Travel Diaries: Cambridgeshire, UK

/ Imani / Leave a comment

I have long heard about how beautiful Cambridge is, and it was always on my ever growing list of places to visit. I recently had some time off work and was thinking of how best to use it. I went through the mental rolodex of places I wanted to visit, and then it occurred to me to just use this opportunity to cross Cambridge off my list. So I booked a hotel and off I went.

Before I left I spent some time curating an itinerary of things to do and places to eat at. Punting was top of the list as a must do activity so I booked a tour. Maybe it was the weather (I went in autumn) or my tiredness but I was not blown away by the beauty as I expected to be. But I was oh so tired wow.Again that was nice but not memorable. I think I was just too tired.

Day ONE. I checked into the hotel and immediately ventured out into the town to get as much done as possible. First day I grabbed a Philly Cheese Steak Ciabatta at Bread and Meat; this was delicious and filling. I did not need to eat anything else for the rest of the evening. On my way to my last jaunt I got some gelato from Jack’s gelato, another place on my list. The gelato was alright, nothing sensational but then again I got an experimental flavour- Lavender.

I then climbed up one hundred and twenty three steps to the top of the Great St Mary’s Church tower. The appeal of this is that one can get awesome views of Cambridge. There were bars obstructing my view, I don’t know if they are always there or if it was just the time of the day (it was almost closing). I was not blown away by the view but I enjoyed the gust of fresh air. I took enough time to catch my breath before venturing back down. I intended to also go into King’s College for the Evensong. I did not know exactly was an evensong was but it was one of the recommendations. But I couldn’t figure out how to get into King’s College and ended up at Clare’s college for their Evensong. Turns out Evensong is just the choir singing. It was not bad and I tried to soak in the holiness. I was still so full from lunch/dinner that I stopped by Sainsbury’s and bought some fruit to take home. On my way I came across a chocolate store- Knopps and got a small cup of hot chocolate. It was alright. Day one ended with me not blown away but also excited for the next day.

DAY TWO. I had booked a punting tour for 5pm but that was cancelled due to low bookings and I rescheduled it for 11am. On my way to the punting station I started to realise that I was so tired, and not really having the best time. Maybe I need a holiday where I prioritise rest and don’t have to do any activities? The punting tour was okay, but again not spectacular like I expected. What was I hoping for? I don’t know but I fear it was all tainted by my tiredness. I did enjoy the views and I would have liked to visit the colleges to see some of the things that were mentioned (Isaac Newton’s handwritten notes) but school is in session so it was difficult or impossible to get into the colleges. I must say, I was a bit relieved to be honest. Whenever I travel I feel the pressure to spend the time well by seeing everything there is to see, but then it doesn’t feel like a break.

I had to go to The Fitzwilliams museum which was good but again broken record I was so tired I actually left to go take a nap. I managed to find my way to Kings College for the evensong which was okay, the real appeal was the chapel which was stunning. After this I made my way to an Indian restaurant which was on my list because of the lamb shank. The food was great and I took an Uber back. I am at that age where I need hours after a meal before I can go to sleep. Even though I showered and faffed around before going to bed I felt so full and uncomfortable it was terrible.

Day Three was the best day. I slept in and felt more rested and just went with the day. After checking out of the hotel, I got some breakfast at Hot Numbers Coffee Roasters. On my way to breakfast I happened upon The Polar museum which was one of the recommended places. I had not intended to go but as it was right in front of me I decided to go in and I am glad I did. I felt endlessly inspired by the exploits of these brave, curious men. Men who wanted to know more about the world and went in search of it, risking life and health for it. Then me, who has the same fire but lets it ebb away. I felt emotional reading about the tough experiences of these men, the last moments and final messages to their loved ones. I learned a lot as well, I learned of Scott, Shackleton, …..

After breakfast I spent hours in the Cambridge University Botanic garden and that reminded me that I feel most in touch with my self when I am in touch with nature. I am not made to be cooped up in a house all day. I need to be out with the trees, the flowers, the rivers and the lakes (once I am comfortable swimming lol). I enjoyed the breeze and I read my book and wrote to myself and listened to my favourite monastic chant. I felt euphoric and emotional. It was difficult to leave.

The garden was gorgeous, especially at this time of the year with all the colours and vibrancy! I was glad I went and I wish I could have stayed there all day.

The worst thing about an epiphany is that it was wasted if not immediately acted upon. I have since gone back to my flat and my job and my life and bleh. God keeps throwing signs and hints my way and I just keep wasting away. ugh.

Anyway that was Cambridge. I am glad I can tick it off my list. Maybe I’ll go back in the summer and try punting with friends. That ought to be more fun.

An Orchestra of Minorities

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“They were the minorities of this world whose only recourse was to join this universal orchestra in which all there was to do was cry and wail.”

“Even in his most extroverted moment, a man is concealed from others. For he cannot be fully known.”

I first heard of this book my Friend told me she recommended it to her book club. The title was simultaneously intriguing and off-putting. I wanted something light and breezy to read, and from the title I assumed it would be a heavy, tragic tale of prejudice and discrimination. However my interest was piqued so I downloaded a sample on my kindle. Immediately I was struck by how different and original the story was in that it is narrated from the point of view of the protagonist’s Chi. In Igbo mythology, a person Chi is their guardian angel, a personal God.

Several reviews describe An Orchestra of Minorities as “a contemporary twist on The Odyssey”; Now I will say I have never read The Odyssey and don’t really know what that story is about. I do have an attention issue when it comes to reading and I often skip past flowery descriptions to get to the meat of the plot. Terrible I know. Anyway I say this to say that I skipped as much as I could of the Chi’s oratory, skimming through for parts relevant to understanding the plot.

