The St. Louis Arch is located along the Mississippi river and close to the road bridges that connect the states of Illinois and Missouri. It is called the Gateway to the West because of the role it played when officers Louis and Clark set out on the orders of then President Thomas Jefferson to discover what lay further west of the country via the Mississippi river, once considered the longest river in the world. The Arch, an architectural wonder made out of cement and stainless steel, has always been the most visible monument in the state, and it’s considered the tallest monument in the United States at 630feet. It is visible in most if not all parts of the city.

The most fun part of the trip, of course, was going up to the top of the steel structure to look down at an expanse of the city’s land. A trip to a tall monument is never complete without a journey up to its summit. In this case, the lift was a little box that accommodated only five people, and took four minutes to get to the top. The first question in my mind had always been: how does an elevator work in such a steel structure as one curved as an arch? My question was answered amidst bouts of claustrophobia. It moved up the arch, quite logically, in an arched form, slowly until it reached the top while giving those in the small elevator a view of the steps as we went up. Apparently, it is also possible to ascend it by way of one’s feet, though I don’t know how long that would have taken. In any case, the stairs were closed to the public, and I don’t know how long it’d been like that.

At the top, we got off and walked up the flight of a few steps into the observatory itself where we were able to look down out of a series of windows. Even though it didn’t shake with the wind that must have been blowing outside, and even though there had never been a terrorist or vandalism attack on the monument that could have given me given me fright of death or falling, I felt a little afraid looking into the river from over six hundred feet above the earth. What if? There was a helicopter landing pad nearby where one landed and shortly took off. From afar, I could see that it was a tourist helicopter – for hire – and not a police one, so I wasn’t immediately relieved from my anxiety. If anything had happened while we were up there, I’d probably be long dead before landing on the pavement below, except I was lucky to have been blown by a strong wind right into the Mississippi river.

But we were lucky, Reham and I. There were no attacks, and the uniformed officers on the observation deck with us didn’t have any work to do while we were up there than to pace up and down observing everyone as they did so. When we got enough of our shots up there, we went back down the same way we came, this time faster. It is always easier coming down in an elevator than going up. We then went around the gift shop, and later into the theatre within the complex, to see a documentary movie about the expedition of Louis and Clark, also eponymously titled, before going into the museum where we saw even more of the Native-American history. The famous expedition of officers Meriwether Lewis and William Clark did more than open up the American West to European civilization. It also served as the beginning of the great incursion of European settlers into a part of the country never before inhabited by people other than the indigenous Native Americans (also called the American Indians). The expedition achieved the main purpose of mapping the area, discovering the path of the Mississippi, and conveying to the native Indians that the land no longer belonged to them but to the white men – the real beginning of their gradual decimation.

The Arch has been called “A Monument to Dreams” perhaps because of its architectural pace-setting significance. Standing beside its base, scratching one’s name on its stainless steel where hundreds of names from all over the world have littered, looking down from its top or seeing it at night from any of the spots in St. Louis, it is definitely a wonder to behold. But at the end of the excursion, Reham remarked to me while we sat in the hall with a cup of coffee each in our hands, “If we hadn’t gone to Chicago, K, this would have been so impressive.” and I nodded in immediate unexplainable agreement. And even though I had enjoyed myself in some way, and was glad to have ticked the St. Louis Arch off my list of to-visit places, with enough souvenir and museum gift items to show for, the visit just happened to have lacked a certain kind of ktravula excitement. It could be from lack of adequate sleep the previous night. Nevertheless, I am glad that I went.

The site is basically an expanse of land with many mounds – or let’s say man-made hills. Excavations done there over the years have produced evidence that archeologists have used to learn all they now know about the place, their tools, their clothings, their burial practices and their system of government.

