alligator legs

the people v aissatou ba//written and directed by iquo b essien

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 18:34:00 +0000

Hi all, sorry so long no write! I have been deep in production, just now coming up for air. In case you hadn't heard, I am directing a short film at the moment. Wanted you all to know that there are only 15 hours left to fund my project, THE PEOPLE v. AISSATOU BA, on IndieGoGo.

Inspired by the New York v. Strauss-Kahn case, THE PEOPLE v. AISSATOU BA is a story about an African immigrant housekeeper moving on with her life after the case against the man who assaulted her is dismissed.

Sexual harassment affects room attendants on a daily basis, many of whom are afraid to speak out for fear of losing their jobs. THE PEOPLE v. AISSATOU BA is one woman's story of courage, resilience and faith to speak out.

To show your support for this project (or me! :), you can:

1. Make a PLEDGE today

2. SMS http://bit.ly/peoplefilm to 10 friends and family

3. LIKE us on Facebook

4. FOLLOW us on Twitter

Thanks for your support! You are appreciated. --AL.

dsk vs. the maid: who would the jury have believed? // chimamanda adichie

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 18:59:00 +0000

chimamanda adichie has a wonderful piece in the daily beast that asks whether the jury would have believed dominique strauss-kahn or his alleged victim, guinean immigrant nafissatou diallo.

"On television, she was familiar: the skin tone that suggested cheap bleaching creams, the ambitious hair weave, the melodrama. An American friend of mine thought her interview too theatrical and therefore unbelievable. Instead, I saw a woman speaking a non-native language, and so compensating with gestures...Diallo comes from a place where melodrama is not unusual, and often suggests truth as much as lies."

it would be appropo to mention here that i am in pre-production on a short film, called the people v. aissatou ba, about an african immigrant woman moving on with her life while the man who assaulted her walks free. it is inspired by the dsk case and asks the question: what price does aissatou pay for telling the truth?

i'm not sure who the jury would have believed. i'd like to say that there is a part of each of us that recognizes the truth, our shared humanity, but i've learned over time that this idea is often a self-satisfying delusion.

visit my indiegogo page to learn more about my film and contribute--every dollar helps! --AL.

metaphysics: 1

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 13:34:00 +0000

<< 1 >>

sometimes i can see auras.

there is a flatness to some born of poverty, ignorance, lack of self and other awareness. but i look at and experience others that literally bloom--like the flashes of light emitted from a flickering candle flame--enlightening and purifying the air around them. it isn't something i've cultivated, but i suppose becoming more sensitive to my own energy, to the energy around me both as an artist and human being has brought this out. venus williams, a buddhist monk, a woman picking flowers near my house, all these i experienced as a bright, colorful, cleansing light.

i thought myself a little crazy for this until i recently saw an episode of oprah's life class in which a man, who survived being trapped in a burning airplane, said he could see the auras of his fellow passengers leaving as they perished. they were different colors, he said, and so has dedicated his efforts--since surviving--to brightening his aura.

there is much truth in it.

i imagine having had this insight, i am also concerned with the brightness of my own aura--the light i bear into the world. though i have my low moments, i am fairly convinced that it blooms. i am also aware that not everyone can see this light. and it occurs to me that, in spite of this, one must continue to bring it forth for the greater good. to be kind, just, considerate, sincere.

a day at hedgebrook(lyn)

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 20:41:00 +0000

i have a blog up on the hedgebrook website! read an excerpt below, and the rest here. --AL.

"A small group of alums met for a day of writing, reading and fellowship at Hedgebrook(lyn)—organized by alums Mary Armstrong and Holly Morris, who runs the PowderKeg, an urban writers’ retreat where we met.

At ten o’clock in the morning we had tea and fruit and chatter in the kitchen. We later planted ourselves at a handful of ancient writing tables spread throughout the loft, overlooking a row of windows with a view of Flatbush Avenue. I picked a table in the center of the room, just far enough from the windows that I wouldn’t be tempted to stare outside. Sitting there in quiet community, a story visited me about black women, depression and suicide that has been circling my creative mind for years. It is something like Ntozake Shange’s For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When The Rainbow is Enuf, but different."

--from A Day at Hedgebrook(lyn), by Iquo B. Essien

no room for doubt//lianne la havas

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 21:35:00 +0000

love. --AL.

Lianne La Havas | No Room For Doubt | A Take Away Show from La Blogotheque on Vimeo.

dance as creative practice (an exhaled breath)