The book recounts the story of Chinonso (aka Nonso); recently orphaned by the death of his father he lives a largely solitary life tending to his poultry and selling their eggs. One day he encounters and saves a woman from hurting herself, and so begins an entanglement that will irreparably change the direction of his life. The woman, Ndali, is highly educated and from a wealthy family which sets her at odds with the lowly Nonso. Her family is quite frankly repulsed by his wretched existence and they let him know at every opportunity. This rejection fires something in him to be better and to make something of himself. He decides to improve his stock by going back to school, and he is advised by an old friend to go to Cyprus touting the same tale that so many immigrants have fallen for- overseas is a land of milk and honey and anyone who manages to get there will immediately reap rewards. Needless to say this is not the case for Nonso.

Right from the beginning of the book we know that something bad has happened, and we are just waiting for the story to unfold. The story opens with Nonso’s Chi pleading his case in front of Chukwu (God) like a defence attorney would in a courtroom.

The books has its highs and lows. Even though I skipped through as much as I could, the narration by the Chi, took what was essentially a tale as old as time, and made it different. The book is divided into two parts, and for me this was a very clear split in the book, after which the book hurled downhill and never recovered.

SPOILERS AHEAD

The character himself did not appeal to me. While I sympathised with him from time to time, I also felt frustrated with his thinking and decision making. So often I thought UGH why would you do that?

The real troubles started when he decided to go back to school. It would have been fine if he stuck to his original plan to attend a local university. But he unfortunately encounters an old classmate who is based abroad who convinces him to go to Cyprus where he can study and work and become a wealthy man in just a few years. Inspired by the possibility of impressing Ndali’s family, Nonso sells all his earthly properties to afford the trip, and hands over the money to this old classmate to help him with fees and accommodation. He does all this without consulting or informing Ndali which irritated me. Of course his old classmate turned out to be a bloody scammer and he was left in Cyprus with nothing.

His troubles intensifies when he finds a helper- a older German nurse who helps him get a job. It seems for a moment that his fortunes have changed for the better, and I thought the story was going to go along the lines of a love triangle where he has to choose between his hometown love Ndali, and this foreign woman who has helped him in his time of need. But of course not, that would be too easy and trite. A visit to the nurse’s house turns deadly as her abusive husband shows up and starts attacking her. Nonso steps in to save her and is himself knocked out into unconsciousness. When he comes to, he is accused of attempted rape and sentenced to prison. This made no sense to me, and it felt that the author was trying to provoke a certain reaction and used a cheap route. He was exonerated when the woman came clean, and was financially compensated for the false accusation. Again this made no sense. Why did she accuse him of raping her to save a husband that tried to kill her? What prompted her to come clean four years later? It seems to me that the writer felt a white woman falsely accusing black man of rape was enough context and that there was no need to go into any further depth. To me it seems shallow and lacking.

Even more bewildering is that Nonso is accused, put on trial, sentenced, and spends four years in prison and none of it is shown to us- just recounted in flashbacks. The first part of the story ends after the attack and the second part opens up after he has already been exonerated. From this point the author commits the cardinal sin of literature- by telling us what happened instead of showing.

I really struggled to finish the book from this point on. Nonso is deported back to Nigeria and of course after his fruitless stint abroad he is broken and mentally spent. He returns to Nigeria with hatred in his heart and vengeance on his mind. The classmate who scammed him surely is the source of his misfortune and he cannot have peace until he exacts his revenge. No one is able to get in touch with this classmate until of course one day Nonso randomly encounters his nemesis preaching in the street. Of course in true Nollywood style the man is now reformed and repentant; a pastor! And he has been looking to atone for his sins and also has all the money he stole ready to be repaid. The book drags on even more from this point

The title is first mentioned when a hawk attempts to steal one of the chickens. Nonso tells a story of how his father referred to the mournful cry of the chickens as an orchestra of minorities. I did not understand this and felt it must be something that sounds better in Igbo. It seemed an elaborate phrase to use as Nonso was portrayed as not being that proficient in English. Then when he was swindled and stranded in Cyprus, the title comes up again:

All who have been chained and beaten, whose lands have been plundered, whose civilizations have been destroyed, who have been silenced, raped, shamed, and killed. With all these people, he’d come to share a common fate. They were the minorities of this world whose only recourse was to join this universal orchestra in which all there was to do was cry and wail.

All in all it was a decent book that was let down in the second half. I will give the author his kudos for the writing and imagery; there was good prose and his depiction of Nonso’s PTSD was good. Though I didn’t read all of the Chi’s ramblings the writing there also seemed strong. The narration by the Chi elevated the book from a basic tale, but sometimes I wonder if it also distracted from it. There was too much repetition from the Chi (“I have seen it many times before”) that it got overbearing. I did not want to hear about that damn Gosling again (not you Ryan). I don’t know who was more useless- Nonso or his Chi. It seems like the Chi was just along for the ride and did not have any real power or influence.

I felt the concept of the Chi to be shaky in parts, particularly in Cyprus. It seemed the author was not sure whether to give the white people Chis as well or just leave it as an Igbo phenomenon. The idea that the Chi knew certain things because he had once lived in other people’s bodies was limiting. So if my Chi has never lived in a host that spoke German, I would pretty much be screwed in Germany? That’s tough. I assumed a guardian angel would transcend language and borders.

