I have been to the Ghana High Commission in London approximately two times.
On the first occasion, I happened on an invitation the High Commission had extended to my father for an evening with President John Mahama. As he was away at the time, I considered it my patriotic duty to go in his place, and promptly went off to find a suitable attire in my wardrobe. Incidentally, never having been there before, and most definitely lost and running late, I found the High Commission through protesters gathered across the street from the building, self-consciously chanting, ''Mahama is a thief! Mahama is a thief!'' into waiting cameras. It was the first time I saw the president in the flesh, as well as other prominent members of government including Hanna Tetteh, Harruna Iddrisu, PV Obeng and Nana Oye Lithur. It was June, the height of the election petition challenging the validity of Mr Mahama's election as president of Ghana, and so it seemed to me that the speeches that evening were full of irreverent quips regarding this, and re-hashing of party slogans and rhetoric like we were at a miniature rally. It wasn't without laughs, let me tell you, and the entire evening was pleasant enough.
The second occasion was today when I went to renew my Ghanaian passport. After being processed through the reception and ticket counter, I was making my way to a seat in the waiting area when I heard someone call my name. I thought, no way! Who knows me around these parts, and why the flippity floppin' heck is there no such thing as anonymity in a Ghana-centric place?! I was laughing to myself before I turned the smile in the general direction the sound of my name had come from. And as I spotted the familiar face, I felt my skin infused with genuine warmth.
It was Trevor, a darling old English gentleman who'd adopted Ghana as his second home long before he found even more reason to keep going back: a Ghanaian wife and young children in Accra who won't let him enjoy a slow life in his retirement. The first time we met, we discovered our Accra homes were minutes apart (Mataheko to my Kaneshie), and that he'd left Ghana and crucially forgotten to bring his supply of Tetrapleura tetraptera - that's prekese to the uninitiated, something I had quite a bit of in my food basket at home. My nkwan is not complete without some 'preks'. I am my grandmother's granddaughter after all.
We were chitchatting when my ticket number was called. I made my way to the counter.
''I like your earrings,'' the gentleman behind the counter said by way of greeting.
I fingered the beaded hoop earrings and smiled my thanks.
''You like travelling paa, eh?'' He said, flicking through my passport and noting the USA and Schengen Visa stamps.
''Er...yes,''
''Do you speak Ga?'' He asked in Ga.
I wasn't even going to outdoor my paltry Ga here, but an answer in the negative I could manage. So I said, ''Daabi.''
He gave me a look. ''You should be able to speak Ga.''
I rolled my eyes. ''I speak Twi.''
He cocked his eyebrow. ''I don't speak Twi.''
I cocked mine. ''I don't speak Ga.''
He smiled. ''So we'll have a problem understanding each other then, won't we?''
I flashed him my own saccharine smile. ''I don't think so at all. I understood everything you just said. Let's stick to English, shall we?''
He threw his head back and laughed. I think...I think he thought his flirtation skills were up there with the slick professionals. I was bemused - and more than a little concerned this back and forth would make me miss the plumber and surveyor due at mine in half an hour to see a problem with my kitchen pipes.
Eventually, he stamped my form and told me a date to pick up my new passport. I did a bit of haggling. It had nothing to do with price, and everything to do with surely that's a long time to take to process a simple renewal. Mr Speak-Ga said he'd do his best for me. He disappeared for a few minutes and came back with a new, nearer date. I held my tongue and fought the urge to ask why he hadn't offered me that date in the first place.
He gave me a smile like he knew exactly what I was thinking. Ha.
I shrugged my coat on, bade goodbye to Trevor and let myself back through the reception en route to the exit. On my way in, it had just been the receptionist. Now it was lively with chat and bonhomie, whilst three grey haired men with ample pot bellies sat laughing on the chairs. As I walked through, I made eye contact with each and said good morning.
The last one said, ''Oh, you are a good girl!''
I smiled inwardly. Because whether you are in Ghana or not, there's also no such thing as walking past your elders without acknowledging them with some form of greeting.
Thursday, 21 November 2013
Tuesday, 12 November 2013
Book Review: ''Circles'' for #GhanaLit Week
November 11-17, 2013 is Ghanaian Literature Week (#GhanaLit), a celebration of the literary scene in and connected to Ghana. Go on, familiarize yourself with the rules of engagement, and get involved! Below, a review of my first read, Boakyewaa Glover's 'Circles.'
The cyclical roller coaster that is Rabbie Daniels' life is at the centre of Boakyewaa Glover's debut novel, Circles. On the cusp of thirty, and caught up in a situation not unlike the vicious cycle she's experienced since first discovering the tricky thing called love, Rabbie takes stock of the events that have brought her to a pivotal point. And thus we meet her, this successful writer on CNN's International Desk who, it seems, cannot pen a drama-free existence for herself when it comes to her relationships. In order to understand her present fruitless search for love and validation, we must know her past. This is really where Circles begins, an elaborate, kaleidoscopic journey back to that first flush of love and the road since.
Glover takes us on something of an eventful blitz through Rabbie's little black book of boyfriends past. There is Selorm, the significant first with whom she first locks lips during a game of Truth or Dare. (I chuckled at how this 'risky' game has long been an undeniable accessory to many a teenage sexual discovery.) That first game of tonsil tennis seems to be the start of an unofficial coupling for Selorm and Rabbie, who revel in being together, talking, laughing and kissing the life out of each other. It all comes crashing down one night when, without precedent, she enjoys a very public kiss with another guy, Jon, in the full view of Selorm. This event marks the start of a troubling pattern that makes serial cheating par for the course in her latter relationships. Along the way there are other guys, including Junior, Edem, Tei, Kwame, Osei, Asare and Ato, this last the recurring sex buddy and best friend for whom she has a complex bag of feelings. Osei, too, is the besotted long suffering boyfriend who forgives her cheating ways time and again with no sign of change from Rabbie.
