Drove to the Salamander cafe with the trio of Richard Ali, Gimba Kakanda and Abdulaziz Abdulaziz (some pair). Place brought memories. The last time I had come with a mentor of mine and we had met Tricia Adaobi Nwaubani. We were too early, it was 18:30hrs and the event was billed for 19:00hrs. Gimba and Abdulaziz left soon. The door opened and several people began to walk in: the poet Hajo Isa, the nice talking Anita Dudu, Michelle, Pope (remember him from the post of the open mic?), Abuja slam champion and spoken word maestro Dike Chukwumerije, the book master Dr. Kabura Zakama and much later, Caine prize short list writer, Elnathan John. I saw Joel too, former The Treasured Writers’ Ambassador (the programme is a child/teen summer camp workshop run every year by Mrs. Eugenia Abu. I was a senior facilitator at the last one). For this post, I would only put in a large summary of events…

The book for discussion was Chinua Achebe‘s There was a country: A Personal History of Biafra. We discussed the book in great depth and I found out there were certain things I didn’t pay attention to. It was when someone said that there were white men on the cover of the book that I noticed – and to think I had the book all the while. The idealism of the past was also discussed. It was fun getting to understand deeper truths not just about the book but also about certain realities in our country. There was some level of controversy as we went through the book. There were questions of what the book stood for, its impact, its validity, the questions raised and the like.

Isa made an important note that the book was a deeply honest book that carried the imperfections of the writer (Achebe) without pretensions. He could have edited certain parts but he wanted it to appear exactly as they were to him. Richard Ali mentioned that we as a people have not been really prepared for the present and future. As such, we have been met by the continuous retrogression that has become our lot.

At the end we all agreed that the book brings to fore the fact that there are lots of questions that we as a country have to answer. WE have to be prepared. We have to stand up for what we believe in and integrate more. There’s more to our country than we know. We have to tell our stories and be heard all through so we can understand ourselves better. Elnathan John suggested we have more inter-tribal … eh… fun.

There was much left unsaid and truly we might have continued for ten days… We had to stop for that while. The discussions raised more questions than gave answers. It didn’t change views largely but informed more. We departed, each one talking on a lot of other things. There was another literary event for Sunday – the AWF critique session and the symposium for Achebe on Monday 20th at the International Conference Centre in Area 10…

Hmm. Much more to think of. Hmm. There was a country, one was Biafra, one was Nigeria. There is a country, Nigeria. There’s much to be done. May Aondo (God) save us all. Amen.

Friday 2013, 17th May.

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It was the Open Mic session of the Abuja Literary Society and yup, I had to be there. First people I noticed coming in were ElNathan John and Dike Chukwumerije. Okay, this was going to be fun. Usual hi’s to friends and acquaintances and I got to my seat. Smiling. This was going to be fun. The last time I had been at any ALS event was with Chuma Nwokolo Jnr when he had had his reading. That had proved a most entertaining evening.

After some time we got started with general introductions. I noticed immediately that there were lots of fine voices – trust me to catch that. Also noticed that there was this fine lady beside me who said something about being here in the country for one thing or the other. The MC (the Bookman) started the discussion session. We settled to discuss the topic ‘Excessive Force of the Military in Fighting Boko Haram‘. The talk went far beyond that o… Of course, I wouldn’t be boring you with that, so cool! I can only say that if you want a deep flow on the topic, you can still make out time (if you are in Abuja) to come for the ALS open mic session on 14th June 2013, same venue. We were promised that military experts would come to give their thoughts too so that we don’t keep moving about with our professionally unprofessional analysis… Hee hee hee. Oh well.

The performances started with two performance poets, Alfa and Bolaji who read ‘Black Gold Biva’ and ‘My Pain’ respectively. They were well received with little admonition on how to make their art better. Bolaji was notably more impressive in his ending than start. He seemed to be a poet who gathered air with time. He introduced his poem by saying ‘He was a virgin’… Okay… Now, he stopped there. Had some of us wondering the virginity angle he was coming from: metaphoric? Unlearned in the art of eating the bearded meat? As a performer? Oh well. Except for some ugly cliches here and there, his delivery was good:

‘Once I befriended fantasy
It was beautiful but I met reality
she defied me and became my pain
…
pain is gain/no pain no gain
so I rise from this cold floor stronger
to pick my gain’