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 04:58:00 +0000

spent eleven hours on set today with a turkish director friend of mine. brilliant cast, crew, and i was tired at the end, but i had to go to dance class because, well, i just had to. spending days on set, the only way i can keep still that long is to move in what (little) free time i have left over. so i took nia love's class at dna--it's called modern roots, a mix of modern dance and african forms. nia speaks of the pelvic drop, the feminine root we so often deny ourselves in (upright) American modern dance and ballet. i love ms. love's movement--all sinew, undulation, rhythm. came a bit late to class so they had already stretched and were getting into the viscera of the movement when i joined in. shifting between art forms is not unlike being pulled from a hot spring and jumping full force into ice cold water, the brain peeling back, shuddering, then finding itself--these are my legs, arms, face. shifting is also like traveling to a distant country full of people who speak a language you do not know, having to make sense, saying, perhaps i have not been there before, but i remember. i am no good with transitions. after a day of talking, or thinking, going to dance class is rather mind bending (i prefer mind fucking), or like cracking an egg wide open and letting the yoke fall between your fingers. what is there cannot be encapsulated or contained, it simply is. and it takes the brain awhile to catch up, and you want to tell nia that you have been up since 6am and cannot process, can she please slow it down, but you know she won't and really why are you making excuses about the mind when the body is right there? it is waiting for the mind to let it go. so you tell yourself to let it go and just move, let your body find itself, and then it does and you realize that your body is much smarter than your mind, that it has garnered a substantial physical intelligence after years of training and performance and actually nothing of what you did today really matters; the movement is already in your body, it simply must be released. and then you think (to yourself, again) that you are at times a mind or a body or a mind-body, or a body-mind, and tonight you are somewhere in between them all. and your body surprises you, and you are grateful for it. and you find yourself, after class, on the subway ride home, staring at your flushed reflection in the glass and wondering who that is sitting there because for a moment your mind has actually let itself go, left your body, and it is flying free somewhere. and on the way home you find yourself singing because music was really your first love and dancing (after 11 hours on set) has opened your third eye, or maybe the past, and you are able to remember and access certain parts of yourself that were hidden mere hours before. and you think, i need to dance more; it helps me live. and you realize how it helps you be present, breathing, alive, and thus more available to your creative work. and you think, someday, when i teach a writing (or filmmaking) class it will begin with movement. or perhaps i will teach a dance class and have people write, or anything to show how opening oneself to being present and grounded will at once open oneself to the work of creativity. and so you chase it, saying, i will dance more and more and more and more. it makes me happy. it's freeing. it opens me to the present, to the process. i am reborn again and again through movement. it is a spiritual experience (trust, flow). it is a mental experience (letting go). but most importantly it is a physical experience (the body, the earth). and among other art forms, dance is the one that best allows me to give thanks for breath, for being. --AL.

dreams at dawn, reissued

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 23:23:00 +0000

good news this week: a short story of mine, called uncle james, will be published in the (newly reissued) dreams at dawn--an anthology of short stories from the fidelity bank international creative writing workshop.

this particular short story is about an old friend--newly estranged from his wife--who comes to visit the ofon family and rekindles long dormant feelings in mrs. ofon, the protagonist's mother. i was very keen on the whole thing and then my characters started living their own lives and i got very angry at mrs. ofon for having the audacity to jeopardize her entire family for want of touch, love, desire, autonomy.

i won't give away the ending, but check out the excerpt below. -- AL.

"Her mother clung desperately, as though she would collapse if she let go of him. And when her head fell backwards into the moonlight, Dara saw a look of pure joy—just like that first night when she and Uncle James sat laughing over that old photo album.

She wanted to cry out, to pry this man’s hands off of her mother, but her legs turned to lead as the world imploded on the three of them--Dara, crouched on the stairs, while her mother and Uncle James, standing against the basement wall, became one shadowy, bulbous figure.

She felt a mounting shame at having seen her mother this way—the buttons of her nightgown undone, breasts jiggling. And because she could neither speak nor confront them, Dara crept silently back upstairs where she knelt over the toilet retching for an hour, though nothing but saliva came up.

Deep down, she knew her mother was already gone." (excerpt from "Uncle James," by Iquo B. Essien)

anita hill: 20 years later

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 04:36:00 +0000

i remember the 1991 supreme court confirmation hearings vividly. my father rigged a video camera up to record the tv screen and kept the channel on all day--an activity reserved for special events like when mandela was freed from prison or lady diana was killed.

i was only ten-years-old then, but this black woman in a blue suit at the center of it all held my attention. she gave a detailed account of how she'd endured years of sexual harassment--the first time i'd ever heard that word--working under the justice-to-be. he told off color jokes, she said, put a pubic hair on the lip of a coke can. it was tawdry stuff, and i imagine the only reason my father let me watch was because it aired on public television and everyone onscreen was in a suit.

but even at ten it struck me as odd that this justice-to-be, clarence thomas, could still be sworn in under the weight of such reasonable doubt of his character. i imagine that, even then, i understood the american justice system to be a contradiction in terms.

two weeks ago, hundreds gathered for the anita hill: 20 years later conference at hunter college, co-sponsored by hedgebrook, among others. when the tickets sold out, i tried to volunteer, but no such luck. thankfully, though, the entire thing is available online at cspan.

watching and reflecting on it, i marvel at the ability of people in power to manufacture alternate truths--out with a new memoir, thomas's then-girlfriend lillian mcewen says: "I have no hostility toward him. It is just that he has manufactured a different reality over time. That's the problem that he has."

i thank ms. hill for her courage. it's not lost on me that my life as i knew it changed unutterably with her testimony, creating a workplace in which sexual harassment is recognized and dealt with. not to say that it's a perfect system, or that it does not perpetuate itself in spite of legal protections, but that her speaking out was a step in the right direction, for which i am grateful. -- AL.

visible // nora chipaumire & jawole willa jo zollar

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Thu, 13 Oct 2011 13:37:00 +0000

i caught the premiere of visible @ harlem stage last night, exploring otherness in america, a new commissioned work by choreographers nora chipaumire and urban bush women's jawole willa jo zollar. brilliance on brilliance. i have a lot to say.

<<1>>

there is nothing more than the body in space--from dust to life to dust again. every time i move or see a dancer moving i'm reminded of this. dancing is the only thing that reminds me that i breathe, that i live. why i have never left it since i was a little girl. i realize now, back in school, sitting for long hours in class or simply waiting (for the subway, for appointments, for something to happen on set) that i need to dance more than ever before. in maya angelou's master class, the poet revealed that the only two things she would ever sacrifice for were writing and dance--until her knees went bad. i understood completely and felt a kindred spirit in her.

<<2>>

nora chipaumire is brilliant. stunning. she didn't dance last night, set the choreography on other bodies, but to see her walk or stand is itself a vision.