As we delve into the story, Circles conveys the circular wheels of a never ending ride that makes the novel so aptly named, because, boy, does that girl go round in circles. She is strong and opinionated, a young woman who doesn't suffer fools gladly, except perhaps when it comes to Ato, the lover who tramples all over her unsuspecting heart with his philandering ways in a manner that cuts deeply. And still she hooks up with him. You wonder how Rabbie, who, though she seems to have a level head screwed on, allows herself to be disrespected thus despite her unequivocal views on similar situations with her girl friends. And even though it's just as easy to dismiss these events as comeuppance for her lifetime of cheating on boyfriends, it doesn't dim the pity some. Because in what is art imitating life, there's always that one person, isn't there? (Thanks, Usher !)
She is likable and full of fizz, her caustic descriptions injecting humour into a story that nearly topples over with the presence of too many characters in a mostly simple plot. The chapter on her boarding school life in Wesley Girls' High School, for example, is a dizzying swirl of names, cliques and crisscrossing friendships. There hovered, however, a tinge of nostalgia for WGHS, incidentally my alma mater, so I definitely read that with a half smile.
Circles is no pressure cooker, coasting more on the simmering heat of a slow cooker. At its epicentre is the idea that we are each the choices we make, and the consequences thereof. And then, just as a kick up the bum, it throws into the ring the question '...so what the heck are you doing about yours?'
Boakyewaa Glover has chalked further success since this novel was published in 2009, and though I was not swept away by Circles, I certainly look forward to checking out her newer works.
The cyclical roller coaster that is Rabbie Daniels' life is at the centre of Boakyewaa Glover's debut novel, Circles. On the cusp of thirty, and caught up in a situation not unlike the vicious cycle she's experienced since first discovering the tricky thing called love, Rabbie takes stock of the events that have brought her to a pivotal point. And thus we meet her, this successful writer on CNN's International Desk who, it seems, cannot pen a drama-free existence for herself when it comes to her relationships. In order to understand her present fruitless search for love and validation, we must know her past. This is really where Circles begins, an elaborate, kaleidoscopic journey back to that first flush of love and the road since.
Glover takes us on something of an eventful blitz through Rabbie's little black book of boyfriends past. There is Selorm, the significant first with whom she first locks lips during a game of Truth or Dare. (I chuckled at how this 'risky' game has long been an undeniable accessory to many a teenage sexual discovery.) That first game of tonsil tennis seems to be the start of an unofficial coupling for Selorm and Rabbie, who revel in being together, talking, laughing and kissing the life out of each other. It all comes crashing down one night when, without precedent, she enjoys a very public kiss with another guy, Jon, in the full view of Selorm. This event marks the start of a troubling pattern that makes serial cheating par for the course in her latter relationships. Along the way there are other guys, including Junior, Edem, Tei, Kwame, Osei, Asare and Ato, this last the recurring sex buddy and best friend for whom she has a complex bag of feelings. Osei, too, is the besotted long suffering boyfriend who forgives her cheating ways time and again with no sign of change from Rabbie.
As we delve into the story, Circles conveys the circular wheels of a never ending ride that makes the novel so aptly named, because, boy, does that girl go round in circles. She is strong and opinionated, a young woman who doesn't suffer fools gladly, except perhaps when it comes to Ato, the lover who tramples all over her unsuspecting heart with his philandering ways in a manner that cuts deeply. And still she hooks up with him. You wonder how Rabbie, who, though she seems to have a level head screwed on, allows herself to be disrespected thus despite her unequivocal views on similar situations with her girl friends. And even though it's just as easy to dismiss these events as comeuppance for her lifetime of cheating on boyfriends, it doesn't dim the pity some. Because in what is art imitating life, there's always that one person, isn't there? (Thanks, Usher !)
She is likable and full of fizz, her caustic descriptions injecting humour into a story that nearly topples over with the presence of too many characters in a mostly simple plot. The chapter on her boarding school life in Wesley Girls' High School, for example, is a dizzying swirl of names, cliques and crisscrossing friendships. There hovered, however, a tinge of nostalgia for WGHS, incidentally my alma mater, so I definitely read that with a half smile.
Circles is no pressure cooker, coasting more on the simmering heat of a slow cooker. At its epicentre is the idea that we are each the choices we make, and the consequences thereof. And then, just as a kick up the bum, it throws into the ring the question '...so what the heck are you doing about yours?'
Boakyewaa Glover has chalked further success since this novel was published in 2009, and though I was not swept away by Circles, I certainly look forward to checking out her newer works.
Friday, 8 November 2013
Things I've Noticed Since Going Natural
Having natural hair, I tweeted recently, is a bit like being pregnant. People touch it without your permission and offer unsolicited advice.
A few days ago, I was a little distressed to realize the biggest Afro comb sold by Pak Cosmetics was already in my bathroom, and that I'd wasted my time browsing through the shop looking for the next size up. Distressed, because I'm now in possession of an Afro, which, while still a teeny weeny halo, likes to declare a tug of war every time I try to comb it. While still in the shop, I paused by a row of leave-in conditioners and was startled to feel a hand experimentally rubbing the back of my head.
''Your hair looks so healthy,'' cooed an older woman with a Caribbean accent while her friend chuckled approvingly next to her. ''Do you use olive oil?''
