Nike Art Gallery

Nike, the eponymous art gallery is a fantastic place to spend a few hours. This is my second visit and each time I have been blown away by their warm, welcoming approach to guests. It is easy to find; almost smack bang at the 2nd roundabout on the Lekki Expressway. The gallery is spread out on 5 floors, every inch of wall space crammed with every imaginable permutation of African art. And the floor space is not wasted either. There's furniture, relief lighting, installation pieces, sculpture, fabric, and jewellery.

It is a wonderful treasure trove of discoveries and has something for everyone. It is a little bit cluttered, but not in a way that is detrimental to the experience. My arty friends are happy there and so am I, even though I usually find galleries to be a turgid combination of boring and random. Thanks to Nike, I have fallen madly, and hopelessly in love with the art of Tolu Aliki (first visit) and Peju Alatise (second visit) whose first exhibition began last Saturday. It is exciting to think that each visit brings the opportunity to be challenged and stimulated.

I don't think I can explain how huge it is that I am waxing lyrical about art. Usually when I go to a gallery, I fantasize about chucking out all the god-awful paintings and turning the space into a cosy bookshop/lounge space. I am not easily moved by art. I've been dragged round the Saatchi Gallery, the National Portrait Gallery, the Tate, Proud Galleries, etc, etc, and a whole bunch of others by the Sistership and the Brothership who are budding artists themselves, but I find a lot of art to be hollow. Either the artists paint the same ole thing a few different times, or they try so hard to capture the ethereal esoteric that they appear to be frankly, really rather mad. It is exhausting to be confronted with either extreme mundane or extreme demented and often in rapid succession.

When I look at a piece of art, I want it to speak to me, and I want to be able to catch the emotional jet stream that the artist is on. I want to be presented with poetry and prose depicted visually, not aesthetic pleasantries carelessly strewn on canvas. The point of all this is, I went to Nike Art Gallery expecting it to be boring, but instead I came out inspired, excited, and possessed of a strange desire to drop N400k (which i don't have) on a painting.

If you haven't been to Nike, please do go. Nike and her husband are always about; reclining on deck chairs in the front yard, or strolling round the gallery chatting to visitors. There's a real excitement about art, and Nike is only too happy to answer questions or invite you to many of the other programmes they have running throughout the year. She's generous too and has been known to surprise unsuspecting visitors with a plate of steaming hot jollof rice! Case in point, after our visit, she packed us off with a complimentary beaded key ring each, and lots of encouragement.

You can check them out further here: http://www.nikeart.com/

The 3 Baritones

I am a little late in posting this, sorry. On Sunday, I was railroaded by the Grandmothership into a trip to Muson. Although I say railroaded, I do love a bit of culture on a Sunday afternoon, especially on a Sunday like the last one where I'd spent the better part of three hours, stuffing myself silly at the Southern Sun; and was in desperate need of something to distract me from how full I was!

The 3 Baritones, Obinna Ifediora, Olumide Dada and John-Paul Ochei apparently met at a house party given by The Godfather of Lagos, Tinubu, in 2006, where they had each been invited to perform. They have been performing together since.

The concert was well curated, and gave us a chance to experience both their individual and collective sound. Ifediora, whose voice I recognised instantly from his part as the Pirate King in 'The Pirates of Penzance' which showed at Muson a couple of weeks ago, has a distinctive flair. His voice is rounded and rich, and deep but with a featherlight tenor touch that makes his singing sound effortless. His rendition of Mozart's Non Piu Andrai from The Marriage of Figaro was true to the original form but benefitted from his own interpretation too, and you can see from his expressiveness that he is in possession of a special kind of emotional intelligence. I reckon he'd make a great actor too!

Listening to Olumide Dada's versions of 'Pieta Signor' by Stradella and 'Alright, Okay, You Win' were like listening to a CD. His voice is the easy drinking red wine of the lot, and yet, technically, the truest baritone. The tension between those features creates this velvety and sonorous sound that puts you at ease enough for you to stop actively listening. You kind of come to once he's stopped singing with the feeling of having had some good thoughts but not being really alert enough to articulate them. That's a compliment! He's good, and definitely one to watch. 