Walking through the on-site museum which features real-size wax/clay forms of Cahokia’s people and animals, the most memorable thing that struck me throughout was how similar the culture of this community of dark-skinned people that occupied the city was to those of old African villages that I know. The museum has exhibits of the excavations as well as pictures, signs and statistics on the wall, along with real-life wax reconstructions of people in their natural environment, their habitat and their habits (pictured). They ground food with stones on the floor, they wore minimal clothing (presumably only in the summer, because I know how cold it can get around here), they lived in huts made of soft grass, and they hunted with spears and stone tools. It was also memorable that the city had thrived during the same time of the great kingdoms of West Africa before the coming of the Europeans. How they were eventually decimated has not been explained, but one of the picture exhibits of bone samples excavated over the years tell of signs of “urban stress” which included infection, diseases and dietary deficiencies. Each of the mounds around the site are supposedly representative of spots in the plan of the city where particularly memorable events and festivals took place. The largest of the mounds, with its original wooden staircase was said to house the head chief and his court. It was from there that he administered the expanse that is Cahokia, and from there, he could see almost to the end of his kingdom.

Another most thrilling discovery I made was this: a spinning toy belonging to old Cahokia which was made of a little round wheel and a short thread that runs through it. It worked like this: with a little spin by one of the two hands that hold the thread on each side, the wheel rolled on for a while, and when the user pulled the thread apart, the wheel spins by itself clockwise, anti-clockwise, and then clockwise again in perpetuity as long as the user kept pulling the thread apart in either directions. Those who grew up in rural, or at least fun and playful neighbourhoods, in Western Nigeria would remember the same replica which was fashined with the cap of soda bottles made flat and punctured with two holes. Check out the picture to the right and tell me if you see a difference. Holding it in my hand today brought back a cold thrill of an almost forgotten past. And yet, here I was Cahokia, and not in Akobò.

The facility also included a theatre where we saw a video show about Cahokia itself. It has a gift shop also, and a picture art gallery. The event was paid for by the Fulbright Midwest Association, and I went along with Reham and a Geography Professor from SIUE who’s originally from Nigeria. I had a nice time, and I was informed. And from there, we went up the St. Louis Arch. Wait for it… it was magical. The Cahokia story is one that is quite famous around Illinois, and no visit to the state should be complete without a visit to the site that shows not only the ingenuity of a native people with dark skin that lived thousands of years before the coming of the Europeans, but also the gains of archeology in preserving, documenting and interpreting history.

It was the smile of the woman who welcomed us in that gave a first hint. And then the smell from the kitchen, and then the ambiance. Then finally, as we stood staring at the host – a tall and handsome black man with a goatee standing behind the counter, whose smile and sense of mischief led us on a false trail of his true identity – I heard the concluding part of the song Lele by a Nigerian Igbo musical group Resonance seeping in from the surround speakers in the room, and knew at once that I was home. “You’re Nigerian?” I asked, and he nodded, extending his hands. “My name is Henry Iwenofu. Nice to meet you.” And he indeed was a nice personality, well read, smart and articulate.

From then on, things went smoothly, from the overdrive hyperactivity of finally landing on home soil so far away from home to the mellowness of deep conversations that you’d always find among Africans meeting on a distant land.

HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN HERE?

“Over twenty-five years”

He should be like forty years himself.

WHEN WERE YOU LAST IN NIGERIA?

“In 1995, briefly.”

I doubt that he remembered much of the June 12 crises, but he has some Youtube videos of the Biafra soldiers’ songs on his phone.

WHERE ARE YOUR PARENTS?

“They were here since a few weeks. They stay with me.”

There is a little board sign beside the counter bearing his name. “I contested in the last election for a council seat.” He said. “I didn’t win, but I got some votes.”

DO YOU STILL SPEAK IGBO?

“But of course!”

He also happened to speak a bit of Hausa and Yoruba, and he’s an American graduate of a Political Science equivalent course, with a Master in Law. “I’m a barrister” he jokes, “and that’s why I’m now working in a bar.”

HOW LONG HAS NUBIA CAFE BEEN HERE?

“About eighteen months.”

DO YOU SERVE PALM WINE?

“We used to do so, but since demand slipped, we have discontinued it as well as Edi-kang-i-kong and Star Lager Beer.”

