The Secret Lives of Baba Segi's Wives, which one are you?

Title of Book: The Secret Lives of Baba Segi's Wives
Author: Lola Shoneyin, Nigeria
Publisher: Cassava Republic, Nigeria, 2010

Lola Shoneyin, extreme right, Nadine Gordimer in middle and Ekbal Baraka, extreme left at the 2nd African Women Writers' Symposium, Johannesburg, 2011. Picture by BNN

It’s that much more delightful to meet an author before reading their book which was my extended privilege. During the second African women writers’ Symposium in Johannesburg, 2011, I met the ebullient Lola Shoneyin, who I discovered owns 3 pet dogs. Her book, The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives, is most underrated in East Africa at least and needs more presence. The over-riding visual of polygamy and the individual lives of the wives is dotted with mind play, sexual power, friendship, enmity and the role of children in families. There are many incidents that set the believable and humorous scenes throughout the story for example, at Dr. Dibia’s hospital room, when the real reason behind the failure to conceive is revealed.
The four wives to Baba Segi, whose lives they revolve around, teach us something about determination, good over evil and evil over good, maternal love and the power of eros. More importantly are the fertility of both the womb and the mind. While a fertile womb can give you children, a fertile mind can give you anything you want, which evident in Bolanle’s character from the beginning to the end.
While it is difficult to empathise with some characters, the flashbacks into their deep and dark tortured pasts can give the reader some feeling of empathy and understanding. Polygamy has been brought to life in an interesting, witty and entertaining way by giving it a personality that can hardly be forgotten. While it is easy sometimes to judge women in certain situations, this book takes that away.

A must read.
Reveiwed by Beverley Nambozo Nsengiyunva

Off to meet Nadine Gordimer

Guess who is going to meet Nadine Gordimer? Me.I have been invited to attend the second African Women Writers' Symposium in South Africa and I am chuffed to have been selected. So, polishing my poetic voice because we have to read/perform and also my marketing skills because we stay home mums/stay home writers make money from sales of our books. I leave with Doreen Baingana, author of award-winning Tropical Fish, yipppeeee. It is only 4 nights away but those 5 days will change a lot for me. First, because this is in celebration of the African Women's Decade, it is a platform to bring women writers from the continent together, dialogue with the great and greater and make Uganda more recognisable for its writing. I am really looking froward to it, as soon as I get my visa out of the way. Nadine Gordimer, she is turning 88, which means that we can still write at 90 years. I'm certainly not stopping. Oh and unlike when I travelled to Pretoria in July, this time it will be Summer. Summer Summer holiday....
This is like receiving a blank cheque and you have to remember what you need and want and write that amount. It is useless writing down 2,000 US Dollars if you are a long term achiever so , scribble all the zeroes down and enjoy filling in that literary shopping cart.

If Nadine Gordimer is 88 and I am 35, how many years will it take me to celebrate my birthday with poets and writers from all over Africa. Really, it is too gwangamount to even think about , but the again, as writers, I always say, take care of the writing first and the rest will take care of itself.

Gadaffi's death and Ozymandias, the poem

Ozymandias
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Lancaster-the week that was, Summer of 2011.

Where do I even begin to talk about the enriching week at Lancaster during the Summer School? And do I love that we were not in London? Of course. Because here the houses and gardens are more Ugandan style, with flowers, trees, space, water and everything London is not. And do we love that the Professors are so non imposing? Oh yeah. They have huge profiles, award-winning publications and their confidence and self-assurance as writers comes from something deeper than all that.
Lancaster, inanimate, grid-like, empty that Summer so all 16 of us in the class have to create an acceptance of warmth, hugs and listening ears for the week in order to survive in the otherwise quite vacant academic space. Oh yeah, there was a group that had hired a little of the space for a Karate camp and a few Asians there for a pre-English course but pretty much, we only had each other. It was easy for Maria and Shola, whose warmth diffused any tension and whose light heartedness and glows were always welcome. And then, Martin, whose novel could easily, easily win an award.
It had been long since I was in class and my last class was full of Ugandans and a few Kenyans and Tanzanians. This was at a whole new level of a global experience. Lancaster is all into diversity, so it helped that the 4 Africans in the class added to the aesthetics and also enriched the literature discourse. By enriching, I do not mean shouting others down because of a disagreement on Chimamanda’s novel but rather bringing our own experience and ideas to the core of discussions.
On the first day, it took me about 30 minutes to get to my room and not only because I suck at map reading but because the only person who could help was a cyclist we met 15 minutes into the walk who gasped at how far we were from Cartmel college. Everyone complained about the beds but they have never slept in Mary Stuart where you carry your own mattress, duvets, sheets, soap and many students sleep in garages because of the limited accommodation. It is incomparable.
In the evenings, we had readings, first from our tutors and then us. There were always polite nods of approval afterwards, I like the character’s diction, I like your style, oh and I like your humor, and it is very clever the way you delivered the surprise at the end. Most of these comments came from people who were half awake. It is not easy after a four course meal to sit in comfy sofas with a glass of wine in hand and expect to pay full attention to one hour of readings. Isn’t there a law against that kind of thing?
I loved Lancaster, truly I did. I love being with people who take literature seriously and are so engaged where you don’t have to exchange business cards and pretend to be interested but where everyone is really cut out to be a writer.

And even more pictures...

MORE PICTURES BNPA 2011

PICTORIAL