By Toyin Omoyeni Falola
"A perfect coming-of-age tale so choked with brilliant colour and emotion, the phrases appear to dance off the web page. yet this isn't basically Falola's memoir; it's an account of a brand new state entering being and the tensions and negotiations that normally take place among urban and state, culture and modernity, women and men, wealthy and negative. a very appealing book."-Robin D. G. Kelley "More than a private memoir, this e-book is a wealthy minihistory of up to date Nigeria recorded in scrumptious element through a perceptive eyewitness who grew up on the crossroads of many cultures."-Bernth LindforsA Mouth Sweeter Than Salt gathers the tales and reflections of the early years of Toyin Falola, the grand historian of Africa and one of many maximum sons of Ibadan, the remarkable Yoruba city-state in Nigeria.Redefining the autobiographical style altogether, Falola miraculously weaves jointly own, historic, and communal tales, besides political and cultural advancements within the interval instantly previous and following Nigeria's independence, to offer us a different and enduring photo of the Yoruba within the mid-twentieth century. this can be actually a literary memoir, informed in language wealthy with proverbs, poetry, track, and humor.Falola's memoir is way greater than the tale of 1 man's formative years studies; really, he offers us with the riches of a complete tradition and community-its historical past, traditions, pleasures, mysteries, loved ones preparations, varieties of strength, struggles, and adjustments.
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Extra resources for A Mouth Sweeter Than Salt: An African Memoir
Yusuf’s mother grabbed me, hit me violently, threatened to kill me. She was overpowered. She was crying, I was looking. It took another person to announce that Yusuf had lost his eye. The left eye was damaged beyond repair. The rock had hit it so badly that the chances of recovery were gone by the time the damage was reported. Yusuf had done me a favor. When they asked him who did it, he mentioned Philip. They only came to our house because they did not know where Philip lived. Ashamed by the encounter, my clan held a short meeting and decided that Yusuf’s parents should take me with them to determine any appropriate punishment and the revenge most satisfactory to them.
Not knowing that our house was many miles away, they asked us to rush home and for Yusuf to go and treat his wound. No one spoke. Yusuf was holding onto a part of his head to stop further bleeding. As we moved nearer home, after a long walk of over an hour, we all parted ways. The event was over. I was reporting the success of the day’s celebration, with the usual embellishments, when Yusuf and his parents arrived, angry and cursing me, my family, and ancestors. Yusuf’s mother grabbed me, hit me violently, threatened to kill me.
They had allowed him to change his attire when he should have been arrested on the spot and delivered to the chiefs as he panicked, like a rat who ran into a cat. The guards had been robbed of the glory of delivering their captive to the chiefs. The guards could not boast of the difficulty of their mission, the hardship they had encountered in arresting a difficult omo ogun (war boy), the name they gave to him and his peers. As the horse ran, the guards ran after the man on the horse’s back, praying that they could pull him down, set the horse free, and carry their prisoner.