I jerked my head out of her grasp.
''No,'' I said shortly.
''You should!'' The woman nodded knowingly and walked away before I could respond.
I have been here before, I thought, these nameless interactions when someone tugs on my hair for one reason or other. It is irksome because it is one of those things I don't know about until it's actually happened and my hair sticks out in odd ridges. I am baffled how since cutting my hair, others haven't hesitated in passing judgement on it as though I'd personally walked up to them and requested it. Who'd have thought that my hair would trigger conversations that have amused, engaged and annoyed me in different ways. Here are a few:
- Some people erroneously think that the new state of my roots means I want to join in a collective weave-bashing rant. They go from complimenting my hair to a one-sided diatribe against women who use extensions in one or other. Jaysus, I get it! Now you may go rant elsewhere. Because here's the kicker: I really don't care what other women do to their hair. It is their business just as my tresses are mine.
- Interestingly, a few men have linked my hair to a romance gone sour. ''Who broke your heart to make you do this?''
Now I'm generally familiar with the concept happening to others, but, personally it is so alien to me that any time it comes up, I laugh with genuine mirth. I am amused that these men would think there is a correlation between my hair and my relationships. My heart has also never been broken, but thanks for the concern.
- There has also been the sub-section that subscribes to ''Is this some kind of black empowerment political statement sort of thing?''
Oh boy, that old hot potato.
I laughed at this via email to my friend who also has natural hair, and her response summed my feelings perfectly: ''Nobody goes natural for the movement. It's always convenience first, and then movement or not, it doesn't matter. Important thing is that your mind is liberated and you make the hair choices you want, not choices dictated by any movement be it straight hair, natural, weave, whatever. Hair and physical appearance must never be an albatross. Be whoever you want to be, not what others say you should. As evidenced here, even at your baldest, you are beautiful!'' Dear Debbie, how I love her to bits!
- I'm being described more and more as a ''strong black woman.'' Well, hide the razors and call me Samson after our man in the biblical book of Judges! Pre-natural hair, I already knew I was black and strong, but I was never described thus. In fact, I don't remember a time when I was not black or strong, the people who raised me having nurtured the latter from a very early age. But APPARENTLY, my Afro puff shows I'm made of steel and the sterner stuff of life.
I jest. Yes, this compliment - and I use the word recklessly - is somewhat in connection with short hair denoting confidence (read strength); yes, it is an acknowledgement that letting one's hair grow in its natural state is a form of acceptance of self, and I can see the strong woman tag in this regard. But for the love of all that is natural, how do you explain a statement such as, ''You look like a strong black woman...but I still wanna dance with you,'' as I had at a club recently? No sir, I will not dance with you, mostly because I need to pee right now - and that line of yours only ignited boredom in my cerebrum.
I haven't a particular emotional trigger that brought on the decision to go natural, and, considering my penchant for melodrama, I'm almost disappointed. In fact, at the time, in that original email revealing the new look to my two best friends, I wrote: I took out my long rasta (at last!) and I balked at the idea of combing through all that undergrowth. Ebei. I went to the barber instead. So there, the political activists have it. I went natural out of laziness.
I like that there is beauty in opinion. We all have them. Why, I'm sitting here right now writing mine on my blog, so clearly I'm already smug in the knowledge that the whole world is entitled to my opinion, ha. The point, you see, is that whatever your views, freedom is the ability to choose.
I am loving my hair as it is right now, however, if next month I choose to go back to Claudine, my hairdresser, for a relaxer or whatever, it will be simply that - a matter of choice.
A few days ago, I was a little distressed to realize the biggest Afro comb sold by Pak Cosmetics was already in my bathroom, and that I'd wasted my time browsing through the shop looking for the next size up. Distressed, because I'm now in possession of an Afro, which, while still a teeny weeny halo, likes to declare a tug of war every time I try to comb it. While still in the shop, I paused by a row of leave-in conditioners and was startled to feel a hand experimentally rubbing the back of my head.
''Your hair looks so healthy,'' cooed an older woman with a Caribbean accent while her friend chuckled approvingly next to her. ''Do you use olive oil?''
I jerked my head out of her grasp.
''No,'' I said shortly.
''You should!'' The woman nodded knowingly and walked away before I could respond.
I have been here before, I thought, these nameless interactions when someone tugs on my hair for one reason or other. It is irksome because it is one of those things I don't know about until it's actually happened and my hair sticks out in odd ridges. I am baffled how since cutting my hair, others haven't hesitated in passing judgement on it as though I'd personally walked up to them and requested it. Who'd have thought that my hair would trigger conversations that have amused, engaged and annoyed me in different ways. Here are a few:
- Some people erroneously think that the new state of my roots means I want to join in a collective weave-bashing rant. They go from complimenting my hair to a one-sided diatribe against women who use extensions in one or other. Jaysus, I get it! Now you may go rant elsewhere. Because here's the kicker: I really don't care what other women do to their hair. It is their business just as my tresses are mine.
- Interestingly, a few men have linked my hair to a romance gone sour. ''Who broke your heart to make you do this?''
Now I'm generally familiar with the concept happening to others, but, personally it is so alien to me that any time it comes up, I laugh with genuine mirth. I am amused that these men would think there is a correlation between my hair and my relationships. My heart has also never been broken, but thanks for the concern.
- There has also been the sub-section that subscribes to ''Is this some kind of black empowerment political statement sort of thing?''
Oh boy, that old hot potato.
