UNDER THE MANGO TREE--Tamsin Barzane

Where is Africa? This might seem to call for an “across the ocean” answer, since I’m in Atlantic City for a day or two with my parents and sister. (My mother likes the occasional casino spin, and it’s a belated birthday present for her). Though encouraged by my friends to win enough money on the penny slot machines to buy a full-prim sim or so, I have not made much progress towards that goal.

But back to my question. Where is Africa? I don’t know how familiar with slot machines you are, but the low-end penny, nickel and dime machines are now far more game-like than they used to be. Yes, you can still find triple bars and lucky sevens, but it’s more common to see themed slots with bonuses of various kinds, some of which unfold like mini-videogames. The casinos replace these periodically, just to ensure no one has a chance to get bored with them.

SLers will recognize the power of sound that accompanies the visuals (and often is enough to deafen the player); far more than just an imitation of coins falling (because there are no coins used, only scrip), music and effects reinforce the theme. Examining the themes can be absorbing. There are jewelers and gemstones, lobsters and lighthouses, auctions and bidders, policemen and doughnuts. European history of sorts? Yes, many a Greek god and goddess, Roman soldiers, medieval knights and their kings, Robin Hood, cowboys. Particular cities and regions? Yes, New York, Mardi Gras New Orleans and Tabasco sauce Louisiana, Big Ben in London. More exotic fare? Polynesia, Easter Island, ancient Egypt, fantasy Arabia, ninjas in ancient Tokyo, Brazil, Mulan (not the Disney version) in China, Bombay, and ancient Mexico. But Africa?

Africa is-surprise, surprise!—all about the animals. Does this sound familiar? There are lions, zebras, elephants, giraffes, monkeys, leopards. “The King of Africa”? Presumably the lion, because the game harbors no images of people (unless, perhaps, they’re being digested). Africa is apparently either savannah or jungle, and lacks human habitation--except for the occasional foreign safari hunter, with gun or camera (well, the came at left DOES have one lady).

This forcibly reminded me both of my high school education and the accusations African friends made about Americans when I was in grad school. “They asked me if I lived in a tree!” was a frequent plaintive refrain about Hoosier students. “And how did you respond?” I asked. “Of course, I said yes!” This resulted in eye-rolling on my part. I would defend my country by saying not ALL of us had such stupid ideas—which often resulted in eye-rolling on THEIR part. I would then defend my secondary school education: “No one ever taught me anything wrong about Africa--all we studied were the climate zones. Apparently the teachers believed no one lived there.”

Well, of course the teachers didn’t believe that. But they seemed afraid of what they didn’t know, and reluctant to remedy it. In the midst of the Cold War our social studies class learned a few words of both Russian and Mandarin Chinese, memorized all the Soviet republics, and discussed Mongolia—but a word or two about Africans, despite our teacher’s brilliance and incipient hippiedom (expressed by his genes and walrus moustache)? Not a chance.

Many decades have passed. I know how many students I’ve had in introductory African art history classes, and how many of their high school teachers took a university course that centered on Africa. It would seem that things would have changed substantially, wouldn’t it? Well, I’ve been giving out a questionnaire to every student at the same university since 1989, and the answers have changed very little. How many countries in Africa? Ummmmmmm. Name five! That is answered by whatever countries happen to have been in the news recently—rarely for anything positive. Can you name five ethnic groups/indigenous languages? Nope. Well, maybe the Zulu.

Of course, not everyone is such a tabula rasa, but an enormous majority falls into this category. And, as MJ said, “It doesn’t matter if you’re black or white.” It’s funny to think that this educational gap affects something as trivial as slot machines (or, perhaps, that I think it worth noting), but it’s all of a piece: movies, videogames, novels, even Second Life. Is ancient Peru and more fascinating than the ancient Kingdom of Benin? Nope. Easter Island’s huge stone heads more compelling than Fang masks or Kuba statuary? Nope.

Perhaps I’m wrong, and the learning gap has nothing to do with this lack of casino depictions. Are African Americans on the slots? Why, yes they are! They’re there as police and fire personnel, as office workers, as dancers to the Village People or fortunetellers in the Deep South. So there’s no real reluctance to show dark-skinned people (though they don’t make up 12/13% of those on slots!). Why not Africans? And just now, online and looking for illustrations, I ran into "Voodoo Vibes," complete with offensive/schlocky imagery from the Diaspora, including Erzulie's veve (just seen on the House of Blues casino section's rug). Cringe-inducing as it may be, at least it recognizes (as it misrepresents) an aspect of African-American culture. African culture is simply ignored.