Next, Azeezat read a short story ‘Apprehension’, set in a town near similar to Jos. Well, Jos came to mind. It was about someone running in a time of crisis, hiding, noticing evils and falling… First draft. Most of us agreed that it could have been better. Adeyemi read ‘Cheeter‘s buzz’, a poem which some people had some time fitting into the right genre. He wasn’t conversant with the poem and it could have been written better, and performed more beautifully. I have a feeling there’s more to that particular piece… Removing some forced rhymes, overt biblical allusions that were plain and the like. Elnathan John commented of the poem that the poet took the name of the Lord in vain! Hee hee hee. Oh well. Enough said.

I read a poem next, ‘Life’. Taken from Bring our casket home, a 9 lined poem that ends (minus one line) thus:

I stayed an eternity with you
But just as my heart counted a second
The night rolled its mat

Before the audience or I knew it, I was sitting again. Wow! Felt good reading that. Some people mentioned that I should join the slammers (performance Kings). I smiled. Well, compliments that would leave anyone fulfilled. The reading continued. A hip-hop poetic performer, Ogo, read ‘Pure’. The banker rhymed on like Jay Z and not a few ladies made catcalls… Na wa o! I need to learn some romantic rhymes too!

The Musicians took over. Afolabi and Isaac came on stage. Isaac was on the guitar, while Afolabi breathed lyrics into the air that had me change my camera from still shots to video mode. The song was ‘Trueness’ and the rendition truly from the soul. It came out lovely. Some people noted that Afolabi held back and could have done better. Left a few people behind me and myself too wondering what they meant… This guy was sooooo it. Wow! You should have heard him. It was fluid and to think it was without effects or anything? C’mon!!

A lady, Kelechi read ‘Sweet Seeder’ (a story/article/narrative/instruction). Suggested that she work on making it one. Material there but too undefined. There was a poem read by Banji and Egbuche Pope read a long undefined piece too, titled ‘Its 4pm’. He was told to rework it. There was a short story read by … Another musical presentation was done by Afolabi and three other friends. Hmm. Need I say more? I respect the guy jare!

The final presentation was a lovely poem ‘Battlefields of the Mind’ written by Busola Sosannya. For some reason she didn’t perform it (shyness abi? )… It was performed by ace performer, Dike Chukwumerije. As it moved to closing, I remembered our Makurdi ‘Purple Silver’ group hosted by Anselm Ngutsav. Miss those readings…

It was real late, some long minutes past 21:00hrs or was it closer to 22:00? Several of the people had left. There were talks, catching up and making of new acquaintances. I did some on the spot editing of Busola’s poem and asked a few questions of why the poet had not performed her piece. Lots of more talk and in the end, there was a walk…

Ask me not where to…

Meanwhile, there was a journey of some two hours to get to. Home called and more activities. Oh well.

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English: Moonlight becomes you (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In the unbroken moonlight
on the Plateau:

all the pains I’ve secreted away
in the deep hiding places of my heart

they crawl out,
these hidden pains like  insects
from underneath these  stones
that dot the Plateau

slowly, from deep within
the tears come
but the abressive winds
dry them up…

..in the unbroken moonlight
of this Plateau

I weep, silently,
for the days and the peace
that are no more.

(in Jos, after reading Su’eddie Vershima Agema’s ‘Dawning to light’)

27th April, 2013

Dr. Hyginus Ekwuazi, award winning poet and scholar teaches and lives in Ibadan, Nigeria.

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Chinua Achebe (1930-2013-In our hearts)

There’s little that can be said about Chinua Achebe that has not been said. Little to know about him that even the most ignorant of us has not caught in the last one month and so days. From the greatest of orators and the very best of writers to unheard names, common people and just about almost anyone with a voice from around, the Achebian fever has gone on and on and now, whatever else we say might simply be a cliché. Still, the combined claps of a town must not stop anyone person from putting their palms together for if every one was to do so, wouldn’t there be a conquering silence?

The best way to talk of him – Achebe – then is not to simply say what everybody knows but simply bring out of our goatskin bag of wisdom to give our personal tributes to the worthy man. In this history, we shall stick to his writings, mainly so that we don’t get to go on and on and on. For indeed, if we were to tell the whole story of the man, Chinua Achebe, not even all the books in this world would contain it. And this, we all know.

