FACELESS by Amma Darko

It’s taken me so long to post this book review because I struggled to find the right words to summarise what I deem a message about the neglected and rejected in society. I cannot give a brief summary to this insightful novel, so here is my review of Amma Darko’s Faceless…

When Maa Tsuru tells Fofo that Baby T’s mutilated body has been found at Agbogbloshie, Fofo sets out to find justice for her sister’s murder. In a twist of fate, she runs into Kabria who works with a non-governmental organization called MUTE which functions as an interventionist and alternative library for every social, gender and child issue.

Kabria takes an interest in Fofo’s case and determines to find out what led to Baby T’s death. With the help of Sylv Po, the reporter from Harvest FM, they work their way into a syndicate led by Poison, the street lord, that trades in child prostitutes, drugs and is linked to all manner of street crime.

In one of the most hostile parts of Accra, Fofo’s story draws Kabria and her colleagues’ attention to the socioeconomic menace that comprises a community of drifters and hustlers in a slum called Sodom and Gomorrah, so named after the Biblical city that God destroyed because of its numerous sins.

Amma Darko’s quest to find out how Accra’s squalid Sodom and Gomorrah sprung up out of her old neighbourhood at Old Fadama led to a series of revelations that inspired Faceless, her third novel.

Although the author uses ficticious names, she narrates what can possibly be described as real-life events at venues that really exist. Agbogbloshie, Makola Market, Korle-Gonno, Kaneshie, Abossey-Okai, Abeka and the all-notorious Sodom and Gomorrah can really be found in the Greater Accra Region of Ghana.

SOME IMAGES OF SODOM AND GOMORRAH

In making up the various characters and narrating their stories, Darko enlightens her reader about the information she amassed after nearly two years of research into street children, life in Sodom and Gomorrah,  Agbogbloshie and its environs.

Fofo would have spent the Sunday night into Monday dawn with her friends across the road at the squatters enclave in Sodom and Gomorrah watching adult films her fourteen years required her to stay away from, and drinking directly from bottles of akpeteshie, or at best, some slightly milder locally produced gin. Ultimately, she would have found herself waking up Monday morning beside one of her age group friends, both of them naked, hazy and disconcerted; and oblivious to what time during the night they had stripped off their clothes and what exactly they had done with their nakedness. Sucked into a life on the streets and reaching out to each new day with an ever-increasing hopelessness, such were the ways they employed to escape their pain.

Darko draws her audience’s attention to the AIDS prevention campaign versus the situation prevailing in such communities:

Sylv Po’s female studio guest was on and complaining about the AIDS prevention programme not driving home the message of abstinence and faithfulness with the same intensity as the use of condoms. Then she touched on the AIDS issue versus the street-children phenomenon…

“During a recent survey we conducted for a programme, all the girls we talked to out there were already sexually active. And we also established that, for many of them, rape was their first sexual experience. And I am talking about girls as young as seven. Many were child prostitutes. They had no idea at all about the extent of self-damage to themselves. Sex to them was just a convenient means of survival. Many were roaming about, oblivious to whether or not they were HIV positive, so…”

In the course of her narration, Darko compares and contrasts Kabria’s family life with that of Fofo and her street companions. She outlines the benefits of family planning, especially in communities where womanhood is proven by having many children and barrenness is abhorred, and mentions some old wives’ tales about the correlation between how a baby is born and its behavioral pattern.

Kabria is the backbone of her family. She multitasks as a mother, wife and social worker. Adade, Kabria’s architect husband, contents himself with his work, joining co-workers to drinking spots to release tension, and returning home for dinner. Their constant argument about Creamy, Kabria’s stubborn hand-me-down VW Beetle, does not get in the way of a stable marriage because Kabria handles the situation tactfully. Their children – Obea, Essie and Ottu – are all in school. Each child’s character is a force to reckon with, but their parents take care of their needs. In a chaotic, but stable environment, the family is able to get along.

What of Fofo and the other street-children? How did they end up on the streets in the first place?

Darko uses the story of Maa Tsuru’s curse to unravel the process of birth to street life.

