Eden Mills Festival, 2011

Reading last September 2011 at the Eden Mills Writers Festival.

Kingston Writers Festival, 2011

I really enjoyed the panel with Y.S. Lee and Susan Olding (host). Actually I loved the more formal format of the Kingston Writers Festival held last September 22-25 in the Holiday Inn, on the waterfront. I was actually given a personal helper/ handler, Carol, MacDonnel who was just wonderful. I daresay Kingstonians are very posh! I wish I could remember the special designation given to them but it's gone now lost in my memory. I will never forget eating gnocci, for the very first time, which choice I made because I had read an interesting description of it in Camilla Gibb's "Sweetness in the Belly". The singular down moment was finding out that the festival bookstore did not have my book but I shrugged that off, too. Things happen and I still had a wonderful time reading, talking and listening to other panels.

Storytelling the Coffee Break

It was with great interest I engaged in my daughter Stephanie's short movie project, which assignment was to depict change in a 90 second video. She was the writer, director and producer while Dorothy Odartey-Wellington and I acted. It's nice to see storytelling manifesting in the genes of my baby girl, and I can't wait to see what more she has to offer as she is still in high school. Enjoy!

The Guelph Symposium on the War of 1812

http://livinghistoryconference.com/seminars/seminar_11.php

On Saturday February 25th, I attended the Guelph Symposium on the War of 1812 and was surprised at the vibrant market place of history, by way of talks, books, period costumes and fashion shows, and everything for sale or on exhibition from shoes to muskets. And to boot, there was a real drum major ushering us in to our various halls on time. I delivered on Richard Pierpoint. A man who has taken me on an amazing journey so far.

RETURNING

I do apologize for ignoring this blog for so long. I got really busy and instead of blogging my events and activities, I abandoned my blog for Facebook. I am planning a return and I hope to find the best strategy to keep up and keep you interested.

Sincerely,

Adwoa

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Seeking

Long natural African-woman hair

Sub-Saharan, tightly coiled

Curly-wurly iron ringlets

Easy to comb and rearrange

No pain, more gain

No lye, don’t lie

Here, find inexpensive

Silky locks, black or grey

Without costing hours and a day

No extensions

Demanding a monthly wage

Beautiful hair to cover those horns

To lure brave men to bosom and care

I have considered all things

When it comes to my hair

I have joined the exclusive club of dreamers

Lying beneath the apple tree

Waiting with Newton for the apple to drop

Sahara

Long before you searched my secrets

I am she who began life with nothing

but a handful of dust in a basin

I was told to squat thereon

Upon stocky muscled legs

To hatch my young ones

Yearning to be born

I was advised to till the land

And grow fruit trees

For the feeding of the nations in my womb

Instead I spilled the dust

Of the birthing bowl

Upon loamy soils

Where meandering tributaries of great rivers end

The Nile, the Congo, the Issa Beer

After miles of winding and branching

And years of thinning and tapering

Among palm trees and olive groves

Where sweet date and pomegranate grow

With sugars rich and succulence

There pools of water were found

Where hippos swam and elephants drank

And hunters drew the lessons of the hunt

Carved out and dyed on old rock faces

I called aloud to my wayward children

Cried to my grandchildren to trample my back

Ease the knots between tendon and bone

With chubby brown fingers

They drew pictures on my back

Visions of a drifting world

On shifting sands stirred by the wind

Men on camels wrapped up and veiled

Carrying their homes upon their backs

Herding family, cattle and goats

From a country of sand to another of rock

The sand prevailed, the waters died

Salt remained within the rock

With one accord creation walked

Searching for the trail of the lost waters

In the valleys and gorges left behind

Calling for the waters between oases

To suffuse the air and return once more

To the sands as rain

So the serpent asked for a maid each year

To make golden rain for old Wagadu

Let sweep his waters through the sand

Deposit gold upon the land

The sacrifice was one we could not make

And Bida was slain upon the ground

So the sands creep on from day to day

Stirred up and whisked by a hot dry wind

I am she who remains among sand dunes

Mapping tributaries in the sand

It was the hair that grew and grew

In celebration of the seventies and the Afro hairdo that rocked the world and left us memories and hope for perseverance. Adwoa Badoe

It was the hair that grew and grew

I saw the scorpion in his hole
He was jet black
His eyes were proud
Beneath the sky his heart was humble
Though he had God as his father
And Earth as his mother
And brothers and sisters
To comb the tangles of his hair
Drip oil to the roots, massage the scalp
Anoint him with fragrance of myrrh and aloe
It was the hair that grew and grew
Rapunzel’s ladder from earth to heaven
Black from the roots, tense and coiled
Which he shaped with his fingers
Into a heavenly globe
Once for earth, twice for the sun,
Three times for the new moon
Which traveled with him
And gave him eyes to see
Lineages of princes with stand-up hair
Full colour visions of empire and grandeur
Women with bounty from top to bottom
Gold chains, gold bracelets, gold rings and bling
On dessert rocks and damp rainforests
And coastal sands washed by wind and surf
A high sting raised in power salute
“Say it loud
I’m black and proud.”