It is always interesting to learn about the author’s inspirations and how a story came to be. The writer speaks on it in this Guardian article which shows that it is partly based on real life events. Fascinating.

A book is automatically made better when the reader cares for one or more of the characters. I could have liked Ndali if her character was fleshed out more, but Nonso mommy boy did not do much for me. I despised how he kept calling Ndali “mommy”. It wouldn’t have been as off-putting in Igbo; “Nne” means mother but it is not uncommon to call a loved one that. “Mommy” made him sound stupid to me. His general mumu-ness really put me off. Plus there was this scene where he had diarrhea, it’s so silly but that also annoyed me.

I must be slow as fuck because it JUST occurred to me that this is the same person who wrote The Fishermen which I absolutely loved! Wow. Now that was a great book that I would recommend over and over. Literature is truly subjective because The Fishermen also has mixed reviews but I really liked it. Regardless of what I think about An Orchestra of Minorities, I cannot deny that the Chigozie Obioma is talented and gifted at putting words together.

Oh Freida!

/ Imani / Leave a comment

In true fashion, due to my procrastinating ways I have gone back and forth on this and changed my mind a few times.

I first stumbled upon Freida McFadden on social media when someone posted about an amazing book they read that had a crazy plot twist. That book was The Housemaid by one Freida McFadden. For someone who spends so much time NOT reading, I am always on the lookout for a good book so I immediately bought it on my kindle. The book has over 2 million reviews on Goodreads with a 4+ rating so this heightened my excitement. Let me tell you, I was not disappointed. The book had my full attention early on and I was left slacked jaw open mouthed by the plot twist- I never saw it coming. I would soon find out that plot twists are a hallmark/trademark feature of Ms Freida. I was let down by the end but it did not matter, I was already hooked and so eagerly searched up more of her work to devour.

It was fun going through all the books, because you see Ms Freida is a prolific writer and all the blurbs sounded so good. I wanted to read them all and inhale them all into my memories. I eventually settled on Never Lie as my next Freida read. Not to lie, this was a big downgrade, and I was immediately over it. I read it begrudgingly, rolling my eyes and highlighting all the silly sentences (and there were so many of them). So many sentences saying the same thing; alluding to something nefarious, some secret waiting to be uncovered.

I hope he still feels that way after what I have to tell him this weekend. I have a terrible feeling that the conversation will not go well.

Also, there was something creepy about his voice. I can’t put my finger on it. Something creepy and also familiar.

I was not interested in the story at all….until I was hit with the plot twist! Oh my gah. The book immediately turned for me and my positive impression of Freida was maintained. The books has a 4+ rating on Goodreads from over 1 million reviews (!) and I was expecting people to be as wowed as I was-they were, but I was brought back to reality by those who refused to be swayed by the plot twist. Shouts of “unreliable narrator” rung through the webs. And they were right. I should have known then that Frieda will have a twist, by any means necessary.

For my third book, I ventured into audiobooks (a post for another day). That is how I had the misfortune of reading/listening to The Inmate; a truly horrific book. At the risk of being dramatic, this actually pushed me over the edge. Reading silly sentences in a foolish plot is one thing but oh my God having those words in my ear (and head) was unbearable. This time the twists were so useless and not worth it at all. Much like her other books this also had a 4+ rating from nearly 1 million reviews. It really drives home the point that art is subjective. At this point I declared loudly for anyone who would hear that I was done with Freida.

But I couldn’t stay away for too long. I decided Freida in audio was not for me and went on to read One by One, The Teacher, The Perfect Son, The Wife Upstairs, I enjoyed them all. I decided to go back to the beginning and read book 2 in the Housemaid series-The Housemaid’s Secret. That was not as good as the first book but still a decent read (all things considering). Once I accepted that these books are not to be taken seriously but instead are good enough to pass the time and ensure I am actually spending time reading books, they became easier to read and dare I say, enjoyable. After a long hiatus I even managed to go back to an audiobook- Do You Remember– which left a lot to be desired (I did not even get what the twist in this was, it seemed so obvious from the jump) but whatever. I am back on the Freida bandwagon.

Oh Freida! I see she has a new book The Tenant coming out in May and I am already eager to read it and be annoyed by it.

DREAM COUNT

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“This is all there is, this fragile breathing in and out. Where have all the years gone, and have I made the most of life? But what is the final measure for making the most of life, and how would I know if I have?”

“They were ironic about liking what they liked for fear of liking what they were not supposed to like. And they were unable to fear admiration and so criticized people they could simply have admired.”

Don’t pretend that you like the life you are living.

His unhappiness is so ripe and yet it doesn’t push him to act, as if all his unhappiness really needs it to be witnessed by someone else. He is a gesturer not a finisher, he starts things or makes to start things and then he stops. It frustrates me that nothing is too intolerable for him to bear, and that he bears it all, so plaintive and passive. You don’t stop at longing, you use the force of your longing to bring into being the life that you want.

I woke up one Sunday to see a flurry of articles and tweets: prolific Nigerian author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie had written a new book. It had been over a decade since her last novel, though she remained active with essays, short stories, fighting cancel culture and so on. I have bought and read all of her full length books; Purple Hibiscus- her first and in my opinion best; Half of a Yellow Sun; Things around your neck- a collection of short stories; and Americanah. I liked each book less than the previous, and none compare to Purple Hibiscus for me. I personally did not care for Americanah; I did not see all the romance that was touted and I tired of all the blog posts. It has been so long that I am tempted to re-read it for a second opinion now that I am older, and also revisit Purple Hibiscus and HOAYS. With all this in mind, I debated whether to buy her new book; would I like it? I like to be surprised (I never watch film trailers if I can help it) so I also avoided reading what the book was about. Despite this I found myself pre-ordering the book and receiving it the day it came out. Ha!