When a teenage girl is betrayed by the young man who impregnated her, she rains curses on him and all his descendants as life drains out of her in giving birth to the baby who will later be known as Maa Tsuru. Maa Tsuru grows up labelled as a cursed person. People distance themselves from her in her family house, where she also resides. After having two sons and two daughters with Kwei, he abandons them. Fofo and Baby T’s older brothers leave as soon as they are able to fend for themselves.

Then a new man worms his way into Maa Tsuru’s bed and connives with Maami Broni, who promises to find work for  Baby T  through Mama Abidjan’s questionable recruitment agency, in exchange for periodic payments to feed Maa Tsuru’s new family. Fofo too is forced to leave home because there are two new mouths to feed.  Baby T is later found dead behind a hairdressing salon.

Fofo’s best friend, Odarley, share’s a similar story. Odarley’s mother also has a new husband and children she’d had by him. She resents Odarley because her father abandoned them and constantly accuses her daughter of stealing from her.  So she drives Odarley out to live on the streets.

Then there is the story of the innocent boy who ran away from home to escape the constant abuse of a drunken stepfather. He ended up as a messenger in a brothel, worked his way up by bullying, raping and murdering and is now known as Poison the street lord.

A boy and a girl of about Fofo’s age and making their home on the streets of Accra like her were once asked by a reporter from one of the private FM stations during a survey about their most passionate dreams…

“My dream,” began the boy, “is to be able to go home one day to visit my mother and see a look of joy on her face at the sight of me. I want to be able to sleep beside her. I wish her to tell me she was happy I came to visit her. Whenever I visit her, she doesn’t let me stay long before she asks me politely to leave. She never has a smile for me. She is always in a hurry to see my back. Sometimes I cannot help thinking that maybe she never has a smile for me because the man she made me with that is my father probably also never had a smile for her too. One day she said to me, ‘Go. You do not belong here.’ If I don’t belong to where she is, where do I belong? But I know that it is not just that she doesn’t want to see me. She worries about the food that she has. It is never enough. So she worries that it may not suffice for her two new children if I joined. The ones she has with the man who is their father and who is her new husband. He hates to see my face. I often wonder what it is I remind him of so much.”

The girl said, “One day a kind woman I met at a centre made me very happy. Before I went there, I knew that by all means she would give me food. But this woman gave me more. She hugged me. I was dirty. I smelled bad. But she hugged me. That night I slept well. I had a good dream. Sometimes I wish to be hugged even if I am smelling of the streets.”

In an introductory essay by Kofi Anyidoho, Amma Darko is described as a major female Ghanaian writer whose works are akin to the likes of Efua T. Sutherland and Ama Ata Aidoo. Both her first and second novels, Beyond the Horizon and The Housemaid, focus on the plight of women and young girls in a merciless world dominated by greedy, irresponsible and often cruel men in their life. Faceless adds up to the other two novels to form what Anyidoho calls an important trilogy. Her stories revolve around feminism and abused women and children in society.

In using what I call simple ‘Ghanaian English’ to narrate the epic tale in Faceless, she gives her reader a feel of Ghanaian urban culture and idiosyncratic transliterations Ghanaians use as we blend our native dialects with English. Her narrative style may be a bit unusual, but she puts her message across well.

Faceless is about the children who have been long forgotten in the rush for modernisation and development in most countries. These young people can be an immense asset to the economy, but are lost to the machinations of poverty and illiteracy, losing their identities in the process.

In writing this book, Amma Darko reminds us…

The future promise of any nation can be directly measured by the present prospects of its youth.                                                          – John F. Kennedy (May 29, 1917 – November 22, 1963)

ELOISA TO ABELARD by Alexander Pope

Eloisa to Abelard is a poem inspired by the forbidden love between  Héloïse (Eloisa) and her teacher, Pierre Abélard. When Héloïse’s family learns of their secret marriage, they express their displeasure by castrating Abélard.

In spite of the child they had before his castration, Abélard enters the monastery and convinces Eloisa  to become a nun. Though the pain of separation from her beloved Abélard is difficult to bear, Eloisa  takes a vow of silence which prevents her from expressing her feelings for Abélard, thus symbolically castrating her.

Torn between her love for God and for Abélard, Eloisa  explores the virtues of human and divine love.