I laughed at this via email to my friend who also has natural hair, and her response summed my feelings perfectly: ''Nobody goes natural for the movement. It's always convenience first, and then movement or not, it doesn't matter. Important thing is that your mind is liberated and you make the hair choices you want, not choices dictated by any movement be it straight hair, natural, weave, whatever. Hair and physical appearance must never be an albatross. Be whoever you want to be, not what others say you should. As evidenced here, even at your baldest, you are beautiful!'' Dear Debbie, how I love her to bits!
- I'm being described more and more as a ''strong black woman.'' Well, hide the razors and call me Samson after our man in the biblical book of Judges! Pre-natural hair, I already knew I was black and strong, but I was never described thus. In fact, I don't remember a time when I was not black or strong, the people who raised me having nurtured the latter from a very early age. But APPARENTLY, my Afro puff shows I'm made of steel and the sterner stuff of life.
I jest. Yes, this compliment - and I use the word recklessly - is somewhat in connection with short hair denoting confidence (read strength); yes, it is an acknowledgement that letting one's hair grow in its natural state is a form of acceptance of self, and I can see the strong woman tag in this regard. But for the love of all that is natural, how do you explain a statement such as, ''You look like a strong black woman...but I still wanna dance with you,'' as I had at a club recently? No sir, I will not dance with you, mostly because I need to pee right now - and that line of yours only ignited boredom in my cerebrum.
I like that there is beauty in opinion. We all have them. Why, I'm sitting here right now writing mine on my blog, so clearly I'm already smug in the knowledge that the whole world is entitled to my opinion, ha. The point, you see, is that whatever your views, freedom is the ability to choose.
I am loving my hair as it is right now, however, if next month I choose to go back to Claudine, my hairdresser, for a relaxer or whatever, it will be simply that - a matter of choice.
Monday, 16 September 2013
Book Review: We Need New Names
In a shantytown called Paradise resides a ten year old girl, Darling, from whom we get the story of We Need New Names, NoViolet Bulawayo's debut novel. There is aching loss and poverty and hope that balances precariously over an abyss of despair, yet Darling, together with her ragtag friends - Bastard, Sbho, Stina, Godknows and Chipo - embark on thrilling experiences that make everything piercingly alive from the inside of their adventurous hearts.
Very quickly, you learn that Paradise is far from the serenity and bliss the name suggests. The reality is that its inhabitants live in tin shacks; a microcosm of unemployment, hunger, political violence and the elusive search for change that splits families up as fathers depart to neighbouring countries to find work. It is not so long ago when they lived in real houses, when the kids went to school and learned to read English, when the fathers didn't spend all their time under the jacaranda playing draughts or the women just talking and doing each other's hair. When her father returns from an unsuccessful sojourn and is suffering from AIDS, Darling is unforgiving and resentful of the bony man rotting away in her mother's bed. Still, for their posse, life is fun and there are more pressing needs to see to. Like stealing guavas from the plush homes in Budapest to line stomachs gone hungry from not having any breakfast that day, even if it means they will feel like their anuses are being ripped apart with constipation later when they squat under the trees to defecate. The memories of their real homes being bulldozed by the police, forcing them to move into the tin shacks, is a different kind of horror to the realization that eleven year old Chipo is pregnant with her grandfather's child.
He did that, my grandfather. I was coming back from playing Find bin Laden and my grandmother was not there, and he got on me and pinned me down like that, and he clamped a hand over my mouth and was heavy like a mountain.
Chipo, hitherto to this moment, had long ago stopped talking as her stomach began to show, though she is not mute-mute. As the words burst from her, she is met with a helpless, almost desperate do you want to go and steal guavas, from Darling, who, despite grasping the terror of what's happened to her friend, could only hurtle with childlike speed toward the safety of an activity they enjoy. She is but a child herself, after all.
Days are spent thus; petty thefts, playing games, remembering the time before, and wondering how to get rid of Chipo's stomach once and for all, the last being the activity that gives the novel its eponymous title. They dream of escape to the real paradise of the USA, Canada and Europe - or failing that, South Africa, maybe even Botswana.
To play the country-game, we have to choose a country. Everybody wants to be the USA and Britain and Canada and Australia and Switzerland and them. Nobody wants to be rags of countries like Congo, like Somalia, like Iraq, like Haiti, and not even this one we live in - who wants to be a terrible place of hunger and things falling apart?
For Darling, this dream becomes a reality when her long bragged about Aunty Fostalina in Destroyedmichygen (Detroit, Michigan) comes for her and a new life in America begins.
Bulawayo displays finesse in capturing the effervescence in Darling's narration, often rhythmic and funny in its bluntness, as well as her mischievous mind. She pinches a baby her neighbour dumps on her laps at church without her permission because he is an ugly baby; his face looks shocked, like he has just seen the buttocks of a snake. The child obediently howls and the mother comes rushing back to collect him, fearing reproach from the other churchgoers. Job done.
America is big and the food plentiful. The men under the jacaranda are no longer there, nor the vendors gustily selling their wares, and definitely no gang calling her to go to Budapest. It is just the greedy snow covering everything with a whiteness that stretches as far as the eyes can see. This is America, yo, you won't see none of that African shit up in this motherfucker, her cousin TK informs her.
There is a delicate shift in Darling's tone by the second half of the story. A budding teenager, her views are less playfully expressed and more cynical, yet sharp as ever, as she observes life in America: white liberals breezily lumping all of Africa and its problems into one big country like it isn't a continent of over fifty nations, the conduct of an African marriage outside the confines of Africa, the ease of access to pornography online, the obsession with weight against the ever widening crisis of obesity in the West.