Chinualumogu Albert Achebe was born on the 16^th of November, 1930 in Ogidi, present day Anambra state. We shall call him Chinua. Not in disrespect to this father of ours, and towering legend who lives on in our heart but because in his ways, he was too personal, too much of our friend and brother to be addressed in any formal title that robs of that familiarity that he in his numerous works endeared to our hearts.

Chinua was born at the near infant days of Christianity in his land. His father, Isaiah, was himself an Anglican Catechist. In his life though, it would be the traditions of his people, and the quest to tell their story that would burn a firmer passion in Chinua’s life.

He entered St. Philips’ Central School where he had his first primary education. When he was 12, Chinua moved to Nekede and enrolled at the Central School where his elder brother, John taught. In 1944, he wrote exams and on getting the choice of two schools after a sterling result, he chose Government College, Umuahia. That paved the way for meetings and a tradition that fixed him with the likes of Christopher Okigbo, Chukwuemeka Ike, Elechi Amadi, INC Aniebo, Ken Saro-wiwa, Gabriel Okara, Obi Nwakanma, Alexander Madiebo to mention but a few of the towering novelists and poets that wore uniform robes in that prestigious institute.

Chinua moved from Government College, Umuahia to the University College, Ibadan, famous for its strong English faculty that included J. P. Clark, Christopher Okigbo, Wole Soyinka and Elechi Amadi. He got a scholarship to study Medicine but after a year, forfeited his scholarship to study English, History and Theology. After his final examinations, Chinua earned a second-class degree in 1953. This set him back a bit as he weighed options after not having received the highest degree possible.

There’s a whole lot more that we can put in between that history and all but perhaps we should jump to a defining point in history, 1958, the year of the publication of Things Fall Apart. The book was not the first African work of literature as a steady literature for Africa was already thriving written by mainly whites (Joseph Conrad being the main voice). There were other Africans – even Nigerians – who had published before 1958 too. There was Cyprian Ekwensi and Amos Tutuola to mention two prominent examples. Things Fall Apart changed the thinking of the world on Africa, its literature and its people. Now, Chinua wrote other books that continued the trend of changing views on Africa and its writers – No Longer at Ease. There was also Arrow of God (and can you forget Ezeulu, the man striding between the gods and man)? A Man of the People came out in 1966. While people abroad hailed Chinua Achebe for being a prophet, he was accused of having an idea of the coup plot that happened a few days after its publication.

Let us skip for a few seconds to the Nigerian civil war where Chinua played a prominent role. 1967 – 1970 and arguably not less than a million lives lost. That war defined the lives of many Igbos and was a turning point in the life of our nation, Nigeria. Somehow, life continued.

Chinua Achebe published The Trouble with Nigeria in 1983, himself actively involved in politics then. He wrote Anthills of the Savannah in 1987, a critique of Kangan, a country near resembling Nigeria. I might add that it is a solid post-colonial text which I had the honour of investigating in the same light during my undergraduate days in the comfortable companionship of my friend, Andrew Bula, Joshua Agbo (who was in Linguistics charting different roads), Terna Ortese and Dr. Andrew Aba, my supervisor, who himself did his PhD thesis on the works of Chinua Achebe. I can mention inspiration from Ezenwa-Ohaeto, Hyginus Ekwuazi, Eugenia Abu and many others but that would be to put my name where it should least come out. I can only say here that a bond grew from this work here, Chinua creating links where they never might have been.

In 1981, he started the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA) and was the first President. This wasn’t the first writing body started in the country but it is the strongest today and the body under which we are gathered today, as at other moments, to share the beauty of the comradeship of the ink of our thoughts devoid of grade, gender, heights and the like. Devoid of these but not condescending in any way. Chinua was also at the headship of many Pan-African, Pro-Black, Pro Afro-American progression, movements, writers and the rest.

In October 2012, Chinua published There was a country to critical rave reviews. It has remained a controversial book to this day. In between all these publications, there are many other lectures, critical works, interviews, awards, Doctorate, Honourary and traditional titles that this towering Iroko of the world garnered. The Eagle, Chinua, finally took his flight to ancestral domes on March 22^nd, 2013 after a fulfilling but not so fulfilled life as some might argue. He was an inspiration to many and a close friend.

