The past is not only remembered, it's also viscerally present, pressing into the now like a shape left in memory foam. If I were to look differently, I would find existing memory infrastructure all around that no one institution can finish validating and that no amount of institutional silence can invalidate. Culture is how we speak. It is where and how we ask, It is where and how we ask, where and how we listen, where and how we confess. But they bulldozed the confessionals so that they could extend their altars of fear and control. And because we can't see enough confessionals around, we say that confessionals aren't meant to be there. My work is often to sense the afterlife, or the super life if if you like of things, tracing them in the body in tongues, in gestures that we pass down, pass up, pass around my prayer today is that through this contact that the warmth of my life and the warmth of yours can be shared with all of us reminding us that dispossession is not just about losing something. It's also about never having known that you had it in the first place. Never having known that a trap is not natural, that inheritance can be refused. Here's how I see this for you and me. The first step. What does it mean to be a Nigerian child? I'm reminded here of how whenever I reject children and my mother is around, she starts rebuking me saying that the laws of the universe are such that, as my mother, her prayers and her wishes over my life supersede my prayers and my wishes over my life. And no, she's not joking. Nigeria feels like that on me sometimes. Like a parent who believes and acts like its desires over my life supersedes mine in both the physical and spiritual realm. The second step. What happens to the offspring that aren't legible to us in the language we've been taught by punishment? I remember one day in my final year of secondary school, I got back low grades on a test. The overwhelming pressure to be in a straight line, to be good, to be excellent, to reach for the magis. It crushed me to the ground that day and left me for rubbish. As the day progressed, I had a real perception of myself in another space-time dimension, half buried in that evil red earth, inert, broken limbs stuck in a mid-suit. She couldn't even make it sound. A bulldozer came and packed her with the rubble. And what I could explain here to my friends and my mother, to myself, it was of no use because she needed help there and I could see her. But there was no one there that could see her, no one there that could hear her. And yet, whatever happened to her there was what fed life into me here. The light left. And over what? For years, I watched her in the rubble. Watched her regain her life, then lose it. Regain, then lose it. It's been 11 years now, and these when I close my eyes I hear her walking. I hear her getting used to her new gait, practicing a new choreography for her body. I do. The third step. How has coloniality continued to reproduce itself from generation to generation of Nigerian children. Soja coming, soja going, bark remaining. What is this inheritance? And maybe even more, what is it that constitutes the free space, you know, the freedom that defines the shape of this colonial inheritance? In other words, what is this other that tyranny defines itself against? In 2022, I was looking at this photograph made a century earlier in Igbo land by the official British colonial government anthropologist. I decided to name this person Afamefuna. Ibo for me, my name, not to be forgotten. He looked like in his mind he had gone to the place where where flowers don't have to look right to turn to the light, they just do. The photo was so full of feeling, like I felt like I could touch him and that if I did, he would melt like powder. And looking at the photograph, I was reminded that my grandfather had an interior life that I would never, never know about, really. As a child, whenever my parents, siblings, and I went to the village during Christmas, we prayed the rosary in Igbo every morning with my extended family. But outside of that, I could converse only in English, which my grandfather did not speak. One afternoon, I had been worried about something. I was thinking about it and realizing that I needed to be tabled before God. And as my mind went on its internal monologue in English, the thought occurred to me for the first time that my grandfather's personal conversations with God must be in Igbo and not in English. And in ways I could not fully verbally articulate at that time as a child, I had a real sense of it dawning on me that if my mind spoke a different language from his mind, and if we made sense of reality through a different set of signifiers, then the internal world through which my grandfather saw the rest of the world probably looked like something that I could never, as in may never, imagine. Talk less of experience. And yet I come from him. I carry his blood and its messages, its needs. Was there ever a time all you saw was me? Did it ever feel right for you to stay as long as you did? All those words you said to make me believe That these moments we share Given all that we can Make the pillars to hold The silly stories I own Where did we go wrong? Darling, wait out there Talk to me Don't walk away from me So when we're sad and old Lines on our faces Tell of stories That won't be taught A lot of my work and curiosity has been on how British colonialism has shaped the Nigerian psyche and our sense of collective identity, how it influences how we see ourselves and relate to power both outwardly and inwardly. I know some people are tired of hearing about colonialism. They wonder