<<3>>

last night was emotional for me. i remembered auditioning for urban bush women in the fall of 2005. it was bad. really bad. i was at a crossroads of sorts, whether to commit or not to dance. i remember asking myself repeatedly what role it served in my life, whether just to satiate my spirit or for something more. the audition was a means of assessing which of the two.

i was late and rather shabbily dressed and my dance resume wasn't put together. at one point jawole gave me a withering look that made me want to shrivel up and just die. i went home that day and finally finished my film school application, mailed it out and didn't dance for months. months. my body had betrayed me, or perhaps it was jawole's unkindness that pierced a vulnerable part of me that needed deep healing. apart from a short, though slightly more successful, audition for fela!--that nevertheless had the same outcome--i have been afraid to audition ever since.

dancing is not unlike writing, really, or any other art. you work and work and work and face rejection after rejection. it doesn't mean you are not good, that what you're doing has no value--it's simply par for the course. six years later, i get that.

i am certain that, if my body didn't constantly betray me, i would only ever dance. i am also certain that, had it not been for jawole's rejection, i wouldn't be a filmmaker now. i owe her my deepest thanks for this, but somehow last night i couldn't muster anything more than a glancing smile. and yet, sadly, when anyone asked me last night what company i danced for, i could only say none anymore, that i was making movies now.

<<4>>

at the end of visible, in an act of defiance, the women bared their breasts. what is it about a breast? i wondered. a mound of flesh that carries so much significance. simultaneously empowering and emasculating. ubw did a workshop once about body love in which jawole mentioned how liberating it was having her ass photographed for the cover of a book. i thought, i remember there, referencing a photographer who shot some nudes of me once upon a time for an exhibit of women in mexican fighting masks.

i imagine my breasts are hanging up somewhere in a museum or some such today. and it was a curious experience having a friend come up to me and say he thought he saw my body somewhere. i was a bit mortified over that, but now i think, well, it's just a body. i have an ass: but i am not my ass. i have breasts: but i am not my breasts. a breast can be used to nourish or to titillate. it is also just flesh.

<<5>>

we are all other to this place called america. i've finally realized that. it is the same conversation we keep having, how to become apart of the whole. i think it's a conversation worth having, but i'd rather talk about how to make the whole a part of me.

i see this place as a cornucopia of borrowed fruits--some poison, others sweet. i take what tastes good to me with the understanding that nobody owns any of it or can tell me what i can or cannot take. it's simply there, for better or worse.

i think the specter of inclusion and all the art it inspires is worthy and important, but it's based on the faulty assumption that somebody could or would, if they could, integrate others into the mainstream American whole. i've simply stopped believing in that person(s), not unlike Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.

mothers and daughters

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Tue, 04 Oct 2011 17:42:00 +0000

yesterday was the ninth anniversary of my mother's death.

at moments like these, it is apparent that time is only time; it does not comfort, heal, push you forward. grieving is real work and time does not, of itself, heal all wounds.

in spite of this, time is precious because you never get it back. and as my mother neared the end, i saw that the time she spent with her loved ones, the love she gave, was all she had to measure her life.

it made me want to be more open and honest and loving with the people who were in my life at that time, though grief often made that a difficult proposition. and in the years since she died, i have come to understand how much more difficult, though not impossible, it is to get to know someone better who is no longer living.

the other day someone asked me why i was doing elizabeth's daughter and i had a bit of trouble answering. i started off by saying, 'i wanted to get to know my mother better,' then got around to mentioning how i'd always wanted to write her story--spurred by my father's memoirs, in which my mother is not a central character. in fact, i would go so far as to say that my mother, sisters and i were presented as an obstacle to a singular man's quest to establish himself as a united states immigrant.

i wondered about this for years. thought perhaps it was a failing of language, the journalistic way in which my father writes about his life that doesn't probe the deeper emotions that might certainly show that he saw us all as a unit and not himself versus us. but i thought my mother should have her say about the matter well before she died. her death has only made the prospect of writing about her life doubly challenging, both for practical and emotional reasons.

all my creative work now seems to revolve around mothers and daughters. i understand that i may remain preoccupied with this topic my entire life simply as a means of coping with the reality that my mother is dead. she visits me a lot now, mostly in dreams. if she were alive i think she'd be proud of me. i'm tough and soft like she was, caring, loving, spiritual, disciplined.

and i think we would be less like mother and daughter now and more like friends. --AL.

restless city//andrew dosunmu

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Sat, 24 Sep 2011 14:52:00 +0000

i've been somewhat enamored of andrew dosunmu ever since he dropped 'the african game,' a photo book about africa's love affair with football, with an exhibit and (still upcoming) documentary. restless city--a sort of new world tragic love story--is his first feature, made on an astonishing 80,000 dollar budget in six days. fashion guru and costume designer mobolaji and many of the cast members were on hand at the urbanworld film festival for a q&a.

'film is a visual medium,' dosunmu said. he was a slight man, in a pair of simple slacks and his ubiquitous cap. a photographer-turned-filmmaker, he directed a visual masterpiece. restless city was a bit light on story, but somehow the story became the art, walking us through a few weeks in the life of an immigrant who's simply trying to live and work and love.

it's the first movie i've ever seen that made me see the beauty in that struggle--not only in the men and women who go through it every day, but also in the magnitude of their desires.

i will be excited to see restless city in the theaters come december. it is a film i will watch again and again, borrowing visual cues for my own filmmaking. when my professors ask what directors i admire most, i have a hard time answering. i imagine someone who writes about africa and africans in a way that is not pedantic, self-serving poverty porn.

at least one i know for sure.

on a related note, dosunmu wrapped ma'george a couple weeks ago, with isaach de bankole, yaya decosta and danai gurira. the film’s synopsis reads: “torn between her African culture and new life in america, a woman struggles to please her husband and give him the son that will carry on his family’s legacy.” i've been begging my girl to send some set photos so i can post here; still begging. -- AL.

urbanworld film festival

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Fri, 23 Sep 2011 21:36:00 +0000

just a word. i went back to film school so time is short these days. my apologies. attended urbanworld film fest last weekend and saw andrew dosunmu's restless city (breathtaking) and alrick brown's kinyarwanda (moving). wanted to share the trailers, unfortunately rc's not available yet so take a look at kinyarwanda. enjoy and support when they come to theaters later this year! peace. --AL.

