Last week visiting the Haywood to see an exhibit of African art, I came upon a long line of statues Waiting for a Bus. I stood for ten minutes and copied out the essay describing the piece. It was very poignant for me. I share it here.
The artist and author:
Dilomprizilike, 2003 [Nigeria, born 1960] Waiting for the Bus
It is only hope that keeps us clocking. Thus we suffer and smile, as we love to live by chance. For, to plan and work by faith has become a song for the birds. Ask the average African how he is, his answer goes, “Fine, thank you.” The truth is that he is not fine. In fact he is worse than he was yesterday. The curious thing though is even if he knows that he is filthy and stinky, he doesn’t care so much because he believes it will be better: and even when he dies suffering, his renewal is in heaven – where the angels stage a band, and wear white robes (as white as snow) which he choruses as if snow falls in Africa. There he would dance and make merry.
For this reason we have to be in touch with lobbying for both earthly and heavenly glories. Everything becomes anyhow, he gives you exactly what you want – from “Bless you” to “God punish you” from bible quotations to pots of charms. He talks about politics as if his father is the President. A football match played in Australia keeps him away from his office while he tells anyone who cares to listen either what the coach is or what he would have done while his boys (the players) should have or shouldn’t have done this and that.
In business his natural survival instinct plays out the tactics he has grown to learn to do: stealing, lying, duping … twisting things. He kills for the money he wants to steal, he lobbies and bribes for the offences he commits, stretching his defense boundaries to super-human limits. Hence he boastfully brags that “it is not the one who brings a case to the court that wins it.”
His instruments of abominations and atrocities: the deceptive church, the brainwashing school, the corrupt and corruptible judiciary, the civil/evil services, licensed and unlicensed gunmen, faceless contracts, miscellaneous business tricks and a crooking political system make his job what it is as they form complications in his life in which he abundantly dwells.
So “my brother” the African finds himself in a web – a situation which he curiously accepts as he waits for “the better.” And while he plays Kalukalu (the jackpot) with his life his behavioral attitudes are fuelled by his desperation chaos become his hope, loss of values, lack of orientation and gross indiscipline define his ways, living his life to an unsure destination. He believes strongly that “his turn” is on the way, as he waits for his Pastor’s abundant promises of explosive miracles. No wonder he buys admission into school for one child and forges certificates for the other.
Since Africa has been so deformed into a heavenly hell where anything and everything is possible, where anybody can be what he is not, where men and women can reap what they did not sow, where life can go anyhow, we gladly and willingly help our brothers and fathers to rig the elections, castigate, mutilate or even assassinate our “enemies”; so we can be made Director Generals, commissioners or even contractors after they have finally “won” the elections (even when they refused to go to school).
We have henceforth resolved to wait for the bus which will take us to the Promised Land, since we have aided and abetted the burning down of our house. We sow our seeds rather in the church than in the farm, for the promise of the church is more enticing; here the rewards come easy. We exploit our being while redefining the difference between stealing and being given. Shame loses its face. The man, who baptized us with his holy spirit, took away our brains in return. No wonder we go faster on motorcycle backs overtaking those “fools” in unending traffic hold-ups.
Oh! African, Jerusalem, killing your prophets and crippling those who should carry your cross. Shame has taken a bite on you while your gods – your father’s shrines, remain exempted from your fate; exiled from your land.
All roads lead to the BUS STOP. The traffic light has already turned green. Do not forget to gather your loins.
Since I have just learned how to use our scanner, it seemed timely to introduce Molly Mable and Ada Mae.
I was a dancer when I was a child. The story told me was that my grandmother took me to a well-known ballet teacher in town, Elaine Archibald, when I was eighteen months old. For the first six months or so I would watch the dancers glide, slide, jump and pirouette around the studio until I was old enough to gain some balance and able to learn dance steps. I studied ballet all day, every day, after school hours, until I was ten years old. I think my dancing days were ended because doctors said I had become anemic and my mother was worried I had no social life outside the dance school. 
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