what does this still have to do with our lives over a century later. And for some others, life is good as it is. There's love, there's stability. For them, there is no urgent reason to dig into history for explanations or for healing. And that's a reality. But it's not mine. For me, I see the legacy everywhere in the institutions we've inherited and in the ones that we have not. The march past once saluted the queen, then later saluted military dictators who believed that their martial revolutions would create anti-colonial African paradises. But by that point, the colonial rhythm and logic of power had already been set. Over time, we've absorbed these values so deeply that they feel natural. We've been left believing that this narrow path is all that we have. And because it is all we have, it's all that we need. Step 4 How far back can we trace this particular strand of coloniality that has Nigerians in a chokehold today? An invisible chokehold at that. Human empires colonize, yes, to expand and survive in Africa and elsewhere. Predators pre, parasites parasites. I'm sure that coloniality is an immeasurable weight whose source we cannot trace. Maybe it's even the original sin, actually. But in this, you know, if we think of the world life, us as being in a primordial soup of violence. I do think that the particular historical event of the late 19th and 20th century has a unique gate, a unique DNA, something that is itself. And I suspect that part of our fatigue with the C word is that looking at it too long makes us feel helpless. So we look away. I don't quite feel satisfied with all the metaphors and language we currently have for this thing as it manifests in Nigeria today. I mean, it's a whole pan-Atlantic sandwich. But though I struggle, I think it's worth charting the paths of this thing's transmission, you know, the laws, the media, schools, our practices, our institutions, our ways of being, especially in our human bodies. Number five, what is it that our institutions of memory keeping are missing or lacking such that this continuously inherited chokehold continues to remain invisible even within them? You know the museums, our educational systems, our cultural habits like you know family prayers where storms of fire are invoked upon the enemy, or anemic ceremonies where seven-day-old boys are promised wives that would never question their authority. I think it's worth keeping in mind just how much these institutions of memory and knowledge preservation are not merely a repository of history for history's sake. They are also active forces in constructing collective identity and also collective integrity. If you scale this down to the individual, it still applies. The memories and the knowledge that your body gathers and preserves is where you find the engine fuel for the terms of your own sovereignty, is where you find what it takes to live a life of integrity. The body is not just a witness to history and to our past. It's also history's bona fide reproductive system. Step six, this chokehold, this chokehold. Step 6. This chokehold, this chokehold. If I cannot bottle the ocean of evidence of this chokehold that I can see, touch, smell everywhere I turn in this space, in flesh, in mind, in spirit, what else can I do to participate in this vast something that I am a part of? This vast something to which I pledge my presence. And in many ways my life these past many years have been days on end of waking up in the morning and asking where is my responsibility in all of this that haunts me. Sometimes I have behaved as though the entire thing was my responsibility and if it was my responsibility, then I could single-handedly change it all. When I think about responsibility to this ocean of evidence and to the evidence itself, I understand the power and necessity of the visible archives, you know, the institutional bodies. Because materials in the archives are often artifacts of power, you know, for sales of once powerful bureaucracies. And we must endeavor towards devolution of power. We must create friction with tyranny because that is precisely what keeps this whole thing warm. But I also know that often our efforts with these archives and with institutions are actually at officiating our own memories into history. Too much faith in legacy, in the promise of legacy. This illusory thing that makes us feel like we will live longer than our death, that we won't be forgotten. I think we'll all be forgotten, personally. In our individual selves, at at least and I don't think there's anything sad about it no archive honestly can save all the bones and all the breath of your life that truly mattered and even if one could you know if even if we invented something that could a body that does not decompose is not what the ecosystem needs. I think we need materials that can and will die and return the fundamentals back to the home so that new people can have raw materials to work with. Step seven. So then, what spaces can we create for? For this back and forth, this giving and taking. What spaces can we create for? Because being against only exhausts us. Dance. Simply, truly dance, the ghosts will hear. Your body's music undoes their trap. Dance. If the question is what can we create for the spirit of the moment? The spirit of that boundless, existing outside of time, here and there at the same time moment? The answer is dance. The spirit moves. Its prerogative is aliveness, is four. So what home can we make for all our fours? Dance. The ghosts will hear. Your body's music undoes their trap. It's good to stay alive, even to death. අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි අපි