ELOISA TO ABELARD In these deep solitudes and awful cells, Where heav’nly-pensive contemplation dwells, And ever-musing melancholy reigns; What means this tumult in a vestal’s veins? Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat? Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat? Yet, yet I love! — From Abelard it came, And Eloisa yet must kiss the name.    Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal’d, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal’d. Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where mix’d with God’s, his lov’d idea lies: O write it not, my hand — the name appears Already written — wash it out, my tears! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays, Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.    Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains: Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn; Ye grots and caverns shagg’d with horrid thorn! Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey’d virgins keep, And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep! Though cold like you, unmov’d, and silent grown, I have not yet forgot myself to stone. All is not Heav’n’s while Abelard has part, Still rebel nature holds out half my heart; Nor pray’rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain, Nor tears, for ages, taught to flow in vain.    Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose, That well-known name awakens all my woes. Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear! Still breath’d in sighs, still usher’d with a tear. I tremble too, where’er my own I find, Some dire misfortune follows close behind. Line after line my gushing eyes o’erflow, Led through a sad variety of woe: Now warm in love, now with’ring in thy bloom, Lost in a convent’s solitary gloom! There stern religion quench’d th’ unwilling flame, There died the best of passions, love and fame.    Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine. Nor foes nor fortune take this pow’r away; And is my Abelard less kind than they? Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare, Love but demands what else were shed in pray’r; No happier task these faded eyes pursue; To read and weep is all they now can do.    Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief; Ah, more than share it! give me all thy grief. Heav’n first taught letters for some wretch’s aid, Some banish’d lover, or some captive maid; They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires, Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires, The virgin’s wish without her fears impart, Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart, Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.    Thou know’st how guiltless first I met thy flame, When Love approach’d me under Friendship’s name; My fancy form’d thee of angelic kind, Some emanation of th’ all-beauteous Mind. Those smiling eyes, attemp’ring ev’ry day, Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day. Guiltless I gaz’d; heav’n listen’d while you sung; And truths divine came mended from that tongue. From lips like those what precept fail’d to move? Too soon they taught me ’twas no sin to love. Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran, Nor wish’d an Angel whom I lov’d a Man. Dim and remote the joys of saints I see; Nor envy them, that heav’n I lose for thee.    How oft, when press’d to marriage, have I said, Curse on all laws but those which love has made! Love, free as air, at sight of human ties, Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies, Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame, August her deed, and sacred be her fame; Before true passion all those views remove, Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love? The jealous God, when we profane his fires, Those restless passions in revenge inspires; And bids them make mistaken mortals groan, Who seek in love for aught but love alone. Should at my feet the world’s great master fall, Himself, his throne, his world, I’d scorn ’em all: Not Caesar’s empress would I deign to prove; No, make me mistress to the man I love; If there be yet another name more free, More fond than mistress, make me that to thee! Oh happy state! when souls each other draw, When love is liberty, and nature, law: All then is full, possessing, and possess’d, No craving void left aching in the breast: Ev’n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part, And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart. This sure is bliss (if bliss on earth there be) And once the lot of Abelard and me.    Alas, how chang’d! what sudden horrors rise! A naked lover bound and bleeding lies! Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand, Her poniard, had oppos’d the dire command. Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain; The crime was common, common be the pain. I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress’d, Let tears, and burning blushes speak the rest.    Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day, When victims at yon altar’s foot we lay? Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell, When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell? As with cold lips I kiss’d the sacred veil, The shrines all trembl’d, and the lamps grew pale: Heav’n scarce believ’d the conquest it survey’d, And saints with wonder heard the vows I made. Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew, Not on the Cross my eyes were fix’d, but you: Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call, And if I lose thy love, I lose my all. Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe; Those still at least are left thee to bestow. Still on that breast enamour’d let me lie, Still drink delicious poison from thy eye, Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press’d; Give all thou canst — and let me dream the rest. Ah no! instruct me other joys to prize, With other beauties charm my partial eyes, Full in my view set all the bright abode, And make my soul quit Abelard for God.    Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care, Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray’r. From the false world in early youth they fled, By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led. You rais’d these hallow’d walls; the desert smil’d, And Paradise was open’d in the wild. No weeping orphan saw his father’s stores Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors; No silver saints, by dying misers giv’n, Here brib’d the rage of ill-requited heav’n: But such plain roofs as piety could raise, And only vocal with the Maker’s praise. In these lone walls (their days eternal bound) These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown’d, Where awful arches make a noonday night, And the dim windows shed a solemn light; Thy eyes diffus’d a reconciling ray, And gleams of glory brighten’d all the day. But now no face divine contentment wears, ‘Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears. See how the force of others’ pray’rs I try, (O pious fraud of am’rous charity!) But why should I on others’ pray’rs depend? Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend! Ah let thy handmaid, sister, daughter move, And all those tender names in one, thy love! The darksome pines that o’er yon rocks reclin’d Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind, The wand’ring streams that shine between the hills, The grots that echo to the tinkling rills, The dying gales that pant upon the trees, The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze; No more these scenes my meditation aid, Or lull to rest the visionary maid. But o’er the twilight groves and dusky caves, Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves, Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws A death-like silence, and a dread repose: Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene, Shades ev’ry flow’r, and darkens ev’ry green, Deepens the murmur of the falling floods, And breathes a browner horror on the woods.    Yet here for ever, ever must I stay; Sad proof how well a lover can obey! Death, only death, can break the lasting chain; And here, ev’n then, shall my cold dust remain, Here all its frailties, all its flames resign, And wait till ’tis no sin to mix with thine.    Ah wretch! believ’d the spouse of God in vain, Confess’d within the slave of love and man. Assist me, Heav’n! but whence arose that pray’r? Sprung it from piety, or from despair? Ev’n here, where frozen chastity retires, Love finds an altar for forbidden fires. I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought; I mourn the lover, not lament the fault; I view my crime, but kindle at the view, Repent old pleasures, and solicit new; Now turn’d to Heav’n, I weep my past offence, Now think of thee, and curse my innocence. Of all affliction taught a lover yet, ‘Tis sure the hardest science to forget! How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, And love th’ offender, yet detest th’ offence? How the dear object from the crime remove, Or how distinguish penitence from love? Unequal task! a passion to resign, For hearts so touch’d, so pierc’d, so lost as mine. Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state, How often must it love, how often hate! How often hope, despair, resent, regret, Conceal, disdain — do all things but forget. But let Heav’n seize it, all at once ’tis fir’d; Not touch’d, but rapt; not waken’d, but inspir’d! Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue, Renounce my love, my life, myself — and you. Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.    How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d; Labour and rest, that equal periods keep; “Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;” Desires compos’d, affections ever ev’n, Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav’n. Grace shines around her with serenest beams, And whisp’ring angels prompt her golden dreams. For her th’ unfading rose of Eden blooms, And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes, For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring, For her white virgins hymeneals sing, To sounds of heav’nly harps she dies away, And melts in visions of eternal day.    Far other dreams my erring soul employ, Far other raptures, of unholy joy: When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day, Fancy restores what vengeance snatch’d away, Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free, All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee. Oh curs’d, dear horrors of all-conscious night! How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight! Provoking Daemons all restraint remove, And stir within me every source of love. I hear thee, view thee, gaze o’er all thy charms, And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms. I wake — no more I hear, no more I view, The phantom flies me, as unkind as you. I call aloud; it hears not what I say; I stretch my empty arms; it glides away. To dream once more I close my willing eyes; Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise! Alas, no more — methinks we wand’ring go Through dreary wastes, and weep each other’s woe, Where round some mould’ring tower pale ivy creeps, And low-brow’d rocks hang nodding o’er the deeps. Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies; Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise. I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find, And wake to all the griefs I left behind.    