In America, the fatness is not the fatness I was used to at home. Over there, the fatness was of bigness, just ordinary fatness you could understand because it meant the person ate well, fatness you could even envy...
But this American fatness takes it to a whole 'nother level: the body is turned into something else - the neck becomes a thigh, the stomach becomes an anthill, an arm a thing, a buttock a I don't even know what.
The first part of the novel checklists raging issues in our continent such as the plight of street children, AIDS pandemic, political violence, hypocritical preachers as represented in Prophet Bitchington Mborro, child rape and over-dependence on foreign aid (etc..)...
They don't care that we are embarrassed by our dirt and torn clothing, that we would prefer they didn't do it; they just take the pictures anyway, take and take. We don't complain because we know that after the picture taking come the giving of gifts.
...so that without the light, sometimes caustic voice of Darling floating over all this as a narrator, We Need New Names would have been a hugely depressing read that fans the idea that Africa is the world's charity case and is to be pitied.
In America, the story takes a predictable turn - in the heroine's disenchantment with the place she thought would be her Nirvana; being faceless in the system as an illegal immigrant doing mind numbingly boring jobs; the decline in the hope of ever going 'back home' without correct paperwork for re-entry into America; the weird mixture of estrangement and longing for the childhood friends who now think her a traitor for abandoning her burning house rather than dousing it with water, and finally, the restlessness and resignation that come with accepting that she'd rather be 'stuck' in that situation than go back home to nothing; an even bigger failure.
Props to the author for laying down these issues, though, perhaps childishly, a part of me wishes everything could have been neatly tied to set Darling up for her happy-ever-after. In this regard, the novel bordered on anti-climatic for me. But of course, as we all know, happy endings only happen in utopia.
We Need New Names unsettles and moves - and makes you more than a little sad. A good read, nonetheless.
Very quickly, you learn that Paradise is far from the serenity and bliss the name suggests. The reality is that its inhabitants live in tin shacks; a microcosm of unemployment, hunger, political violence and the elusive search for change that splits families up as fathers depart to neighbouring countries to find work. It is not so long ago when they lived in real houses, when the kids went to school and learned to read English, when the fathers didn't spend all their time under the jacaranda playing draughts or the women just talking and doing each other's hair. When her father returns from an unsuccessful sojourn and is suffering from AIDS, Darling is unforgiving and resentful of the bony man rotting away in her mother's bed. Still, for their posse, life is fun and there are more pressing needs to see to. Like stealing guavas from the plush homes in Budapest to line stomachs gone hungry from not having any breakfast that day, even if it means they will feel like their anuses are being ripped apart with constipation later when they squat under the trees to defecate. The memories of their real homes being bulldozed by the police, forcing them to move into the tin shacks, is a different kind of horror to the realization that eleven year old Chipo is pregnant with her grandfather's child.
He did that, my grandfather. I was coming back from playing Find bin Laden and my grandmother was not there, and he got on me and pinned me down like that, and he clamped a hand over my mouth and was heavy like a mountain.
Chipo, hitherto to this moment, had long ago stopped talking as her stomach began to show, though she is not mute-mute. As the words burst from her, she is met with a helpless, almost desperate do you want to go and steal guavas, from Darling, who, despite grasping the terror of what's happened to her friend, could only hurtle with childlike speed toward the safety of an activity they enjoy. She is but a child herself, after all.
Days are spent thus; petty thefts, playing games, remembering the time before, and wondering how to get rid of Chipo's stomach once and for all, the last being the activity that gives the novel its eponymous title. They dream of escape to the real paradise of the USA, Canada and Europe - or failing that, South Africa, maybe even Botswana.
To play the country-game, we have to choose a country. Everybody wants to be the USA and Britain and Canada and Australia and Switzerland and them. Nobody wants to be rags of countries like Congo, like Somalia, like Iraq, like Haiti, and not even this one we live in - who wants to be a terrible place of hunger and things falling apart?
For Darling, this dream becomes a reality when her long bragged about Aunty Fostalina in Destroyedmichygen (Detroit, Michigan) comes for her and a new life in America begins.
Bulawayo displays finesse in capturing the effervescence in Darling's narration, often rhythmic and funny in its bluntness, as well as her mischievous mind. She pinches a baby her neighbour dumps on her laps at church without her permission because he is an ugly baby; his face looks shocked, like he has just seen the buttocks of a snake. The child obediently howls and the mother comes rushing back to collect him, fearing reproach from the other churchgoers. Job done.
America is big and the food plentiful. The men under the jacaranda are no longer there, nor the vendors gustily selling their wares, and definitely no gang calling her to go to Budapest. It is just the greedy snow covering everything with a whiteness that stretches as far as the eyes can see. This is America, yo, you won't see none of that African shit up in this motherfucker, her cousin TK informs her.
There is a delicate shift in Darling's tone by the second half of the story. A budding teenager, her views are less playfully expressed and more cynical, yet sharp as ever, as she observes life in America: white liberals breezily lumping all of Africa and its problems into one big country like it isn't a continent of over fifty nations, the conduct of an African marriage outside the confines of Africa, the ease of access to pornography online, the obsession with weight against the ever widening crisis of obesity in the West.
In America, the fatness is not the fatness I was used to at home. Over there, the fatness was of bigness, just ordinary fatness you could understand because it meant the person ate well, fatness you could even envy...
But this American fatness takes it to a whole 'nother level: the body is turned into something else - the neck becomes a thigh, the stomach becomes an anthill, an arm a thing, a buttock a I don't even know what.