Maybe I should be saying, “Thank God there ARE no Africans on the slot machines.” Why? Because ALL would live in thatched clay houses, or carry spears and shields, or (shudder)….no, they surely wouldn’t put a bone in their nose and stick them in grass skirts, would they? I imagine the absence of Africans is actually a smart avoidance of depicting something game designers are likely to get so wrong it would be offensive.

And so, dear readers, we see the power of the media and the weakness of education to combat it. Old visual tropes are still hopping about, lurking and ready to conjure up mental images. When Americans hear “African,” do they picture Olajuwon playing basketball, or do they imagine 19th century cartoons of European explorers in a huge black cauldron? Would I really want slot machines with famous Africans on them? Soyinka with his wild white hair, or Mandela with his patient smile? Nope. But really, I wouldn’t mind seeing a turbanned figure with his horse, his date palm, his leather saddle (or five in a row!) come up. Or a Zulu warrior, a pith-helmeted Briton, and a Boer (it sounds like a setup for a joke—“An Englishman, Shaka Zulu, and a Boer walked into a bar…). How about a conical beaded crown, a Yoruba twin figure, a calabash of palm wine, and an indigo cloth?

If the thought of any of those or other examples makes you smile, how about the game I won a whopping $11 on today (hey, I was playing PENNIES!): jade mask, beautiful lady with quetzal feathered headdress, stepped pyramid, glyph? Because there's a subliminal message here--some cultures have a cultural heritage that everyone gives a nod to, even if it's stereotyped--and even if people don't know the references! (I am sure many casino goers don't know the Greek myth of the Titans, but they're on the slots nonetheless).

Step out of the casino darkness, Africa! Show me Ananse the spider, a sankofa bird symbol, an Akan gold pendant, and five kente cloths in a row!!! If the visuals in the media lead to knowledge, rather than the other way round, so be it!

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Saminaka Compass Literary Supplement

New Beginnings—Acuminious Watanabe (prompt: sunshine)

Day makes way for night

Darkness emerges from the light

Flowers of midnight bloom

The petals slumber, fold to cocoon.

Creatures of night rejoice in song

Their voices familiar to those who belong

Exclusive of the spirits of day

The souls of twilight now guide the way.

From the bliss of joy to the depths of sorrow

Without the day, night could not bring tomorrow

The moon and his fiery bride entwined

Give birth to both darkness and sunshine.

"Fifty Bullets….Make My Day”-- Basha Paulino (prompt: “HE is here…yeah!”)

Where oh where

Can my little dog be?

He’s probably out

Flirting with Regine.

Where oh where

Could my little dog go?

He’s probably out

Macking on some brand new hoe.

Where oh where

Can my little dog hide?

He’s probably out

Sleeping with someone else’s bride

Night turns into Morning’s light

Mama’s little precious is homeward bound.

He sneaks through the door

Looking confused and dumb found.

Smiling sweetly he says,

“What can I do to make my baby’s day?”

Smiling as I reach for my gun

He turns dodging and weaving as he runs away.

I yell, “Fifty Bullets in Yo’ Ass will make my day”.

Rat-ta Tat Tat

Where oh where

Can my little bullets be?

As I check myself out

Making sure his focus stays on me.

Smiling thinking to myself, "It's time to get a new dog".

Ding Dong Ding

HE is here…..Yeah!

A Moment With My Father--BestFriend Pixelmaid (prompt: One Enchanted Moment)

When I was a young teen, my grandmother took me with her to New Jersey for the summer. Flying was certainly an option at that time, but it was more expensive and I suspect my grandmother didn’t want to fly. We took the Southern Pacific Railroad from Los Angeles to Newark and changed trains in Chicago. The trip took about two and one half days. It was the most exciting event of my life; it was full-fledged living.

Shortly before my father died at the august age of 85, he made a point of telling me a story about himself as an 11 or 12-year-old boy, also taking a train (or maybe a bus) with his family from one coast of the US to the other. He wanted me to know that during his travels he had met an elderly man somewhere in mid-country at a little diner stop. He and my father got to talking and the old man “allowed as how he had never fried an egg in his whole life.” My father had. He proceeded to describe the entire procedure to the stranger, step-by-step. Anyone who has ever met my father knows that he is nothing if not a precise instructor, regardless of the subject. In telling the story and in listening to it, it never occurred to my father or me that the old gent might have been humoring the young boy. Be that as it may, my father recalled it vividly with boyish pride.

