Time is motile; it is irreverently so. Man, in a bid to undo, in his best way, this attribute of time, came up with an invention that stills it. Hence, in as many clicks and flashes as possible, time is shamed as it stays frozen in our hands.  Time could be regarded as the clit or un-clit of our emotions. It could be pleasure-giving. Or otherwise, hence the necessity of the coinage, ‘un-clit’. Whichever way it goes, we cannot but stroke it to a climax when we feel like doing so. But that is only when we have access to that sleek, long-gone phenomenon; when it has been embalmed on some card, album or storage device.

Photographs remind me of my wisdom, and most times, my foolishness. It’s the age of selfies and photographs sometimes remind me of my solitude - maybe narcissism is a better choice - as well as my ability to fit into groups. Photographs remind me of frowns, smiles and tears that may not be seen again. They often make one conscious of the nudity and arbitrariness around. What is Kim Kardashian’s nude without a camera?

Poetry performs almost the same functions, for me. The words of the poet are the clicks of the camera. They are more. More than a refrigerator for time. They are beyond a mortuary for that motile, ‘long-gone phenomenon’: time. Poetry, because of its devotion to imagination - unlike photography which gives us what used to be and is - creates its own space and time. Poetry is such a vast cosmos and the work of the poet, huge. You should read Emmanuel Iduma’s preface to Dami Ajayi’s chapbook, Daybreak and other Poems as well as Umar Sidi’s The Poet of Sand.

The interactions of the written word and stilled time have been explored in the digital age and the literature of the age. Both have been channelled into the pursuit of similar courses. This line of thought takes me back to Between Art and me, a piece on the interaction of different art forms and the significance such mergers birth. In the case of Sandstorms in June, both offer a memento, a generation’s. It’s a memento capable of contributing in its little way to the traditional publishing versus internet literature discourse. In terms of production, Sandstorms in June identifies with the novel of the two though, while the reader may choose to shred the collection of its virtual-ness by not reading on a screen but by printing it out. 

Sandstorms is how a generation has decided to venerate its alma mater, the Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile Ife, on the wings of an eclectic art form. This generation – the same which birthed the likes of Dami Ajayi, whose collection of poetry, Clinical Blues, was released not long ago, Emmanuel Iduma (author of Farad) and Kayode Taiwo Olla (author of Softlie) - has one thing or the other that ties it to the supposed Africa’s most beautiful campus. This appellation may not be wholly right. No? The beauty of great Ife no longer lies in its structures – they’re still there though. It’s now a thing of the mind and Ife writers don’t fail in romanticising their identity. Hence, one would notice convergences in the portrayals some of these writers conjure in their individual works. Take this quote from Iduma’s Farad as the first sample of this convergence: 

Night time on the campus was usually quiet, but as she approached the major lecture halls, she heard, faintly, the praying voices of students. The praying voices came, no doubt, from the Sports Complex – almost all parts of the complex were being used as prayer grounds. Not even the main football field was spared. She imagined being in a prayer ground – would she kneel or lie down, or maybe stand? Being a Sunday-only Christian, her prayers were restricted to silent mutters she often felt were not fervent enough (135).

These lines from Dami Ajayi’s Clinical Blues say nothing different from the above:

Wee hours in Ife,
Secluded in the Geology wing of White House,
My head nestled on Bailey's surgical account,
Neurons swirling with stuff, symptoms and signs,
My mind is tucked in the recent past,
Bailey's on the rock and the thrusting
Tunes of New Buka, a few paces and hours away.
The soft flap of a Bailey and Love page
Slow dancing to August's gust or Damian Marley's
Patience is reminiscent of knocking Mercy's door
At Uncovered Pavilion.

masu pri ka ta ska ba ba

Who is dancing on this tapestry of words
That the wind lifts for my arousal? (62)

This stanza from Tobi Adebowale’s ‘Flock of Tongues’ in Sandstorms further reflects the intertextuality that the quotes above invoke:

An infantry of saved souls file out,
Hewing and mowing the enemy,
Undulating arms and a staccato of voices;
       I think of the squash duel near IGI,
       I turn, feeling a riot within;
       I sense I must leave to well up (29).




The uniqueness of Sandstorms is in its apt representation of the Ife reality. Ife is a world of its own: its wars and victories, its love and trysts, its deaths too.  Its aluta consciousness and the faults therein. Its strength too. Hence, we find each of the six poets addressing whichever of the Ife realities that catches his attention.

Damilola Yakubu’s ‘We Do Give a Fuck’ is one of my favourites. It beams a poetic light on how death is taken in Sandstorm’s setting. It reminds me of Vero’, a friend I lost a year ago and the power of death to unite the living.

Death is here, everywhere
Regardless of what our mantra is,
We do give a fuck.

I hear:
Wole ran amok before his God,
Yet Ara never came back.
A car’s tire hit Tayo into oblivion.
Dipo made poison his friend.
A friend of a friend
Of a friend died.

Our candles are not for reading alone (77).




Victor Olusanya’s ‘Aluta Market’ is another reminder of the power death wields over the animate and inanimate. Aluta Market used to be like the university community’s mammy market. For no defined reason, it’s now like a wasteland and has been taken over by nature’s emissaries: overgrown bushes. Close to Aluta Market is the school’s nightly love market, the one no Ife student can deny ever patronising. Here is what I mean: when you don’t take part in the trysts of Anglo Moz, you either feed on the sights they offer or be engaged in a conversation about the going on at the location. Sandstorms would have been incomplete without referencing this location. Gbolahan Badmus’ ‘September Rush’ and Victor Olusanya’s ‘Anglo Moz’ are apt renderings of the location. Samsudeen Alabi’s ‘Moremi and the Sojourn of Hands’ and Tomiwa Ilori’s ‘The Pit’ bare the intricacies of sex, maybe lust too.




The complexities that surround the Ife reality may not be understood until one sets one’s feet into the vast murk that they are. The beauty that lies in setting one’s feet in that murk is in the beauty that comes out of it. Contradictory? Such is Ife. Life is not unlike that too. Going through Ife is like a sandstorm, one that leaves not just its good marks on you. There are scars too. Whichever, all are mementos.

The voices that echo in the pages of Sandstorms are fresh and real, very real. 

***

Download Sandstorms in June HERE

2 comments:

Life in Ife, such is unforgettable just as it brings sad memories to some, to some, memories of fun.

You're right, sooo right, Metamofosis. Life in Ife is unforgettable. Thanks for reading.

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