The first part of the novel checklists raging issues in our continent such as the plight of street children, AIDS pandemic, political violence, hypocritical preachers as represented in Prophet Bitchington Mborro, child rape and over-dependence on foreign aid (etc..)...
They don't care that we are embarrassed by our dirt and torn clothing, that we would prefer they didn't do it; they just take the pictures anyway, take and take. We don't complain because we know that after the picture taking come the giving of gifts.
...so that without the light, sometimes caustic voice of Darling floating over all this as a narrator, We Need New Names would have been a hugely depressing read that fans the idea that Africa is the world's charity case and is to be pitied.
In America, the story takes a predictable turn - in the heroine's disenchantment with the place she thought would be her Nirvana; being faceless in the system as an illegal immigrant doing mind numbingly boring jobs; the decline in the hope of ever going 'back home' without correct paperwork for re-entry into America; the weird mixture of estrangement and longing for the childhood friends who now think her a traitor for abandoning her burning house rather than dousing it with water, and finally, the restlessness and resignation that come with accepting that she'd rather be 'stuck' in that situation than go back home to nothing; an even bigger failure.
Props to the author for laying down these issues, though, perhaps childishly, a part of me wishes everything could have been neatly tied to set Darling up for her happy-ever-after. In this regard, the novel bordered on anti-climatic for me. But of course, as we all know, happy endings only happen in utopia.
We Need New Names unsettles and moves - and makes you more than a little sad. A good read, nonetheless.
Monday, 27 May 2013
Book Review: Americanah
I would attempt an answer to the classic 'what is it about?' in summing up Chimamanda Ngozie Adichie's Americanah, but I remember in a flash how much the very question irks Ifemelu, and a sheepish smile lodges itself on my face.
This novel, her newest since the exquisitely written Half of a Yellow Sun, is the story of Ifemelu and Obinze, high school sweethearts finding ecstatic joy in their bond of love until strikes and frustrations in the Nigerian system separates them, each to a life overseas that is winding and revelatory. By the time we meet her in the story, Ifemelu has already 'made it' in America: a fellow at Princeton and well-paid sharp-tongued blogger looking at race and identity in America from the perspective of a non-American black; a romantic and cerebral relationship with her black American Yale professor boyfriend, Blaine, whose elite group of friends incite variously interesting views on being black in America; and Ifemelu herself, an intelligent, self-aware heroine who is often funny in her blunt, unapologetic views which she feels the world is entitled to, however unsolicited. Her blog, Raceteenth or Various Observations About American Blacks (Those Formerly Known as Negroes) by a Non-American Black,provides the novel's most insightful discussions on race and ethnicity in America.
Obinze, for his part, has become a big deal in today's Nigeria, locked in a marriage that isn't unpleasant, but one which gives the impression of a dying ember someone else valiantly keeps fanning, while his mind thrums with boredom. He, too, has a story from his short-lived experience in the UK, a life that is mired in menial jobs and spurts of the fear and panic that accompanies an illegal immigrant, until his eventual arrest and deportation.
They will reunite years later in a new Nigeria, the home that has become the strange familiar, and reignite lost passion in a time that will test and re-test their morals and commitment.
Though at its base the story of star-crossed lovers, Americanah is an exploration of race, identity and belonging in contemporary cultures, both foreign and indigenous, and the often mindless ignorance and widespread generalizations we make of other races outside of our own. It is in turns derisive (snow falling during a children's Christmas play in Nigeria. Really?) and educative, a novel with fluid movements between the complex and the simple, unafraid to laugh at and examine its characters through their flaws and foibles with a searing honesty that makes them believable.
There is a seamless movement between time and space that allows the story to unfold without throwing the reader into a haze of geographical confusion. In this, Adichie paints a vivid picture of Ifemelu and Obinze and the disorientating alienation and struggles of the immigrant hustle. Ifemelu, after countless job interviews and zero offers, is pushed into a sordid sexual act with a stranger, and Obinze into an underworld of toilet cleaning, counterfeit documents and a frenzied almost marriage for 'papers' which catastrophically backfires.
Less harrowing, but no less a pertinent topic, is the subject of the African woman and her hair. In fact, this is a concurrent theme throughout the novel. Ifemelu's angle of the story is mostly told in flashback sequences while she has her hair braided at a salon in Trenton. The Malian and Senegalese women who work in the salon, can feel no kinship with this their fellow African who is way above them with her education and her airs, and yet, over the course of the time she is there, Ifemelu comes close to a shared bond with Mariama who excitedly tells her she is dating an Igbo man.
Adichie observes with a comedic eye the proliferation of weaves and various synthetic styles African women subject their hair to, in a bid to cover up their naturally kinky look. Indeed, the description of the thumping smacks of hitting one's itchy scalp through a weave will resonate with many women, as will the more recent trend towards 'going natural' that many of us have embraced. There is enough fodder for conversations on 'the hair is political' raised in the novel.
Americanah is witty, readable, and not limited to the (mis)adventures of Ifemelu and Obinze, bursting with a rich tapestry of other memorable characters and story lines as it does. It is written with verve in an open yet guarded style that heightens curiosity about its end without causing loss of interest in between. I just couldn't put it down once I started. It thrives on rich dialogues on navigating contemporary cultures in Nigeria and America, and, to a lesser extent, England (spot on with the banal use of 'init' and 'yeah?' that pepper conversations here), and finally, on losing and rediscovering self.
Adichie has done it again, creating a novel that will spark as many intelligent discussions as it will leave a number of toes feeling trodden on in its wake, so gifted is she at stirring up emotions regardless.
Americanah is well worth a read - and then a second.
Have you read Americanah? What are your thoughts on it?
