Vultures by Chinua Achebe

And here's my favorite poem by Achebe



In the greyness
and drizzle of one despondent
dawn unstirred by harbingers
of sunbreak a vulture
perching high on broken
bones of a dead tree
nestled close to his
mate his smooth
bashed-in head, a pebble
on a stem rooted in
a dump of gross
feathers, inclined affectionately
to hers. Yesterday they picked
the eyes of a swollen
corpse in a water-logged
trench and ate the
things in its bowel. Full
gorged they chose their roost
keeping the hollowed remnant
in easy range of cold
telescopic eyes...

Strange
indeed how love in other
ways so particular
will pick a corner
in that charnel-house
tidy it and coil up there, perhaps
even fall asleep - her face
turned to the wall!

...Thus the Commandant at Belsen
Camp going home for
the day with fumes of
human roast clinging
rebelliously to his hairy
nostrils will stop
at the wayside sweat-shop
and pick up a chocolate
for his tender offspring
waiting at home for Daddy's
return...

Praise bounteous
providence if you will
that grants even an ogre
a tiny glow-worm
tenderness encapsulated
in icy caverns of a cruel
heart or else despair
for in the very germ
of that kindred love is
lodged the perpetuity
of evil.

After a Commonwealth Conference by Ama Ata Aidoo

Lately, I have been on an African literature frenzy. One because I am proud to be Ghanaian and secondly because I never had the opportunity to read these works when I lived in Ghana. I remember my friends always talking about The Baby Sitter Club written by Ann M. Martin there were so many of them . I read only a few (more like 5) because I did not know where to purchase them and also because I was a lazy reader. I was more about running around in the sand and playing ampe (see games girls play in Ghana). I am rather sad that I am only hearing about people like Ama Ata Aidoo now...and I am in America. Sadly people will continue to read books by Ann M. Martin and the Aidoo's and the Emecheta's and the Adichie's would not be discovered yet. (So you're asking about Achebe? You already know about him or?) 
Well back to my frenzy. I believe these women write beautifully. They invite me into their own traditional worlds and this makes me miss home miserably.I'm sharing this poem because it is by Ama Ata Aidoo and it helps me think deeply about how the African continent is perceived.  I honestly appreciate the works of Achebe but I also believe women like Aidoo should be celebrated.



Because

you are here
to remind me to be grateful to
- it must be The Lord –
for small mercies,

I shall not
wail
shave my hair or
do another fasting trip at the dawn of a
day that has put more bile on my tongue.

But Child,
out there where
our thousands are dying and
our millions
do not have food to
choose to eat or
not,

how does one tell the story of men
who are nothing at all, and
leaders who are only
skilled in the art of anti-people treachery?

Child,
I hear you: and since
wisdom
does not always grow with our grey hairs,

may be,
you can tell me
what to do with
my shame, and

Our Continent once more
betrayed?

I think it Rains by Wole Soyinka

I think it rains
That tongues may loosen from the parch
Uncleave roof-tops of
the mouth, hang
Heavy with knowledge

I saw it raise
The sudden cloud, from ashes.
Settling
They joined in a ring of
grey; within,
The circling spirit.

O it must rain
These closures on the mind, blinding us
In strange despairs, teaching
Purity of sadness.

And how it beats
Skeined transperencies on wings
Of our desires, searing dark longings
In cruel baptisms.

Rain-reeds, practised in
The grace of yielding, yet unbending
From afar, this, your conjugation with my earth
Bares crounching rocks.

Thank You God for Creating the Coconut Tree.

I am really grateful for the coconut tree. I am not sure why though. It is just so green on the outside and then a little cream on the middle part and then really white on the inside. I always wonder what model the creator was working with when he created the coconut tree. But this post is not about the coconut tree. I just thought it would be interesting to begin on that note. What I really want to talk about is what to do with money you find on the streets/bus/wherever.

Here's a funny story. On Tuesday a good friend of mine offered to pay for my hairdo. I usually do it myself but I was not excited about working out my muscles before school. So I was grateful for this miracle. Even though I got all of that money, all of it did not really belong to me since I had to give a tenth of it to the church(see Bible about paying tithe). So I thought to myself, what if the hairdresser takes all the money? Do I still have to pay tithe from my own income? As I walked out of the bus contemplating what to do, my iris identified some green and brown notes, stuck under a passenger seat in the bus. I quickly picked it up even though I was supposed to be exiting the bus. I somewhat asked the lady on the seat if the money belonged to her but she just looked away. I assumed she thought I was offering her the money. But why would I offer her money? So I put it in my pocket, feeling guilty that I had sort of "stolen" money. Interestingly, the amount I found was exactly what I needed for my tithe. I called it a miracle. Thanked Jehovah and gladly gave it away.

