Snatches from a Memory

1.Demons & Holy Spirit

We are four writers sitting at the table spooning rice into our plates when a fellow writer – a Norwegian blonde – pulls up a chair. She exchanges pleasantries with the other writers, then sits beside me.

Just seeing her for the first time, I introduce myself.

She tilts her head back, fixing me with a stare. I fancy a smile turning up on her lips, but she says in a serious tone, ‘You are from Nigeria?’

I nod, noting a genuinely surprised look in her eye.

‘Lots of demons and Holy Spirit,’ she says.

I manage a quick smile, though annoyed with Nollywood and its penchant for spiritualising every Nigerian flick.


2.Political Mess

I am sipping merlot at a civic dinner at MUSON Centre when a greasy-haired American comes up to me, few minutes after I’d just finished reading a poem on the Niger Delta.

‘That’s quite touching, very political,’ he says, nodding his head.

I smile appreciatively. ‘I am inclined to the political,’ I tell him.

‘It’s hard to accept the extent of election rigging that returned Obasanjo a second term.’

Not everybody can be like Mandela, I almost tell him. But I offer him a smile of understanding instead.

He glances around. ‘It’s a great shame that Nigeria is in this mess,’ he mentions.

‘These things happen…’ I reply carelessly. Then I notice the American is about grinning and I chip in, ‘…I suppose the Florida experience, which returned George W. Bush Jr., still remains fresh in the minds of many a Nigerian politician.’

And the grin peters out of his face, replaced by a downy red.



3.Terrible Glory

Laure and I are chatting at an award dinner party when our host calls me aside.

‘There’s someone you should meet –’ Kraft Penbottom says, his arm cutting a breezy arc over his face. ‘Hey, Kylie, I’d like you to meet …’ Then he slips away to catch up with another writer.

I smile, reaching for Kylie’s hand. She is a sprightly-looking playwright. Her cheeks remind me of sunflowers.

‘So you are from Nigeria?’ she asks, her green eyes twinkling.

‘Yeah,’ I reply, not quite eager to slide back to Laure’s side.

Kylie lets out a soft-bellied laugh. ‘How did you get the grant?’ she asks.

‘I applied,’ I tell her.

‘Whoa, you must be very hard working.’

‘It’s a Nigerian thing.’

She frowns, then says, ‘We have very terrible Nigerians in Australia.’

I almost turn livid, but somehow I manage to keep my cool. I turn around to walk away, then pause.

‘By the way,’ I say, ‘All those sickening tales of ill-treatment of the Aborigines we keep hearing every so often doesn’t speak well of the glorious Australia.’

And I shuffle away, just when the sunflower starts to wither on her cheeks.