On to the book.

Dream Count follows the lives of four African women-three Nigerian and one Guinean-most of who are based in America. It’s not quite Sex and The City as the four women are not hanging out and brunching every day, instead the book is split into sections each from a character’s Point of View.

First off is Chiamaka aka Chia; a travel writer who has the genteel aimlessness of a person who was born into wealth and has never had to worry about money. Chia is the Carrie of the group- the only reason the women know and tolerate each other. The book opens and ends with her; it’s the early days of the COVID pandemic and the air is thick with fear and uncertainty. Perfect time to walk down memory lane of all the men she has loved; and there are a lot of them. The longest was with a Black American intellectual named Darnell, and their situationship is the stuff of nightmares- when Ego met Low Self Esteem. Chia just wanders about looking for a perfect fairytale, and even when she finds a man ready to make it work, it is not enough because what if her dream romance is out there.

Next up is Zikora; a high powered attorney longing for marriage and children. She is also Chia’s best friend, and maybe she is the Charlotte/Miranda; it’s tenuous at this point. There is a mild plot here as she navigates the shock of being abruptly abandoned by a lover. For being so smart and accomplished it is her desperation for marriage marks her character, and she tolerates so much rubbish in the hopes of getting the prize. It was not until I finished the book and was reading reviews that I realised that Chimamanda already published a short story about Zikora. It was available for free on Amazon as part of Prime Reading so I got it, and it is exactly the same story. I wonder why she did that- a bit strange. In one of her articles she did mention having to overcome writer’s block; I wonder if that had anything to do with it.

Enter Kadiatou. This is when the book comes alive for me. Kadiatou is first introduced as Chia’s housekeeper, a kind simple Guinean woman raising her daughter in America. In her chapters we travel back to her childhood as part of a Fula family living in a Guinean village. She is content with the little she has, a sharp contrast to her headstrong and ambitious sister Binta, who wants more from life and longs to roam wild and free. We walk with Kadi through the loss and grief that intermittently punctures her life, and as she eventually makes her way to America where she is able to claim asylum with her daughter. In America her life improves greatly, and she returns to a contented state, until evil rears its ugly head yet again. Early on in Kadi’s story, I suspected where this was going, and I was right. Kadiatou’s story is based on a real life scandal that broke the media/internet back in the early 2010s. I was young then and twitter was still new so I did not follow the case as diligently as I might have now but I knew of the story and I knew that’s where the story was going. Kadi’s story is the richest and most developed in the book, all the other stories are more of character profiles. The rest of the book ebbs along with no real rhyme or purpose, which is not at all unenjoyable, but Kadiatou’s part is when something happens, when the heart races and the reader seeks a resolution. The rest of the book seems superfluous to this. Kadiatou’s story could have been the whole book, and I wonder if Chimamanda felt the same way and simply created the other characters as backup to the story she really wanted to tell.

The final character is Omelogor, Chia’s cousin. She may be the Samantha? I give up. Listen, going from Kadiatou to Omelogor was tough and felt like a downgrade. It also changed the way I felt about the book. Up until then I had enjoyed the book, even though there was no real plot, it was still enjoyable to read about their lives. The relative intensity and richness of Kadi’s chapter changed that, and everything else became stale to me. I simply did not care about Omelogor, and I wonder if I would have felt differently if I had not just finished Kadi’s chapter. Omelogor is brash and audacious, saying what she wants and not suffering fools gladly. Save for a stint in the USA, she is largely based in Nigeria working in the banking sector where she has first row seats to the pervasive corruption that plays out, eventually graduating from first row to centre stage. She is not as love hungry as the other woman, using and dumping lovers as she pleases; or is she just too cowardly to admit it to herself that she wants love? Her aunt seems to think so, and her words echo in Omelogor’s mind:

Don’t pretend that you like the life you are living.

To her credit, Omelogor is more interesting than Chia and Zikora- free from the self doubt and self pity that plagues the other ladies, she is self assured, until she is not. She goes to America to study pornography (yes, really) and starts writing a blog-similar to Ifemelu in Americanah. I skipped past all of Ifemelu’s blog posts and I did the same here. I just was not interested. I cannot tell you what gems, if any, lie in those posts; I simply did not care.

After trudging through Omelogor’s chapter, the book returned to Chiamaka to close us out. This was a battle. Even in the last ten pages, new romantic interests were being introduced. I literally screamed out loud alone in my room “I don’t give a daaaaaamn!”. Maybe I was just tired. I would have preferred to go back to Kadi’s story to get the resolution to her story from her POV. Of late, I have indulged primarily in mystery/thrillers so I am used to action, plot, climax, resolution. However, the lack of these does not automatically mean a book is bad, and I am happy to meander on as long as the characters are interesting enough to justify the lack of a plot. The disparate sections are woven together by a brittle thread, and I was tired of all the men, especially as they were not adding anything new to the book. Chia’s relationship with Darnell gave insight into her character and was interesting enough; second relationship, okay not bad but where is this going; by the end of the book I wouldn’t have cared if she started dating a mountain goat. It’s enough.

