The Arts-Muse Fair

  I was having a conversation with a friend recently about mentorship and I realized that some of us have the idea of a mentor screwed up such that even when we have one in our lives we are unable to recognize them. Let me buttress my point with a story.   I met Ishaya Bako sometime in 2011, at Nicon Luxury Hotel in Abuja and I knew that we were going to work together. I was already learning by that time to trust my intuition. So I followed him on Twitter and later added him up on Facebook. Once in a while I'd tweet at him and he'd respond. So I told him that I look forward to us doing stuff together. One evening, he called to ask if I was in Abuja and free to see him the following day. Of course, I was. We met and he told me about a project that he wanted to work with me on. It was a TV series about the Nigerian Police Force, produced by Oliver Tambo. It was my first TV gig. He called to say that the producer loved the first episode that I sent in, so I was going to write

Ni : Virginity Before you call a woman a slut, do some work to find out where she belongs. Don’t get it twisted. For most women, earthly, there are three categories. Yes three, built by comportment of the mind. And these cannot be determined by mere sight, a look at the garment or visible ornament. It is not social or economic, it is neither cultural not genetic: it is the feeling; unwavering, stern, grit, tenacious and rooted to the woman phenomena. Her identity. We are talking virginity. The dominant cultural understanding is that a woman who’s never had intimate sexual relationship with any man is a virgin. Yes, she is. But that’s just one, and the common category. There are 3. One ( ni ): is the sexual virgin, who’s sexual chastity is intact - nothing has been broken by the human flesh. Two ( guba ): is the masculine virgin, who takes her man (husband or otherwise) as a god; they believe in them and have total submission to his will and absolute trust in his

LOVE AND POETRY BY MARJAAN SADIQ Photo: Aminu S Muhammad You knew you're truly in love the day you wrote your first stanza. You've heard that people write nice poetry when they feel immense love, or sadness, or even happiness. Never hatred. Poetry should not be inspired by hatred: it is too beautiful. You wonder how something so "beautiful" can be inspired by sadness. You ask around, but you do not get a gratifying response. You draw the conclusion that pain has an inherent beauty. After all, without sadness, happiness cannot fully be appreciated. You think about Rumi, the famous poet of the thirteenth century, who was an Islamic scholar until Shams of Tabriz entered his life without warning, and exited it just as abruptly, turning Mawlana Rumi into a sad poet. You wonder if the stories that have transcended centuries are true, if Rumi and Shams did not have a romantic relationship, and you chide yourself for entertaining such lowly thoughts. You thi

By Abubakar Akote She wasn't happy that I embarked on a journey that stretched into the night. I told her I wasn't the only one on the trip. She didn't care much about others. She didn't even know them. So why would she be concerned about them? Nigerian roads are not safe, they get worse at nights, made so by the gaping potholes on them and the intrepid bandits that rule them at night, almost unchallenged. We had just passed through Lafia, the Nassarawa State Capital. "Is Makurdi as far as Lagos from Minna?" My fiancee asked. Because I had told her we would be leaving Minna early. Her worry was the abundance of insecurity on our roads. God was our saviour. Awwal Evuti's phone was already off due to low battery, and I had poor network reception to check the kilometres we had left to cover on Google Maps. At a village called Daudu, Mallam Aminu Sheikh, who was on constant contact with me called again to locate us. Aminu Sheikh was already