KINYARWANDA Extended Trailer from Alrick Brown on Vimeo.

my artist profile on urban cusp

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Mon, 29 Aug 2011 15:59:00 +0000

i'm one of this week's profiled artists on urban cusp, a lifestyle magazine highlighting progressive urban culture, social justice and global awareness. it was started by my stanford colleague and friend rahiel tesfamariam, and i'm super excited about it! enjoy. --AL.

"Being a dancer has taught me the most about writing and filmmaking —- about being present and open, establishing a pace and rhythm, trusting in my ability, being courageous, and, above all, remembering to breathe. Every day I do my morning pages, a technique out of Julia Cameron’s book The Artist’s Way that involves writing three pages of text as soon as I get out of bed. Cameron also writes about filling one’s inner well with things that inspire creativity, like taking long walks in nature, visiting the museum, and listening to music." --Iquo B. Essien

hurricane season

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Sun, 28 Aug 2011 00:50:00 +0000

we are bracing for hurricane irene. yes, a hurricane. which is strange since hurricanes--not to mention earthquakes, tho we had one last week--don't ever happen in new york.

i imagine that it has something to do with global warming, and that a pestilence is not far behind, but right now i am focusing less on the impending apocalypse and more on batteries and extra water in the event of a power outage. i would also mention that we are approaching the sixth anniversary of hurricane katrina that claimed over 1800 lives--and cost $81 billion in damage--in the american gulf coast, exposing fatal deficiencies in the nation's disaster responsiveness.

i have often wondered what would have happened if hurricane katrina had struck the financial capital of the world as opposed to one of the poorest regions in the united states. would people have died in their homes, in the streets, in hospitals and shelters? would the police have turned their guns on civilians seeking shelter and staged a cover up to obscure the truth?

many are still waiting for justice--and now we wait and see what will happen in new york. it seems that governor cuomo has already dispatched 2000 national guard troops, evacuating several areas of the city to shelters on higher ground. we are safe here in the bronx, i think, though it hasn't stopped raining in hours.

i am not good at being indoors for long, but at least i am writing.

i might also mention that i recently ran into naima, one half of the group climbing poetree, who staged a traveling production of hurricane season: the hidden messages in water. she told me that they are regrouping and working on new material, tho suddenly it seems they needn't bother. we are all still drowning, trying to recover ourselves. and i am sure their call for a shift in universal consciousness to combat "unnatural" disasters is no less timely now than it was then.

to those who found their spiritual homes six years ago, and those still living trying to recover themselves: amen. --AL.

social media cleansing

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Sun, 21 Aug 2011 16:25:00 +0000

several years ago i took a silent retreat for three days on an ashram in upstate new york. i embarked on this journey after i left my first job in new york at a global health communications firm, when a still small voice inside me started screaming that i was supposed to be a writer (or some such). because i had a little money in the bank, i was able to quit my job and take a few days just to listen to what it was saying. (it actually largely said i was mising love in my life, which is a completely different subject than this blog.) mine wasn't the ten-day one my girlfriend raved about, nor was it expressly a 'silent retreat' as the ashram was home base for the yoga society of new york. there were daily chants, meditations, yoga classes, i just did them largely in silence while journaling.

since returning from that retreat--now some six years later--i have needed to take periodic vows of silence in new york city proper when the commotion of life drowns out my inner voice. it's rather interesting to wrap one's mind around the fact that speaking is not mandatory; it is a choice. most things people communicate are nonverbal anyways and, furthermore, most things people choose to say really needn't be said at all. and tho i didn't have the pleasure of not speaking these past few weeks, i modified my retreat into a two-week social media cleansing. (as you might notice, i was silent on here for awhile.)

what it showed me was how much i've been missing real communication. facebook, twitter, blogging has all become a proxy for what used to be phone and housecalls. i know that, of course, everybody does. but what i don't always recognize is how much i depend on the social media to fill the real communication gaps in my life, the amount of friendships/relationships that don't exist in reality at all. so i am recommitting to calling, to visiting, to hanging out. to parsing the real from the virtual and putting more time and effort in the former.

my blogging may suffer for it, but i think it will be worth it.

i'm just writing this to say: call someone today. visit. write a letter. tell someone you care, that you're really here. turn off your blackberry (or at least the updates) and sit down with someone you love. today, for me, it's watching toy story 3 with my three-year-old nephew who likes to sit in my lap and give story notes the entire way. i want him to know that i am here, that i care, that i am listening. that's all anybody ever wants and needs. no amount of fb updates, tweets, or e-mails can really fill that need.

altho i must admit that social media has played an important role in resistance movements, it is a means of organizing and informing...not cohering or comforting. and for the vast majority of us, it is superfluous. --AL.

elizabeth's daughter//iquo b. essien

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Sat, 20 Aug 2011 16:39:00 +0000

i've been meaning to share an excerpt from my memoir project, Elizabeth's Daughter, that I've been working on this past year. the essays (and photographs and video) are meant to be read/viewed in conversation with each other, but this piece works as a standalone.