The women are all in their late 40s, and I’m not sure why this is interesting to me; either because most books are about women in their 20s-30s or because a lot of their issues were a bit childish. Aside from the urgency to have children, this could easily have been about teenage girls, or maybe I am not versed in the ways and foolishness of middle aged women. Chia does not grow at all throughout, and continues drifting all the way to the end, lacking agency and sense. Even Omelogor for all her self assuredness did not appeal to me. The author is the same age, and so it makes sense that her characters should grow along with her, I believe the main characters in her other books are younger than this (I could be wrong).

Similar to Americanah, Chimamanda teases out her opinions on social issue through the characters, some of it made me nod vigorously and or chuckle. A lot of it is directed towards the unforgiving left, and cancel culture which is not surprising given she was a victim of it recently.

Darnell’s friends were the kind of people who believed they knew things. Their conversations alwyas greased with complaints; everything was ‘problematic’, even the things of which they approved. They were tribal, but anxiously so, always circling each other, watching each other, to sniff out a fault, a failing, a budding sabotage. They were ironic about liking what they liked for fear of liking what they were not supposed to like. And they were unable to fear admiration and so criticized people they could simply have admired.”

An early review on Vulture.com references her past ‘problematic views” and this drew much criticism from (Nigerian) readers as it appears to disparage the book solely based on the author’s views. Adichie’s fourth novel, Dream Count, proves that she is still a gifted storyteller, yet her fame has indeed affected her work. 

All in all, I enjoyed the book, and wish my experience was not soured as I went on reading. Some of the quotes are so piercing that Chimamanda must have been speaking directly to me.

His unhappiness is so ripe and yet it doesn’t push him to act, as if all his unhappiness really needs it to be witnessed by someone else. He is a gesturer not a finisher, he starts things or makes to start things and then he stops. It frustrates me that nothing is too intolerable for him to bear, and that he bears it all, so plaintive and passive. You don’t stop at longing, you use the force of your longing to bring into being the life that you want.

Where have all the years gone, and have I made the most of life? But what is the final measure for making the most of life, and how would I know if I have?”

Towards the end of the book it is revealed that the title “Dream Count” is Chia’s version of body count, all the men she had loved. I found this underwhelming; but really by this point I was tired of Chiamaka. I searched the book title looking for reviews and I came across this poignant quote from Indian author Arundhati Roy:

If you are happy in a dream, does the dream count?

Theatre Chronicles: Marching to the theatre

/ Imani / Leave a comment

Ever so often I have a period of time when I am seeing plays every week, sometimes multiple times a week. Last year it was February; this year, March was the month. Both years it has coincided with Pancake day/lent so I wonder if that is intentional or just a coincidence. Most of these plays have been in the local theatres which is so convenient as I can just go in the evening after work. There is something so freeing about having (convenient) plans on a weekday, it breaks up the monotony and drudgery of work-life.

As these are small theatre productions, most of them have a small cast of one or two. Big productions are gorgeous but it is also nice to see something pared down with nothing to distract from the acting.

In order of how I watched them:

BLACK IS THE COLOUR OF MY VOICE

This was a one woman play chronicling the life of legendary jazz musician (and personal fave) Nina Simone. Under the pseudonym ‘Mena Bordeaux’; the play starts with her grieving the death of her father, and as she talks to his spirit she takes the audience on a trip down memory lane of poignant moments in her life; from finding her gift at three years old and performing in her childhood church, to her journey with rejection, success and abuse. We also see her involvement with the civil rights movement; the civil unrests in 1960s America and the murder of Martin Luther King Jr. Throughout the play Mena pulls out a variety of memorabilia from a suitcase- childhood dresses, letters from her first love, rejection letter-each item ushering in a memory.

The play features some of her most iconic tunes, sung beautifully by the actor, and it took all my might not to sing along; though I did bop a little. As I write this it occurs to me that the play did not feature Papa Can You Hear Me? That is one of my faves and it definitely would have fit in well. Anyway.

All in all, it was a nice watch. A must see? Maybe not. I debated going to watch this especially as it was on a Sunday evening and I prefer to spend that time depressed and dreading Monday. I decided to go at the very last minute. I figured it was only 75 minutes and I would be back home by 9ish, which would leave plenty of time for my Sunday night routine of what is my life for and what am I to do with this? So off I went and it was a nice use of a Sunday evening.

IMAGINARY FRIENDS

This was another one I debated over and only booked at the last minute. It was a one man show and I just did not know what to expect and whether it would be worth my time. It did not seem appealing to me. I mentioned in a team meeting that I was going to see a play in the evening so I felt I had to commit to it but as I was about to complete the payment, I decided I really did not want to see it so I shouldn’t. I was at peace with my decision for like ten minutes before thinking well it’s just £15, just go so I went. It was alright. I did not fully understand it, mainly because I have the attention span of a two week old fruit fly. It required the audience to pay full attention to his words, and as the master of daydreaming my mind tends to wander. After a while I gave up trying to keep up and immersed myself in my daydream, enjoying being out on a weekday. When the play ended, I clapped and went home, all thoughts of the play left in the theatre. Honestly, it was not terrible, it just did not grab my ever wandering attention.