This novel, her newest since the exquisitely written Half of a Yellow Sun, is the story of Ifemelu and Obinze, high school sweethearts finding ecstatic joy in their bond of love until strikes and frustrations in the Nigerian system separates them, each to a life overseas that is winding and revelatory. By the time we meet her in the story, Ifemelu has already 'made it' in America: a fellow at Princeton and well-paid sharp-tongued blogger looking at race and identity in America from the perspective of a non-American black; a romantic and cerebral relationship with her black American Yale professor boyfriend, Blaine, whose elite group of friends incite variously interesting views on being black in America; and Ifemelu herself, an intelligent, self-aware heroine who is often funny in her blunt, unapologetic views which she feels the world is entitled to, however unsolicited. Her blog, Raceteenth or Various Observations About American Blacks (Those Formerly Known as Negroes) by a Non-American Black,provides the novel's most insightful discussions on race and ethnicity in America.
Obinze, for his part, has become a big deal in today's Nigeria, locked in a marriage that isn't unpleasant, but one which gives the impression of a dying ember someone else valiantly keeps fanning, while his mind thrums with boredom. He, too, has a story from his short-lived experience in the UK, a life that is mired in menial jobs and spurts of the fear and panic that accompanies an illegal immigrant, until his eventual arrest and deportation.
They will reunite years later in a new Nigeria, the home that has become the strange familiar, and reignite lost passion in a time that will test and re-test their morals and commitment.
Though at its base the story of star-crossed lovers, Americanah is an exploration of race, identity and belonging in contemporary cultures, both foreign and indigenous, and the often mindless ignorance and widespread generalizations we make of other races outside of our own. It is in turns derisive (snow falling during a children's Christmas play in Nigeria. Really?) and educative, a novel with fluid movements between the complex and the simple, unafraid to laugh at and examine its characters through their flaws and foibles with a searing honesty that makes them believable.
There is a seamless movement between time and space that allows the story to unfold without throwing the reader into a haze of geographical confusion. In this, Adichie paints a vivid picture of Ifemelu and Obinze and the disorientating alienation and struggles of the immigrant hustle. Ifemelu, after countless job interviews and zero offers, is pushed into a sordid sexual act with a stranger, and Obinze into an underworld of toilet cleaning, counterfeit documents and a frenzied almost marriage for 'papers' which catastrophically backfires.
Less harrowing, but no less a pertinent topic, is the subject of the African woman and her hair. In fact, this is a concurrent theme throughout the novel. Ifemelu's angle of the story is mostly told in flashback sequences while she has her hair braided at a salon in Trenton. The Malian and Senegalese women who work in the salon, can feel no kinship with this their fellow African who is way above them with her education and her airs, and yet, over the course of the time she is there, Ifemelu comes close to a shared bond with Mariama who excitedly tells her she is dating an Igbo man.
Adichie observes with a comedic eye the proliferation of weaves and various synthetic styles African women subject their hair to, in a bid to cover up their naturally kinky look. Indeed, the description of the thumping smacks of hitting one's itchy scalp through a weave will resonate with many women, as will the more recent trend towards 'going natural' that many of us have embraced. There is enough fodder for conversations on 'the hair is political' raised in the novel.
Americanah is witty, readable, and not limited to the (mis)adventures of Ifemelu and Obinze, bursting with a rich tapestry of other memorable characters and story lines as it does. It is written with verve in an open yet guarded style that heightens curiosity about its end without causing loss of interest in between. I just couldn't put it down once I started. It thrives on rich dialogues on navigating contemporary cultures in Nigeria and America, and, to a lesser extent, England (spot on with the banal use of 'init' and 'yeah?' that pepper conversations here), and finally, on losing and rediscovering self.
Adichie has done it again, creating a novel that will spark as many intelligent discussions as it will leave a number of toes feeling trodden on in its wake, so gifted is she at stirring up emotions regardless.
Americanah is well worth a read - and then a second.
Have you read Americanah? What are your thoughts on it?
Tuesday, 9 April 2013
Turkish delights
It is a gloriously sunny day when I arrive in Turkey.
There is a gaiety in the air that brings out a lightness in
people, an infectiously warm feeling that wraps itself snuggly around me and
pulls the ends of my lips into a carefree smile.
I have surprised my friend Cansu with adroit geography
skills that lead me to our meeting place faster than she expected, and every so
often, she casts me looks that give away how impressed she is. I act nonchalant, as though I am in the habit
of manoeuvring my way through strange cities all the time, but I can’t hide my
pleased face for long on the drive back to her family house.
She is rattling away in her bubbly way, bright smiles
lighting up her face with every sentence, so that even though I am slightly
distracted by the shops and people along the pavements, I chip in often
so she doesn’t cotton on to that fact.
It had only taken a single phone call, this spontaneous Sunday trip.
‘I’m bored. I have no idea what to do with myself this
afternoon.’
Her tinkly laugh had rang down the line, and the invitation
had been prompt. ‘It’s my dad’s birthday and there’s a family barbecue.
Everyone will be here. So come!’
I go.
I smell it before we walk through the front door; a delicious
aroma wafting through the house, playfully assailing the senses with ticklish charm. A
slow growl ripples its way through my stomach, announcing the presence of a
hunger I hadn’t yet been aware of.
In the kitchen, Cansu bends down and kisses her grandmother.
‘Nene, bu is arkadasim’dir,’ she
says, motioning me closer. Grandma, this
is my friend from work.
