By Chike Amene
“We’re the flowers in the dustbin
We’re the poison in your human machine
We’re the future for you.”
– Sex Pistols (Sex on 45)
One of the mysteries behind the glorious works of Mr. Chidi Tony Akudinobi is his originality (in this age of imitating not really copying the mental reflection of others.) This makes Tony a creator, an inventor of thoughts modeled in oil and charcoal with the clicks and chicks of chisel singing somewhere on wood just to rebreed out minds in order to influence our thoughts.
But where is Tony going? Where do enigmas go? Where is an enigma like Mr. Tony Chidi Akudinobi going? Without being immodest, where do gods go? I am afraid that Tony is not going any place because he has to occupy a space, places are too cramped for him …..he must make and create his own space because if he decides to go to a place apart from the space he made himself, he will not only be a Lilliput traversing places in already crumpled spaces of giants where he will be accorded a Lilliputian or the equals of a dwarf’s ranting rhapsodies that no one really listens to. Where is such a talent going? Cynics or misogynists who may doubt this because they question motives may say forward, but skeptics like me who doubts reports of what I hear or read from cynics still believe that Mr. Tony Chidi Akudinobi as a gifted rabble-rouser, a demagogue that makes statements with colors and chisels to posit conundrums unexplained, must take or rather make a stance. He must be like the biblical Jacob that battled a spirit of God and forced him to bless him. Tony must come out and not only show the world a certain streak of definition that the world lost or never knew or even understand about the post-colonial African enigmas. He must make his own moves in order to be on the sacred altars of fellow minds, he must make spaces deep inside the temples of their thoughts or be asphyxiated by his own breath due to him busking on his own cocoon.
Ironically, Tony’s mind is closed and locked. He is not polluted by the exegesis of todays definitions critically elucidated from the “classics” of the monumental Eurocentrism, appalled by the myriad mysteries of the Japanese ink and charcoal under the blessings of some voiced hiakus and incense somewhere, and closely marked by the post modernist definitions of the American chalks, oil on canvas and the electronic chisels all complaining and complementing against or about each other, while the true artist dies in a crumpled mat inside a doomed space,letting his spirit dissolve while watching his tears as it washes away his talents.
Mr. Tony Chidi Akudinobi must be a troubadour that must traverse to cast his spells on closed spaces of the African mind, he must be our voice in such sacredness or he will be our own anti-Christ, an anarchist and a poison in us if he fails to answer such call. He may not know what he wants, but must know where to get it, a classic mind of an African in mental torture. Tony must explode or become a toxin within us. He is our future and if he fails….he will be our sin!
Chike Amene wrote from Atlanta, GA