Soraya

I don't cry at movies. I have sat through some of the most heartbreaking stories and walked out to the amazement of those in my company with eyes as dry as the desert. On Wednesday, I cried. No, I wept. I was watching The Stoning of Soraya M, a movie based on a true story written by the Paris based journalist Freidoun Sahebjan. It did not matter that the story was set in 1980s Iran; with each word spoken, each action made and finally, with each stone thrown, I felt I was watching a scarily possible scenario in my home country of Nigeria.

Zahrah, played by the gorgeous and timeless Shoreh Agdashloo is the powerful voice of conscience in this story. She must brave the controlling zealot mob, the corrupt justice system of a religiously regulated village to tell the story of her how her niece Soraya, played by Mozhan Marn, accused of adultery by her mean-spirited, divorce seeking husband was buried up to her waist in her bridal whites and stoned to death by a mob of males ranging from the very little to the very old. Taking her story under perilous circumstances out of the village and to the rest of the world is the character writer played by Jim Caviezel.

In one of the most defining moments of the film, the village mayor says to the weeping and bewildered Soraya,
"According to our laws, when a husband accuses a woman of adultery, she must prove her innocence....subsequently, when a wife accuses her husband of adultery, she must prove his guilt."
To which, Zahrah retorts, "...So all women are guilty?"

The movie's ending is as harrowing to watch as it is spectacular. The filmmaker in me, applauds the techniques and execution and the woman that I am weeps. Soraya, is me. She is you. She is every woman. It does not matter the society, western or non-western, when a woman is accused, she is stoned. Sometimes, it is with rocks, words, fists, loss of opportunity, abuse of her basic rights, abuse of her person, abuse of her mind. She does not have to do anything major, she just has to be a woman.

I had to wait a couple days to write about the movie because it so broke my heart. What would I do in the same situation? What could I do? What should I do?

I think I will for now, till I can do much better, do what Zahrah did. Speak up against any injustice. It is written somewhere that "An unjust law is no law at all"...and there are many many unjust laws.

My Africa

I was invited so kindly by Kulutempa to attend the free screening of the award winning documentary film, This is My Africa; a project released in 2009 as part of a trilogy to introduce the rest of the world to Africa by Africans who have an accurate understanding and awareness of the continent's true identity.

The 50 minute fare presented commentary from UK based Africans like Yinka Shonibare, Mpho Skeef, Nana o Anyim, Chiweitel Ejiofor and Mazzi Binaisa; just to name a few. The participants answered questions in attempts to describe what Africa meant to them.

As an introduction, the film served its purpose but would not be sufficient to stand as an encompassing portrait of Africa, possibly because the voices are incomplete or that the continent itself is so diverse and complex that such an attempt might be impossible. Still, being that This is My Africa was described by the filmmaker, Zina Saro-Wiwa as part of an intended series, I am excited at the prospect of projects that celebrate the continent continuously as Africa's image is dynamic.

Borrowing from the handouts that were given at the screening, I will tell you some things that represent Africa to me...

Books:
1. Eze goes to school
2. Koku Baboni
3. Mine Boy
4. Sugar Girl
5. Purple Hibiscus
6. Violence

Blogs/Sites:
1. Naijablog
2. Bella Naija
3. 234next
4. Timbuktuchronicles
5. SABC Africa

Art:
1. Any African fabric

Music:
1. Hugh Masekela
2. Eldee
3. Tiny
4. Koffi Olomide
5. Awilo
6. Kaysha
7. Femi Kuti
8. Sunny Ade


Film:
1. A reasonable man
2. We are together (Children of Agape Choir)
3. Beauty
4. White waters
5. Owo Blow
6. Ti Oluwa Nile
7. Tsotsi

Fashion
1. Tailors
2. Tiffany Amber
3. Mudi
4. Sofisticat
5. Idia
6. Headties

What is your Africa?

She speaks of places
my heart desires
my imagination torments
I smile and I nod
She thinks I am quiet
She does not know that I am not there
I went away a long long time ago

The line was too thin
The thread to bare
To preserve
I had to go
covered in silence
awaiting
She does not know that I am not there
I went away a long long time ago.

Where?
Why?
Do you want to know?
Even if you did
You cannot change
I have tried to do so
I have tried to find proof
It eludes
That is why I am not there
I went away a long time ago.

I went away a long time ago

I met my father's mistress on a Thursday. Contrary to what my mother had so bitterly said, Fouzia was not an ugly, spineless witch with a face pockmarked like a diseased gourd. She was tall, pretty and with skin so smooth, it almost looked like settled dark dust. Her smile was small but pleasant. She was on her guard and so was I.

"I don't want to go with her." I said simply. No, I did not think she was the evil woman that my mother said she was, but the fact was that she was not his wife. That woman was probably curled up in her bed, sick with worry of what similar poison her youngest child was being fed against her. That woman was my mother. And she was very unhappy.

Rekiya, my older sister had slapped me when I told her I would make the trip.

"Fool" she spat in my face, "how can you betray Mama?"
I did not cry, even as the stars swam before my eyes and the pain ricocheted across my face.
"He told me I should come", I said proudly. She was jealous. Papa had told me to come and not her. And I had. And he was passing me off on Fouzia.

"What did you say?" he asked in his soft quiet voice, a voice I remembered being read to with which now dripped with disappointment. I tried not to flinch.
"I will not go with her. I will not go with your whore." I told him.

He slapped me. For the first time in my thirteen years, he raised his hand against me and slapped me. Right there, on the front steps of the balcony where he lived with his mistress. My head was knocked aside and I held it there, lolling to the side, resting on my left shoulder while he stood over me, his hand raised as if to strike again. He didn't.

"You can go back to your mother." he said simply. Years later, I would marvel at how his voice remained steady. I couldn't speak. My heart was racing so fast that had I opened my mouth, my tears would have washed it out of me.

He left me there, hurting, his mistress only a few feet away, standing outside infront of the house. The sun was suddenly so hot that my skin prickled.

"Come out of the sun, " Fouzia said, simply.

I looked up then from the place on the sand where my tears had fallen and immediately disappeared within its heat.

"This is your fault." I said to her. I tried to spit but all my saliva had fled with the slap and my mouth was dry.

Fouzia chuckled. It was a slow and mirthless sound.
"Of course. It was me that slapped you ba?"
It could have been mocking but for some reason, it wasn't.


Then I started to cry.

Envy is a dangerous thing because it usually comes along with its more destructive alter ego: Jealousy. Born of Vanity, raised with Lust and trained in Spite, Jealousy invites in Anger, the fuel of catastrophe

Nnena Okore's first exhibition in Nigeria

http://banibaraje.blogspot.com/
http://saheeda.blogspot.com/

What dark nights bring

I reached out of my cloud of depressed gloom, set off by the exhaustion of a less than convincing performance, to lift the curtains I had borrowed from my aunt's house to let in some of the last rays of the evening's sun into my dark room and there he was. Black as night. Skin shining and with eyes so grey, they shone like flints of light. Eyes that were now focused on me with an intensity that was almost unnerving.

He did not move and neither did I. I wondered what he was doing there and if in some way he had been sent by forces unbeknown to me to send a message. I wondered if I should let him in and immediately chastised the lack of wisdom in that idea. What was I to say to this dark stranger, resident to the back streets and dark alleys of the neighbourhood. I had seen many times, skulking away with graceful strides.

I blinked and then he was gone. Just like he had come. His stay was brief. His presence much more lasting. I was left to wonder.

His name, his history and his destiny.

My alley visitor.