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I miss my townsman and friend Victor Ehikhamenor. He left me
here in America and is in Nigeria enjoying life with armed robbers. Well, he
seems to be enjoying himself, judging from his wonderful stories. I am so
envious of him. Unlike here in America where nothing ever happens to you as
long as you pay the thieves who own your house and your life, there is always
delicious drama in Victor’s life.

The other day he was “arrested” by some polite armed robbers
who needed his iPhone, Blackberry, Canon SLR camera, two laptops and his brand
new iPad, Serena. Serena? Please do not ask me why a young man is naming inanimate
objects after animated beauties! There is lunacy in this life, Olorun ma je!

The armed robbers have not returned any of the toys, er tools,
that they borrowed from Victor. Not to worry, he has since replaced all of the
gadgets (in case the armed robbers are listening). He wrote to America and you
know white folks, they love to rescue poor African artists from the hell that
is Africa.

First they sent him a round-trip first class air ticket to come
back to America to narrate his wondrous breath-taking tale of being robbed by
mean, big, black armed robbers dressed in raffia skirts and carrying spears and
juju amulets. After each “reading” he was presented with an iPad, iPod, Sony
Vaio laptop and somebody’s wife. In case the armed robbers are reading my column,
there were ten readings. So Victor is now richer than he ever was before he was
robbed. He may be seen at the Mainland Bridge begging to be robbed again. I
think he wants to visit America again. He will travel first class.

Victor is a visual artist, besides being a spinner of fabulous
stories that white women love (“Oh Victor, he is so smart! O Victor, he is so
cute!”). He paints a lot of things. He makes bold strokes flash angrily along
dark moody canvasses, red here, blue there, many things that are beyond my
understanding. Life is a mystery, how these things come to one person and they
never come to me. It must be a kind of lunacy, in which case I am extremely
sane.

I can’t draw to save my life. Victor knows that I am art
illiterate and like many Nigerians who wallow gleefully in the misery of their
fellow Nigerians, he would always invite me to his studio here in America just
so he can watch me make a fool of myself. He has open houses, eclectic affairs
where he displays all his art “pieces” (that is what they call them, in case
you are privileged to see inside a studio).

Rich people who cannot draw if their lives depended on it, but
who “appreciate” art, come to the studio, usually by invitation only, and they
ooooh and aaaah the art pieces. They say really intelligent things about art
over wine and cheese and then they never fail to leave without buying a piece.
The pieces are usually expensive, say, $3,000 each.

Hell, I will not pay N3,000 Naira for a piece of art. My father
will personally murder me if he finds out I am that financially irresponsible.
Marry a second wife with the money, he would bark at me over the phone. My wife
doesn’t like that piece of advice.

The only reason I go to Victor’s studios is that he always has great cheeses
and wine and wonderful, super-smart intellectual ladies who happen to be
pretty. The Chilean Malbec that Victor thoughtfully provides helps the tongue
along. With Victor you never know what is art or nonsense in his studio. You
just keep talking while holding your wine glass and hope that no one notices
that you are a babbling idiot.

This one day, there was this fine intellectual goddess posing by abstract
art in the shape of a sweaty cheap-ass shirt hanging on the wall. She, this art
goddess smiled at me as I approached the art piece and I just knew she wanted
me badly. This would be easy. I had watched a documentary the night before on
how to comment on great art. I was prepared. You would have been proud of me. I
started singing, thusly: “Nice period piece. The abstract notion of a shirt
emptied of a physical disembodiment is haunting! The cubist angularity of its
hanging speaks volumes for the angst and alienation that exiles feel in
Babylon!” She kept grinning at me like you would an idiot showing off his ignorance.

I was beginning to think that this
one was a fellow idiot, only prettier. Suddenly, Victor came out, and
exclaimed, “Ah, Old man (That would be me! Victor is so rude!) I see you have
met Serena! Serena, thank you for watching my shirt for me!” And he took down
my art and proceeded to wear it. I slunk out of the house. I have not been back
to Victor’s studio.