It is with the greatest possible gratitude that I am conscripted to write about my relationship with feminine gesture. The co-conscriptor was Kingsley Jesuorobo Esq, the recently appointed Dean of Faculty of School of Logic and Contextualization in the University of Market Place of Ideas, MPOI, the brain child of Jefferson Uwoghiren Esq. As usual, Bar. Kingsley was to a less harsh degree combative against me for using the words feminine gesture – he researched and wanted us to have a common ground on the matter.
I have always been inspired by Wole Soyinka, WS, a kindred spirit, on how he deploys words from other climes unecessarily to cojoin others for awe and shock, which makes his works complex.
I first met WS while I was working in a restaurant there in Dublin. His gray hair gave him away. I was infatuated with his aura; he was godlike yet frail. He drank wine while we discussed about The Interpreters, the first of his only three novels. I mentioned to him the chaotic nature of the book, which he did not admit. I also mentioned to him that the novel was difficult and that it never received the type of attention Things Fall Apart recieved.
He will later ask who I was in a manner that took me by surprise. “Who are you?” His tonal value was heavy. I informed him I was a writer and painter trying to find my niche. We talked about my book; Season of Imperfections. We would leave each other with a very high measure of warm
regards.
Ben Okri and I would meet in Ace Cafe, London, by chance. He was the author of The Famished Road, one of his most popular offerings. I was just completing the manuscript for Depth of Solitude then. I was a bit out of funds having worked on and off during the period I was writing. Okri asked me to tell him about it and I narrated word for word almost the entire manuscript since I had been reading it for almost a decade consistently. The conversation was cordial. He talked strangely like of his spirit characters. “I feel you are an agreeable fellow,” he confessed with an accent. He later invited me to the Royal Albert Hall to see a play with him after giving me some money for my upkeep. We saw frequently until I left for Russia that winter.
Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani, the author of I Do Not Come to You by Chance, and I will meet there in Abuja. I cannot imagine were she would be now. She was quite a talent. She thought of the world differently. About humans, she was sickened. We didnt speak too much about each other because of the short time we had, or we didnt connect well. She was too distant for my liking.
I am presently writing about people I have known. Dinaw Mengestu easily comes to my mind. He was born in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, in 1978, during a period of political repression that became known as the Red Terror. We met in the United States of America and had so much stories to tell. We called each other after our first meeting but I felt a little bit unease with him because he was more of an American than an African: He talked about perfumes, designers clothes and other odd issues that did not illuminate my passion.
I am always reminded of Jefferson’s advice during the nights. “Dele, allow everyone to be in your stories, people need to be heard. Let people determine their own stories, their fates…” I never felt betrayed because he created a sanctuary called MPOI.
I am sitting near a lonely park watching the world go by, ready to respond to Bar. Kingsley on Feminine Gesture…I know he knows little about gay attractions.