He was married to Christie (nee Okoli), a marriage blessed with four children: Chinelo, Ikechukwu, Chidi, Nwando and grandchildren. Of the literary children, one can hardly say more.

I have left so much out but what more can one write when consigned to write the history of a man whose story is far richer than several lives put together? What do we say of a man’s story whose story is our collective story? Do we talk about the patriot, the writer, the activist, the ambassador, the teacher, the human, the family man, the friend, the enemy, the ancestor or the living one, the legacies? Do we talk of the decoloniosation? Of the lone voice calling many? Do we talk of the humility? Every leaf of this iroko is a tale and who dares to tell the tale of every leaf of one of the greatest trees known not just to our parts but the entire world?

It is left to say, as I have mentioned severally, that one who lives on in our heart more firmly than those whose breath still flow through the nostrils, is that one really dead? So as the others claim a mourning, we delight in a celebration of Chinua and welcome us all as we reflect in thoughtful, casual, or just personal tributes to him for whom most of us can boldly say: ‘We know where the rain beat our ancestors and so can tell our tale.’ May he live on in our hearts, our thoughts and our nation.

*Su’eddie Vershima Agema is the Vice Chairman, Association of Nigerian Authors (Benue State Chapter)

At the Benue ANA ‘Evening of Tributes to a Literary Genius’ held at the Benue State University, Makurdi on 2^nd May, 2013

Chinua Achebe (1930-2013 and on in our hearts)

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Reblogged from Writers Write:

Words. Words. Words.

In the continuation was the word…

Words. Words. Words.

In the silence was the word…

Words. Words. Words.

At the end was the word…

Words. Words. Words.

Well, I called Tunji Ajibade, President of ExodusForArt (E4Art) to discuss my book launch and he invited me for this. Was shocked. Didn’t even know he had anything to do with it. Well, considered not going or anything of the like. Had some issues to contend with. I am meant to launch my book on the 8th of June at the same venue and I love literature. But I have other things to attend to… Then, I heard some news: my cousin was having her baby’s naming ceremony on the very Sunday! What? Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t miss that for the world! Debate ended but on Saturday night. It was 9pm. The journey to Abuja from the wandering ground where I was started. It was an extempore decision, so that meant on that bright Sunday, I woke up and muscled by the thoughts of my smiling cousin, and took a vehicle to Abuja…

I was deeply touched by the whole event and I bring you near minute details of what I could catch. If you are busy, skim through. For me, I reflect again on it all and bless the memory of that lady. Yasmin was 25 years old and the daughter of the former Minister of the FCT, Mallam Nasir El-Rufai.  She passed on in London in November, 2011. Wherever she is, may the Almighty keep her right.

Yasmin El-Rufai

THE YASMIN EL-RUFAI WORKSHOP LITERARY EVENING AND LECTURE (April 14th, 2013)

Introductions. All protocols observed…

The Chairman of the occasion, Hakeem Belo-Osagie didn’t joke about his knowledge of literature which he admitted was little. Well, actually, he did! He said when he was invited by Mrs. Hadiza Isma El-Rufai to attend the event, he thought he was meant to be one of the participants ‘Which wouldn’t have been out of place’ he joked. ‘Literature is important in our lives as it has a way of making us understand the ambiguities of life. Some touch you. [Paraphrasing now] Sometimes, it’s something simple like two lines in a poem I read: ‘I saw you on a cold winter day/and suddenly winter became summer’… Literature sometimes makes life easier. Hadiza has done well. I thank you all for attending and hope that we make this reading/lecture as simple as possible’

We laughed and at that moment, Justice Uwais came in. Nasir El-Rufai left his place at the high table for the Justice and took a plastic seat to sit at the edge of the table. Former Minister of Information and National Orientation, Chukwuemeka Chikelu was there too…

Mrs. Eugenia Abu took the stage to deliver her ‘paper.’ She had just come in from another engagement – amazing woman. Well, she spoke on the power of Literature and its impact in a nation. Literature and National Building. Mrs. Abu spoke of Literature in various dimensions: ‘as important for national pride; for healing; for entertainment; for education; for cultural integration; for respect; for love; and so much more’. ‘A nation goes to its knees when literature loses ground. Literature is about entering into other people’s cultures and letting them get into yours’ she continued. And I agreed with her totally on that, adding mentally that it gives us the chance to live lives we never really might get the opportunity to. She spoke of how she travelled with Tutuola, Russian writers and so many other people on literary roads. Not on one occasion, her mum had to go fetch her back from those lovely travels. But she grew and grow she (Mrs. Abu) did. ‘I would want to teach in future, to show that there’s a reason for finding that word at late at night. Waking up at 2:00am to put a word to paper is worth it.’ She read a poem ‘Yasmin’ in honour of the departed ‘Yasmin’ and took a bow to a standing ovation.

