Translation of Asa's Bamidele into English Language

Robert Frost affirmed that poetry is lost in translation.
I set at doing an experiment to disprove this and i picked the most assured material to dispel every mind of Robert Frost's caveat to translation. A song. Not just any song, a poetic kind and i translated it into English language.
Might i quip that i am more dexterous in the English than my mother tongue, Yoruba in which this song was written but what the heck! I face challenges headlong with my arsenal. My arsenal is passable Yoruba and a slippery grasp of English grammar, for i am only proficient in

my ability to juggle words as if I am a circus man.
Whatever. Find my translation below and be the judge. My inference is RF is right.

Asa's Bamidele , Bonus track in her sophomore effort, Beautiful Imperfection
Either you are happy or not,
You must accompany me home

Even if it will take some force,
We must go together to my father's house.

Akinyele wants to marry wife,
He doesnt want to pay some brideprice, you better find it.

Akinyele Jinadu does not want to pay
Some brideprice, you better find it

Akinyele o(8ce)

I feel cold,
I suffer backache,
Come home with me.
Didn't you say the same thing yesterday
I'm back again, lets go meet my parents

Headstrong lawyer, first class liar
Stupid, pay before service.

My mother did give birth to me,
My father nurtured me,
I'm not fit for registry marriage, literate lawyer.

Akinyele o(8ce)

Headstrong lawyer first class liar
Stupid, pay before service.
You indulge so much in drinking,
Eating and flirting that u dont no better.

Akinyele o, till fade.

Lessons from the Brief Wondrous Life of Da Grin.

1. Chase Your Dream
Even a five year old knows what s/he wants from life, but it’s one thing to want something, it’s another thing to follow through. It is a popular misnomer that you must have all the ingredients and qualifications you need to get want you. Not necessary!

Da Grin is a quintessential. He did not attend any university to learn how to spit solid lyrics like he did in his lifetime.


2. Try Again
You might not get it right the first time and the sooner you get that caveat into your head, the sooner you understand the import of doing things again, be it the same way.

Still on the matter, Da Grin’s first effort could be discarded as ineffectual and if he had let it rest there, he probably would never have achieved the starling success of his second effort, the classic C.E.O album.

3. Stay on Point
And after you have done it right the first time. You must make a habitual repeat of success in every endeavour. This must be your rule of thumb.

C.E.O, hopefully, would not be the last we would hear from Da Grin, especially as his death occasioned the release of his “Before I die”. Easily he becomes the artist who foresaw his death and this is mastery, however you want to regard it.

4. Dont Drink and Drive
Life is short; it has no duplicate. This, perhaps, is the most important lesson from Da Grin’s life. No one is totally sure if it is his inebriation that led to the fatal car crash.
But there is something about fate catching up with you especially if you make a habit of drinking and driving,
most especially on Nigerian roads which, of course, have not earned the asphaltic right to be reffered to as such.Blame it on the politicians.
It is instructional that if you must drink you should have a spare teetotaller driver, so you can spare your life from death’s bludgeon.

5. Always wear a Grin.
Da Grin would be remembered for a whole lot. For his attitude to life, for his attitude to his craft, for his humor which, i think, is important to any artist.

The joy and fondness that comes from the way he portrayed himself in pictures would endear him to many, and many more.