Here's what you want to do if you find money on the floor.
1. Do not hesitate to pick it up.
2. Wait around for a while to see if someone returns or asks you if you have seen money around
3. If you are in an enclosed area, (store, work place, school) and you find the money in an envelope or purse, bag, please do someone a favor and take it to lost and found. (I once reclaimed my lost dollars at Macy's(34th street).
4. If you are not sure whom it belongs to, use it for a good cause. Give some away to the homeless ...

The lesson here is: Don't go around deliberately looking for money. Let it find you!

I was ashamed of...

       I once went to an interview for a really important fellowship. I needed wanted it. I wanted something that would help me organize my life and at least give me the support I needed for my future career. I honestly don't remember the weather for that day. The clouds might have been grey or yellow. I was very anxious about this interview knowing that it would be really difficult to get accepted.
       As usual, I was late for the interview and went over my answers while waiting for the interviewee before me to make her final comments. When I entered the room, a strong intellectual wind blew my hair wig. The first question I was asked was : Tell us an ananse story.I am sure you are as confused as I was. How is a story important to my interview? Ask me about my research or why I am the best candidate for this fellowship. (It is only after I left the interview that I realized I had written on my application that I am a story teller.)
       So back to the interview... I told them a very incoherent story about ananse the spider. About how he is bald because he hid a bowl of beans under his head. Why would a spider eat beans Rachel? WHY!!!! I should have been relieved of my tittle as a raconteur  after I walked out of that room but that was only one of the stories I told badly.
        The 3 professors kept firing  questions at me and I had very little to say about my tales. One of the male professors took my transcript glanced through it and asked how I was able to produce such excellent grades. Honestly, the first answer that popped into my head was Jesus. It is only by grace(unmerited favor) that I pass most of my classes. I am not a natural genius and even if I were, He grants me the grace to wake up in the morning to do what I have to do. I figured that was not the moment to preach about my faith or grace. I also felt they would not understand it. They would probably think "so grace takes you to school and reads the pages for you and takes the tests for you? where can we meet grace?"
       Mind you this conversation was going on in my head very quickly, for about two minutes, I suppose. So then instead of attributing my success to my faith and of course my persistence I only attributed it to my persistence and my strong educational background from Ghana. I walked out of the room feeling like Judas, the one who betrayed Jesus because many a time, when people ask me how I am doing or tell me how "smart" or how "lucky" I am, I want to tell them that I only produce 20% of the energy to create these things that make me look "presentable"but I believe they won't understand me.
         So why am I writing all of this? I wanted the subject of my first blog post after not blogging for a while to be about something that I believe in even if it makes me look crazy.

Telephone Conversation by Wole Soyinka

Lately, I have been reading a lot of African poetry because they are really good and also because African literature is the subject of my research. I found this quite interesting. What do you think?

The price seemed reasonable, location
Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
Off premises. Nothing remained
But self-confession. "Madam" , I warned,
"I hate a wasted journey - I am African."
Silence. Silenced transmission of pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,
Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled
Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was, foully.
"HOW DARK?"...I had not misheard...."ARE YOU LIGHT OR VERY DARK?" Button B. Button A. Stench
Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.
Red booth. Red pillar-box. Red double-tiered
Omnibus squelching tar.
It was real! Shamed
By ill-mannered silence, surrender
Pushed dumbfoundment to beg simplification.
Considerate she was, varying the emphasis-
"ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT" Revelation came
"You mean- like plain or milk chocolate?"
Her accent was clinical, crushing in its light
Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted
I chose. "West African sepia"_ and as afterthought.
"Down in my passport." Silence for spectroscopic
Flight of fancy, till truthfulness chaged her accent
Hard on the mouthpiece "WHAT'S THAT?" conceding "DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS." "Like brunette."
"THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?"
"Not altogether.
Facially, I am brunette, but madam you should see the rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet.
Are a peroxide blonde. Friction, caused-
Foolishly madam- by sitting down, has turned
My bottom raven black- One moment madam! - sensing
Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
About my ears- "Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn't you rather
See for yourself?"