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My father’s people call me Alhaja It’s the same name they called my grandmother who died when I was four.

When she returned
from Mecca, she earned the society’s credentials for a Muslim woman who
has been on pilgrimage to the joint capital with Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.
A man would be called Alhaji.

Grandma returned
from Mecca with a golden tooth and wore a golden skull cap made of wire
mesh on her head, before she tied her gele on it, before she headed for
the market where she was a woman leader. She carried me by strapping me
on her back. Well, I could walk, but she preferred that I didn’t. This
is what I always remember of her. It is the other things that they say
about me and her, that I don’t. And for this reason, I desired to know
how I earned her name. And this is because, for a long time, it did not
occur to me that my grandma could have a name other than Alhaja. It did
not matter that her mate – her best friend and my step grandmother –
was also called Alhaja, which we differentiated it with a prefix Elepo,
as she, sold palm-oil.

Now, as a grown-up,
I have come to understand that every Yoruba Muslim family has its own
Alhaja, and where there is more than one person of such appellations,
relatives distinguish them by locations – Alhaja Surulere or Alhaja
Ibadan; or even by size – Alhaja Small or Alhaja big.

I earned a name
from grandma – and I did not have to be a Muslim or take a trip to
Mecca to get that. For typically, as a Yoruba, should I have needed to
get respect for coming back as her, I might have borne names like
Iyabo, Yewande – a reincarnated mother – should I have waited until her
death to be born. Yet, I am treated as a reincarnate. Things like extra
chicken where the others get one, lots of gift, and a blossoming
relationship between Father, who sees me beyond his daughter. I was his
mother. So I can always walk up to him and talk of the others’ domestic
shortcomings. I was a mouthpiece for anyone in my home that could not
approach my disciplinarian father.

A change occurred.
One of my aunts visited my parents, whom I still live with, and patted
me on the back – again. Then her hand fondled my chin – embarrassing me
into self-consciousness now that I am a matured woman. She rendered a
brief panegyric – originally my grandma’s – and lots of prayers on
advancement, prosperity and opportunities. Then she said as she left,
‘Alhaja, my mother, take care of your father.’ Ok. There’s a problem
here. (I didn’t tell her that bit). Her parting propped up a decision
in me. I decided to remember or assume how my name change occurred. It
would perhaps make a definition of my duties as a batoned grandmother
easier.

Again, my decision
is borne of the fact that I feel like someone who has borne another’s
name for too long, and not even with benefits of sharing the
responsibilities that should come with it. Should there be need for
any. And so I impressed it upon myself to assume a mental
responsibility of being a big aunt, mother or cousin to my paternal
relatives, allowing my quiet to inhabit the grandeur of that space of
deference which I am accorded.

Nothing mattered
for a while, until recently, when a friend, flipping through my photo
album, remarked about how much I look like my late grandmother. Again I
picked up a photograph of the woman and pictured the nose, flamboyant
at the extremes, yet it would not pass as the typical African nose. It
was too small. Her lips, full as mine, would not curve towards the
chin; hers was spread into a smile – perpetual. Her eyes, even in the
black and white photograph, were intense and questioning. What colour
were her eyes. Mine are deep brown, under the lights, and they are like
sundials with chocolate spread. I looked deeper. The picture wouldn’t
tell.

My grandmother’s
love grew out of the stories I heard concerning my fondness for her.
Fondly, mother would express how she died, ‘a good death’ – in her
sleep. ‘She went to the market and slept.’ Her death did not amount to
much performance. She lived, and then died.

Father, an only
child to his mother, would sometimes look at me with a smile afloat on
his face. Finally, if in a too-light mood, he would tell me how I would
sit, sleep, and eat with her when I was younger. ‘No one could take
your hijab from you,’ he said. ‘You really loved her.’ ‘I did?’ ‘And
every weekend we knew we had to take you to stay over at her place.’
‘At grandpa’s house, abi?’ I smiled at that. The house in question was
my grandfather’s. I grew up knowing the place as the ‘Sallah house’ (Id
el kabir). Many years after, grandma died, my father still celebrated
Sallah on her behalf, calling the mosque to say prayers on her behalf
and afterwards there was so much fried meat for the children to eat.
Yet, I could not remember this Alhaja whom I looked so much like.

‘What did I do when
she died?’ ‘Well you cried.’ ‘Just cried?’ ‘Yes. Or what else would you
have done?’ Crying was alright, but there was a part of me that trusted
that I could have done something else.