Still unable to believe my ears, the music changed to Asa’s eponymous album and the songs filtered in one after the other while we enjoyed the meals that came in succession after a few minutes of banter.

Appetizer: Suya/peppersoup (Comments: Very very good, but not the best I’ve had. Ben however loved the soup, even though he had to quickly ask for plenty water so that his tongue/throat doesn’t bleed.)

Main course: Pounded yam and egúsí soup. (Comments: OMG! The Nigerian host even had the audacity to provide forks and knives to eat it with. What? Are you kidding?)

Drinks: Tusker beer from Kenya (Comments: none)

After the meal, which was accompanied later by a live band in the corner of the room, we got down to the real African past-time: arguing. It took the whole hour and even though we agreed on little, we shared much, and Ben just looked on, sometimes bored, and sometimes animated. It was his first time in an African restaurant, and it could as well have been his first time seeing two Africans argue, on such an unimportant topic as whether or not we were different, or the same even though we come from different places… This argument must have arisen from a question as to whether he would be going back home. No, he says, but not for reasons I expected (political instability, poverty etc), but because, according to him, “I don’t have the money. I can’t afford to make such trips regularly.”

The other woman who had welcomed us in with a smile turned out to be from Tennessee, and she found the whole show we had put up to be very amusing. She was going to find it a lot more amusing when, as it was time for us to pay and head back to Edwardsville, I looked at the bill and had a very bright idea. Since I’ve been in the US, I’ve been gradually initiated into the tipping culture and found a certain joy in leaving little change for the people who had made effort (don’t tell me it’s their job) to provide good quality service. So to show my appreciation tonight, I looked into my purse and brought out the crispiest – well, not necessarily the crispiest – of my Nigerian currency notes. It was a two hundred. I had brought the Nigerian currency notes along to the States only to show my students (and some of them have actually “won” a few of them for keeps while answering questions in class), and for other unexplainable reasons, but as I looked at the space for tips on the bill, I could think of nothing more appropriate to give back to this long range traveller like me than a small piece of home.

In American currency, it is less than $2, but from one traveller to another – albeit one more temporarily resident than him – I was handing him a touch from his distant past.

“I’ll frame this,” he said, as he posed for a photograph, and the Tennessee woman who sat beside him kept grinning from ear to ear, looking at me with a mixture of thrill and quirky interest. She definitely didn’t see this one coming, and much as she tried to find out from me how much the note was worth in American currency, she failed, to my delight. It was my first experience of home away from home. And from this heaviness of my tummy now as I return from the eating and all the merrying, I feel the warmth of home. Hello Nigeria.

****

Dear colleagues,

This is an invitation to participate in a holiday game called “Amigo Secreto”.  This is a Hispanic tradition and it is a lot of fun!

This game consists on having a random secret friend for the last two weeks of school.  During this time, you should keep in contact with your secret friend without letting him/her know who you are.  For this reason, you could leave funny notes, give candy or do anything creative, and deliver it in creative ways.

The game will end Friday December 11^th at a Holiday Lunch, where you will discover who your secret friend is.  This day, you should bring a small present of $5-10 labeled with your name and your secret friend’s name (The gift doesn’t have to be something new or bought, again be creative… it’s for fun!).

If you would like to participate in this game, please email H… at h…@siue.edu before Nov. 30.  On this day we will put all the names in a hat and randomly choose your “Amigo Secreto”.

Happy Thanksgiving!!!

****

Let the games begin! *Drum rolls*

In some way, I am immune to this situation because my pay is not tied to the state of Illinois, but the prospect of downsizing a department already understaffed for required languages is not one that I would look forward to with glee. It is very easy to throw out the words such as depression, recession and financial crises, but when it hits home in its ugliness, words fail in conveying the pain it brings to the folks involved.

I doubt that the case involves only the state of Illinois, but a few people I’ve spoken to about it seems to believe that it is a reflection on the dirty politics that has marked the state for a very long time.