i am putting together a preview collection called 'Elizabeth's Daughter in Words and Pictures' that will be ready in the coming months (i hope i hope!). the purpose is to collect my writing, photos and ideas so far, as well as allow for my blog readers to engage a bit deeper with my work and potentially support my project.

you can read an excerpt from the essay "granny's house" here and also download/scroll through below. enjoy! --AL.
Grannys House by Iquo B Essien

gun hill road//rashaad ernesto green

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Thu, 18 Aug 2011 15:57:00 +0000

gun hill road is a film about a latino family whose paroled father comes back to the bronx to find his teenage son transitioning to femalehood. i had a chance to see it at angelika film center a couple of sundays ago, followed by a q&a with lead actress harmony santana and writer/director rashaad ernesto green.

it's one of the more interesting and engaging films i've seen in a very long time--and i'm not just saying that because rashaad is one of my nyu grad film colleagues. i left the theater a more enlightened person, both as a viewer and a filmmaker. the writing is fresh and authentic, the acting on point, and it spotlights an issue that isn't being discussed in mainstream american society, particularly in latino and minority communities.

when i was on set with tunde kelani, he said--quite emphatically, as i remember--that there's nothing coming out of hollywood. i wanted to disagree, point out all the wonderful indie filmmakers, some of them friends, doing really interesting work. then i realized they all work outside the hollywood system. it's a hard reality that the hollywood machine is mass producing, packaging and distributing the same old stories again and again. but it's really refreshing to know there are alternative means for telling other kinds of stories out there. --AL.

tsitsi dangarembga, no longer nervous

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 15:07:00 +0000

african women in cinema has a wonderful interview with tsitsi dangarembga online (excerpted below). i can still remember the first time i read nervous conditions and the paper i wrote on it for my african feminisms class in college, the endless inner dialogue of my own nervous conditions since then.

i am rather in awe of this woman. she speaks exactly to the reasons why i both write and study filmmaking, to the african problem of film as 'meaningless entertainment' or a tool for development, with nothing in between. there is much food for thought here. --AL.

"Tsitsi, you have had a parallel trajectory as writer and filmmaker, how did these interests take shape?

'Initially my idea was to develop another skill, besides prose writing, that would enable me to earn a living. At that time, in the mid 1980’s, I could already see that skills in moving images narration were essential to the national agenda. Our then Minister of Finance, Bernard Chidzero also saw a role for motion picture in development. That was good in that he incorporated film as an important medium for sending out development oriented messages (such as Neria) – women’s rights, and many HIV films such as More Time, Everyone’s Child and Yellow Card. The down side of this was that film became identified with social messaging in the minds of the local public. We had a strange dichotomy: film was either frivolous, meaningless entertainment, or it was disseminated of didactic developmental. The study of film theory and the way the medium speaks to the individual and shapes the individual consciousness, was still a specialist area. But I had a premonition about these matters, so I decided to study film as an adjunct to making my living. I was aware I could read up the theory on my own, but needed guidance in practical matters. So I researched schools in filmmaking. It was one of the great blessings of my life that I was accepted at the German Film and Television Academy, Berlin, where I received excellent tuition.'

What relationship do you see between literature and cinema?

'At first I could not see any parallels in prose narrative and film narrative. I was surprised at how my approach to creating narrative simply did not work for film. I think the biggest difference for me was to understand the difference between who and why (prose) and what and why (film), i.e. character against action. It came to the point where I found that writing prose interfered with my learning the techniques of film narrative. But I was determined to conquer it. So I stopped writing prose. With practice and good teachers, slowly and agonisingly, I became proficient in creating for film. Now that I am able to write both fiction and screen, I am more aware of the similarities than the differences. The similarity is in what – character, plot, setting, and so forth – the traditional aspects of narrative. The difference is in how one manifests these to suit the medium.'"

seun kuti @ s.o.b.'s

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 19:54:00 +0000

still battling jet lag and hungry for a bit of lagos in new york, i walked in the doors of s.o.b.'s last night eager to hear music from seun kuti's new brian eno-produced album, from africa with fury: rise.

wearing jeans and little makeup, i parked myself inconspicuously halfway between the bar and the stage, immediately spotting kunle ade--king sunny ade's son--whom i've never actually seen out at an event with 'normal' people. he gave me a hug and obligatory kiss on the cheek, before sliding away to mix and mingle. soon the crowd started pouring in and i glimpsed a few more friends--an academic; a drummer; a dancer; a photographer who covered the africa aspire ball with me, at the national museum of african art, during obama's inauguration--as well as a few brooklyn mainstays whom i haven't seen in ages--namely, ngozi odita of harriets alter ego.

it had been four years since i first saw seun kuti & egypt 80 perform at s.o.b.'s.

i was 25 then, writing for the african magazine. showed up with my notebook wearing a gold tube dress and plenty makeup, was paparazzied to death while dancing, and stayed till the last patrons had already left. i wasn't the shy, silent type as i found seun to be then--though he was also uber-talented, energetic, and mesmerizing to watch. i loved the way he defered to his band members on their solos, leaving centerstage to stand somewhere near the back. and how he paid homage to his late father, starting his set off with a fela tune and displaying a 'fela lives' back tat proudly.

seun has changed a lot in four years. now balding, he was high most of the night and gazed at the audience through half-opened eyelids. in spite of all that, or maybe because of it, i loved his performance--the dancing, the stripping down to his bareback from a business shirt, the preaching about politics, revolution and government. he opened the first set with fela's zombie before launching into songs from his album. preached about marijuana, sex, and politics--'what is the u.s. doing in libya? it's because of the economy. they know libya doesn't have the corporations to rebuild the country after they're done bombing. just wait, the contracts are coming.'--to a rapt crowd of fans.