So I became again,
that four-year-old, whose beloved is lowered into the earth, holding
the edge of her mother’s dress. Crying? Just crying, could not be
alright, if I really loved her and became her. Then, I wondered if it
was a divine plan at the time to understudy her before she died. It
didn’t work out. I am a writer. I didn’t turn out a trader.

Perhaps in death,
people will wonder aloud, how death took away a kind-hearted and
helpful human. Until then, I explored the realities, which showed me
that understudying her did not work out.

Perhaps before
then, I was there besides her when she died, pulling her rigid body to
wake for prayers, at dawn? The mosque calling for prayers and the rush
of a tenement building – scrambling, screaming and stifled shouting.
But what did I do after that? My mind could not pull through, I let it
pass.

Father said I was
at home with them when she died. That someone brought the message to
them and I was in the living room with everyone else.

So I imagined a
great scream from my mother once some-somebody came to deliver the
message. Her cry halted the teasing from my two elder brothers. We all
stilled, unsure of what happened. Perhaps, at the time, I was hungry.
My brothers understood that something was wrong with grandma, but I
didn’t. So I waited for everyone to calm down and I acted normally, but
the people around me didn’t. They petted me, cuddled me, offered me
help….

Perhaps the next
morning, mother would not leave the kitchen. Her younger and elder
sister – both known as big mummy to me, stayed with her. Then my aunts,
uncles and some other people whom I had never met came to see my
father. Not one along kokoro, biscuits and go-go sweets, like grandma
always did when she came for a visit. They patted me on the back and
sat close to my father. Fondled my chin, one after the other. Then a
family meeting began – loud, whispers, cries and again talks.

Between, their talks. Food was served. It was not a party, but a lot of people around.

Perhaps a part of
me, said: ‘something is amiss. Grandma is not a part of the meeting. So
I walked outside, and hoped to see grandma, who would arrive with the
usual delicacies.

I remained outside, until, the visitors came out one after the
other, patting my head and smiling kindly – than normal to me. One
after the other, they gave me her name, ‘Alhaja…’

Old age has not
diminished Rhoda Omosunlola Johnston-Smith’s productivity. She is still
writing at 86, even without being able to use a computer, preferring
her trusted pen and paper instead.

It was encomiums
galore for the grandmother on Thursday, March 17, at the public
presentation of her autobiography, ‘Richly Blessed’ held at NECA Hall,
Agidingbi, Lagos.

With 30 published
works and 9 yet to be published, Johnston-Smith’s works are drawn from
her life experiences and range from cookery books including ‘Miss
Williams’ Cookery Book’ (published in 1957), to books on home
management, short stories, hymns and songs.

Apart from writing
in English, the octogenarian, who trained as a Home Economist, also
writes in Yoruba. Her ‘Ise Awon Iya Ati Baba Nla Wa’ (The Occupation of
Our Forefathers) won her publisher, Longman, the NOMA Award for
Children’s Literature in 1983.

Her effort at
preserving Yoruba culture is also evident in works including
‘Traditional Yoruba Greetings’; ‘Uncommon and Special Yoruba Names’;
‘Yoruba Etiquette Good Manners’; ‘Yoruba Proverbs and Their English
Equivalents’; “A Treasury of Yoruba Proverbs -The Wits and Wisdom of
The Yorubas’ and ‘Ire’- (Blessings).

Johnston-Smith’s
works of fiction include ‘Iyabo I’ and ‘Iyabo II’ written in Yoruba;
while she offers insights into her life in ‘Never a Dull Moment’,
‘Thanking God at 75 Glorious Years’ and ‘Counting The Roses Not The
Thorns.’

Facing the sun

To share in the joy
of her latest exploits, were family and friends including head of the
Interim National Government, Ernest Shonekan, the first military
governor of Lagos State, Mobolaji Johnson, and former deputy governor
of Lagos State, Sinatu Ojikutu.

The book, according
to the reviewer, Gbemi Smith, enjoins all to “face the sun and never
see the shadow.” She added that ‘Richly Blessed’ is very witty, chatty,
and easy to read. However, she wasn’t happy with the binding which she
noted “could have been better.”

Amongst others,
‘Richly Blessed’ dwells on the author’s life as a young girl growing up
on Lagos Island and her privilege in being a student of the late
Premier of the Western Region, Ladoke Akintola, in secondary school.

