Fela for Easter - A Review

When Fela the (off) Broadway Play made it's off-broadway stop in Atlanta sometime in 2011, I was too self-absorbed and pained by the apt Nigerian appropriation to attend the show. I remember sitting at Kat's Cafe the weekend it opened, and running into the dancers who stopped by after the show for their post-show party. As they meandered through the crowd at the bar everyone oohed and aahed at their costumes, their makeup, outfits, the overall ensemble was new and appreciated by everyone. I kept smirking to myself that this is my heritage, knockoffs from my motherland being admired by the "white man." Perhaps we didn't appreciate this enough in Nigeria, so the white man in his post-modern appropriator of all cultural eccentricities had to come in and make this their own to the full extent, pretty sure that if it continues this way through their system it may be significantly diluted to the extent future generations may appropriate their thinking to assume that it originated as theirs, for e.g., cornrows. 

Cut to me now living in Nigeria, and having no plans for my Easter. The radio announcer (which was sad because I rarely listen to the radio but my CD player was broken so there) kept going on and on about the Fela the Musical coming into town that weekend. From Holy Thursday to Easter Saturday. He praised it incessantly and gave his own mini-review, which was accolades, love and praise for their accurate depiction of the late Afro-beat King - Fela.

The day of. 
Got dressed as one is prone to do when they are set to spend an evening at the Theater. I told a friend of mine and he insisted that I take pictures and videos so he could feel as if he was at the event with me. Plus, he could introduce his kids to the man, the phenom Fela. Onwards to the venue. very well-organized - which was a huge plus because I have zero patience for events that organizers have a hard time getting a handle on. But these guys knew their onions and they guided us through the halls at Eko Convention Center at Eko Hotel with ease.

The next big plus was the sponsorship of the event. Food sponsors served small chops for purchase of same. Wine was available for purchase at the VIP lounge for VIP guests, and then, makeup sponsors, offered face paint, "war paint" for free for colorful guests such as myself.

The huge, exceptionally ginormous minus. This was not the Broadway play. Far from it. It was what I choose to term as a Euro band's take on Fela's music. As the lead singer of this European influenced cover band explained, "This is not the Broadway play but a celebration of the music of Fela." Hitherto, a cover band. Brought to us by non-Nigerians. Africans perhaps (Francophone) but not Nigerians. Even the dancers put an alternative urban contemporary modern dance spin on Fela's dance moves which are known for their raunchy, enticing and skillful zest. No sooner had he said this than the older members of the audience, who I could tell came to taste a bit of Fela culture and possibly imbibe some into their Millennial children, processed out of the event, leaving guests like myself, who at this point just resigned to taking selfies and videos.

Fela cover bands are one in every bar in Nigeria - North, South, East and West. Fela dancers just the same. Not sure why we needed to see the Francophone Euro version of a cover band at top notch admission prices. Some music promoter must be so proud of him/her self.

.....#AnitaWrites

Writing Less...But Doing More

Every once in awhile you become a professional. An adult. Doing #Adulting Things!!!

Sadly those things leave little room for writing. I do write. Just not the kind of stuff I like. 

I write in my work. And believe it or not I SUCK AT IT. 

Not for anything but the writing at work, what they've chosen to term as: "Business Writing" has no soul. It's stoic, stiff and presentable. The tenses are correct and the sentences are superb, it's just not free flowing, casual and warm, the kind that speaks to you and caresses your senses - which is the kind of writing I am used to. Even when I try to impose my style of writing it is met with red marks, and awful rewrites that cause me to question myself and the state of my #AnitaWrites heart. I keep wondering, "Am I a fake?" A simple letter written by me is met with red brushstrokes, and that look that says, "What they taught me in Business Writing class is..."

These are all icks I have been fed in my career in my quest to find myself at that place where I can sink in and possibly work in until I retire while I secretly work on my passion. If only the editor, his vicious self, would get a clue that what he's editing is not my passion. It's what I can only hope is my stop gap to my career defining job. Writing letters (as archaic as that sounds) is not my best skill. Emails are much much easier. Who writes letters anyway? Nigerian professionals obviously. 

In trying to master this letter writing that saps one of soul, of humph, I cannot bring myself to writing, the real writing, the blogging, the soliloquizing, the kind that though doesn't pay the bills it gets you out of your head, your thoughts, life's stupidities, and...it finds some way to make you...happy and whole. 

So I am not writing but I am thinking...and finding some way to write about it. 

Be well...and stay true. 

Middle Age Charm

All the intriguing people happen to be in their 20s.

It must be the age where everything piques your interest.

Life and all it's entertaining nuances become 

Something so fascinating

Worthy of exploration.

What happens in your 30s?

You just become Meh with life, work, family, every day

Every single thing seems to be done to death?

You become dulled by life's rough edges.

That poke and throb with every critical life decision

Those facets of life you so earnestly wanted to explore 

Have torn you inside out,

Causing you to bleed out 

Discontentment and disdain.

Then, what happens in your 40s?

You just become hopelessly and completely blah.

You are caused to yell out on occasion 

To no one in particular,

"Please, Life enough of this already..."

It becomes hard to even crack a smile.

Then, you pretend that you're so excited to be experiencing "middle age"

Like its some wonderful new chapter in your life, the new age, the welcome age.

Until of course, the mid life crisis sets in and you have to turn to, who else?

Someone in their 20s to reintroduce you to how much fun life can be.

If you just let it be

Is that what this is about? Is this our whole life circle?

Getting to live life over in Middle Age. 

I haven't even begun to discuss what this feels like for women.