After the lecture, the presentation of the literary journal, ‘Abuja Review’ was done. Yasmin’s face graces the front page.

It was time for the presentation of certificates, which was done by Mallam Nasir El-Rufai. He took the time to thank people for coming, joking about the number of male participants in the workshop. It supported something he read recently that in a few years, men would be extinct (Yikes!). Next, was the time for ‘Words from Yasmin’s parents’. El-Rufai made it clear that the role wasn’t for him but his very own Oga at the top, Mrs. Hadiza, to some general laughter. Immediately Mrs. Hadiza Isma El-Rufai, Yasmin’s mother took the podium, there was silence. Dressed simply in traditional Hausa attire, her face wore a soberness that more than bore the nature of the event. She read an article ‘Serendipity‘ in a voice laden with deep emotion that wasn’t totally of sadness. Yes, the tears were there and the former Minister of the FCT, Mallam El-Rufai dabbed his eyes a bit too. But it was more. There was this other thing in her voice – of a mother talking of a child not gone. Of a child in whose thoughts she still basked. And her prepared note expressed it more. IT was the high point of the evening and the true celebration of the young lady, Yasmin, departed to higher realms. She spoke of their connection and her affection for that lovely daughter of hers. Mrs. Hadiza had also written a sonnet for her daughter, which praised the soul of that young one in a joyful celebration that this daughter was all she (the mother) should rather have been. A mother’s thoughts of/to her child in various coincidences not originally sought: Serendipity.

People gave their various thoughts on Yasmin, from family to friends. They spoke of her in warm words that celebrated her more than mourn her. One might have been excused for thinking that the lady spoken about was still alive for there was a glow in the expressions of those talking. And you could just feel it that this lady must have been really special and loving. Indeed, a loving lady loved. Someone whispered by my side: ‘It’s good to have a rich father.’ I thought about this for a while. Well, no doubt. It is. More than that, it is better to live a worthy life whether of humble or great parentage for eventually it doesn’t matter which spoon we are born with. Life finds a way to pay our memory with what it deserves. If not now, later. If not here, in the here-after.

Tunji Ajibade gave the vote of thanks. The MC, poet Oke Ikeogu called for the National Anthem which we recited.

I said my hellos to several people and had some chat with Tunji and the former Minister. It was time to run and catch up with my main event. My cousin’s daughter needed a name and though I wasn’t going to name her Yasmin, I wondered what life lay ahead of that young one.

Shalom.