Concerning Tile-Tile and Other Children Stories

I am not against censorship for children. I think parents must be careful about what their children are exposed to especially in this time and age when sexuality ooze from all orifices—and the media does not help matters much. The contents of the Media which, is often solicited, as slowly morphed into home-delivered pornography in the guise of liberty of expression. Now radios blare lewd and explicit innuendoes and picture that best cuts the result is that a five year old singing to her uncle, with appropriate body wiggles, Tu-face’s Flex, it’s time to have sex, flex…
There are no two ways to say pathetic. And sympathy would not cure the danger the child is exposed to, for the child is not only endangered, he or she becomes a danger to him or herself. Much as parents review what their children are exposed too, at a critical stage their efforts are thwarted especially when a child gets into school, or any similar arrangement of its kind.
When my nephew was enrolled at a day-care, he started bringing abusive phrases like “bitch”, ambiguous cuss words like Oloriburuku—Just imagine!—home to the utmost surprise of his parents. But little could be done about this because much as some parents try hard to censor what their children are exposed too, some parents are lax in their (in)actions and the school, a meeting place, un-achieves parental efforts by and by.
At this stage very little can be done. Sex education could be employed but with extreme tactics and care. The parents would have to ensure a painstaking re-education of their children at regular intervals to purge them of both peer and societal mis-education. This might thrive in the early ages but the divide teenage years herald can be disastrous. The confidence of parents at this age becomes dubious to the young adolescents who are wont to lean on peers in his quest for propriety and social acceptance.
The adolescent, in defiance to his parent’s instructions, does exactly the opposite of what he or she is told at home. He listens to what the media proffers him; he thinks that rap music is hip; that it’s cool to “sag” his trousers below his gluteal cleft; that it’s absolutely cool to make female friends, in spite the parents’ admonitions in the favour of his academics. Terry-G with his dyed air and his habitual love for marijuana adopts the adolescent has a nephew with televised ease. And his avuncular instructions are obtainable from the lewd lyrics the adolescent pitches in the bathroom, in the unabashed company of his nakedness. And the impact, the sexually awakening that result could leave dire consequences.
It’s not that I don’t like Terry-G. I find his music and production skills top-notch perhaps that is why his status is an enviable one in the Nigeria Hip-pop Scene where he governs and churn out his brand of music to meet unsolicited record sales and massive radio play. Terry-G is easily Nigeria’s Lil Wayne in acoustic delivery and, I think, the only person that stumps his chances as Nigeria’s Producer Laureate is Don “Baba” Jay.
His art is impressive, and replete with the controversy that distinguishes any proponent of an art form. Artists have the tendency to become social dissenters, breaking norms and crossing mores with the liberty that their fame affords them, but I, as an individual, can separate the man and his works. I can assess his music without being perturbed by his life-style, love for extravagance and exuberance. I can enjoy his music, strip it of all authorial labels and relish it as an art form, even though it does not particularly fall in the category of higher arts.
But my little nephew cannot. He is not aware of the marked difference between the honeyed voice that brands a typical Nigeria girl, “Tile-Tile” and the reprobate who bears a bohemian haircut and basks in fumes of cannabis. So he would think calling a girl “Tile” or “Omo-Ele” is cool amongst many other sexually- implicit innuendoes obtainable from Terry-G’s, nay most Nigerian musicians lyrics. Soon he would ask his peers what Terry-G is smoking, and when they call it Mary. J, he would be obliged to attempt it. Like all inquisitive individuals, he is inclined to experiment. Now what I ask myself is who is to be blamed? The Bible says teach your child in a way of the lord so that he would depart from it. But I think again: the didactic role of parent is inherently inadequate, in the light of several opinions posited earlier. However I have resolved that whenever I am around my nephew and am urged to sing AY.com’s pass me your love, I would stifle the desire, hide my tongue under my palate and in my best tenor lisp the first few words of Panam Percy Paul’s Bring down your Glory—Lord, we are sorry.

Saraba on Issuu

Open publication - Free publishing - More saraba

Saraba!

i daresay this is the most succesful of saraba's outing. its mad good.

interview with Niran Okewole, essays from Eghosa Imasuen, reviews from Jude Dibia. short stories , great short stories form emmanuel iduma and ayo Famurewa. Its just too full! try download it, abeg. and pass on to your friends--and enemies.http://www.sarabamag.com/assets/saraba_issue3.pdf

Has Carl Found His Voice Yet?

Unarguably, Carl Thomas remains my best soul singer. This is can be wholly attributed to the artistic success of the Emotional Album, especially his track Summer Rain. But beyond that, Carl has a penchant for making good music. Good music being the kind of music that appeals to several experiences. Thus, his albums are eclectic in their outreach and, even though his genre of music is loosely based on emotion, Carl distinguishes himself as consummate professional.
Born in Aurora, Illinois, Carl left home, hiking to New York in his quest for fame and fortune, with his impressive vocal skills as the only item on his résumé. Lines fell in pleasant places for him when he met with P.Diddy, a renowned talent scout who could seek a pearl in a sprawling landscape of garbage.
Under the Bad Boy Label, Carl released his debut album, Emotional, in 1999 which met with widespread approval and impressive record sales—it even went platinum. I still listen to Emotional even though ten years has passed since its release. What draws me into this album is its originality. The blend of Carl’s fusion is so complete that it’s hard to decipher who he sounds like, hence his authencity. Great tracks abound in that album, in fact every song as the temperament and occasion it suits. And on a whole, it’s a smooth, long ride down the alleys of acoustic perfection.

