The serenity of the environment is beyond query. There are trees
everywhere. Birds can be heard chirping away. It is rural splendour at
its best
A writer-in-residence, Solomon Uhakheme, has made this paradise his home in the last two weeks. He is there to commune with the gods of writing. He has vowed not to leave until he is through with the manuscript of his debut novel which he has been working on for the past three years.
At the moment, Solomon buries his head in a collection of short stories. The story he is reading is about a once great empire known as Igodomigodo. It was a pre-colonial empire whose capital was known as Ode. It was perhaps the oldest and most highly developed state in the coastal hinterland of what is now known as West Africa. The British Empire’s invasion, which came to a head in 1897, ensured things fell apart.
In those days, its rulers were addressed as Osigo, whose rough translation means ‘sky king’. The kings wielded so much influence that they were seen as not human. In a single day, the Osigo can make a million men ready for war. He was first among equals.
The description of the Osigo’s square fascinated Solomon.
“It is as large as a town and is surrounded by a special wall similar to the one which encircles the town. It is divided into many magnificent palaces, homes and apartments. It comprises beautiful and long square galleries resting on wooden pillars,” the writer observed.
Solomon was close to tears when he got to the aspect where the ‘sky king’ was rendered impotent by the colonial masters. Though the kingdom continued in a way, that era was gone for good.
On concluding this aspect, Solomon loses interest in the story and abandons it. Somehow he becomes disturbed. He leaves the living room for the balcony and gazes into the horizon. His thoughts are blank. Nothing is really taking shape. He wonders how something so great can become easily eroded.
His phone soon rings. He checks the caller identity. It is Ikponwosa, his friend calling from Ibinu. They have not seen or spoken for some time now. His first instinct is to answer it at once. But he queries his readiness to engage in meaningful conversation at the moment.
The phone rings out and Ikponwosa calls back. Still he ignores it, but Ikponwosa calls back the third time.
“Something must be bothering him,” Solomon concludes and picks the call.“Hello Solo,” Ikponwosa says.
“Long time,” Solomon replies.
“I have been trying your number in the last one week and could not get through to you…”
Solomon cuts in to explain that he has been away in the Writers’ Haven and that he only has network when he is in his room, but the network disappears when he is in the Muse Chamber, where he works on his manuscript.
The big building, which houses the Writers’ Haven, is quaint. Its red brick walls glitter under the sunny day. Many, who have been there, mostly writers who need to escape the madness of the city to have quiet moments with the muse, have described it as ‘paradise in the forest’.
A writer-in-residence, Solomon Uhakheme, has made this paradise his home in the last two weeks. He is there to commune with the gods of writing. He has vowed not to leave until he is through with the manuscript of his debut novel which he has been working on for the past three years.
At the moment, Solomon buries his head in a collection of short stories. The story he is reading is about a once great empire known as Igodomigodo. It was a pre-colonial empire whose capital was known as Ode. It was perhaps the oldest and most highly developed state in the coastal hinterland of what is now known as West Africa. The British Empire’s invasion, which came to a head in 1897, ensured things fell apart.
In those days, its rulers were addressed as Osigo, whose rough translation means ‘sky king’. The kings wielded so much influence that they were seen as not human. In a single day, the Osigo can make a million men ready for war. He was first among equals.
The description of the Osigo’s square fascinated Solomon.
“It is as large as a town and is surrounded by a special wall similar to the one which encircles the town. It is divided into many magnificent palaces, homes and apartments. It comprises beautiful and long square galleries resting on wooden pillars,” the writer observed.
Solomon was close to tears when he got to the aspect where the ‘sky king’ was rendered impotent by the colonial masters. Though the kingdom continued in a way, that era was gone for good.
On concluding this aspect, Solomon loses interest in the story and abandons it. Somehow he becomes disturbed. He leaves the living room for the balcony and gazes into the horizon. His thoughts are blank. Nothing is really taking shape. He wonders how something so great can become easily eroded.
His phone soon rings. He checks the caller identity. It is Ikponwosa, his friend calling from Ibinu. They have not seen or spoken for some time now. His first instinct is to answer it at once. But he queries his readiness to engage in meaningful conversation at the moment.
The phone rings out and Ikponwosa calls back. Still he ignores it, but Ikponwosa calls back the third time.
“Something must be bothering him,” Solomon concludes and picks the call.“Hello Solo,” Ikponwosa says.
“Long time,” Solomon replies.
“I have been trying your number in the last one week and could not get through to you…”
Solomon cuts in to explain that he has been away in the Writers’ Haven and that he only has network when he is in his room, but the network disappears when he is in the Muse Chamber, where he works on his manuscript.
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