If you do not tell your stories, don’t be mad when someone else tells it in a tone you don’t like
A Nigerian Ceramist determined to tell Nigerian stories on a world stage
I am a storyteller, and my medium is Ceramics
I am a storyteller, and my medium is ceramics. In the crucible of creation, where earth meets fire, I find my voice. My hands, caked with the whispering clay, mold tales from the silent depths of the soil. With every touch, every caress of the malleable earth, I conjure worlds unseen, breathing life into the formless void.
In the raw, untamed clay, I see the echoes of ancient narratives, waiting to be shaped into being. My fingers dance over the pliant surface, tracing lines that speak of love and loss, of triumph and despair. Each vessel, each delicate form, is a testament to the stories that linger in the shadows of our collective memory.
The wheel spins, a timeless dance of creation and destruction. As it turns, it sings a song of metamorphosis, of the eternal cycle that binds all living things. My hands, steady yet guided by an unseen force, coax the clay into existence, birthing shapes that are both fragile and eternal.
In the kiln’s fiery embrace, my creations find their true form. The flames lick and caress, transforming the humble clay into something transcendent. It is a trial by fire, a journey through the inferno that tempers the soul and solidifies the story within. Each crackle and pop is a heartbeat, a pulse that signifies the birth of something profound.
The finished piece, cool to the touch but warm with the energy of creation, holds within it the essence of my tale. The glaze, a mirror of the cosmos, reflects the light and shadow of existence. Each piece, whether a simple cup or a grand amphora, is a vessel of meaning, a container of dreams.
In the delicate curves and bold lines, in the smooth surfaces and rough textures, my stories find their voice. They speak not just to the eyes, but to the soul, whispering secrets of the earth and stars. My ceramics are more than objects; they are the storytellers, carrying the weight of my narrative to those who will listen, who will feel, who will understand.
I am a storyteller, and my medium is ceramics. Through the alchemy of earth and fire, I shape the tales that connect us all, binding us in the shared experience of beauty, wonder, and the eternal dance of creation.
Asoebi girls
In the heart of a vibrant celebration, where the air hums with the rhythm of drums and the laughter of kindred spirits, the Asoebi girls emerge like celestial beings. Clad in resplendent fabrics that shimmer under the golden embrace of the sun, they are a tapestry of tradition and grace woven into the very soul of the occasion.
Each step they take is a dance, a delicate ballet that whispers of heritage and pride. Their attire, meticulously chosen and adorned, is not just clothing but a symphony of colors and textures that sings the story of their unity and identity. The fabrics—silks, lace, and Ankara—flow like rivers of opulence, cascading down their figures in waves of elegance.
Their heads, crowned with gele and adorned with jewels, hold high with the dignity of queens. Eyes, lined with kohl, sparkle with the light of a thousand stars, reflecting the joy and exuberance of the celebration. Lips, painted in hues of crimson and rose, speak in the silent poetry of smiles and shared glances.
As they move through the throng, they are the embodiment of solidarity, each thread of their garments a symbol of connection to one another and to their roots. They are the guardians of tradition, the keepers of stories, and the bearers of beauty that transcends time.
In their presence, the world seems to slow, if only for a moment, to admire the sheer artistry of their existence. They are Asoebi girls, not merely participants in the festivities but the very essence of the celebration itself, a living, breathing mosaic of cultural splendor.
Ite-otu
Beneath the ancient canopy of the Iroko tree, where the whisper of ancestral winds carries the wisdom of generations, rests the revered “ite-otu.” This gourd, with its cups cradled like sacred vessels, is more than a mere object; it is a chalice of tradition, an artifact of communal spirit, and a bearer of the rich heritage of the Igbo people.
Carved from nature’s bounty, the ite-otu stands as a testament to the artistry and reverence of those who came before. Its curves are a symphony of earth’s generosity, smoothed by hands that understand the profound connection between the land and its gifts. The gourd’s surface, polished to a gentle gleam, reflects the sunlight in a dance of shadows and light, telling tales of harvests past and celebrations to come.
Nestled beside this gourd are the cups, each one a humble yet noble companion. They are small but mighty, ready to hold the liquid gold that is palm wine. This elixir, drawn from the lifeblood of the palm tree, is more than a drink; it is the essence of camaraderie, the spirit of hospitality, and the liquid thread that binds hearts and souls in moments of joy and reflection.
As the palm wine flows from the gourd into the waiting cups, it is as if time itself pauses to honor the ritual. The golden stream is a river of stories, cascading from one generation to the next, carrying with it the laughter of elders, the wisdom of sages, and the unspoken promises of kinship. Each cup raised is a salute to unity, each sip a communion with the ancestors, each drop a symbol of life’s fleeting but beautiful moments.
In the gentle clink of these cups, there is music—a melody that resonates with the heartbeats of the gathered, an ode to togetherness that transcends the spoken word. The ite-otu is not merely a vessel; it is a bridge between the past and the present, a sacred conduit through which the essence of the Igbo spirit flows, uniting all who partake in its ritual with the timeless rhythm of their heritage.
Every story holds the weight of worlds, echoing in the chambers of time. Your voice, your art, is the vessel of truth, the keeper of your essence. Paint your tale with the colors of your soul, weave your journey into the fabric of the universe. For if you remain silent, your story will be told by others, stripped of its heart. Embrace your narrative, let your art speak the language only you can write, for in your story lies the power to shape destinies and illuminate the shadows.