Transitions

Transitions: To live or to live!

Do you think

The butterfly remembers

Life as a voracious larva

With many teeth

Devouring green leaves?

Does she still remember

The taste of sap

Now that her mouth

Is sewn up tight

As she flutters softly

From plant to plant

Carrying pollen on dainty feet

And laying dusty eggs?

If she had a dream

While she was crunching leaves

Of spinning pure silk

To make a gown

Did she spin it out of control

Entangling herself in coil after coil

Until she was cocooned

From head to toe?

Then in the darkness unknown to her

She changed from a worm

To an airborne delight

With angel wings

Silk spun, pure gold

Sequined and glittering in the sun.

Do you think she minds

This butterfly

That she has no mouth

No appetite for moist

And chewy tropical leaves

Is she content to live her life

A pretty thing for eyes to see

Twin wings glistening in the light?

Concave Forests

After a month of frustration, reading about the rantings of the two-time coup maker, revolutionary leader, dictator, ex-president of Ghana, on his new project of becoming the First Lord to his wife's proposed bid for the presidency of Ghana, I have released Concave Forests to encourage the journalists, historians and writers of Ghana, to take pains to write accurately about the times we live in. We must preserve the news, histories and thereby the future from news-boomers and their version of the unfolding of deeds and misdeeds.

Concave Forests

IN SPITE of lullabies

Do not hush your voice, 

Or yield the pointed eagle claw

By which you tattoo,

Hieroglyphics

On the bark of trees

Confirmed to live now

And never die

Song birds of the Savannah

I sing to you,

Brightly plumed in primary colors

Inhabiting rectangular forests of pine,

And all the while 

Crooning in the forgotten tongues

Of ghosts from a far away land

Where forests are concave 

And filled with the blood and bones

Of histories, 

Waiting to be told

And futures

Waiting to unfold

C is for Contentment

Contentment is by far the most moderate and peaceable of feelings, nurturing of life and wellbeing, and yet so unrecognized by many in our fast paced world until it disappears. If you have known her, you will be loathe to let her go.

C is for Contentment

Contentment is only remembered

After her goodbyes have been said

Like sinus rhythm patterns played a lifetime

On good cardiac muscle

Inside a body that hears it not

Whether asleep or awake

Until the first missed beat

Gives rise to another

And sirens flashing fear

Tear through the quiet night.

Positive

This piece is inspired by a documentary I watched some years ago, filmed in southern Africa. A nurse who was also the aunt of an HIV positive orphan girl said a phrase which stayed with me, "When she's older she'll understand."

Positive

Why am I positive?

The little girl’s question

hung in the morning

Naked and still

like a black and white memory

Preserved forever by a rush of light

Against the grainy surface

of a photographic plate

And the elders looked one at the other,

Searching for letters to spell disaster

“When you’re a little older, “

they said to her

“When you’re a little older,

you’ll understand.”

But it was the elders

Who could not comprehend

How ‘positive’ became a Basuto word,

A Bapeti word

A Xhosa word without the clicks

Which nature bestowed

On moist pink tongues

So many years ago

She would not stop,

she wanted to know

Why Grandfather’s smile

showed so many holes

Each gap left by the passing of souls

Between life and death

Between air and earth

Informal transcendences

of one form to the next

The old man answered with a lisp

"Your face is as bright as a slice of the moon

Your laughter melodious as a marimba tune"

Then he lost the smile

As it wavered and thinned

Far short of the corners of tear charged eyes

Why am I positive? The little girl read

One finger tracing the border of words

From left to right

From eye to tongue

And the pupils heard the teacher’s reply

“You run and play and study hard

Sometimes you’re first

In quizzes and tests

You’re young and curious,

The brightest and best

You always do your homework first"

The teacher summoned mist from the hills

Watched it settle over the playing-field

And there observed the funeral of the future

In rhythm games and nursery rhymes

Why is she positive? The village asks

Her mother lies all day upon a mat

Beneath a mango tree in the yard

Her father escaped the other day

Resting in the shade of the same old tree

It was her aunt, the nurse, the giver of pills

Who said she was positive by the shade of her blood

“When you’re little older”, she said to her

“You’ll understand what it means to be positive.”