Let’s Talk About It, his sophomore effort released in 2004, heralds a completely different experience. It’s definitely a more urban album designed to appeal to a larger fan base. This, of course, is an ingenious attempt of Carl’s Record Label at making more money under the auspices of catapulting Carl into renowned fame. Carl produced another eclectic fusion, but of Urban R and B and soul music, a mixture that had only been attained by few, even then grossly by serendipitous experimentation.
The initial swing with which the record begins is wild and rather than sustain the thumping beats courtesy successful American hit makers, Carl ingeniously sways into his usual slow tempo to deliver tracks reminiscent of the good, old, balladic Emotional days. However as fate would have it, Carl had to back out of the promotional tour of his second album when he heard the news of his brother’s death from an accidental drive-by shooting.
In an interview, he said, he sort of “lost his voice”. The loss of a close relative is no joke. And I sincerely empathesize with his grief. It was a good reason to remove himself from further musical endeavours and creep into the warmth of family to dissolve the hurt. That move also sort of thwarted his producer’s attempt at making a global hit out of Let’s Talk About it. And it turned the hype of the album to the barest minimum.
Perhaps it is the admixtures of all these scenarios that led to Carl’s exit from the Bad Boy Label. Carl left on the premise that he was not afforded the creative liberty he was awarded for his debut album on his second, and so launched into another record label, where, hopefully, he would become the captain of his musical career sail.
The result of this detachment from his custodian of fame produced another album in 2007 titled So Much Better. Like the name suggests, So Much Better, was a sincere declaration of liberty being more acceptable in comparison to his stilted stint at Bad Boy. Hence So Much Better, fashioned out primarily as a Mix Tape, became an experimental project that showcased Carl in his most sublime state.
Sincerely, So Much Better is a good album, with the usual spectrum of emotional range, with less executive intrusion, and is perhaps a sincere tribute to Carl’s temperament. I Thought Should Know, is a noteworthy love song, Oh No is a successful experimentation of soul with reggae, replete with the “marleian” feel. Home is an unbridled emotional avalanche on the importance of family, and signature interludes, usually unfinished songs, abound in this effort. But missing is Spoken Word poetry blended with rhythms, a feature on his previous albums, and the interludes are disappointedly shabby, lacking the usual lustre and feel brimming in his previous efforts.
On the whole, I was not convinced that Carl had gotten his voice back since the unfortunate incident of his brother’s death. I was also confused with whether to ascribe the failure of So Much Better entirely to the experimental basis of the effort or the poor publicity services proffered by his new Record Label. However, I would rest my case till Carl hits the stores again with another album.

Thoughts on Geisha.

War is a terrible thing. At least that is how I felt after I watched Memoirs of a Geisha. The movie produced by Speilberg( that is responsible for its length, some 2 hrs), and adapted from a book by Arthur Golden is indeed an expose on Japanese culture. And that is exactly what movies should be: a mirror through which a people, nay a culture, can reflect upon themself.
So what is a Geisha, you should ask? And what is so noteworthy in a Geisha to deserve a memoir? There is more to it than the eyes meet or the ears hear. The western culture is responsible for most of our wrong notion on Geishas and other figments of the Japanese culture.
Contrary to our opinions, traditionally a geisha is not a prostitute. Rather a geisha is a Japanese hostess trained in the acts of entertaining men by dancing, singing and serving. Even if I didn’t take any other thing away from this movie, at least that initial notion has been corrected. And I feel if that is all a movie does, rather than engage the viewer’s few hours, it is successful.
But this movie goes beyond that. It is structured. Even though a lot of scenes were thrown into building a story and educating the viewers’ about the Japanese culture, the plot is set in motion, albeit slow motion. All aspects of human emotions and endeavour are taken care of; talk about aspirations, desire, poverty, adventure, test of filial relationships, and most important of all love, is brushed into the mix. The story is essentially the coming of age of a young girl who becomes a geisha. The story is also essentially a Japanese tale of their status quo before the war, presumably WWII. When the war came, the structures of their culture were strictured. Names were preserved but duties were misplaced. Thence a geisha became a cheap prostitute, rather than an effigy of Japanese hospitality. But one is tempted to ask if this is the product of the war or time or both.
If there is anything a movie should leave one with, it’s a topic for future discourse. No doubt, Memoirs of a Geisha does.