Yasmin and her father, Nasir El-Rufai

• Yasmin was an avid reader and an excellent amateur literary critic. In the words of her friend Dipo, “she had a ranging loping intellect, a fierce intellect that absorbed the serious and the silly (as she put it) books and movies in equal measure. She discussed Austen’s ‘Pride and Prejudice’ – one of her favourite books – with the same passion and delight as she would of Milne’s ‘Winnie the Pooh’.
• Creative writing enabled me become close to my daughter in the last year of her life; and to discover what a wonderful, selfless and beautiful person she was. I was doing an MA in Creative Writing at the Bath Spa University in the UK while she was rounding off her masters degree at the LSE, and pursuing her law conversion at the BPP.
• I do not find it easy to communicate my emotions. Creative writing gave me a medium through which I was able to convey to my daughter how much I loved and appreciated her.
When I think of all these things, one word comes to my mind – Serendipity.
Serendipity – the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.
Origin 1754: Coined by Horace Walpole, suggested by The Three Princes of Serendip, the title of a fairy tale in which the heroes ‘were always making discoveries, by accidents and sagacity, of things they were not in quest of.’
When I went to the UK to study, it was not, because I wanted to get to know my daughter better, or to be able to tell her how much I loved her. Studying in the UK was not even my first choice. All of that happened by chance. In 2008, I was at a low point in my life as a result of certain occurrences that I do not care to go into here. I needed to engage myself with something that would make me happy. In my secondary school days I enjoyed studying literature, and I read a lot of books when I was younger. So I started reading again; and I rediscovered the power of fiction.  A story can transport you to a different place; it can take you away from your troubles, even if for only a while.
Because I had many stories in my head that I felt would make interesting reading, I decided to write my own novel. One day I switched on my computer and started writing. Soon enough, however, I realised that writing fiction was not as easy as I had imagined. There is a craft to the art of writing and I needed to learn that craft. So I searched the Internet and registered with a creative writing school based in New York City. Over the course of a year I took two ten-week on-line classes and my writing improved. I enjoyed the classes so much that I decided to go the whole hog and do a masters degree. By that time I was practically living in the United States, so naturally my first choice was to do it there. However, in addition to assessing samples of a person’s writing, most of the US universities required the Graduate Record Examinations (GRE) score for purposes of admission. The English part of the GRE would have been all right, but I was not prepared to subject myself to the torture of Mathematics.
So I decided to explore the universities in the UK. Once again I turned to the web and did some research. I applied to the University of East Anglia (UEA), which is the first university to start offering Creative Writing as a degree, and still the most prestigious. I also applied to the highly regarded program at the Bath Spa University.  I had been to Norwich where UEA is situated, and to Bath. Both are lovely places albeit quite different. Norwich is very green with lots of trees. Bath is a beautiful, historical city with many ancient buildings, an old Roman settlement. Yasmin did her undergraduate studies at the University of Bath and she loved the town. My other daughter was at the UEA pursuing her masters degree and she loved Norwich. So a war to woo Mama ensued. Ramla’s battle was understandably rather half-hearted. What right thinking young lady would seriously encourage her mother to enroll in her university? Yasmin could afford to fight harder for Bath because she was living in London. The choice was taken out of my hands when I was politely rejected by the UEA. If I had been accepted I would gladly have gone to Norwich, far in the east. And I would have missed the chance to bond with my daughter as much as I was able to because I went to Bath, which was just a short train ride away.
Yasmin was more than a daughter to me in that last year I spent with her. She became my friend. She was involved with everything I did. She got to know many of my course mates. She attended our readings and other activities. She critiqued my writing, and what a wonderful critic she was. Every time she looked at my work she made it better.
I took poetry as one of my modules because I wanted to make my writing a little more flowery. I wanted to learn the use of metaphors and similes, and to improve my descriptions. I was the only non-poet in that class, and was immediately intimidated when they started talking about metres. As an architect the only metres I knew were the ones that could be measured with tapes and rulers: millimetres, centimetres. These people were talking about iambic pentametres and hexametres.  I almost dropped the module, but I stuck it out and ended up enjoying it tremendously.
The first assignment the tutor gave us was to write a sonnet based on an exploration of some kind of memory, cherished or dreaded. Searching for inspiration I remembered something Yasmin had told me. She was walking in Bath one afternoon when she came across a drunk sprawled on the ground, bleeding. He had shoved his arm through a glass window. She had been shocked that people were just passing him by, she said. So she knelt down beside him, removed her scarf and used it to bandage him up. I was not happy with her for doing that, and I told her so. How did she know that the man was not HIV positive? How could she put herself in danger like that?  That was certainly a dreaded memory, even though it was not my own. But being that it was a poetry assignment, I decided to take poetic licence and insert myself into the story. This is what I came up with:
A Sonnet To My Daughter
The smell was strong: urine and booze and gore;
the gash so deep. You dashed to him unfazed.
You pulled your scarf, to tie around his sore;
his blood painting your hands, I watched amazed.
What we both saw: a sad and broken man.
My heart flew there; my feet remained with me.
You answered your heart, ran and played your part;
I was held back by thoughts of what could be.
How did you grow to be so kind, so bold?
I saw something in you that day, my dear.
How did you get to be as good as gold?
What I had glimpsed that day was not quite clear.
But now I know what it was I had seen –
you are the me I could and should have been
I was in Yasmin’s flat when I finished writing that poem. I printed it out to give it a final reading before e-mailing it to my course mates and the tutor – I still preferred to read on paper. I then handed it over to her. I could tell from how long she held the sheet in her hands that she read the poem more than once. She then turned to me, smiled and handed it back without saying a word. But I knew she was pleased. For what better compliment can a mother pay to a daughter than to say, ‘You are what I should have been’? Indeed, what better compliment can one person pay to another?
Those of you who are familiar with poetry know that in a sonnet the last two lines, the rhyming couplet, are important. They resolve the argument or narrative of the previous lines. The last line in the sonnet I wrote to my daughter summarized everything I felt about her. I am grateful that I was able to communicate it to her.
I left the UK (and Yasmin) in October 2011, having completed my course. We, the MA course participants, had compiled an anthology of extracts from our novels and were each required to submit a short bio that would precede the extracts.  Below is the last sentence of what I sent in on the 20th of November, six days before my daughter died:
Hadiza El-Rufai is now back in Nigeria where she runs creative writing workshops for children aged ten to 14 while putting finishing touches to her novel.
Of course I had not yet started conducting any workshops, but once again I had taken poetic licence.
In December last year Tunji submitted a proposal to my husband for a creative writing workshop he wanted him to sponsor. My husband handed the proposal to me. The rest is history. I had never met Tunji before, and there was no way he could have known that I was planning to start running creative writing workshops.
Serendipity. Such a lovely word.

