm highly intrigued. especially looking forward to seeing individual works by isi etomi and nkiru mokwe.

white space is an event/retail space for temporary (up to 6 weeks) installations. for more info, check the very cool white space blog. --AL.

"Do we have real open and public spaces? Is Nigerian traditional architecture completely dead or can it be adapted and worked into a 21st Century city? Architectural Identities: An Exhibition seeks to answer some of these questions and prompt you to ask more. It showcases the work of a young crop of architects and designers who are looking to redefine the design landscape in Nigeria, with intelligence and boldness."

Update: This has to be one of the most intellectually engaging exhibits I've ever seen. Ever thought about a drive-thru market, eight-level bridge, or subway in Lagos? Somebody's already designed one. Check out plans for a high-speed monorail, which have been sitting on Fashola's desk for the past 18 months. They've extended the exhibit an extra day, so you have until Sunday to get hip.

pictured above: behind the rainbow
the iRepresent (iREP) international documentary film festival begins this weekend in lagos at terra kulture and the lagos business school. the festival's theme is 'the impact of documentary production in a developing society/economy' and will feature screenings, presentations, workshops, panel discussions, and a gala awards ceremony.

i am finally leaving akwa ibom (there, i said it) and will catch a few events before the festival closes on sunday, january 23. tho i am a narrative girl through and through and not a huge documentary fan, too many random friends have recommended this festival for it to go ignored. plus i hear tunde kelani will be on one of the panels, and i can't miss that.

more festival info here. --AL.

i have been silent on the whole political season in akwa ibom largely because i am aghast. in the furtherance of free and open elections, at least a dozen political aspirants and their family members have been kidnapped, murdered, and jailed in the past three months alone. just yesterday, governor godswill akpabio hijacked the pdp primary by omitting the other candidates' names from the ballot.

i weep for this nigeria. i weep for my children's children who will likely live in a country that is still largely undeveloped, if it exists at all, while the people in positions of power continue to be governed by their own personal interests and smallmindedness.

this is not democracy; it is madness. --AL.