Travelogue | Pieces of Memory By Marjaan Sadiq | The Arts-Muse Fair
By
Marjaan Sadiq.
Marjaan
Sadiq was at Nigeria’s foremost writers’ residency, the Ebedi, Iseyin, Oyo state between
November and December last year. Here, she writes of her experiences at Ebedi, of
the things in her head and the memories in her heart.
On the road to Ibadan, I wonder what Iseyin will look like.
I let my mind travel ahead of my body. I have always done that; let my
imagination traverse the earth, go to places in my head, see things. Sometimes
these images that are a part of my mental creation overwhelm me. Sometimes the
greenery of acres of unused lands in my head make me crave to be on the road,
the antiquated beauty of historical attractions make me hunger to be somewhere
new, yet ancient, somewhere I can connect with the people of old. Alas, the
lands are not so green, and historical places have been soiled with bits of
technological advancements such that you are reminded that you're of the
present, not the past. I have learned to understand that things can only be
this beautiful in my head; because it is the only place I have absolute control
over.
So, In my head, I picture "Ebedi International Writers
Residency," just as it is written in my invitation letter. I picture the
other girls. The last email I received was jointly sent to four of us. "To
you, Kemi, Gertrude, and Amina." I put a face to all the names in my head,
careful to put smiling faces there. Sometimes, things turn out the way we
imagine them, sometimes they don't. Though I love to meet people, I have always
been reluctant about being in the same space with strangers.
I shift and shift my
legs in the bus, trying to get a free position in which to place them. They are
becoming cramped; there's not enough space between the seats.
"I'm sorry Marjaan, we're about to go pick Gertrude,
she's coming from Lagos. We'll be with you shortly." Dr. Okediran's
Personal Assistant, Mr Bode Akinola tells me over the phone as I arrive Total
Petrol station in Ojoo-the place I will be picked from. As I wait, all the
members of my family call me to confirm if I am at the residency already, each
of them growing worried that I am still waiting for Gertrude to be picked. I
assure them I am fine. That this Gertrude girl is stuck in traffic. But I know
they have a reason to worry. I have never been in Oyo state, and we don't have
family here.
After over an hour, the wine colored minivan arrives. So we
head for Iseyin. Gertrude and I formally introduce ourselves whilst we are on
the two-hour journey. "We're running late, we have to return to Ibadan
today." Mr Bode says at the residency. In truth, it is running late. And
the roads are bad. I imagine Mr. Bode and the driver-whose name I forgot
immediately it was uttered-running all the way to Ibadan, on bare feet, with
their shoes and the vehicle abandoned in front of the house.
Kemi and Amina will not come until two weeks after we have
started, Mr. Bode informs us. I am more than okay with that. I dread that I
will have to replace their smiling faces in my head with frowning ones. Gertude
is smiling more often than the face I have in my head, and she is chubby, more than
the image I have created. Looking at her round face framed with thick black
weave-on, I let the image in my head fizzle away, and replace it with this new
image. I now have a face for the name.
Our residency administrator, Mr. Koffi Sackey, will come
tomorrow, Mr. Bode says over his shoulder as he heads for the door. His hurry
amuses me. I am almost certain if there was an airport in Iseyin, he will take
the last flight. Mr. Koffi is Ghanaian, with the accent. He pronounces
"pastor " as "pasta", "her" as "hair",
"come" as "cam". It is lovely, in a way. He tells me that
he was once in the residency as a writer, that he was born and bred in
Takoradi, Ghana, and that he has been the residency administrator since 2014. He
is an amiable man.
The residency is just the way I picture it in my head.
Slightly different in detail, but it fits. I smile inward. I am not
disappointed. On Thursdays, we will go to Iseyin District Grammar School, and
Alalukimba School. On Fridays, we will go to Ansarud-deen School. I am curious
about the name, "Alalukimba." I promise myself, that I will ask what
it means. We will mentor the students on different forms of creative arts and
creative writing. Gertrude and I choose to wait for the others before we decide
what to do.
![]() |
Ebedi Fellows of Nov./Dec. 2017 cohort. L-R: Gertrude, Marjaan and Kemi. Photo: Ebedi IWR |
Sharing my space with them turns out to be easier than I
anticipated. Sometimes we think the same things. Sometimes we say the same
things. We are like-minded. Gertrude is a talker. "Sometimes I say things
that are unnecessary to the person I'm saying them to. But they're necessary to
me anyway." She said to me in the kitchen one day, when I was nodding
absently to her descriptions. I can't remember what she was describing that
day, but I remember that it felt truly unnecessary to me that she should. She
talks a great deal of sense though.
Kemi gets tired of talking, much like me. She locks herself
in her room most times, much like me. But when we are all out, we talk and
laugh like old time friends in the few minutes that we can spare. They ask me
about the North, about Kano, about what it's like to live there. We take turns.
Sometimes we ask Gertrude about the East and other times, Kemi tells us about
Western cultures and traditions.
![]() |
From left: Marjaan, Dr. Okediran, Kemi and Gertrude |
"What do you think about Ebedi?" Kemi asked me
one day, in my room, after we had dinner with the truly phenomenal Dr. Wale
Okediran, and a couple of other guests. "I like the place. It feels like being
with relatives, with kin." I said. She and I connect on a deep
psychological level, the kind that I realize I have unconsciously been
searching for, but have only found in one person, my friend, Idowu.
We go for excursions in-between writing and mentoring.
Gertrude teaches the students Singing, Kemi teaches them Spoken word, and I
teach them Pantomime. But more than those, we teach them love; the kind that
grows from within, like a planted seed, and spreads out, like branches of a
tree, to others. We tell them that there is a life outside secondary school, a
tough life. We tell them that it can be lived to the fullest, conquered. We
brace them up for their futures. They are ardent, and smart. They have had tens
of writers since the inception of Ebedi, preaching the same words, in different
ways, different accents. Thanks to Dr. Okediran, they have what no other set of
secondary school students in the country have. They are privileged.
![]() |
Marjaan with students at Iseyin District Grammar School |
On my way home, I am less concerned about vegetation, or
history, but about how much I have learnt, how much Ebedi has impacted me. I
let my mind travel through the events of my six weeks there; through six weeks
of sharing an apartment with Gertie, and then with Kems. I have taught in a
secondary school before, but this time, it's different, special, because I have
learnt a lot from the students as well. This time I am not creating images in
my head, I am recollecting pieces of sweet memory that couldn't have been
created better.
![]() |
Coaching Pantomime at Ansarud-deen school |
My heart swells deliciously. Ebedi, Dr Wale Okediran, Mr.
Bode Akinola, Mr. Koffi Sackey, Cecilia-the help we had at the residency,
Gertie, Kems, and the students, have all been an enlightening phase of my life.
I do not regret this experience. I will hold it dear to my heart, now, and
forever. These little pieces will form part of a beautiful whole someday.
*****
Marjaan Sadiq is a journalist and writer. She lives and work in Kano, Nigeria. She loves to read. She writes a lot of fiction.
*****
Marjaan Sadiq is a journalist and writer. She lives and work in Kano, Nigeria. She loves to read. She writes a lot of fiction.
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