I woke up today with an overwhelming sense of lassitude which has characterized my Thursday mornings. I have named them lethargic because they are usually the day of the week when I’m most useless to myself and to society. For the past three months, I have spent the better part of this day in bed with my earphone in my ears and a laptop on my lap. Or sometimes on the sofa flipping through the interminable channels on American television. Maybe it is from working all day on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesdays till late in the night, but whenever I wake up on Thursday, I only think of getting back into bed. Today is one of those days, and minus a little occasional effort around the bathroom and towards the door to get delivery of ordered food, I have been indoors.

It could be the cold, the gradually reducing temperature. It could also be the change in seasons that makes sure that it is already dark by 3pm. It is mostly the fact that I don’t usually have any campus obligation on Thursdays. And to cap up the already lazy week is the fact that next week is totally work-free. Yes indeed. By this time next week, we will be celebrating the annual Thanksgiving Holiday in the United States. It is however a week-long holiday that ensures that no one goes to school or work. Everyone stays at home to eat, drink and be merry. For my apartment, it will be very lonely as my two American housemates are heading home. It will be this traveller alone in the large apartment, pondering time, paces and spaces. This is usually a time when poetry descends from its high realm of the heavens. It will definitely be a long week.

It could also be the withdrawal symptoms from the open spaces of Chicago. Truly, my Thursdays are usually lethargic, but this particular level of slowness is unprecedented and could only have resulted from my three days on Chicago’s streets. So what if I had spent a week there, or even a month? I probably would never have wanted to return here in a hurry. That city is endearing in a way that is not too pushy, yet it entices. I can’t say the same of Lagos, Nigeria where I usually always seek to escape from at the slightest opportunity. Next month will find me in Washington DC, New York (probably) and the state of Maryland. It will be a chance to compare the differences in the behaviour of big cities. Of course, thinking only of the cold, I would probably just wish that I can stay here in Edwardsville where somehow I’ve been able to adjust to the gradually lowering temperature.

I need ideas of something fun to do for one whole week, besides the Turkey-eating activities of Thursday which will take place as scheduled in the right homes of my host parents at Edwardsville.

One day then, last year while applying for the Fulbright programme, I included a short anecdote of my father’s bold and brutal intrusion into my private bubble of innocence while I was young and impressionable at about seven years of age, and how that little act of defiance that he exhibited in the presence of us in class that day somewhat defined my attitude to language. What I didn’t know while writing the essay in which I had deliberately refused to mention his name was that it was not just going to be read by the American Fulbright board, but the Professors of Yoruba in the Foreign Languages department of my host institution, whose decision it would be really whether or not they wanted me in their University. Those whose essays were not impressive enough were dropped at that stage of the application. I got wind of this little gist only three weeks ago when I invited Professor A. into my language class to both assess the students, and to share a little of his experience in teaching Americans the language. Big mistake! Along with the knowledge he said he had possessed all along of the content of my Fulbright application essay, he told the whole class of how he was able to decode from what I wrote that I was K-the-son-of-the-famous-writer-poet-the-broadcaster even though he didn’t know me as a person, as well as some other flattering stories of how rich in culture the man’s works are, and how he and many in his (the professor’s) generation had grown up in Nigeria reading my father’s published Yoruba poetry publications, listening to his poetry music albums and reading his books. While the professor spoke, and I listened silently in the corner, the students all looked in awe as if there was a sudden new knowledge being bestowed upon them about the young man who’d been with them all along without having disclosed this crucial part of his person, and once in a while they cast their sights towards where I sat grinning.

From then on of course, they troubled me to come to class with poems both from my father, and some from myself, and I warned them with apologies that if they were to listen to the poetry of this man in original Yoruba, the music would probably be the only thing they’d be able to enjoy, and nothing else. They agreed, and said that I’d been dishonest to have held out on them for so long a time while they told me many things about themselves. I felt guilty, went to my apartment and printed out stuff that I always kept for my own amusement, and we spent the next class listening to me read from some of the poems I had written, some from long ago, and some from recently. I also read for the first time in public, an English translation of my father’s famous love poems which I had done in 2002, and they were thrilled. One person asked if the poems were written for my mother, and I answered in truth that we like to believe so, even though the fact is that they were written long before both of them were supposed to have met. I guess that’s for him to explain.