It also mentions
how she fled to Paris instead of buying a sewing machine after
completing her training at Gloucester College of Domestic Science, UK;
the death of her first husband in 1970, and her second marriage to a
widower, Oladokun Smith.

Persevering spirit

Chair of the
launch, Kehinde Smith, commended the author for her perseverance. “At
Mama’s age, most people will decline to write, but it seems her own
capacity is on the increase. One does not write memoirs on nothing.
Mama has achieved a lot in her life and most especially, she has
touched many lives.”

One of the special
guests and wife of the Alake of Egbaland, ‘Tokunbo Gbadebo, recalled
Johnston-Smith’s winning of the NOMA Award for Longman in 1983 with
‘Ise Awon Iya Ati Baba Nla Wa.’

Femi Williams, a
relative, decried the non-recognition of the author’s achievements by
government. “What sort of country are we in that this author is yet to
be given a national honour?” he asked. He added that, “The quality of
her work is quite fantastic,” and disclosed that ‘Miss William’s
Cookery Book’ was a major determinant in his dating a preferences as a
young man. Williams enjoined women in gender based organisations to
push the author’s feat to the forefront for necessary recognition by
the government.

The chief launcher,
Charles Oladehinde Richards, said “after the Bible, this book is the
next book I honour” and urged everyone to get a copy.

Blessed on all fronts

In her remarks at
the occasion, Johnston-Smith disclosed that it was her late son that
asked her to write the autobiography. This is in spite of other
publications that already contained sketches of her life. “Dare is not
here today to see the end of this book but he read part of it,” she
said.

The author added
that ‘rich’ in the title of the book is not monetary but that, “I have
been richly blessed in many ways. Of course, I have had even darker
moments in my life but I feel very richly blessed despite the ugly and
painful deaths, accidents, and traumatic ups and downs.”

She later disclosed
in an interview that most of her writings were initially private and
meant for just her children and grandchildren. The idea of publishing
them came subsequently and she was further inspired by a book given to
her during her 80th birthday.

Thanks to the gift, she discovered that a missionary of her age had written over 100 books.

Why Art?

Art allows me to express myself and also inspire others in more ways than one. I can show people exactly what I see in a way that I compose it because sometimes people select only what they want to see; I am therefore able to focus on issues that mean the most to me and to my society.

Training

I studied Photojournalism as one of my undergraduate courses in Mass Communication. I picked up skills in film photography and darkroom techniques. I have mostly been self-taught in the digital era of photography, studying online, practising a lot and also learning from a few of my mentors.

Medium

Photography (Film and Digital).

Influences

My father got me my first camera as a child. I had seen black and white images by Sunmi Smart-Cole then and I had dreams to have my own. My uncle got me my first professional SLR film camera in 2003, a lot of change in technology and a few cameras later, I still get influenced by them and the work of many other photographers; too many to mention.

Inspirations

Time is my main inspiration. Every second is gone forever so I feel the need to document as many of those seconds as possible. Once time is captured, it can never be taken back. It never stops but we can look at the images and remember things exactly as they were (for images without photo manipulation). We enjoy the memory, try to change how we felt about the time it was taken or look up to it.

Best work so far

I was part of a project that supported cancer awareness and fundraising. It may not have been my best work in artistic terms but it was my best in terms of giving back to society. It felt good knowing that I could help in my own little way. The images were not gory in nature but they drove the message home to the people who saw them. I also love my aerial photography series of Abuja and Lagos, they make the cities and the people seem so small and fragile.

Least satisfying work

I’m not yet fully satisfied with my documentation of Nigerian cultural festivals. So far I’ve documented the Eyo festival, Osun-Osogbo festival, Durbars in Kano, Zaria and Niger, Argungu and the more modern carnivals but they do not seem to be enough. I want to get at least 5 more which includes the new yam festival and the not so popular others. I’m seeing it as a full body of work so I won’t get satisfied until it is complete, God willing.

Career high point

Every exhibition I’ve had has been a high point for me but this year, winning The Future Award for ‘Creative Artist of the year’ sealed it. It was pleasing to know that my peers and others felt that I was good enough to be nominated but winning made me feel highly appreciated and grateful. I now want to do so much more.

Favourite artist living or dead

I love different artists for different reasons. Selecting just one is impossible for me.

Ambitions

I want to inspire as many people as possible with my work; right now, tomorrow and eras after. I would love to encourage the Nigerian woman to try to be the best she can be and tell as many of our stories as possible through my photography.