KENREX

This was not in my local theatre, but at my favourite small local theatre in London, same place I saw The Bleeding Tree and I’m going to marry you Tobey Maguire. I LOVED THIS PLAY. My friend asked if I wanted to go see the play and I said yes immediately because I was down for a hangout. I did not even read the synopsis or watch a trailer (not like I ever do) but ten minutes into the play I realised I knew what the story was about. This should not be a spoiler but the play is about a big time village bully called Ken Rex McElroy who back in the 70s/80s relentlessly terrorised the villagers of Skidmore Missouri until they got together to put an end to it. I first came across the real story on YouTube a few years ago and thought it was a mildly interesting tale until it was spectacularly brought to life in this play. I won’t dwell on the story but on the execution. It was technically a one-man play; but there was a voice only character, and another character that played music so technically three people play but really only one full actor, if that makes sense. That one actor-Jack Holden- was brilliant! He acted dozens of characters-the bully, his various victims, the mayor, the lawyers, the pastor, the bully’s underage wife and so on and so forth. Each character had a different voice and mannerisms- it was always immediately apparent when he was doing Kenrex- and he was bouncing around jumping up and down right and left. It was awesome. I am always in awe of theatre folks and how insanely talented they are; and how sad it is they may never get the same accolades as their screen counterparts. They must also be a bit insane because how could they not be? We saw the matinee show which ended at past 5pm, and he had to do it all over again in less than two hours. Insanity. I was not surprised to see that Jack holden was also a co-creator of the play-the passion was evident and shone through.

In Other Words

This was a sweet lovely play at my local theatre. I knew it was about love but I did not read the synopsis properly because I completely missed the memo about Alzheimer’s. The play is about a couple from when they first meet and fall in love to dementia gradually creeping in and viciously tearing apart their marital bliss. The acting is so good, I could literally see the actor deteriorate as the dementia progressed. There were lots of sniffles in the room and I had to surreptitiously dab my eyes a few times. At the end a woman in front of me said something to the effect of “bloody hell that was rough. I just wanted to see a nice play”. Again I am in awe of actors and their ability to tell a story and convey emotions in front of a live audience with no cuts or retakes.

BACK TO THE FUTURE

Of all the shows I saw in March this was the only big budget/west end production. In one word? SENSATIONAL. I have never seen the films so I had no true idea of the plot or storyline and I was pleasantly surprised. I enjoyed every minute of it and I did not want it to end. The characters were fun- I particularly liked he scientist and Marty’s father, as pathetic as he was. The nostalgia was thick in the air and people cheered whenever pivotal things happened, like when the scientist appeared in the DeLorean. The films have been put for decades now so there are no spoilers but the whole deal with his mother was bordering, tethering on ewwwwwww. Is it incest if a person goes back in time and falls in love with their mother?

Plot aside, the production was awesome omg, a true West End production. The smaller plays I saw were great; there is a clear difference in production when it comes to the West End wow. I cannot describe it, go see it yourself. I booked the cheapest tickets available and noted that there were still lots of empty seats so I went to the box office and requested an upgrade which was granted. My friend and I were so chuffed and that added to the overall experience.

First Date

Rounding up the March plays is First Date. This is back at the local theatre and follows a couple on their first date (you could have guessed that). A Blind Date Virgin is set up with Blind Date Veteran/Slut and this turns into a rollercoaster of a night. Unlike the other local plays, there are more than two people, in fact there is a whole acting troupe. I could tell that they were an amateur group- they all seemed so young and used slang. This is not a knock on the play, it was refreshing I guess. The two people on a date are visited by their inner minds in the forms of exes, siblings, parents, friends, all with something to say/sing; the rest of the troupe routinely transformed into these side characters, accompanied by song and dance. As the night progresses the couple slowly shed their misconceptions and let down their guards. It was fun and funny and just a nice evening.

That’s all for now. April will be much quieter and I’m glad I got to experience all these amazing works of art.

Random: I hate this “new” wordpress with the writing blocks. I have never become used to it and I want the classic editor back!.

Baby’s day out: Moco Museum

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So I ventured out of my house. Hooray.

I had a great weekend actually. Let us recap: I saw Nosferatu and Wicked; met up with a dear friend and had brunch at Feya London, and then had a great time exploring the Moco Museum.

I have had it in mind to visit the Moco Museum for a while now, ever since it opened really, but I usually ended up doing something else, like going to Frameless which is just next door. I finally visited it, and really enjoyed the exhibitions; ranging from Andy Warhol, Basquiat to Damien Hirst, Daniel Arsham, and famous artists I had not previously heard of like Keith Haring, and even the singer Robbie Williams! I did not know this before I went, but MOCO stands for Modern Contemporary and it is an independent museum with branches in Barcelona, Amsterdam, and London. The London branch opened in August 2024 and the advertisement was quite catchy so I had it in mind since then.

Read more: Baby’s day out: Moco Museum

Starting with Jeff Koons…I did not really get it.

This was interesting. A ballon animal with killer tits.

I so badly wanted to touch it but of course there are strict rules against that; it looks like a rubber balloon but it was metal?

I liked the egg only because of the pictures I took. But the more I look at it now, it seems to be growing on me. I might actually like it. Ssshhhh.

Jean-Michel Basquiat! One of my favourites. I feel you you either like his art or you don’t; I thought it was childish nonsense at first but his work is so distinctive and the artist so interesting that I have come to love it.

Right next to Basquiat was Warhol….so sweet, given how close they were in life.

Daniel Arsham was the breakout star for me. This car was the highlight as evidenced by its prominent position in the advertising I saw for the museum. In a world of abstract artsy fartsy nonsense, I appreciated this.

One of the final exhibitions I saw downstairs was this gorgeous Lunar Garden. The exhibition reminded me of Japan (I have never been lol), and I was pleasantly surprised to see this was also by Daniel Arsham! He had two of the best exhibitions at the museum, and he is definitely a new artist on my watchlist.

The exhibition below was fun and young; like the bedroom wall or social media page of a teenager (it won’t be out of place in the Tobey Maguire play). I was surprised to find out it was by Robbie Williams the singer. I have never listened to his music really, but there was a time he was always in the news and I remember him from that. I was impressed by the pieces, even more so after seeing who the artist is and reading about his journey with his demons.