Today, on the internet – the main reason for this post, my first literary translation effort was rewarded with a publication. I got involved in this project through a tip by friend and poet Uche Peter Umez. Hard and daunting as it looked at first, I had the task of translating a poem, Volta, written in English by Richard Berengarten, into my native Yoruba. I am finding out now that the work was translated simultaneously into seventy-five languages, including Ebira, Pidgin, Igbo, Ibibio and Hausa which, along with Yoruba, are also spoken in Nigeria. I feel quite privileged to have participated in the project because it also offers some encouragement to my reluctant muse about the prospects of literary translation – mostly of thousands of lines of poetry, this time from my native Yoruba tongue into English, for the benefit of a larger world audience. It also gives me the benefit of somehow finally being able to lay claim to being K-the-poet-translator-himself-in-person. But maybe it’s true that a goldfish has no hiding place. Ask me, I’d rather be a hummingbird.

Find the project here.

The Art Institute has a collection of world’s most notable

collections of Impressionist and Post-Impressionist art. At one million square feet, according to Wikipedia, it is the second largest art museum in the United States behind only the Metropolitan Museum of Artin New York.

“The collection of the Art Institute of Chicago encompasses more than 5,000 years of human expression from cultures around the world and contains more than 260,000 works of art. The art institute holds works of art ranging from as early as the Japanese prints to the most updated American art.”

One of its most famous paintings is this one, best known perhaps to addicts of the ABC tv show, Desperate Housewives.

Well, it’s no more called by that old and adorable name, The Sears Tower. Now it’s just the Willis Tower since March 2009 – a tribute to the new owners. However, the experience of going up the whole flight of floors to the observation deck at the top of America’s current tallest building is never any less exhilarating. The experience includes a historical tour of the city’s architectural, human, historical and cultural landscapes, and before we got to the top, we had learnt so much more about the city and the influences of its most famous citizens and residents including Hillary Clinton, Barack Obama, Oprah Winfrey, Harrison Ford, Kanye West, Jeniffer Hudson, Ernerst Hemingway, Louis Armstrong among many many others.

Here’s a new ad campaign that plays on the height of the building in relation to the height of some of the city’s famous figures.

Ask me. “Forget feet, miles or kilometers… the Sears Tower is actually 226 ktravula’s tall.” Go figure.

The trip to the top of the SkyDeck Observatory was not without its thrills, and today I discovered why it was such a thrill to step onto the glass ledge and look down even though we had an illusion of protection from the outside world. Who was the evil genius that came up with the idea of a glass observatory at that kind of height above the ground? We eventually gathered for a few seconds of fright and took the group picture, before we stepped off and headed out through the other way.

I will remember this visit to the 103rd storey of the world’s fifth tallest building mostly because of the way the city/investors take maximum advantage of the landmark for their own financial gain. According to the displayed statistics, the building receives 25,000 daily visitors, and it only has 149 staff members. Considering that the amount spent by each visiting tourist is about $50 or thereabout, it is definitely a good long-term investment, along with returns from several other similar buildings in the city, one of which is the John Hancock Building. One could only wonder how much of returns these buildings/structures would have brought to Chicago if the rights to host the Olympics had been given to them. Now, at places around the city, one could still see little torn posters of the city’s Olympic bid: Chicago 2010.

I can’t put them all up at once, that’s for sure. If there’s something else beside the presence of a sense of order and perfection, it’s the picture-perfectness of the much of the city. Well, downtown. I am fairly sure that on the South side, famous for a level of violence, it might not have been the same. However, I hope to visit those not so perfect areas one day in the future. My initiation into this city could not be complete with only a view of its picture-perfect sides.

Enjoy the photos.