i danced all the way to the end of the second set before jet lag hit me, leaving still hungry for lagos, tho temporarily sated. on the subway ride home, i thot about my fascination with seun. it stems from the fact that we're roughly the same age. and in the past four years, he has made a significant transition that is largely governed by age: he doesn't give a damn what anybody else thinks anymore. he is making music his way, performing his way, living his way. he isn't shy anymore; he is liberated. i saw so much of fela in him--in a way that both awed and worried me.

all of this to say. i am looking forward to seeing seun in another four years, to seeing him sell a lot of records. a free black man is a dangerous and powerful thing.

read my african magazine review from four years ago here. --AL.

the strong breed//wole soyinka

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Tue, 26 Jul 2011 20:23:00 +0000

i always enjoy watching theater in lagos because nigerians have a natural flair for drama.

in honor of wole soyinka's 77th birthday, renegade theater presents the fifth annual season of wole soyinka at terra kulture. i braved a torrential downpour to see the strong breed a couple of sundays ago, and next sunday the troupe will be performing camwood on the leaves. the cast did not disappoint--altho, for some reason, i found the helpless, scapegoated characters of ifada and the schoolgirl more compelling than the main ones. maybe that has something to do with my psychology.

festival director/producer wole oguntokun announced that he will be participating in the world shakespeare festival in london next year, an event leading up to the 2012 olympics featuring 38 plays in 38 languages. he plans to adapt the winter's tale into a yoruba drama complete with sango and ogun.

it's great to see wole recognized on a global stage, both for his own sake and for nigeria. he's an immensely talented individual. the show sounds like a can't miss--of course, you would have to speak yoruba to enjoy it! --AL.

getting betterer

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Sun, 24 Jul 2011 13:37:00 +0000

i have been making lots of changes and tweaks to increase my tech savvy and engagement with my readers. i'm not sure who (most of) you are, or how or why you visit this blog, but i'd like to improve the experience for all of us if at all possible.

so i've added a search button (in the right navigation bar) that will enable you to peruse any and everything i've ever written about, well, anything. try it--it's addictive!

i am also on twitter and facebook. you have to follow me to see my tweets (security precaution), but i'm usually pretty nice about accepting followers.

you can also visit my group blog, the african muse, and e-mail me if you'd like to contribute. i have two contributors right now, one out of bali and the other london/zambia, seeking more international folks to weigh in on art in the diaspora.

and in case you don't already know, you can always find out more about me on my website. it's currently under construction, so bear with me! --AL.

african love::part two

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 06:02:00 +0000

1
i have met so many courageous nigerian women who empower me to speak my heart. one, a radio host and poet, says that she sat and asked herself about the things that make her happy--writing, family, friends, fulfilling work--and realized that she could achieve the happiness she seeks without ever getting married. she is tired of singledom being portrayed as an affliction one must be delivered from, imagines that if most women sat and really asked themselves whether marriage was right for them, the answer would be: no. as she speaks, i cannot believe my ears, that she dares say these things out loud that i have thought in private. i want to shout 'amen' or something of the sort, but i am still afraid to speak as loudly as she does, lest someone hear me.

another friend of mine says simply, of a man she is dating, 'we could have five or ten happy years together, with or without children.' i have never heard anyone say something like this before. she is lovely, an academic and a writer, committed to taking her career to the next level. she also confesses that she does not cook very often, the stress of market and all, to which i reply, 'i can't believe you're saying these things out loud.' we gist about all these women who talk of 'combining' career and family and motherhood. who drive from their full-time jobs back home at night to prepare dinner, who must look beautiful at all times and be good in bed. it is simply too much, she thinks. we laugh heartily at this unrealistic expectation nigerian men have, that we will be everything at all times. she refuses to combine.

2
a local uyo publisher, who heard i was writing a memoir about my mother, has offered to do a feature story on me in his magazine. he invites me for a drink during which he will conduct the interview. he does not know my house, so i wait by the side of the road for him to pick me up, the occasional car slowing down as tho i am a prostitute. finally a truck stops and it is him, i climb inside and we drive the short few blocks to the hotel where he is meeting a friend--a pdp politician, fat with open teeth. another friend joins them, and another, and then i imagine i must really look like a prostitute--young, unmarried, surrounded by all these brash older men.

they order a bottle of red wine and the publisher removes his sandals as tho at home, rubbing on his big toe. they talk of the floods in lagos. the politician, a geologist, tries desperately to describe the laws of tectonic plates to the publisher, who refuses to believe that a tsunami will ever sweep away the island. the pitch of their argument rises and rises, until i excuse myself to check my e-mail. i have work to do and this outing is proving a waste of time.

at the front desk, i learn that the internet is not working. on my way back to the bar, i pass the restaurant where a table of youngish men are finishing eating. one waves at me and i wave back--as i am the sort to say hello to a perfect stranger--and he jumps up from the table to come talk to me. in a slight british accent, chuma tells me that he and his friends performed at a huge concert for the governor's birthday party, missed their flight and are stuck overnight.

he asks what i am doing here. i say that i'm supposed to be getting interviewed about my work, but the interviewer hasn't asked a single question, instead keeps topping off my glass of wine. chuma jokes that perhaps the guy isn't as much interested in my art as my art, tracing an hourglass figure in the air. i laugh. he gives me his card, i say i'll call, knowing i won't. back at the bar, the publisher makes a point of asking why i spoke to this other man, why i accepted his card, when i am supposed to be here with him. i realize that this isn't an interview over a drink at all, but just a drink. he is a fool. i pity his wife and son--who is always jumping on him and disturbing his sleep, he says, and is the reason he rents a fifteen thousand naira hotel room in the middle of the day for a siesta.

i tell him i'm going home.