(This was read as a reflection by Mrs. Hadiza Isma El-Rufai on her daughter, Yasmin at the close of the Yasmin El-Rufai Creative Writing Workshop held at the Merit House, Maitama, Abuja on April 14th, 2013)

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I bring to the screen the flow of my heart
hoping it to juxtapose with my art
to express the deepening wells of my soul
to take something out and make me whole

Come out, words, come out!

I dance to the songs spanning spheres
I sing and drench out surmounting dares
dares I thought I’d never find courage to pluck
but only one word comes to mind, truly, one that is and rhymes with suck

Come out, words, come out!

I wouldn’t hide behind the soothing of words
hidden in deep recesses that would rather turn swords
striking the fabric of arteries placed together through time
in motions now strumming without rhyme

Come out, words, come out!

Three words started this and four lines this verse
if three words ends it, maybe four lines should crown out our mess
and if the emotions no longer ring through
words, stay forth within, for they would always be true.

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IF this life is all we have

if in fact it is all we shall know
as indeed may be most probable
and if, as is reasonably certain
we shall have no more on earth
then it is wrong to lament -
wrong to wish for the end of life
wrong to feel one must drag somehow through
and surely one must do whatever one can
fill each day with as much as can be done
while we live, we must fill each day with living
and do each day as much as we can
of what seems to us worthwhile;
all that is good, as we understand it
all that stirs us with a sense of joy
and this we must do each day as much as we can
while we are living
since this may be the only life
and certainly the only one we shall know here
it is sensible to make it full and alive
and rich and satisfying
and filled with all that seems good to us good,
and that seems enduring and brings joy
all that seems virtuous
all that seems alive

- Dennis Brutus

NOTE:  MEET Dennis Brutus

Dennis Brutus

Dennis Vincent Brutus was a South African social activist and prolific poet. He was jailed with Nelson Mandela in the 1960s. From AP:

Born in 1924 in what was then Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, Brutus was the son of South African teachers who moved back to their native country when he was still a boy. He majored in English at Fort Hare University, which he attended on full scholarship, and taught at several South African high schools.

By his early 20s, he was politically involved and helped create the South African Sports Association, formed in protest against the official white sports association. Arrested in 1963, Brutus fled the country when released on bail, but was captured and nearly killed when shot as he attempted to escape police custody inJohannesburgand forced to wait for an ambulance that would accept blacks. Brutus was sentenced to 18 months at Robben Island.

His books “Sirens, Knuckles, Boots” and “Letters to Martha and Other Poems from a South African Prison” were published while he was in jail. He was confined, but unbeaten, writing in the poem “Somehow We Survive” that “All our land is scarred with terror/rendered unlovely and unlovable/sundered are we and all our passionate surrender/but somehow tenderness survives.” In “Prayer,” written after he left prison, he proclaims, “Uphold — frustrate me if need be/so that I mould my energy/for that one swift inerrable soar.”