There is a psychological phase the elderly enter called “life review.” My father was reviewing his life, down to its most obscure detail. He seemed to be saying: “You should listen to my stories more often. There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” With the poignant urgency that he didn’t have an infinite number of years left in which to tell them. I wonder if I am already entering that phase? If so, it is not because I am elderly but because I need to tell my stories. I need to hear and them and I want to pass some of them on to other people. Not because they are historically significant, but because they engage the storyteller in a process of dipping into time like skimming a cup through well water. Anything can appear in that water. Anything.

Conflict: Khitten Kurka (prompt: conflict)

What kind of fuckery is this?

You tell him Amy.

That's exactly what I said.

Messing with my head.

Got no time for

your sorry

your sorry

I'm sorries.

Sing it loud Amy.

I'm tired of fighting.

All nighting and sighing.

While I

try to explain

try to explain

why we can't be.

Wail on it Amy.

I said I was through.

Nothing else you can do.

Not sure why you

couldnt hear

couldnt hear

the dial tone.

One mo' gain Amy.

You only want the ass.

And I aint that fast.

You best believe

when I say

when I say

I need you gone.

What kind of fuckery is this?

Ain't no conflicts or fights

None of that shit tonight.

Let me say this

to be clear

to be clear

I win.

On Meeting My Second Ferret—Feretian String (“One Enchanted Moment”)

Mindlessly wandering

already tired and longing

for remembered warmth

others pushing past

in search of baubles.

I came up against

a place to hold

my eyes unblinking,

my hesitant hand

touching a piece of glass,

my breathing

fogging the plate.

In warmth

and soft blankets

laying curled

as a fresh bagel

your tiny pawpads

poking past the fringe.

Those were the sight

that brought you to me.

Confict: Tamsin Barzane (prompt: conflict)

Many wives, much trouble. I grew hearing it--well, SEEING it. My father had the requisite five, my grandfather had three--well, three when he died. About twelve had circulated in and out of his life through marriage and divorce.

It helps when you can get away, as they both did and I do as well. We're a family of traders, from a long line of merchants. Kano is our base, where wives tend the children and sweep the house. But we are used to saddling our mares and moving out, leaving them to their frictions.

My grandfather generally stayed fairly close, traveling mostly to the Nupe territories and Ilorin to buy fine cloths. My father used to go further afield and took me along, so I grew used to voyages that lasted for moons. The lands of the Ashanti, with their gold, the Mossi and Senufo, on even to Jenne and Timbuktu, full of trade and scholars--all were part of my childhood.

I pushed on further yet, and traded as far as Mauretania, bringing them our fine leathers and taking their gold and goods. One day I was in Nouakchoutt, bargaining with a canny old man, his turban slipping with his verbal exertions. He called out, and in slipped a dark maid, a tray in hand.

She was a fine girl, her curves showing beneath her cloths, eyes darkened with tozali and hands patterned with henna. Our women use the henna too, though they call it lali, but only to stain their soles and palms, with a jaunty circle on the ankle.

Her movements were graceful as she arranged the Moroccan glasses trimmed in gilt, a battered silver pot breathing the fragrant steam of mint. She dropped four lumps of sugar in her master's glass, and looked to me. I signalled three, and her eyes lingered on me a moment before dropping.

When she slipped into my room and my bed that night, I was delighted with her haunches and generous ways. And when she begged me to take her back with me as wife, I thought she would do well, and bear me fine sons. The sheikh was content to let her leave, well-established, and I proudly bore her back to Kano.

That the two senior wives were not happy was no surprise, but I stilled their cutting eyes with gifts of Tunisian silks and filigreed ear dangles--at least for a time. Their new mate spoke but little Hausa, so they were free to spread their spite throughout the household, using sweet tones to lull any thought of complaint. She disn't cook foods they thought well of, she didn't wear her wrappers tight and her veils loose. She did her chores, then sought shade and read. And month after month, she did not take in, despite my best efforts.

But she continued to please me with her sweet ways, her private laughter, and reminders of my travels. I gifted her with cloths and comforts, and she asked for nothing. And her mates? They continued to torture her as best they could, knowing the limit that might rouse my wrath.

**********

Ours was a modest house, earthen and two-storied, with a flat roof for drying pepper and melon seeds, and a courtyard for taking the air and cooking. I had the walls resurfaced yearly, so it always looked smart. The workers had just finished their plastering, and I stood admiring the effect. Miriamu appeared, her brow determined. She talked to me. I resisted at first, but truly saw no harm in her plan; it would add to the splendor of the home and remind my visitors of the breadth of my travels, the exotic worth of my goods.