For thee the fates, severely kind, ordain A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain; Thy life a long, dead calm of fix’d repose; No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows. Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow, Or moving spirit bade the waters flow; Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv’n, And mild as opening gleams of promis’d heav’n.    Come, Abelard! for what hast thou to dread? The torch of Venus burns not for the dead. Nature stands check’d; Religion disapproves; Ev’n thou art cold — yet Eloisa loves. Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn To light the dead, and warm th’ unfruitful urn.    What scenes appear where’er I turn my view? The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue, Rise in the grove, before the altar rise, Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes. I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee, Thy image steals between my God and me, Thy voice I seem in ev’ry hymn to hear, With ev’ry bead I drop too soft a tear. When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll, And swelling organs lift the rising soul, One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight, Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight: In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown’d, While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.    While prostrate here in humble grief I lie, Kind, virtuous drops just gath’ring in my eye, While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll, And dawning grace is op’ning on my soul: Come, if thou dar’st, all charming as thou art! Oppose thyself to Heav’n; dispute my heart; Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes Blot out each bright idea of the skies; Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears; Take back my fruitless penitence and pray’rs; Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode; Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God!    No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole; Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll! Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me, Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee. Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign; Forget, renounce me, hate whate’er was mine. Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!) Long lov’d, ador’d ideas, all adieu! Oh Grace serene! oh virtue heav’nly fair! Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care! Fresh blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky! And faith, our early immortality! Enter, each mild, each amicable guest; Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest!    See in her cell sad Eloisa spread, Propp’d on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead. In each low wind methinks a spirit calls, And more than echoes talk along the walls. Here, as I watch’d the dying lamps around, From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound. “Come, sister, come!” (it said, or seem’d to say) “Thy place is here, sad sister, come away! Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray’d, Love’s victim then, though now a sainted maid: But all is calm in this eternal sleep; Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep, Ev’n superstition loses ev’ry fear: For God, not man, absolves our frailties here.”    I come, I come! prepare your roseate bow’rs, Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flow’rs. Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go, Where flames refin’d in breasts seraphic glow: Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay, And smooth my passage to the realms of day; See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll, Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul! Ah no — in sacred vestments may’st thou stand, The hallow’d taper trembling in thy hand, Present the cross before my lifted eye, Teach me at once, and learn of me to die. Ah then, thy once-lov’d Eloisa see! It will be then no crime to gaze on me. See from my cheek the transient roses fly! See the last sparkle languish in my eye! Till ev’ry motion, pulse, and breath be o’er; And ev’n my Abelard be lov’d no more. O Death all-eloquent! you only prove What dust we dote on, when ’tis man we love.    Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy, (That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy) In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown’d, Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round, From op’ning skies may streaming glories shine, And saints embrace thee with a love like mine.    May one kind grave unite each hapless name, And graft my love immortal on thy fame! Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o’er, When this rebellious heart shall beat no more; If ever chance two wand’ring lovers brings To Paraclete’s white walls and silver springs, O’er the pale marble shall they join their heads, And drink the falling tears each other sheds; Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov’d, “Oh may we never love as these have lov’d!”    From the full choir when loud Hosannas rise, And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice, Amid that scene if some relenting eye Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie, Devotion’s self shall steal a thought from Heav’n, One human tear shall drop and be forgiv’n. And sure, if fate some future bard shall join In sad similitude of griefs to mine, Condemn’d whole years in absence to deplore, And image charms he must behold no more; Such if there be, who loves so long, so well; Let him our sad, our tender story tell; The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost; He best can paint ’em, who shall feel ’em most.

