For about five years or less, I strode past this book and its author because I had him confused with another whose writing style left an unsavoury impression on me. El Nathan’s second book – Becoming Nigerian – brought him to the centre of my sights again. My beau and I talked about him some. Then I got his first as a gift from my beau. I had it in front of me; so I read it.
Read MoreIn the middle of her passionate monologue, Bukola leaning back in her chair, with a trace of amusement, went unnoticed. Zibby was lost in a sphere that brought her the utmost happiness and peace.
It must have been two or three minutes later before some of the words she uttered reached Zibby’s ears and she halted, abruptly, mid – sentence, appalled at what had just occurred. It didn’t help that by this time Bukola was sitting upright once more, a small smile teasing at the corners of her full lips. Zibby was at odds at its interpretation. Had she just made a complete fool of herself or a favourable impression?
She was also given to the temperaments of an artist – intense, emotional, empathetic, and highly unpredictable. Eight weeks of Zibby’s time with her were as exhilarating as they were sometimes frustrating. There was no telling what each day would hold when she spent it in her mentor’s presence. Was it going to be at her workshop where the boubous were assembled? Or at her flagship shop in all its boubou embellished glory? Or at her house where a large, en suite room was dedicated to thinking, designing, strategising and sleeping?
Read MoreAs she closed the gates, another car slowing to a halt in front of the house caught her eye. The man behind the wheel was no spring chicken; his greying side burns spoke volumes. Zibby wouldn’t have bothered about him if the passenger door hadn’t opened and her younger sister – with blessings of effortless elegance, tall figure and creamy skin stepped out of the car. Zibby quietly closed the gates, turned and walked towards the back of the house.
Read MoreShe dreaded any calls from her mother. Money was always involved in any long monologue the matriarch spewed down the line interspersed with Ndo and Chukwu gozie gi. God will replenish your pocket. Even Mya didn’t ask for money like she used to, claiming she braided her classmates’ hairs for a fee when she had the time.
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