So I gave her permission, and she set to work. Just a few flourishes around the door's outside, but the reception room walls became a splendid slate of curls and tags, nearly writing but not quite, an exhuberance that echoed that of the homes her sisters decorate in her far-off land. I smiled to see it, and nodded, and her smile split the universe.

That very night she took in, and there has been no peace since, and will not be until I travel again.

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Arcana REVIEW-- Feretian String

We encourage readers to submit reviews of exhibitions. Our Saminaka resident, Feretian String, is a Tarot reader--although Tarot is not African, many African-Americans have used it for divination. And divination in other forms is has long been a vital activity in many African cultures.

"Arcana" is a sculptural excursion into the world of Tarot. Based loosely on the 78 card Rider-Waite-Smith (RWS) Tarot, it portrays the twenty-two Major Arcana (or trumps) of a traditional deck.

Originally a Renaissance trump-taking card game, the first Tarot decks were hand-drawn; later ones were printed from large woodcuts that might hold up to thirty images on one piece of wood. The "pips" or numbered cards were the forerunners of our modern playing cards. The trumps are thought to have represented archetypical characters that appeared in frequent Italian parades of the time. At some unknown point in time, someone began to use the cards for divination.

A few examples of early decks survive in fragile print sheets, woodblocks, and crumbling ancient cards. Modern artists have restored and recreated as many of these early images as possible with the sparse remains.

The Rider-Waite-Smith (RWS) Tarot is arguably the most important influence on the reemergence of card divination. Conceived by Arthur Edward Waite, the paintings were a commission to illustrator Pamela Coleman Smith, who received a pittance for the work. Waite supplied the meanings and symbols for each card, but Smith also researched and developed visual interpretations of her own. The resulting Tarot was published in 1909 to small acclaim, but its reissue in the seventies spawned a new generation of Tarot readers. Most modern readers learned the skill using a RWS, and many still favor it over the hundreds of beautiful decks created during the last few decades.

The modern Tarot community is extensive and international. A quick search turns up several established Tarot societies and forums. A search for Pamela Coleman Smith results in extensive scholarly attempts to recreate her life and works. Within the Tarot community, Smith has posthumously received the recognition and admiration she deserves.

"Arcana" is a Majors-only collaborative Tarot project. The artistic director of the project, Pixels Sideways, chose a unified theme for the entire deck; in this case, the procession of the Major Arcana "is a natural theme in and of itself -- it is rife with symbolism and therefore wide open to interpretation. The artists were left free and open with some technical caveats, and each artist also received an artist build package that had a description of their card which I pulled off wikipedia -- but they could -- and many did -- do further research. Some of the artists were also very familiar with the Tarot.

"When I selected the artists I didn't want to have them pick the cards so I had the cards pick them! I wrote the names of the cards on little bits of paper and put them in the magic zip-loc baggie. As each artist committed to the project I'd think about that artist and draw a card from the bag."

Pixels chose to "die" on her Death card for the camera.

I found "Arcana" in the "Showcase" feature in Search. I teleported to a large open arena where signs briefly described the Tarot, and directed me to a teleport to the first card, the Fool. The Fool's journey through the subsequent cards describes the journey we take through life with its attendant lessons and challenges. I was encouraged to ascend the dais and "claim" my crown for the journey. A complete set of images from RWS radiated from the central dais. The Fool's traveling bag, a stick-and-kerchief affair containing elements of the Tarot suits, hung suspended in the center. A fox labeled "pet me for wisdom" yielded a notecard detailing the Fool in different aspects and interpretations, symbology, and further discussion of the Journey.

Card number one (the Fool is zero) is the Magician, wonderfully playful and rich in texture and layer. Directed to touch a podium for its magic, I found myself looking at myself in full Magician pose among the tools of his trade. Truly magic, and a huge boost to the ego.

Temperance is elegantly scripted and visually intriguing. Polished wood, molten steel, glass and crystal, smokey daguerrotypes, midnight walls, were all in graceful movement or sudden appearance.

The image of Judgement is the angel Gabriel trumpeting the call to rise up and take stock of one's life; a new beginning not without its consequences. In White Lebed's version, the horns are enormous ivory ribs arching overhead and sweeping below, the bells forming a gauntlet of sorts. A stylized figure at the end seemed bowed by forces above and around it, yet struggling to remain upright. Difficult to understand this figure until I moved round it and it came into clear focus!