FROM ELOISA TO ABELARD

I may be a bit late in joining in the celebration of America’s National Poetry Month, but as they say… better late than never.

Today, I’ll like to share a few lines from 18th Century poet Alexander Pope’s Eloisa to Abelard.

ALEXANDER POPE How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d;

Beautiful, isn’t it?

MILLENNIUM DEVELOPMENT GOAL (Part III)

WINNERS of the Emecheta READING RELAY

The three proud winners of the Emecheta READING RELAY are:

• Celestine Nudanu

• Jimmy Jay

• Gifty Anane-Taabeah

Everyone is welcome to participate in the next

  There are no geographic limitations to this giveaway.

PERSPECTIVES

It’s the last Tuesday of March, so let’s join Regular Rumination et al with the talk about poetry.

You’ve probably seen this on some other blog or website, but there’s no harm in telling you how fascinating I find this: 2 Poets – 2 Poems – 2 Different Perspectives – Same Title.

Abiku is a Yoruba (a Niger-Congo language spoken in Nigeria, Benin and Togo) word meaning  born to die. It is derived from the two Yoruba words abi (that which possesses) and iku (death). Abiku is the name given to the spirit of a child who does not live for long, but chooses to be reborn several times to the same family.

Rituals and sacrifices are made to appease it, but an Abiku chooses to be indifferent to the plights of its parents. It enjoys taunting and tormenting its mother by repeating the cycle of birth, death and rebirth in short successions. A woman whose firstborn is believed to be an Abiku usually ends up childless.

Wole Soyinka’s and John Pepper Clark’s poems have been compared, probed and analyzed on different literary levels, but as I stated before, “I am not a big fan of academic commentary on poems”.

So Iet’s share our thoughts on ABIKU by the two poets.

Any similarities? Any differences? What are your personal observations?

Do you know of any other poems with the same title but from two or more perspectives?

ABIKU by Wole Soyinka In vain your bangles cast Charmed circles at my feet; I am Abiku, calling for the first And the repeated time.   Must I weep for goats and cowries For palm oil and the sprinkled ash? Yams do not sprout in amulets To earth Abiku’s limbs.   So when the snail is burnt in his shell Whet the heated fragments, brand me Deeply on the breast. You must know him When Abiku calls again.   I am the squirrel teeth, cracked The riddle of the palm. Remember This, and dig me deeper still into The god’s swollen foot.   Once and the repeated time, ageless Though I puke. And when you pour Libations, each finger points me near The way I came, where   The ground is wet with mourning White dew suckles flesh-birds Evening befriends the spider, trapping Flies in wind-froth;   Night, and Abiku sucks the oil From lamps. Mother! I’ll be the Supplicant snake coiled on the doorstep Yours the killing cry.   The ripest fruit was saddest; Where I crept, the warmth was cloying. In the silence of webs, Abiku moans, shaping Mounds from the yolk.

ABIKU by John Pepper Clark  Coming and going these several seasons, Do stay out on the baobab tree, Follow where you please your kindred spirits If indoors is not enough for you. True, it leaks through the thatch When floods brim the banks, And the bats and the owls Often tear in at night through the eaves, And at harmattan, the bamboo walls Are ready tinder for the fire That dries the fresh fish up on the rack. Still, it’s been the healthy stock To several fingers, to many more will be Who reach to the sun. No longer then bestride the threshold But step in and stay For good. We know the knife scars Serrating down your back and front Like beak of the sword-fish, And both your ears, notched As a bondsman to this house, Are all relics of your first comings. Then step in, step in and stay For her body is tired, Tired, her milk going sour Where many more mouths gladden the heart.

FINAL DESTINATION

WORLD POETRY DAY

Every year on 21 March UNESCO celebrates the World Poetry Day. A decision to proclaim 21 March as World Poetry Day was adopted during the UNESCO’s 30th session held in Paris in 1999.

According to the UNESCO’s decision, the main objective of this action is to support linguistic diversity through poetic expression and to offer endangered languages the opportunity to be heard within their communities. Moreover, this Day is meant to support poetry, return to the oral tradition of poetry recitals, promote teaching poetry, restore a dialogue between poetry and the other arts such as theatre, dance, music, painting and so on, support small publishers and create an attractive image of poetry in the media so that the art of poetry will no longer be considered an outdated form of art but one.

UNESCO encourages the Member States to take an active part in celebrating the World Poetry Day, at both local and national level, with the active participation of National Commissions, NGOs and the public and private institutions concerned (schools, municipalities, poetic communities, museums, cultural associations, publishing houses, local authorities, etc.).

(Courtesy: UNESCO Website)

THE JOYS OF MOTHERHOOD by Buchi Emecheta

If you educate a man you educate an individual, but if you educate a woman you educate a nation.

– Dr. James Emmanuel Kwegyir-Aggrey (1875-1927)

Since my last book review was on feminism, I thought it prudent to continue with the subject.

The Joys of Motherhood is a compendium of primary care-giving.  Drawing from her experiences as a single mother of five, Emecheta sculpts the quintessential West African mother out of the words in this novel.