BANKSY!

The girl with the balloon is my longtime favourite, and the others at the exhibition quickly became my favourites as well. I like the theme of war and strife woven throughout the pieces; the protestor throwing flowers instead of rocks, the children holding a heart balloon on top of a pile of guns. I was particularly drawn into the Bean Field painting of the soldiers skipping along happily hand in hand through a field. Banksy is quite good, beyond the hype and notoriety.

This was cool; it reflected movements and so people stood in front of it and moved around.

Simple and gorgeous. I want!

I loved these rugs! I want them both in my future dream home. They are by Miranda Makaroff; I found some of her artworks for sale and they are quite affordable! Only thirteen thousand eurooooss. No biggie. Might get two. Ha. Ha. Ha. Let me go enter the lottery.

Once I saw Damien Hirst, I thought okay we are entering into Modern Art Hirst-Emin territory and I was rolling my eyes in advance. I half take it back; the butterfly exhibition is clearly the work of a serial killer but it was pretty cool and stunning to see. The pictures don’t do it justice. I especially liked the white butterflies as they looked like eyes.

The medicine cabinet was trippy. I did not immediately notice all the pills, until my friend pointed them out. I liked it. There was a noble message behind it of calling out the greed of pharmaceutical companies. Of all the modern artists this was not bad, which is high praise given this is the same man who did the bedazzled skull.

My first introduction to Tracey Emin was in a dailymail article about her unmade bed. In my opinion, that is not art. My opinion wss not changed after seeing her exhibition.

Richard Prince was okay. Humorous art is something I could get into.

I stared at this piece by Hayden Kays for a long time. I’m not sure what it is but I was/am so drawn to it. I want it in my house. I contemplated buying the print at the gift shop and decided against it as I realistically do not have anywhere to put it.

I assumed the artwork of the queen was a Warhol production, but it was actually by Chris Levine.

The Kate Moss piece was beautiful. I first came across Lenticular art a couple of years ago and it was love at first sight. I don’t know how it is perceived within the art community and by art connoisseurs but I like lenticular art and eventually would like a piece or two in my future house.

This was interesting, my friend and I stood here for a bit and tried to identify as many references as we could. How many can you see?

I saw “Murakami” and immediately thought of Haruki. I am still reeling from Norwegian Wood and Kafka on the Shore. Then I saw the first name- Takashi!

The art was familiar, but I immediately associated it with Kanye West. I don’t know why but tit just seems like something Kanye would do. I later researched and KAWS did work with Kanye on one of his albums- the 808 and heartbreak album cover. I also assumed KAWS was Japanese and was surprised to see the name Brian from New Jersey!

Finally, we have the mother of the freaks Marina Abramovic. She had a much bigger space. I will say the space was quite calming, I could have stayed there for a while. There was also an interactive piece which urged people to press their “head, heart and sex against the mineral pillows”. I was reluctant to press my head as I’m not sure if the block was clean but as I was fully clothed I did press the other bits haha.

This shirt at the gift shop made me chuckle. Guess we have moved on from the future. The next decade will be “The Past is Female”.

Whew. That was a lot. I’m getting tired. There was soooo much to see. I did not expect so many art pieces and I believe I got value for my money. Not pictured here is Keith Haring who I had never heard of before my visit to the museum. His work was reminiscent of Basquiat and it was interesting to find out that they were friends and collaborators and were both influenced by Andy Warhol.

Signing off with these pieces that captured my attention.

2025: Twenty Years Later.

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It’s a new dawn
It’s a new day
It’s a new life for me
And I’m feeling good.

This should be the first post of the year but of course I dilly-dallied and diddle-daddied and lolly-gagged so my 2024 end of year post was only written posted today.

Happy New Year! Woohooooo. Five years since the unprecedented 2020. Wow. But more importantly it has been twenty years since the year Two Thousand and Five.

What happened in 2005?

2005 was the year my life began, in a way. It was the year I became aware of the passage of time and the fickleness of life. 2005 was the year of multiple plane crashes which claimed the lives of tens of Nigerian school children; In 2005 Nigerians woke up to the news of the Sosoliso plane crash as well as the shocking death of the nation’s First Lady during a botched surgery. All of the death (two plane crashes in three months!) greatly impacted my young mind, and I started noticing time go by. Prior to then, I was so young and carefree that the years meant little to me, but post 2005, I started counting all the years; 2006, 2007, 2008, 09, 10, 11,12,13,14,15….2025. It has been twenty years of this.

2005 was also the year I first became aware of and interested in celebrity culture. That was the summer Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston broke up. I did not even know of either of them prior to this but I happened to be in London at the time, and the news was everywhere so I soaked it all up. It was the year Kate Moss had her “coke” scandal, I remember being so confused by the headlines “what’s wrong with her drinking coke?” It was the summer of “Pon de Replay” when Rihanna burst onto the scene and the world was never the same again. It was the summer of The Emancipation of Mimi; led by “We Belong Together” which was my introduction to Mariah Carey. You see, 2025 was the year I switched from Cartoon Network to MTV and it was the first time I was hearing a lot of these artists. What a glorious year for music that was. I remember the top songs on the music stations: We Belong Together, Bow wow’s Let Me Hold You, Pretty Ricky’s Grind With Me; Bobby Valentino’s Slow Down; Mario’s Let Me Love You, Pussycat Doll’s Don’t Cha; The Black Eyed Peas, 50 Cent and so on.