"My work is usually semi-abstract. I remove all visual things that are not necessary for the message so there's no texture or scripts unless the shape can't deliver the content."

White's is a clear, precise vision, presented in a conservative post-modern style.

Strength is often depicted as a serene woman gently closing the jaws of a lion. Feather Boas' s vignette gives a sense of uninterrupted power, a force not to be set aside easily. Steel pistons and gears, glowing lions flanking the woman's gaze, swirls of light festoon the viewer.

"I constructed an environment made of girders and gears, a factory of steel and steam; some broken parts showing vulnerability. The woman represents strength, resolve, beauty and fragilty. Strength can be gained and strength can be lost; under every strong person can be found a fragile, vulnerable person..."

Cards are sometimes shuffled in a manner that makes some cards appear upside down. Called a "reversal", its meaning changes to an opposite or to a strengthening of the original meaning. I was certain I was seeing a reversal when I arrived in the neon fury of Justice. It slams the senses after the relative calm of the previous cards, which now seem dignified and sedate. The RWS image of Justice is superimposed on a glowing chartreuse floor. Advertising balloons scream "Justice for f---ing Free!" to either side of a monolith collage of dollars, mid century protesters, soldiers, and more advertisements. The pull down menu offers mildly pornographic suggestions, which become angry and graphic descriptions when chosen.

Some cards followed fairly closely to the RWS. The High Priestess towered over me, pillars flanking, her secret knowledge just out of my reach. The Tower card, crackling with lightning, offered a veiled glimpse of a beating heart at its core. The Chariot was deep dull gray, heading towards a rock outcrop; seen through a framed glass, the scene took on a carmine glow. The World had elements of Victorian steampunk...a Kepler-esque planetarium enclosing the glowing world, surrounded by soft rich scarlet walls.

Although I could not discern the meaning intended in all of the cards, every one was executed with artistic skill and virtual expertise. Many contained a welcome undercurrent of humor (essential to a good deck) without compromising its intention.

The exhibit is arranged in tiers within a huge auditorium. Having to operate a teleporter between each card was disruptive to the Journey, and the translucent paths and ramps were also distracting. I fell near-fatal distances several times while walking around the exhibits. On the other hand, seeing all the cards floating above and below was fun. I would love to see a permanent installation where a reader could literally walk a querent through a reading!

"Arcana" ...through August 20 (http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caerleon%20Art%20Collective2/237/142/3733)

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Ads! We have an initial special offer for you, whether you are shopkeepers or classified customers! Remember you can advertise your shop, feature an item, or try to sell a transferable item. If your ad has a photo, it costs more. There are discounts for extended runs of the same ad, and lesser discounts if you have constant ads, but they vary from week to week. YOU CAN ALSO USE THIS VENUE TO ADVERTISE RL OBJECTS AND SERVICES; LIST YOUR EBAY OR OTHER SITE AND REACH OUR CUSTOMERS (Tamsin Barzane will never reveal your rl identity to readers). All ad payments are in-world and in lindens. Ads for the coming week should be submitted by noon SLT Sunday.

Single ad, no photo, one week. maximum 5 Blogger lines: 50L
Single ad, photo, one week. Text maximum 5 Blogger lines: 100L
Single ad recurring, no photo, one month (4 issues). Text maximum 5 Blogger lines: 175L
Single ad recurring, photo, one month (4 issues). Text maximum 5 Blogger lines: 325L
Single ad changing week-to-week, no photo, one month (4 issues). Text maximum 5 Blogger lines. 180L
Single ad changing week-to-week, photo, one month (4 issues). Text maximum 5 Blogger lines. 425L

If you want longer text, more than one photo, or a longer ad run, prices will be adjusted. Contact Tamsin Barzane through inworld notecard or at tbarzane@gmail.com

These are introductory prices--no telling if they'll last more than a month! Get em while you can! This is our ELEVENTH ISSUE, and we're up to 880 readers! That's well over a hundred more than last week-- and our readers come from all over the world. WE GROW DAILY!!

Oliha will be back this week, but not in time for today’s column deadline! He will have plenty of tales to tell you about his long visit to Nigeria, but I’m going to preempt him and tell you one. Let’s call it the Case of the Devious Driver.

For those of you who haven’t traveled there, Nigerian driving has to be seen to be believed. For decades there’s been no speed limit; if there’s one now, it’s honored in the breach. Most cars on the open road are doing 120 km/hr. What is that, about 80 mph? Drivers are often highly skilled, but take huge risks. Think Italy x four, then add to the mix cars and heavy lorries whose brakes aren’t working, or drivers willing to take the wrong side of the road just to cut out tortoise-like cars in a traffic holdup.