Set in the early twentieth century, the story revolves around Nnu Ego, a true royal of Ogboli – one of the villages that made up the town of Ibuza. She is the daughter of Nwokocha Agbadi, the wealthy chief of Ogboli and of his untamed mistress Ona, daughter of Obi Umunna, another local chief of Ibuza.

Overjoyed at the sight of his new daughter, Agbadi…

…bent down and peeped at the day-old child wrapped and kept warm by the fireside and remarked: ‘This child is priceless, more than twenty bags of cowries. I think that should really be her name, because she is a beauty and she is mine. Yes, “Nnu Ego”: twenty bags of cowries.’

Nnu Ego was the apple of her parent’s eyes.

About three years after her daughter is born, Ona becomes pregnant again and goes into premature labour. She senses her imminent death  as she gives birth and asks Agbadi to give Nnu Ego the same freedom her father Obi Umunna gave her.

‘… see that however much you love our daughter Nnu  Ego you allow her to have a life of her own,  a husband if she wants one.  Allow her to be a woman.’

But Agbadi marries her off to Amatokwu when she is sixteen. The marriage ends, however, after Nnu Ego endures the emotional and psychological trauma of childlessness.

The real drama begins when she travels from Ibuza to Lagos to become the wife of Nnaife, laundryman of the Meers. Nnu Ego learns to adapt to urban life where her husband is a white man’s servant and participates in a strange worship called Christianity. In Ibuza, chores like cleaning a household, washing and cooking are exclusive to women, but this is not so in urban Nigeria. It is the ‘woman-made men’ who do such domestic duties for the white man.

When  Nnu Ego confides in Cordelia, wife of Ubani the cook, she laughs at her moanings about Nnaife and says,

‘You want a husband who has time to ask you if you wish to eat rice, or drink corn pap with honey? Forget it. Men here are too busy being white men’s servants to be men. We women mind the home. Not our husbands. Their manhood has been taken away from them. The shame of it is they don’t know it. All they see is the money, shining white man’s money.’

Emecheta defines womanhood and the evolving role of women in an era of polygamy, male-dominance and colonialist oppression. If a West African woman was subject to her husband’s will in all matters, what of one who was married to the servant of a white man?

‘They are all slaves, including us. If their masters treat them badly, they take it out on us. The only difference is that they are given some pay for their work, instead of having been bought.

In a roller-coaster ride of bearing child after child for Nnaife, who loses one job after another and is at some point sent off by the British government to fight in the Second World War, Nnu Ego juggles the responsibilities of motherhood, bread-winner and obedient wife.

After much drama, discourse and dissension, Nnu Ego separates from Nnaife and moves back to Ibuza a ripe old woman who has seen life in the big city. She keeps going on and on about her sons abroad until…

… one night, Nnu Ego lay down by the roadside, thinking that she had arrived home. She died quietly there, with no child to hold her hand and no friend to talk to her. She had never really made any friends, so busy had she been building up her joys as a mother.

As I imbibed the last chapter of the story, I was awash with a mixture of anger and disappointment. After reading chapter after chapter of Nnu Ego’s struggles with loneliness, poverty and marital abuse, I expected a ‘happily-ever-after’ ending to the story. I was angry that the protagonist did not reap from the toil and hardship she had endured as she invested all her life’s work into the well-being of her children.

On the other hand, Emecheta reminds us of the glaring reality of what it means to be a mother in most parts of the world. Although Nnu Ego is a West African mother, many women around the world can relate to her story.

I suppose ‘the joys of motherhood’ for Nnu Ego, as is the case of most mothers,  was watching her children grow up strong and healthy, having provided for their basic needs. In an era when having children was a married woman’s pride, Nnu Ego had proven her critics wrong by bearing male and female children for her husband.

Nevertheless, the story speaks to the joys, not the perks, of motherhood.

Even though I am unable to exhaustively address the complex sociological issues Emecheta discusses in this novel, I review this book in honour of mothers around the world.

WINNERS of the Aidoo READING RELAY

Announcing the winners of the Aidoo READING RELAY:

• Emmanuel Asante

• Marie ange Catherine

• Jacqueline Kumadoh

Everyone is welcome to take part in the next

  There are no geographic limitations to this giveaway.