Honey-Making or The Proposal

In my short memoir, Witness in Silk, included in the anthology, "My Wedding Dress", I contrast my marriage by Akan custom to the wedding which followed. My dad had to perform this same custom for all four of his daughters in their turn. I remember after everything was finished by way of custom for his newly married daughter, he would have a shower and dress in a particular white woven cloth he had. It had indigo stripes running horizontally across it, and he called it his white cloth. He would sit outside all by himself, nursing a drink in his hand and keeping a very serious expression. And if you asked him, he would say. "Me wer3 ahow," meaning I am sorrowful. Here is a poem I wrote searching for his feelings every time he gave a daughter away in marriage.

Honey-making or The Proposal

They sat themselves proud

In his garden

Told him of the flower they had watched all season

Begin to unfurl

And open delicate petals

With dew drops glistening

Hanging tenaciously

Like the unshed tears

Of a proud woman

Full and ready to roll down

They told him

In garnished word salads

How much they yearned

Not only to linger there

And sniff the rich pollen-weighted aroma

Of his flower

Not only to gaze on the dark purple

That amazed and confounded

But compelled them

Beyond all caution

To pluck the flower

And make it their own

As he sat on his side of the garden

Lost in the business

Of pricing his flower

His special wonder

Which had grown up

Too quickly

Watered and pruned

Under care-giving hands

His desire was to preserve

The beauty of innocence

From greedy capricious

Flower harvesting hands

That would never rest

Until they devoured

What their eyes admired

“Did you know,” he said,

Nectar is what attracts true bees

And honey-making is their need?”

Of Women on Marian Day

I was honored to be the guest speaker at the Saint James High School at their Marian Day celebration. I was asked to speak on womanhood in a personal way. The day begun with the reading of an excerpt from a Toronto national newspaper, a piece written by the adventurous and esteemed Kiehlburger brothers in celebration of their mother. But they did not fail to mention the difficulties of women worldwide and their particular vulnerability to rape, war, prostitution, poverty and human trafficking. My own piece was centered around my retelling of the story, Wesepa, an old folktale from Bioko Island, Equatorial Guinea, recounted to me by Justo Bolekia Boleka, a professor of literature. My brief address after the story was focussed on the feminine attributes of nourishment and nurturing, beginning with the inner self and moving outwardly in ever widening circles of connections. The ceremony was a beautiful liturgy honoring Mary the mother of Jesus and all womankind, with a procession, flowers, candles, bible readings and the saying of prayers. My preparation for my presentation included a look at Maya Angelou's famous poem, 'Phenomenal Woman'. It did not speak for me this time, so I searched through my own poems for a sense of my own thoughts on womanhood. I came across one poem that I had written a long time ago, concerning the silencing of women. It had even more meaning for me in a much wider context, as many African countries of today forge through the turbulent politics of thinly masked dictatorships by the practice of highly volatile and divisive demonstrations of elections. Many citizens hold their breath in silence, unsure where the chips will fall and how dangerous life may suddenly become in the face of vindictive leadership. Here is my poem,

The Gender of Words

When the words of women are stopped

Mouths don’t die

They wrap themselves in satin veil

And speech cocoons in layers of tulle

Mood is a screen, purple or wine

And behind it

Precocious copulations without ecstasy

On the surface and only just

Thin vapours rise on a nonchalant breeze

Time sings to the watchful eye

And velvet womb swells

With crossed conversations

In the honeycomb, whispers of agony

Wait to be born at the dawn of light

Then behind the screen, at last

The infant cries the length of a breath

Minimizes the voices of a dozen midwives

Who hush new vocabularies one by one.

Black by Nature

Several years ago, I created a dance choreography for the African Society of Guelph, University of Guelph. The chosen theme was Harvest, and as part of the performance I wrote this piece of poetry, entitled "Black by Nature." A couple of weeks ago, the Gaudeamus Choirs of Halton Hills chose to read this piece during a public performance.

Black by Nature

Black is rich as humous

Nurturing the living

With gifts from the dead

Black earth endures

Masterful, dependable,

Endearing, cajoling

Sucking good from rain and sun

More rain, more sun,

Moist earth, Sun life,

Food

Food is a song

And laughter bright and dancing

Like rays of light

Reaching the eyes

Between the bold green leaves

Of corn and banana trees

And mounds of growing yam

Shouting life, life…

Life

Has birthed pain yet again

And tears wash sorrow from sore eyes

Pain too has borne life

And from the depths of soul

Belly shaking laughter

Now rises to the sun

White teeth

Glistening in the light

Life is black by nature

Fierce, unpretentious

Warm, all absorbing

Endless

Red like your smile.