Most Americans wouldn’t think of driving in urban Nigerian conditions. Oliha doesn’t plan on it either, but he did plan on getting a driver’s license. After all, a second form of ID is handy; you don’t always want to take your passport with you to the grocery store. What’s the Nigerian driver’s test like, you say? Ah, my dear—which kine question be dat? Make you wan kill me? Oliha used “long leg”; that is, with contacts and a willingness to grease the wheels only a little, no test was necessary! Not that should be particularly worrisome to anyone on the road in his case--Oliha knows how to drive, after all, and knows enough not to want to do so in Nigeria!

Like most big men, he's had a professional driver to take him round. He treated him well, only to find out his trust had been abused. Giving the driver dollars to exchange—because you have to be cautious about doing such things yourself, since it’s hard to know who’s watching you, making assumptions that the roll of Kleenex in your pocket is actually a roll of hundred dollar bills. The driver was AWOL for a few days, and Oliha’s host supplied a stand-in. The new fellow returned from currency exchange with a much fatter wad of banknotes, and his predecessor’s skimming was exposed.

A brouhaha resulted, naturally enough, and was neatly sorted out; shame, the fear of God, and specific measures dealt with the miscreant, who will be paying the money back in installments. It is always refreshing to me to hear of how such cases can be settled. The household discusses the matter thoroughly, a traditional man and his friends or colleagues consult, and justice is meted out, an example being set.

Is there a potential for abuse? Sure! As there is by the police, or MPs, etc. But there is also an opportunity to show wisdom and to do so without abrogating one’s authority and waiting weeks or months for a petty case to come to trial. Being a traditional ruler, a chief, or a head of household involves training in people management and Solomonic decisions, and they are frequently accomplished with elegant dispatch.

I will let Oliha tell you more of the “trial” in a future column, with his own commentary on justice (which in this case included the seizing of a new cell phone, shoes, and other goods). And while we wait for him to do so, please ask yourself if you could be an arbiter of justice—and how far would mercy temper it?

--Tamsin Barzane

HAWKING IN THE MARKET--SAMINAKA COMMERCIAL NEWS

***Rebranding is occuring bit by bit in all Tamsin Barzane's stores. While they will keep their individual African-inspired directions (cacao as a couture boutique, Cinnamon Brigade for traditional African wear, Tropicality for more casual, sexy outfits), they are all coming under the cacao umbrella, part of the cacao group of companies. This means not only a photography update, but the addition of new prim attachments at skirt and trouser bottoms, etc. Keep checking back! Sales are on with some old items now, and after all the upgrading takes place, new items will be introduced, too!

***A head's up--Adire has never fully been developed as a store--it contains some Yoruba and Yoruba Diaspora items, but not a full range. The art will go back to the art stores. By next week, Adire will be a specialized clothing store catering to followers of the orisha. Everyday devotional dress? We'll have it? Full ritual attire in your orisha's colors, with accessories included? Look no further! And you'll be able to walk through the back of the store into Oliha Yiwama's office, and from there into our Olokun shrine, also in place by next week!

***Keep that head up!!! With Oliha and his entrepreneurial spirit due back, things will be hopping! Expect to hear of all kinds of new ventures at Saminaka!

Cinnamon Brigade is reloading! Little by little, our traditional African clothes are being reworked with prim attachements and other changes. "Masculine in Minna" is a man's caftan with matching trousers; the lower part of the caftan and the lower pants legs are now prims, so the textures aren't distorted. The outfit has simple embroidery around the neck, and comes with a stiff cap and one in a floppy Yoruba style. See at: http://slurl.com/secondlife/Saminaka/121/177/31/31

WETIN BE DAT? Pidgin English phrase of the week

Dat babe be one ITK!

That girl is "I too know"--a knowitall

MY PEOPLE SAY--NIGERIAN PROVERB OF THE WEEK

"Money for hand, back for ground"

Like a sensible prostitute, get paid in advance in uncontrolled circumstances.

Tues., Aug. 18, 6 pm SLT. Weekly meeting of Egbe Akowe Writers Group at the new Slates, Scrolls & Sticks, Saminaka's library cum bookstore. Join the group and receive its missives by hitting the Subscribe-o-Matic (it doesn't add to group count) at the meeting location. http://slurl.com/secondlife/Saminaka/174/194/30 or the Manatee Lookout Palm Wine Joint on Tarkwa Beach. This week we're doing a storytelling exercise!