John-Paul Ochei, I also recognised from his role as the head policeman in 'The Pirates of Penzance'. Those of you who saw the show will remember him as the police man with the hilarious wobbly-headed walk. He brings a wicked comic streak to his performances and his delivery of Largo Factorum by Gioacchino Rossini was no different. I especially enjoyed this performance because my relationship with this piece goes way back to my childhood. Do you know, that the piece features in a major way in the Tom & Jerry Cartoon series? I remember Tom singing it all the time and to this end, I practically know all the words. Myself and the Sistership had an awesome time singing along, despite the quizzical looks from people sitting around us. I guess the message is: cartoons aren't all bad and they may actually reinforce your kids interest in classical music. I did think on his piece from Roger and Hammerstein's South Pacific that he needs a little bit more coaching on projection, and range but all in all a good performance and his enthusiasm on stage is infectious.

Together, the 3 Baritones have an endearing sound and they have managed to find a good harmony with a mixture of pieces in Yoruba and English, ranging from Ayo Bankole to John Lennon and Paul McCartney. I like the fact that they are very simply accompanied, by just a piano, the double bass, some drums and a sax. It makes for a well rounded but uncluttered sound. 

The Man with Weak Ankles

Sometimes, it feels like the written word acquires life all on its own and finds a way to come true. Last week, at an event, I was so rubbed up the wrong way by one of the performers that I bashed out a quick piece on my phone on how he irked me. Tonight, prior to the commencement of the same event, his awfulness came up in conversation and I was forced to admit to some friends that his unsavoury self had given me an enraged flash of inspiration to count the many ways in which I do not love him. The event itself is great and I wish they wouldn't let him sully it. My friends, on reading my "rage review" piece called me mean, and made various feline noises because they thought I was being catty and vindictive. They hadn't picked up on some of his less choice characteristics. Needless to say, after his repeat performance tonight, they were up and cheering, falling about in stitches. Not because his set was any good but because, with his very own mouth, he totally implicated himself and it turned out that I was RIGHT rather than mean about him.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, my flash in the pan "rage review" of a performer I have Christened, "The Man With Weak Ankles"...


The male form can be let down by the jointing of its ankles. The male form is not properly resolved unless he has good legs and good feet. The specimen who have weak ankles, with feet not squarely placed on the ground but tilting slightly outward, seemingly splayed and cursed un-parallel by awkward knees is a sign - no, a certain indication - of duplicity, misogyny, and vainglorious falibility. They are the type of men whose feet are indeed flippers, designed for treading quick sand and bearing them stealthily to all manner of destinations, except those to which they profess they have been.

Such was he, the ugly oaf like rapper who mounted the stage this Thursday evening, proselytising about a pimply 6'4" woman who was a pretty little bitch on the outside but ugly inside, how he used to be pretty inside and now, thanks to her he was now ugly inside. It was not necessary to forgive him his apparel, to give him the benefit of the doubt and ignore his badly drawn American dreams; I understood then that my diagnosis of his inferior mental state based on his roughshod skeletal infrastructure was spot on. The blame-dispensing, under-achieving, and lascivious fool.

His dishonesty is all too obvious to me, if not to everyone else. His claim to musical prowess lies in his pre-fabricated rapper persona; and yet his most damning revelation is nestled in his inadvertent admission that he gets used and abused by questionable, gargantuan women who have no beauty or skin care regimen to speak of. I wager that he also gets dismissed by the gorgeous, tall, leggy ladies, who don't acknowledge his being alive because he is so far removed from even the most elemntary levels of human accomplishment.

The disdain tonic he has brewed on account of said women (neither of whom want him) he now sweats out with malarial intensity, strained and rebottled with extra spices for an unsuspecting audience whom he tricked into believing they'd be getting some genuine creativity and music.

My message to the man with weak ankles is this: 'Oh ye with your cap back to front at your age, poor you, shame, you are inconsequential and lame.'