3
on a long walk from the hotel, she thinks of how it was when they first met. when he spoke to her and she glimpsed the softness he hides beneath all the jokes and laughter. she liked the way he smiled and kept looking off to the side as tho seeking refuge from the intensity of her stare. did not notice him taking tiny steps backward, too, uncomfortable with how close she was standing. perhaps it was all there in that first meeting--her coming forward and his backing away, her coming forward again, oblivious. and on the long walk to the lekki gate, past the water that she wants to sit and stare in, she does not know whether to laugh or cry at having seen him again.

he stood there in his brown caftan, waiting as she ran to him. they hugged and she exhaled a breath she'd been holding for months into the space between his chin and collarbone, breathed him in again, filling her lungs with his scent. they kissed. and then he pulled away to go inside where they talked--with none of the urgency of those past months, when he'd say, i miss you, i love you, when will i see you again? and when he slept off that night, she lay next to him wondering why she still felt on the other side of the world. as if he had erected some invisible, impenetrable force field guarding himself from the ferocity of her love. and before she left the next day, when she gave him a gift--a book--it was not out of love, but rather fear that she might never see him again.

and that morning when she leaves, walking past the boats and water, she thinks of her life and her lost love; until night covers day, and the pain of loss no longer dwarfs the ache of love.

4
ambo comes on foot through the front gate, a surprise that he has come at all on such short notice. we met by chance last christmas in calabar, through friends of friends, and i'd recently heard he moved to lagos. he is tallish, thick through the neck like a rugby player, a former fashion designer turned lawyer specializing in oil and gas. manages to stop by the house in ikeja mere hours before i'm heading back to new york.

we exchange pleasantries, chat about our mutual friends, while my cousin's three children play nearby. i introduce him to my cousin's wife, who has come into the parlor. when she leaves, he asks, 'are these her kids?' 'yes,' i say. 'wow. she looks so young.' 'well, they're tall, so they look a lot older than they are,' i say. the eldest, named after my mom, is seven, and the youngest is two. i try and imagine having had a child at twenty seven, when my cousin's wife was pregnant with her first. i can't. 'so when are you ready for yours?' ambo looks at me, smiling. i suppose, at twenty nine, it is not a ridiculous question to ask, though i find it slightly off putting.

'i have a lot of projects i'm working on and i can't seem to figure out when i'll have twenty years to devote to a child project,' i say, laughing, hoping this will be the end of it. but ambo launches into a retrospective about his career, being formerly married to fashion, how the top five nigerian designers are all unmarried workaholics. he tells me i should combine my career with family and, as he goes on talking about a colleague whose son just graduated law school, i see the genuine longing he has for a different life than the one he leads.

his eyes are wistful. 'i wish i had not neglected that part of my life. i really love this,' he says, taking in the children, their story books, the cartoons on television. it is the kind of tender moment i am unprepared for, the kind of thing i find completely disarming. i sit quietly for a minute, and somehow manage to articulate something i've never said out loud--an explanation, of sorts, or perhaps a peace offering.

i say that the thing i know called marriage is a thing of sacrifice and struggle. that i do not think of a wedding and a home or even a handsome man, but rather the struggle i will pass through as a wife. that it is something i do not want. there is the distant hope, yes, that i could enter into it and not be crushed by the weight of this institution. but i am more likely to meet a man and fall in love and spend the rest of my life with him than to marry and become his wife, an unconditional servant. it is something i would hardly wish on my worst enemy. ambo argues, trying to reason with me that my marriage could be different from all the ones i've ever seen, that every person has a different story. this makes rational sense, i suppose.

later on, after he leaves, i think about something a gifted writer told me once when we were discussing my book. we talked about how my mom wanted to be a nun, but came to the u.s. instead and married my father. i spoke about the difficulties she passed through in the marriage, the crosses she carried. when she asked whether i was married, i said no, that i didn't quite 'understand' its usefulness. and she said that one of the most interesting parts of the book will be understanding why the main character (me) feels the way she does about marriage and motherhood. why she resists and rejects it. that it has everything to do with her mother.

i suppose i only half heard her then. it was not until i said this to ambo, months later, that i finally realized the truth in it.

5
she longed for a mate who wanted nothing from her, but to whom she could freely give her entire self. someone elusive, whom she had not been able to find in all her years. so she loved and lost and loved some more, until their faces and names blurred together like the swill at the bottom of a pot of stew. and at the end of loving, of filling herself up with them, she wondered why she had not considered simply loving herself.

tinsel's 500th episode party

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 13:12:00 +0000

i went to tinsel's 500th episode party at the oriental hotel in victoria island last weekend. there was a marquee, red carpet, modelesque women in matching champagne-colored gowns who served us wine and finger foods. and of course the cast and crew of tinsel, the continent's longest running soap opera that airs on mnet africa.

i'm not a huge socialite, but i thot the party would be a great opportunity to meet some industry people, which was easier said than done. they set the ballroom up in parlor-style groupings of chairs that made it difficult to mingle--especially if, like me, you barely knew anyone in the room.

the comedian/emcee was amazing and i definitely enjoyed watching the shoutout vids from other industry personalities, like tunde kelani and patrick doyle. but my entire evening consisted of watching videos, music performances and the cast having a really great time from the back of a very large crowd. with some vision and creativity, it could have been a lot more interactive, fun, and less crowded.

the highlight of my evening, apart from the prawns, was seeing ajibade gbenro emmanuel (soji bankole) up close and personal. the boy is fine, which makes sense since i learnt he used to be a model.

the night also coincided with the birthday of managing director biola alabi, who joined mnet from new york a few years ago after launching sesame square, the nigerian version of sesame street. i think she's my new shero. --AL.