I return the gentle smile creasing a face lined with years
gone by. She is sitting on a low stool with
her walking stick by her. As she reaches up to me, I notice her hands first,
wrinkled with age. But her grip is strong when she folds me into a welcoming
hug, and for a moment I remember my own grandmother in Ghana. I hold on to her
a little longer and she kisses my cheek softly as I let go. She doesn’t speak
much English, but in her warm gaze I feel like I’ve had a profound conversation
with her. She releases me, and we go
through the kitchen to the back garden.
Juicy lamb ribs are sizzling on the barbecue, and the smell
makes coherent speech nigh impossible. Hussein, Cansu’s father, is standing behind
the grill wiping his brow, his satisfaction apparent. He is smiling before we’ve
even exchanged names. ‘I hope you like food, because there’s plenty here!’ he says in greeting. I
laugh at this line delivered with such paternal impatience, as though I were
one of his own, and walk over to greet him properly.
Voices can be heard from upstairs.
‘That'll be my brother and his friends,’ says Cansu, rolling her
eyes good-naturedly.
We bound up the stairs towards the noise. Jay is tall and handsome, with eyes like his sister's. They crinkle easily in laughter. We've each heard a lot about the other, and so even though it is our first meet, I launch effortlessly into teasing him.
'I hear you're learning to drive as well? What makes you think you can beat me to it, huh?' I challenge.
He cocks his head to the side. 'Oh yeah? Whichever one of us passes their driving test first, buys the other a car. Deal?'
I smile. 'Deal.'
Hussein calls us down to sample what's on offer. The dining table is bursting with delights and flavours. Bulgur pilaf, lamb chops, mushrooms and pitta bread are sitting side by side with hellim (cheese), cacik (yoghurt side), humus and salad. And more dishes are making their appearance as we grab plates and help ourselves. I enjoy my first taste of hellim so much, Cansu's mother gifts me with an entire pack.
No stranger to eating with my hands, I tuck into the food to the last lick of fingers that may well be bitten in utter abandon
and pursuit of that final morsel.
It is a beautiful time. And I know I will
always remember with warmth that Sunday in April when I gate-crashed a Turkish barbecue and
left with a pack of hellim.
Monday, 8 April 2013
Hair today, Gone tomorrow
I have been collecting nicknames both from clients and cheeky-natured colleagues since rocking up to work in my new natural crop.
I must say I don't entirely dislike being called 'Foxy D', 'GI Jane' or 'Mama Africa' on account of the new roots sprouting on my shaven head. Nor do I mind being described as 'radical', 'dramatic' and 'striking'. In fact, my work friends have joined me in adding to the list of names I laughingly started when I realized more 'accolades' would be a-coming as more people saw the new look. There has since been 'very Rihanna', 'doing a Grace Jones' and 'wow, look at those lips!' Hmm...
To be fair, before the chop, I'd sported long, bum-grazing braids. So I can see where this is considered something of a jump.
Of course I've toyed with the idea of cutting my hair before, most memorably last May when my usually benign dad - because what he rendered on my head could only be considered 'malicious', though he vehemently denies this - gave me what I'll call an interesting haircut. Hysterical screams, followed by more hysterical laughter could be heard from the bathroom, amidst cries of, 'OH MY GOD, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!' I'd leaned forward and squinted hard at the mirror in the vain hope that what I was seeing was a clever trick of the eye. But trompe de l'oeil, while a great feature in art, is simply non-existent when you will it to be in cold reality. Or more specifically, when the scraggly bits starring back at you testify soundly of good hair gone bad.
Suffice it to say that's the last time I'll ever willingly hand a pair of scissors to my bespectacled old man.
On the barber's seat last week, I found I was the only female getting a haircut. Sam, the barber who has for the past year and half been giving regular shape to my perm cut, was instead charged with chopping the lot off.
Funnily enough, what has taken some getting used to hasn't been people's surprise and pleasure - though I am reveling in both - BUT reacquainting myself with the wide expanse of skin that is my forehead.
Ahem.
Say hello again, world.
I must say I don't entirely dislike being called 'Foxy D', 'GI Jane' or 'Mama Africa' on account of the new roots sprouting on my shaven head. Nor do I mind being described as 'radical', 'dramatic' and 'striking'. In fact, my work friends have joined me in adding to the list of names I laughingly started when I realized more 'accolades' would be a-coming as more people saw the new look. There has since been 'very Rihanna', 'doing a Grace Jones' and 'wow, look at those lips!' Hmm...
To be fair, before the chop, I'd sported long, bum-grazing braids. So I can see where this is considered something of a jump.
Of course I've toyed with the idea of cutting my hair before, most memorably last May when my usually benign dad - because what he rendered on my head could only be considered 'malicious', though he vehemently denies this - gave me what I'll call an interesting haircut. Hysterical screams, followed by more hysterical laughter could be heard from the bathroom, amidst cries of, 'OH MY GOD, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!' I'd leaned forward and squinted hard at the mirror in the vain hope that what I was seeing was a clever trick of the eye. But trompe de l'oeil, while a great feature in art, is simply non-existent when you will it to be in cold reality. Or more specifically, when the scraggly bits starring back at you testify soundly of good hair gone bad.
Suffice it to say that's the last time I'll ever willingly hand a pair of scissors to my bespectacled old man.
On the barber's seat last week, I found I was the only female getting a haircut. Sam, the barber who has for the past year and half been giving regular shape to my perm cut, was instead charged with chopping the lot off.
Funnily enough, what has taken some getting used to hasn't been people's surprise and pleasure - though I am reveling in both - BUT reacquainting myself with the wide expanse of skin that is my forehead.
Ahem.
Say hello again, world.
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