Spring sprung halfway to Summer. Thank God for the sun. On a cold dripping miserable day, I was filling up my tank at the gas station, turned around and saw this woman, dressed to the hilt and filling up her car. Her lips were the hottest, brightest red but they did not smile, neither did her eyes. And when my eyes met hers she looked away, her lips pressing tighter against each other. I know don't smile all the time, and I wondered how many times I might have painted my lips to make them attractive when the best ornament is a friendly smile. Watch that smile :-)

RED

Red

Without nick

or dint

Deep red

And pressed

Together

Lips

Moist red

Stretched thin

Bright red

Lipstick

Drawing eyes

To lips

Carefully dipped

In acrylic

Which then forgot

To wear

A winning smile

Mothers Day

In the late eighties my mother joined my father in Dakar, Senegal for his sabbatical. It was here that my mother, Felicia, decided to take French lessons after several difficulties taking taxis and making purchases. See, my mom likes to bargain, and imagine doing that in a land where one does not speak the language. She would break her English up into the oddest sequences, mix her phrases up with Ghanaian languages and variations of pidgin spoken in Ghana, gesticulate wildly with insertions of excusez moi, all to no avail. So she enrolled in class and was given a French poem to learn: La Lune. My mother who loves poetry, applied herself zealously to her homework especially as the verbs and other disciplines overwhelmed her. I have written a poem for her on this celebration of Mothers Day. I bless my mother for having me.

Mother Life

I began

By force of explosion

A flame and fusion

In a trinity of ideas

A union of wind, water and earth

And an electric pulse

That never gave up

Intent or velocity

Dividing, differentiating, organizing

Moment by moment

In secrecy and utmost care

Sending signals which then changed

My mother forever

Like a seed in the earth

Making demands on nitrogen, water and air

And also and in time,

Light…

Love received me

After midnight and a shout

To suck and gaze and hold and squeeze

My need from you

All of you

From the crib inside

To the cradle on your back

I learn the rhythms of life

Sleep and wake

Work and play

Love and snuggle

Resist and withstand

In the songs you sing by day and night

Then by your side

Your guiding hand

Your trusty words, tried and true

You feed, you teach, applaud, rebuke

You save, you cover

Until danger has passed

And if ever you failed

Offside in the game

It was because you were real

And God has covered that, too

My mother

Waiting for the Moon

I begun writing poems of my African childhood when my children were little, and I knew little about poetry. Imagine my surprise when many years later, Dianne Murray-Charatt, choir director of Gaudeamus Choirs of Halton Hills, asked if I might have some poems for their African themed concert. I searched for my hard copy manuscripts of those poems saved long ago on 5 1/4 floppies. So many of the poems missed the mark but some still appealed. I typed them afresh on my computer, editing and refinishing them before sending to Dianne for her pick. Three poems made it into the show. Here is one of them:

Waiting for the Moon

It was a dark night

And all the lights were out

We sat down on the doorstep

And waited for the moon

We heard the crickets cry

They called the bats to fly

Boka, the dog lay down to rest

And mosquitoes hummed in our ears

Nima told a story

Rama sang a song

Bella and I told riddles

And Nana fell asleep

We saw the fireflies glow

We felt a cool wind blow

We drew our covers tight

And then moon came out

A frightened bush-cat screeched

The distant owl shrieked

A dark cloud blotted out the moon

And Bella whispered, Ghost!

And then the thunder boomed

And lightning kissed the moon

Just as raindrops fell on us

We all run inside

GOLDEN

So my dear friend Janet suggested I post this poem because she liked the change of mood from restless, angry and resentful to quiet and thoughtful. What a great way to bring me back to my blog on a regular basis. All through the winter I have been writing poetry. The spirit of poetry must be growing more intense because I have had a request from Guadeamus Children's choir in George Town to perhaps use some of my poetry in their show. More on that if it happens. Then yesterday, I spoke to one of the doyens of Ghanaian poetry (quite by chance on Skype), Prof. Atukwei Okai. We discussed his poem Rhododendrons. I tell you, poetry is in the air. Enjoy.

Golden

Silence is not always golden

Sometimes it’s tight and airless

Like shrink-wrap

Stifling life

Silence is not always golden

Sometimes it’s sluggish and dull

Like sludge

Passively aggressive

Silence is not always golden

Sometimes it’s hollow and empty

Like hunger

Filled with cowardice

Silence is not always golden

Sometimes it’s murky and vengeful

Like bile

Plotting murder

But

Silence can be golden

Giving room for faith and hope

In choosing silence, go for gold:

Temperate, patient and forgiving

If your silence holds no gold

Then find the golden in your words

Express your truth, communicate

Find solutions; live life well.

The Absentee Blogger

Unbelievable how the months have flown by and I have gone AWOL with my blog writing. I'm back. I promise, I'm back. It's been rather busy since January, in fact, crazy-busy as we say around here, with Black History Month activities spilling over from February and March into April. Significantly "Between Sisters" has been selected for the CCBC's best books catalog which will be published later in the year. I shall write about some of my winter adventures in the next few days.