Every year since has had 2005 as a springboard; 06 was a year from 05; 2015 was ten years; 2025 is twenty years. The fact that twenty years have gone by is crazy; I have barely blinked and here I am. A lot has changed since then, but the one thing that has stayed the same is my thirst for more. More life, more fulfilment, more vibrancy, more joy, more purpose, more laughter, more community, more more more. For literal decades now I have been wanting more. I have been existing largely in my imagination where I have it all, exiting only briefly to perform the requirements of being human (school, work, etc) and quickly returning to the safe place in my mind.

It is almost as if I have been waiting for the universe to simply give me what I want and steer my life towards fulfilment. Of course I am the only one responsible for creating the life I desire, and that is a scary thought.

The biggest enemy is how much I while away precious time; carelessly handling these finite minutes and hours as though I have an unlimited supply. For years I have been whining about the same thing- time wastage- and my longstanding goal has been to mindfully engage my life. On New Year’s day 2019, I wrote:

I have one goal/motto for 2019 and that is to mindfully live my life; to live more deliberately and decisively. In 2019 I want to not only be aware of the minutes, but to also be conscious of what I do with them. No longer will I lie in bed doing nothing only to look up and it’s night time and I cannot say exactly what I did with the time. I realised in the last days of 2018 that one main source of the blues for me is the wastage of time. Time is so precious and once it is gone it is lost forever. So when I spend so much time doing nothing when I could be/should have been doing something it weighs on me and depresses my mood.

In 2020, I wrote:

In 2020 I want to engage my life mindfully, discover my purpose, and travel. I need to stop being so lazy and restless. I want to actually take the time to figure out what drives me, rather than simply going where the wind blows. 

In 2022, I wrote:

A couple of years ago, I had to learn the lesson “you are the only one responsible for making sure you have a good birthday” and now I have to apply this to the rest of my life. No one else is going to make my life good or finish that draft. I need to make it happen.

Literally nothing has changed in 6 years! How depressing and embarrassing for me. You can’t just write down the goals girl, you have to work to make them happen!

At this point, I am shy to even make any more goals or resolutions. More than anything, I so badly want to mindfully engage my life! I just have to remember this every day and clip bad habits as I see them. I want to read, I want to write, I want to travel, I want to develop new skills, I want to meet more people, I want to sleep. It all starts with being more mindful with my time. Here we go again.

Happy New Year!

End of year party of one.

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As usual I started this post in December (well I created the post and wrote the title) but only finished the post today.

2024 is coming to an end. I am spending it alone and no I am not sad.

I am apprehensive, as I always am, about the passage of time and whether or not I am making the best of this finite time. As always I feel that I am whiling away precious time, as always I am doing nothing to rectify this. Every time I have a break (weekends, holidays, downtime at work) I swear I am going to use the time mindfully (rest, write, read, plan my life) and every time I end up wasting it (11hr screen time, looking up at midnight omg where has the time gone?) and then feeling bad about it. Rinse and repeat.

I was hoping to use this Christmas break to really settle down and plan my life but unsurprisingly I frittered away the days, I did not even rest. If all I got from this was rest that would be enough, but I sleep late, wake up early to get a headstart on wasting my time. Even more frustrating is that I am acutely aware of the time passing by and every wasted hour adds to my angst.

I have bursts of productivity here and there, and in those moments I am reminded that this is what makes me happy- actually doing things. It is just hard to maintain the momentum. A consequence of always being alone? Perhaps. I do wish I could just watch the time go by and feel nothing, but it does weigh so much on my mind, especially coupled with the tedious monotony of my life.

In 2020 I did a recap of my favourite posts; looking back now I am amazed at how much I wrote- quantity and quality. I only had 10 posts this year; the lack of writing is constantly on my mind yet there seems to be something stopping me from actually writing. It is not writer’s block, more laziness and lack of discipline/drive. To be fair there was nothing to do in 2020, but that is not really an excuse because my life now is just like it was in 2020- remote working, lots of time to spare.

I may be too hard on myself; I did achieve some things in this year- travelled a bit more than I previously have, made a couple new friends, signed up for an art class, this and that. But it’s not enough. I have been wanting more for years now, and my lack of productivity means I am not putting in much effort into attaining fulfilment.

Despite this, It was a decent year; I did not feel as much malaise and loneliness as usual. Thank God.

You will not find a trace.

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“There is an ache in my heart for the imagined beauty of a life I haven’t had, from which I had been locked out, and it never goes away.”

“I wasn’t safe. I wasn’t permanent. My life was a fiction I had created, like an alien who comes to earth and tries to pass as human. The affections of my friends meant nothing to me, directed, as they were, toward a person who wasn’t there. There was nobody home.”

“If you don’t receive love from the ones who are meant to love you, you will never stop looking for it…You will look for it in objects that you buy without want. You will look for it in faces you do not desire. You will look for it in expensive hotel rooms… You will look for it in shopgirls and the kind of sad and splendid men who sell you clothing. You will look for it. And you will never find it. You will not find a trace.”
― Robert Goolrick, The End of the World as We Know It: Scenes from a Life

Fun fact: I posted the bolded quote exactly a year ago. I did not even realise this until after.

A girl can wish….

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In a year I want to be in a completely different space:
I wake up everyday and do something I find interesting;
My life is full of ease and my days full of laughter;
I no longer go through the motions,
but deeply experience each moment mindfully;
The fabric of my life is stitched with joy;
I am happy and free;
I love and I am loved.

A girl can wish.