filmmaking in akwa ibom

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Sat, 16 Jul 2011 07:35:00 +0000

yes, 'filmmaking in akwa ibom' is in fact the title of this post. as i write this, one mr. paul frank--an akwa ibomite and university of utah-trained filmmaker--is shooting a trailer for his feature film in uyo. he sourced the 45-person cast with locals--drawing from the 400-person strong ibom actors forum--and the crew from locals too--some of whom were trained in india and south africa. he will edit the film in uyo, too, and plans to submit the final feature to sundance.

it was a chance meeting after i stopped by the national gallery to visit with ani udosen, a wonderful sculptor i met last year, who gave me paul's contact info. i called, and paul stopped by the house just hours before i left for the airport headed back to lagos. he was younger than i thought he'd be, optimistic, excited, with a delicate balance of ego and humility that is the trademark of a successful filmmaker. we had one of those filmie conversations--fast, run-on sentences with heavy jargon--at the end of which i was convinced we had to work together somehow. if i weren't presently broke and headed back to nyu in the fall, i would simply stay behind and work on his film.

paul also told me that the tropicana entertainment complex is finally open, supposedly the largest cinema in africa. they had been building it for some years, and finally launched in may before the gubernatorial election. political stunt? maybe, but it seems that the governor is a film fan, since we've been waiting even longer for the library to open. paul hopes the good governor will help finance his film, as he's done for a few others in the past.

"when you're ready to come back, we're here," paul said, and, with a warm handshake, drove away. i stood there a minute, stunned, wondering how i could possibly then go to the airport and leave. how i could pass up an opportunity to help jumpstart the akwa ibom feature film industry. i am too broke and confused right now, i thought. i'll be back--prepared.

at any rate, i did apply for an all roads seed grant to shoot a documentary this year at my late mother's secondary school in afaha oku. i also have a feature film idea, set at that same school, that would be my dream to make.

i meet so many diasporans who dream of revolutionizing cinema in their native countries, many of whom learn and labor in the international system without setting foot on ground back home to see what's going on. a part of me knows that can't possibly work in practice. you have to be on ground. you have to know what's going on. you have to stay current and relevant. place does matter. learn what you need to abroad, if you like, but go home and do some good. really.

i hope to join paul soon. meeting him helped to crystallize the yearnings i've been having these past few years. nevertheless, this blog still took a very long time to write. --AL.

what i'm reading

noreply@blogger.com (alligator legs) — Sat, 09 Jul 2011 11:56:00 +0000

<<>>the middle east is a fiction :: amatoritsero ede :: editorial by the editor-in-chief of the maple literary supplement

"As cliché as it might sound or read that ‘truth is sometimes stranger than fiction’, the series of persistent symbolic and literal political explosions in the Middle East and North Africa, country after dazed country, proves that truism right once again."

<<>>impossible me :: keith davis :: a blog chronicling the experience of one of my nyu film colleagues at the sundance directors lab

"I saw my brother’s small body laid in a casket before me. Simultaneously, but a world away, the Twin Towers were being attacked in New York City. It took years to find our way again as a family. I went back to acting, but I was changed. I wanted to be more than an actor...to share and create more. I thought back to how our intense personal grief set against the backdrop of the nation’s public grief from 9/11 held so much conflict for us. Back then I couldn’t know it, but I was already writing the screenplay in my head. I already had a title: The American People."

<<>>dreams at dawn :: ed. helon habila, tsitsi dangarembga, and madeleine thien :: a collection of stories written by participants in the fidelity bank international creative writing workshop

"I could give in now, and end the drama. We could easily settle on a December date, a noon as cold as Stella is. Clad in one of my old tweed suits, and surrounded by a tiny fraction of the crowd that'd have been present in Lagos, I will cast snow-flecked sand on the remains of my wife and companion of fifty years. (As things stand if I tell Dapo I need him to fly a planeload of our friends over from Lagos--including our Vicar, good old Ayanbadejo, and as many members of his choir as have valid American visas--he will.)

Stella will lie there, the snow tumbling irreverently onto her casket. My eyes will be dry, like my lips. I will not feel the cold. I will focus on the details of everything unfolding around me, like noticing that the grave is a double-chambered one, to confirm my worst fears--that here is my final resting place. Here is where I will become nothing, my sole consolation being that I will lie next to Stella. I will wonder what will become of the graves waiting at my house in Lagos; calculate the dimensions of the swimming pool they will be expanded into." (from The Funeral, by Tolu Ogunlesi)

<<>>in the spirit of mcphineas lata :: lauri kubuitsile :: short story shortlisted for the caine prize

"McPhineas Lata, though thus despised by most husbands, was adored by most wives. His funeral was full of dramatic fainting and howls of grief echoing as far as the Ditlhako Hills. Tears fell by the bucketful and nearly succeeded in creating the village's missing namesake. The husbands stood at the back of the gathering wearing variations on the theme 'stern face' while the minister said his last words. When it was time to pour dirt on the coffin of McPhineas Lata, the husbands rushed past their crying wives and grabbed up the shovels. Some even came prepared with their own to make the work faster. Indeed, no one could remember a burial that had lasted for so short a time. No sooner had the wives heard that first shovelful of soil hit against the wooden coffin, as they were still organizing themselves for their final grand crescendo of wailing, than the soil was seen to be heaped into a great mound over the grave. The men then piled stones on top, of a great number sure to keep McPhineas Lata firmly in his eternal bed. The men stacked the shovels by the grave, slapped the soil off their hands, and led the way back to the village leaving all their McPhineas Lata problems in the cemetery for good. Or so they thought."

(Update: Meet Lauri in this week's issue of Next on Sunday.)