TURN OFF THE RADIO!

After returning to the dorms last night (which I've discovered, is named "Solomon's Lodge," thought it's posted nowhere and could have been made up on the spot, as far as I'm concerned), I make friends with Danny, our security guard and somewhere in between the door and bed get wondrously trapped in a myriad of conversations with the Nigerian students. They ask lots of questions:

"What kind of poetry do you write? Political? Personal? Love poems?"

"What is your biggest passion? What is your number two passion?"

"What is New York like? I've heard the Bronx is a very dangerous place."

A serious interview. I talk to Moshood for a long time. He is a young poet and playwright, with a stern and pensive demeanor, rarely a smile. Jokes don't go over so well. I am given two copies of his self published work and when I say the word "magical," I have to explain what I mean. Muslim himself, he eyes me with a suspicious look and I know he thinks I am referring to black magic or voodoo. I tell him the story of the Yusef poem and how the universe conspired to bring me here. He seems to get it, relieved. The rest of the night is conversational musical chairs. I spend most of the remaining awake hours with Grandmaster Masese, the musician from Kenya. We speak mostly about music and I am relieved to hear his taste is excellent. It seems many of the young people I've met from Africa's taste lie in what we enlightened folks consider "bad" commercial music. He keeps quoting Dead Prez's "Turn Off the Radio" (but in a Kenyan accent, somewhere between his native languages of Swahili and Kiisi, with a rolling "rrrr"), which I find slightly hilarious, but just smile politely. I learn two of his siblings died as toddlers from illness. That now, at the age of 24, he cannot ask what happened as it would be considered inappropriate in his culture. I think of my own sister. We exchange our dreams until my eyes are heavy with sleep.

Moshood (in blue), etc in intense discourse

Masese and Caitlin

The next morning I decide to brave the chop bar down the road. In essence, an outdoor shack of sorts with huge pots of food cooking on burners. I take home plantains, beans and rice for 1 cedi, 50 pesewas. All the Nigerians are eating it so I think it somewhat safe. Duh. Of course, I forget that I am used to packaged and well-prepared food and suffer a belly ache for the remainder of the day, staying close to the couch (and washroom.) Later I attend a panel on the state of Ghanaian writing (brilliant, of course) and later make way to our first reading at the Niagra Hotel in Osu. Once there, I am escorted to buy a bottle of water at the Kowala supermarket down the road by a rasta from Côte d'Ivoire , a refugee. The way we meet is typical of Ghana. "Hello again, my friend!" He approaches me, outstretched hand (In Ghana, everyone is your friend, just by virtue of existing.) "We haven't met!" I answer, but I allow him to accompany me on my short journey up the road. He tells me his nickname (escaped from my memory), which is derived from his father, who is now dead. I am shocked by how casual he is in stating this fact. "He was killed in the war. Whatever. I am sad, but all things die." True, indeed. I nod my head in recognition of this statement ("the great impermanence of all things.") He shows me his paintings, which are beautiful, but I cannot afford them, and we part ways with a handshake.

The reading was wonderful, as they all were, but I will not be recounting specific details from here on, as really, how can one describe a reading without having experienced it? Might as well just go pick up these writer's books (which you really should, trust.) That night I caught a ride home on the Nigerian student's bus. Chimuzo, a twenty two year old student, fancies me. He says, "lets talk until daybreak," and I agree to at least a walk and we do, until we find a spot to sit. We share stories of growing up. He flails his limbs when he story-tells and makes faces that look stretched and pulled like a cartoon character. In Lagos, he was raised by illiterate parents who sent him to the best schools in the city. He does not care about being a published writer, despite studying English Lit at University, but rather, is interested in law. He says to me, "I am thinking of not leaving you, of me and you on the streets of Lagos." It is sweet. I try to picture Lagos, too, but the closest I come is imagining the reggae group Third World singing "Lagos, Jump!" from a video my father showed me when I was a kid. I don't even think Third World is from Lagos and the video footage is an amorphous crowd that could live anywhere. On second thought, there are lots of white people in the crowd so I'm fairly certain it isn't Lagos. In any case, Chimuzo does not listen to Third World. He listens to R. Kelly. I cringe. "What do you listen to?" He asks. Hopeful, I answer "Fela Kuti." Chimuzo gets very solemn. "Caitlin. He is DEAD. That is so old school."

Sigh.

Chimuzo